Chapter 1: Securing Our Interests

I was sitting in my private quarters when the com chimed. Only a handful of people—and the ship’s automated battle klaxon—had access to my private coms.

“Yes?” I flicked the link on as my feet dropped to the floor and slid into my duty shoes. The self-sealing straps activated, snugging tight before relaxing slightly as they adjusted for maximum safety and comfort.

“Sorry to bother you, Admiral,” said the Engineer on the other side of the link.

I leaned back slightly and winced at the sight of the blinking red light of his mechanical eye—which had replaced his organic one placed entirely too close to the video pick up.

“We’re going to have to do something about that eye, Spalding,” I said with a grimace.

“Oh, this old thing?” the aged engineer flicked the optic with his finger in a way that made those of us with still-entirely-biological eyes want to wince, “nothing doing here, Sir. I’ll admit it was a chore and a half to get used to in the beginning. Not that I needed any of that so called therapy they tried to foist off on me every chance they got, if you know what I mean,” Spalding said hastily. I’d seen reports of his run-ins with past therapy, and that was one fight I was too wise to get into. “But after I got the hang of the blasted thing…you know, it’s kind of nice being able to see outside the usual visual spectrum without going through the bother of finding and then putting on a set of goggles. Found a few stress fractures in the beams of the ship by chance after I started turning the thing on and walkin’ around casual-like.”

“I’ll admit that does sound helpful,” I said doubtfully, “still, I’d like you to go and see the doctor at some point this week and see what it’d take to get you something that—even if it’s not an actual cloned replacement—actually looks close enough like a real one that you don’t give the young boot ensigns a fright the first time they report for duty.”

Spalding barked out a laugh. “A boot ensign fresh out of the academy or a university—now wouldn’t that just be a fine treat? Scarcer than hen’s teeth around these parts lately. Mustangs, retreads and transfers not to mention the occasional new minted petty officers is all we’ve been seeing around here since I can’t remember when… probably since we went confederal,” he snorted happily, “now some officers I know think we should do away with the ham-handed critters entirely but I always said there’s nothing quite like walking onto a deck full of freshies and-”

“Fascinating, I’m sure,” I said wryly. “Still, I presume there was an actual reason you commed me, other than to just shoot the breeze about our currently non-existent crop of new minted junior officers…?”

“Why, and I suppose there was,” Spalding said, gradually turning serious, “although I do take your point about checking back in at the butcher’s shop and seeing if there’s anything they can do about all these prosthetics they strapped me with.”

“Good,” I cut in, eager to get the conversation back on track.

“Anyways, I was just linking in to say that, with the Multiplex and that shipment of trillium that came along with her, it’s time,” he said.

I rubbed a hand over my cheek to hide the sudden sharpness of my gaze. “No hesitation, Commander?” I asked cocking an eyebrow.

“Pfft! And why would I want to go and do something like that?” he asked, his brows beetling angrily. “Why, this heart transplant they gave me may be more than a little suspect, but I figured it out all by myself—without any so-called ‘help’ of the medical department,” he thumped himself on the chest and held up a shot of combat heal, waggling it for emphasis. “One shot of this straight to the abdomen and it’ll take care of anything that ails you in nothing flat. Nothing to worry about here, Admiral; engineering’s got the solution—and your back’s covered as long as I’m top wrench in the fleet,” he declared, jutting his jaw out mulishly. “Although it did take a smart while to figure out a good place in the abdomen to hit myself with, seeing as how I don’t have flesh and blood thighs anymore with these great metal monstrosities they call ‘legs’ down there.”

“Not exactly what I was asking, but I appreciate the enthusiasm exactly as it was intended,” I said with a helpless smile at the old reprobate’s antics.

“And besides, why would I care what a bunch of ‘Johnny Come Lately’s’ think when I practically had to come in with the Clover and win the battle all by myself?!” Spalding bragged. “Way I see it, to the victor goes the spoils—and so long as I’ve got enough new hardware to play around with…” he suddenly coughed and quickly corrected himself, “I mean, ‘examine and upgrade,’ the rest of them can go howl in a vacuum for all I care.”

I wisely refrained from commenting that if there had been any ‘Johnny Come Lately’s’ in the latest battle for Easy Haven then it would have had to be Spalding and the 2.0 showing up in any suspect lineup. But time and experience had taught me to pick my battles, so this particular time I held my piece.

“Just give the word, Sir, and we’ll take care of it for you,” the old Engineer added stoutly.

“Good,” I said instead of any one of a half dozen comments I could have made, “we want to make sure we get all the ships on our list separated and on the move as soon as possible.”

“That’s what I like to hear, Sir,” Spalding said with an eager satisfaction that gave lie to his earlier assertion that so long as he had enough to play around with he was satisfied. “It’s high time our Fleet got the panther’s share of the profits. Far too often we do enough of the heavy lifting and the politicians leave us with the crumbs,” he shook his head as he shifted gears, “Easy Haven, Omicron, Easy Haven again, Elysium and then Easy Haven third helpings, and each time we’re stuck barely scraping by. Like a drunk man in a bar fight, sometimes it feels like all we do is stagger from stool to stool,” Spalding finished with a growl and then slammed a fist into the palm of his other hand angrily. “Time to make it right—balance the scales, as it were.”

“That’s not exactly how I would have put it,” I temporized. Actually that’s not how I would have ever put it, at all, but if anyone had earned the right to take liberties with the truth it was the man of hour, Chief Engineer Terrence Spalding.

“You can consider it as good as done, Admiral. Just keep anyone and his fleet of battleships away from those Elder Tech Jump Spindles until I can get the Imperial captures out to the outer system and those battleships are as good as in Gambit Star System,” he finished with a snap of his fingers, “just like that. You give the word and they’re gone. After I charge up the jump spindles, of course.”

“You’re sure no one will suspect what we’re up to with them parked that far out into the system?” I asked pointedly.

Spalding looked at me with disbelief. “With those ships that far inside the hyper-limit, and without so much as the crew for a long jump or enough tugs to move them to the star system border,” Spalding said brows shooting for the ceiling, “they’d have to be mind readers—or already have the tech themselves—to even consider the notion. No,” he said with certainty, “there’s nobody in the Spine that’ll so much as get a whiff of what we were up to until ‘after’ it’s all over but the weepin’.”

“I still can’t believe those Jump Spindles can do that,” I said with disbelief. “Jump from inside the system hyper-barrier, I mean.” I shook my head, “You’re sure they won’t suspect us?”

“Well…” Spalding drawled, leaning back with a scowl. “It’s going to look pretty suspicious us hanging our dirty laundry, those ships, out so far away from the heart of our defenses—what little remains of the defenses, of course. So they’ll suspect ‘something,’ probably a mine field or a bunch of ships laying doggo waiting for a chance to rain some pain if anyone gets greedy and tries to swipe something. But I doubt the thought that we could just whisk those ships out from under their noses will so much as cross their minds!”

“That’s not likely is it? That they’ll try a snatch and grab?” I pressed.

Spalding shrugged, not exactly filling me with peace and confidence. “Who knows what any blasted admiral or politician will do if he thinks your back is turned, Sir? Present company excepted, of course. All you can do is your best, which is what we’re up to. Give me enough time and it’ll all be academic; getting those ships to Gambit will be as easy as flippin’ a switch.”

“I just hope you’re right about this, Spalding,” I said seriously, “because if we mess this thing up it’ll be a lot worse than just getting a little egg on our face. This has to work and work right—the first time. We don’t have time for trial runs.”

“As Murphy is my witness,” the old engineer chafed as he drew himself up, “the confounded things jumped us ‘inside’ the Easy Haven hyper barrier easy as you please. Last time I checked, the translator program the interface still says the Jump Spindles could jump us right back out again if we wanted,” the old engineer paused and then started to explain, “really, if you think about it, it’s not so much that the Spindles can make a jump from the inside of a hyper-limit but rather that for those Elder Tech jump engines the hyper limit’s been, let’s say, moved back a smidge. It probably couldn’t do anything from inside the inner system of course or else we wouldn’t have to move the blasted Imperial warships all the way into the outer system. Not that we had time to run it back and forth to test it but…I have good reason to be confident it’ll work, Sir, and highly doubt the enemy will see this one coming.”

“I know, I know. And it’s not that I doubt you, but even you have to admit it’s a lot more ships and weight of metal going back out than came in,” I worried, wondering what might happen if we put too many large ships in between the spindles and asked it to jump everything back out he way it had come in.

“That’s why we’ve waited for the load of trillium that just shipped in,” Spalding soothed. “Engineering’s got it covered, Admiral. The Spindles can do some amazing things and, yes, they do seem to require an absurd amount of trillium but Tracto has a serious mining setup. Just leave it in my hands, Sir.”

“Trillium’s one of the few thing we’re not short of, thank the Saint,” I muttered in agreement.

“And on that note I need to get back to it. Everything needs to be just right. It’s not every day an engineer gets to plan how to swipe half a dozen battleships right out from under the noses of the Sector Government,” snorted Spalding.

“Alright,” I stood, nodding curtly. “Good luck.”

“Aye aye, Sir,” said the old Engineer bracing to attention before cutting the transmission with a characteristic wave of one hand.

And just like that, my plan to secure the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet’s future and take all of our fates firmly—and hopefully permanently—out of the hands of the Sector Government, Governor Isaak and his Cronies, was launched.

The space gods help us all if it went sideways.

Honestly, my main concern right now wasn’t so much the rest of the forces within this system, or even outside of it stopping us from taking those ships. Like Spalding said: so long as we kept them well within the hyper limit, no one was going to suspect what we had planned.

The main concern was for afterwards. After we succeeded in pulling off the heist, then what? Would they take their losses like the men they were and let things go, knowing that in the long run anything they did would only turn right back around and bite them in the keester after we got those warships back out of the yard?

Or would they react like the angry spoiled children they so often seemed to resemble because with Wolf-9 in pieces and the defenses of this star system in a shambles they could do a lot of damage? If they did so, I would finally have all the pretext I would ever need to settle their hash once and for all.

Ultimately I was going through with this plan despite my misgivings because the local and Sector governments had finally proven to my satisfaction that the ungrateful blighters were perilously close to incompetent. Not only that, but by not securing our independence through military power I was risking just as many lives by living on their mercy and sufferance as I would be by finally cutting the cord.

Only time would tell if I was making the right decision, but with a large fraction of the Imperial Reclamation Fleet still out there—and at least two Sectors still currently under their control—I wasn’t willing to risk the survival of my fleet and possibly the free and independent spine on the good judgment and forbearance of Governor Isaak and the Sector Government.

Chapter 2: Sweeping the Table

The door swished open behind me and, since my personal armsmen were now posted outside of whatever room I was in at all times, it meant one of two things. Either the follower was a highly-skilled assassin who had taken down a full team of also-highly-trained Caprian Royal Armsmen, or it was someone from the MSP here on business.

Since I didn’t think I could take an assassin of that skill level, I chose to believe it was one of the few people authorized to come in and bother me. I gave him or her a two finger wave as I continued to sit with my back to the door as I contemplated the handheld in my lap.

“Bad news, Sir,” reported my new aide, a confederal pawned off on me from Captain Hammer by the name of Rick Jones.

“Yes, Ensign?” I slowly spun my chair around to face the newcomer.

“The new convoy coming in wasn’t just a convoy, Admiral,” he reported, stepping up to my desk and bracing to attention.

“We figured that from the battleship and four cruiser squadron flying escort duty for only four freighters,” I said drolly. “But now that the Multiplex and the trillium shipment from Tracto are finally here, unless they want to make a fight of it there’s not much they can do…” I paused and then leaned forward, feeling a fire kindling in my belly, “unless you’re telling me they think they can take us?”

If they did then I was more than willing to teach them the error of their ways. We’d won 3rd Easy Haven because the enemy had apparently lost the will to fight when we destroyed their Flagship, killed Janeski, and then unveiled the Lucky Clover 2.0 version. And while any victory where you took the field and send the enemy packing had to be chalked up in the win column, I’d definitely wanted to crush my enemy and drive them before me directly, not watch as they left of their own accord with still intact warships in their employ. The bad taste in my mouth left me eager for action.

“Worse than that, Sir,” Ensign Jones pulled out his data slate. “It’s a message from Governor Isaak,” he said tapping on his data slate and then shooting a vid file up on the screen, “he’s here—in system—and he’s left a message.”

I froze and there, in all his self-aggrandizing cowardly glory, was the former Ambassador from Capria and current ‘Leader of Sector 25′ on my own personal vid-screen. The gall of the man!

“Do you want me to play it, Sir?” asked Jones.

I reached up, running a finger across my right eye and pulled free a loose eyelash. Examining it closely I determined that, yes, it was a perfectly normal eyelash before I focused back on the ensign.

“Yes do,” I said.

The screen flickered and then started to play.

“Vice Admiral Montagne, it’s so good to see you again,” Sir Isaak—Governor Isaak, now—said with a smile so utterly false I had to resist the urge to throw up in my mouth.

I shook my head in disgust, coldly wondering what little trick or maneuver he was going to use to make a try at my interests. Because, make no mistake, that’s what this was: a try against our interests. And there were only so many such things here at this star system—including the star system itself.

Uncaring about my rapid fire thoughts, the new minted Governor continued on blithely. “Let me be the first to congratulate you on a battle hard fought and yet another triumphant victory to put under your cap!” he urged, even though he had to know that it had been months since the battle and he was far from the first person to have already congratulated me. “We literally couldn’t have done it without you.”

Looking over at the old-style bowler helmet I occasionally used for my ‘cap’—which wasn’t often these days—I shook my head.

“Although it was indisputably a team effort, it was you and your leadership—and the small but vital contribution of your fleet of course—that made this victory possible,” he continued, clearly setting me up for a good hose job.

Not that I was interested in playing his game. He could play politics all he liked but I wasn’t biting. My days of eagerly searching for acceptance and a good atta-boy from the Sector Government were long past. They’d died when he—this very man, Sir Isaak, later elected to the position of Governor by the wise and farseeing body politic, such as it was in these dark times—had perpetrated a fraud upon the electorate by accusing me of being a pirate called the Tyrant of Cold Space so as to make me a convenient scapegoat for the government’s failures. This despite the fact that I had literally just been busy cleaning out a den of pirates before I’d been captured by those very same pirates and then handed over into his tender care.

To say that I despised the man wouldn’t be taking things far enough. I respected the man’s political skills but nothing else.

I snorted as he continued with his lube job, trying to ease me into seeing things whatever way he was trying to set me up for.

“Small contribution, is it?” I muttered.

And then, just as I’d been expecting, we got down to the real reason he was here.

“However, despite your heroism and great leadership as the Sector Commandant of our local SDF volunteer warships on the battlefield, it has come to my attention that there have been complaints….” there was a pregnant pause before he continued, “reasonable complaints even about the manner in which you have conducted affairs—post-battle, as it were.”

There it was. He was unhappy with the distribution of the ships we’d captured. Or, more specifically, the ‘battleships’ we’d captured.

“We need to talk before things blow entirely out of proportion. I am sure that this was just routine military oversight and that everything can be worked out as soon as we are able to meet face to face,” he flashed another patently false smile before concluding, “this is the Governor, out.”

If he thought I was about to turn loose one single ship that had fallen into my hands then he had another think coming. Despite attempting to call the MSP and our close allies a ‘small contribution,’ this entire Sector would have fallen without us. As it was, this battle took place inside a Confederation star system. In fact, it was one of the last true Confederation star systems if the rumblings I was hearing from what little news we received from the Sector Assembly, mainly CNN broadcasts carried in by tramp freighters, was anything to go on.

Easy Haven had been, and still was as far as I was concerned, a Confederation Fortress system. LeGodat’s reserve squadron had been posted here since before the great Imperial Withdrawal, everything he and his people had struggled to build over the past years had just been shot to Hades and I would be good and fried before I let the Governor swoop in to claim all of the rewards.

“Do you want me to stall him, Sir?” asked Rick Jones with concern.

I looked over at him in disbelief. “Why would I want to do that? I have nothing to hide and I certainly don’t fear the man or any threats he might make. If he wants to impose economic sanctions, we have new trading partners. If he threatens a war… well that’s nothing we haven’t already had to deal with, and it would make a fine case that he and his entire government are in rebellion against lawful authority,” I said forcefully, “set up the meeting for as soon as he arrives. I want this over and done with.”

“All right,” Ensign Jones said, his brows lifting but I noted that as he left he appeared to have a confidence in his step that had been lacking before.

“Hmmph,” I grunted. He was just a Sector Governor, after all. Then, flipping a switch on my com-panel, I pulled up Engineering.

“This is Commander Spalding,” the old Engineer said as soon as the channel opened, “what can I do for you, Sir?”

“What’s the status on Project Green Pea? Are we still on schedule?”

“We’re finishing up with loading the trillium now, Sir,” Spalding said with complete confidence, “and we started moving everything into position with tugs as soon as we saw the Governor’s transmission. Should have everything in place in another seven or eight hours, and then it won’t matter what the Governor or anyone else thinks they have the right to.”

“You saw that, did you?” I fought back a grin.

“The day I can’t get access to a simple encrypted communication from a Sector Government is the day I hang up my tool belt,” the Commander said, sounding offended.

Even though he was in another part of the Star System entirely, and this was only a voice transmission, I covered my mouth with a hand.

“Alright then, Spalding. Make it so. I’ll deal with our esteemed guest in the meantime.”

“The man didn’t bother to show up to the biggest shindig in maybe the history of the Spine when the fate of the entire Sector was on the line. Too busy hiding in his hole, probably,” grunted the old Engineer, “I don’t have time for any cowards. But I need to get back to work; Spalding out.”

“Gods speed, old friend,” I said to the now inactive console.

I had a Sector Governor to prepare for. The things I needed to do right now were set up a secure conference room and bring on extra security.

The Furious Phoenix was a little smaller of a flagship than I was used to, but every single battleship I could lay hands on needed some yard time; needs must when the demon drives, and all that rot.

Chapter 3: Face to Face with Governor Isaak

“How was the grand battle to defend this star system from the ravening hordes?” Sir Isaak asked without preamble the moment the door to the conference room swung open.

“Harrowing, Governor,” I said with a blink. I’d expected more in the way of small talk and perhaps actually sitting down before we got into that particular topic.

There was a slight pause before the Governor nodded, a faint smile creasing his features. “It’s heartening to see with my own eyes that you survived the invasion and resulting fleet battle intact,” Governor Isaak said as he—and three aides—swept into the room like they owned the place. Without bothering to ask for permission or go around the table to shake my hand, the Governor and his staff promptly sat down, “Of course we hear reports and read files but nothing is quite the same as seeing it with your own eyes.”

“Is it? Heartening that I survived, I mean?” I quirked a brow. “Because as I recall the last time you and I were in the same room together you were attempting to frame me for piracy. Had a staged tribunal and everything.”

“A grievous error in judgment, as events themselves proved out,” Isaak replied without the slightest twinge of guilt before continuing evenly, “not exactly one of my better moments, I’ll admit.”

“I’m frankly surprised you were willing to step into the same room as me without your security present,” I retorted, eyeing the man and wondering just what kind of weapons he could have smuggled past our security scanners that would give him this much confidence in meeting with me.

“I hold firmly to the principle that there are no eternal enemies, only eternal interests,” the Governor of Sector 25 said smoothly. “Today’s enemy is merely tomorrows ally. While today’s tenuous alliance is tomorrow’s friendship for the ages.”

“Right…” I drawled my brows lifting of their own accord, “I hope your enemies are aware of this sudden change of status you’ve bestowed upon them—before they blow your highly placed elected head off.”

“My good man, there’s no need for threats. I realize that you and I are, perhaps, not destined to be the closest and easiest of allies, due to the… unique circumstances of our initial interactions. But I believe that, regardless of the issues that divide us, we both share and continue to strive for the best interests of Capria and the Sector as a whole.”

“Perhaps you believe too much,” I said picking up a stylus and flipping it back and forth between my fingers before continuing, “my faith and goodwill toward this Sector has been sorely tested in the past…some would say right up to the breaking point. While my faith and goodwill toward Capria is almost entirely eroded. What little remains of my good graces toward our beloved home world exists for the families of my officers and crew that reside upon her.”

The Governor looked temporarily stymied, but I knew it was nothing more than a ploy. “Setting aside your grievances with both my office and our mutual world of birth,” Isaak said after a pregnant pause, opening his mouth to continue but I interrupted first.

“My issue is not with your office but with you, Governor,” I cut in.

“Quite.” he said shortly. “But as I have said, and I feel events have proven out, no matter how…strained, let us say, your relationship with the Sector as a whole may have become, when the chips were down, like the loyal son you are, you brought your entire allied fleet to help repulse the malicious invaders.”

“Confederation Fleet. As a Confederation officer it is my bound and sworn duty to protect and defend all ‘Confederation’ Sectors and worlds to the best of my abilities. Regardless of my personal feelings toward them,” I said flatly, “any allies that decided to come along and place themselves under my command during this time of trial and need were operating with their own agency.”

“Yes,” Isaak said, nonplussed, “and we greatly appreciate the efforts of the Tracto-an Defense Force and their heroic allies, especially during the battle in this very star system. However, I would not be doing my duty as governor if I failed to point out that regardless of your… Confederation Status, you were here strictly in your capacity as the temporary Fleet Commandant of Sector 25.”

“Tomay-to, Tamah-to,” I replied, leaning forward with a smirk,

“I am forced to disagree wholeheartedly,” Isaak leaned forward to match his posture with mine.

“I liked the way you slipped the word ‘temporary’ in there at the front of my position; nice move. Way to put your chips on the table,” my lip curled as I decided to stop dancing around the elephant in the room. He wanted a share, or perhaps all of the warships or at least the battleships captured outside of Wolf-9, and I wasn’t about to give them up without a fight he was destined to lose. “But ultimately it doesn’t matter because, whatever ‘you’ want to call me, I am the top Fleet Officer in this star system. And while the Commodore tasked with controlling this system might quibble, Easy Haven and everything within it—at least everything that’s not already part of another Sector or Provincial SDF—belongs to me.”

“You see, there it is: exactly that. The rub,” Sir Isaak said, leaning back in his chair as if he’d just scored a major point.

“Please—enlighten me,” I said, suppressing a sneer.

“Are you really going to play out this little game to its inevitable conclusion?” Isaak lifted a brow.

“Why, whatever are you talking about?” I asked in a pious voice laced with barely-concealed mockery. If he wanted to try and screw me he was going to have to work for it all the way.

“As Sector Fleet Commandant, you have the right to command the Sector Fleet along with any and all SDF volunteers. But while no one would dispute your claiming a reasonable share of any prizes taken in battle, ultimately the exact disposition of any starships—including warships—taken while under the auspices of the Sector Fleet are the purview of the Sector Prize Court,” he said with a smile.

I was so looking forward to wiping that smile off his face.

“As Senior Confederation Officer, the disposition of our prizes belongs to me, not the Sector’s prize court,” I said evenly. “You can look it up in the manual—I know I did.”

“Which is why it is fortunate that the agreement under which you agreed to take command of the defenses of our Sector specifically stipulated you do so in your capacity as Sector Commandant and Commander of the Tracto SDF,” Isaak said, shoulders tensing.

“Do you really think I’m going to just stand by and let you screw me, Governor?” I asked mockingly. “You don’t get to go and hide under whatever rock you were at while we were fighting and then show up in time to stick your hand out for a piece of the action. This is a Confederation Star System so it really doesn’t matter what my own personal status was during the battle. Whether you want to say that everything belongs to me or the System Commander because I’m somehow disqualified, the spoils of this war belong to the Confederation fleet to disperse however it sees fit. And I have to tell you, Governor, it doesn’t look good for your side.”

Isaak glowered at me for a minute before opening his mouth. “The defeat of Warlord Janeski and his rogue pirate fleet was not accomplished by you or the forces native to this star system alone, your Highness,” Governor Isaak spoke as if he were informing me of something new I was unaware of. “‘To the victors go the spoils’ is, I think, quite a commonly held belief and understanding within the naval community. Don’t force our hand by pushing us in a direction we don’t desire to go.”

“I don’t see how I could force you to do anything you didn’t want to do already, Governor Isaak.”

“On your head be it then,” the Governor said with an aura of long suffering, “if you continue to be intractable in this matter then I have no choice but to inform you that the status of this star system as a Confederation one is highly debatable,” he lifted a finger, “as even at this very moment there is a strong and growing movement within the Sector that is calling for separation from a Mega System, like the Confederation, that has left us stranded and in chaos these past 3 years.”

I gestured to my uniform with my hands. “As we both know how ludicrous that statement is, don’t let the fact that it was a Confederation Admiral and his fleet that saved this Sector keep you from saying whatever you please,” I said.

“This star system is on permanent lease to the Confederation from this Sector but, since technically we have been abandoned, I’m afraid the Sector no longer considers this Star System as belonging to the Confederation,” he said, motioning to an aide who then laid a data slate and a stack of papers on the table, “now that is not to say that we are intending to forcibly annex this system. Right here are the incorporation papers giving title to the place to the system’s current inhabitants. However, as your current claim to the hulls captured in this system is based upon the notion that this system is a Confederation one, I’m afraid you no longer have firm legal ground to stand on.”

“How nice of you to so easily concede that which already belongs to us,” I said with a sneer. “However, no resolutions you pass or laws you make are going to take either this Star System, or those hulls—as you called them—out of our possession. And, as they say, possession is nine-tenths of the law. So you can take your papers and shove them where the sun doesn’t shine.”

“This is a flagrant violation of Sector and interplanetary law!” Isaak declared, standing up with high dungeon and knocking his chair over. I could see that he was playing to the camera from the slight way he angled his body toward a surreptitiously held data slate in the hands of one of his aides.

“A law that doesn’t bind me as either a Confederation Admiral,” I retorted, lifting a finger of my own, “nor as the head of the Tracto-an SDF, a world and star system which has signed nothing except trade treaties and a mutual defense pact with the worlds around it along the border.”

Isaak paused, as if this was something that hadn’t occurred to him before and then he visibly shrugged it off “Your Border Alliance can’t save you now, Admiral Jason Montagne,” he said, using my rank for the first time, “no one will protect a pirate except other pirates and make no mistake if this is the road you chose to go down that’s exactly what it will be called: attempted piracy!”

I stood up, placing both hands knuckles-down on the table. “You’ve got a lot of balls, Isaak,” I said in a dangerous voice, “this is the second time you’ve felt free to bandy that word around and malign me in my own presence.”

Isaak froze and then squared his shoulders, “Perhaps an unfortunate choice of word considering our personal history.”

“Very unfortunate,” I agreed, motioning with my hands and moments later the doors swished open and a pair of guards swept into the room, “for you that is.”

“Stay your hand, Montagne,” Isaak warned, leveling a finger at me, “I didn’t want things to degenerate to this point but don’t think that I’m such a fool as to deliver myself into the hands of my enemies without a backup plan.”

“Personally, I think you’re a moron for placing yourself entirely within my power and then having the gall to dictate and make threats to me,” I said lifting a hand to temporarily stop the guards. I was interested in what he had to say.

“Not entirely,” Isaak said his shoulders loosening and a slight smile appearing, “in addition to my personal guards who can easily be neutralized, if you desire, I’ll admit. I also have at my disposal a small fleet of warships ready to jump into this star system within the hour and force the issue. That, combined with the SDF warships from the worlds of this Sector which even now surround you, gives me an enviable negotiating position. And make no mistake, Jason, that’s what this is: a negotiation. I’m aware that you wanted all of the spoils of this little war of ours. Frankly, everyone in the Sector is aware right now, but you knew we could never let that stand,” he sighed, shaking his head wearily. “Still, despite whatever you think of me I am not quite the monster you imagine. You’ve done this Sector a great service and I would never deprive you of a fair cut of what’s been taken, but you simply cannot keep it all. There is enough in this trough for more than just one hog, as the stonelanders back home would like to say.”

“You know I don’t like to be threatened,” I said harshly.

“It seemed to be the only way to get your attention of late. Lord knows I’ve tried everything else,” sighed Isaak.

“I think you made one crucial mistake in your calculations.

“What’s that?” Isaak asked raising a brow.

“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” I said with a smirk and then gestured to the guards. “Take the esteemed Governor to the brig for processing.”

Isaak blinked. “You’re making a mistake,” he said calmly, “I urge you to reconsider.”

“The only thing I’m reconsidering is whether or not I’ve gone far enough by just putting you in the brig. But since that’s how you decided to start our relationship with me, it does seem strangely poetic,” I demurred.

“You cannot simply lay hands on the elected representative for an entire sector and get away with it. This is rebellion, Montagne,” Isaak warned.

“You’re right…this is rebellion,” I agreed ponderously, rubbing my chin with my thumb.

“Then surely—” Isaak said leadingly as if teaching a particularly slow child.

“Your rebellion,” I interrupted him flatly, “against the Confederation government in the form of its lawful representative,” I turned that thumb and pointed it at my chest, “me. However, I am not an unreasonable man. This is your come-to-Murphy moment, Governor. Confess your sins and be absolved.”

The Governor’s jaw bunched, but the faint smile never left his face. “Dress it up however you want. In the end the victor writes the history books, and unfortunately for you I have both the numbers and the perfect thing to incentivize them to act. It doesn’t matter if you clap me in irons in some childish attempt to even the scales; those battleships still sitting in this star system are ripe for the plucking,” he said without rancor with a clinical tone to his voice, and gestures that were belied by the slightly bunched muscles of his jaw.

“It’s called ‘protective custody,’ Governor,” I corrected mockingly, “similar to when you yourself were holding me incommunicado back at Central and…” I paused for effect, “entirely for your own safety of course,” I mocked, picking up a glass of water and taking a sip. “For shame, Sir,” I continued, “for we would never do anything so crude as lock up the elected representative of billions. Rebel traitors, perhaps, or misguided patriots eager to let others fight their battles and then swoop in leaving the Confederation Fleet with the bill as per usual operational procedures.”

“You’re a Montagne; of course you would as long as you thought you could get away with it,” the Governor spoke as if revealing some kind of universal truth and then his gaze sharpened. “Besides as you quite rightly point out one man’s rebel traitor is another man’s elected governor. But you and I both know you’re not as stupid as you’d like everyone to believe.”

“I’m touched,” I said flintily.

“I believe that, right or wrong, you have some angle you still think you can play,” Isaak said, his eyes flashing with calculation and then he looked back at me, “what is it?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know my each and every thought?” I deadpanned, motioning for the guards to get back into action and take them away.

D’Argeant gave a sharp nod and then instructed his men.

“Not all of them; just these,” said the Governor, standing up after a token protest.

“Take them away, Pierre,” D’Argeant instructed.

“Yes, Chief Armsman,” the Armsman said.

“Be careful you do not walk too far down the path of no return, Jason Montagne,” Sir Isaak warned his voice rising to ensure he was still heard as the guards escorted him out the door.

“I can assure you that as soon as these rogue warship commanders cease threatening piracy in cold space and re-acknowledge the chain of command,” after all, I myself was at the top of their pie charts as their current Sector Commandant, “I will once again be able to ensure your safety within this star system. Men, take the Governor down to the most secure part of this warship—the brig—for his own personal safety.”

“You won’t get away with this, Montagne!” Isaak bellowed.

“I already have; you just don’t know it yet,” I muttered. The timing was tight but doable, and I couldn’t wait to see the reaction of Governor Isaak and his warship-hungry supporters.

“I’m going up to the bridge,” I informed my remaining guards after waiting sufficient time for the Governor and his team of advisers to reach the lift and leave the deck.

“Yes, Highness,” nodded my armsman.

I suppressed a scowl.

Capria and its trappings were, as far as I was concerned, several long jumps ago. However, to these men I was still a potential heir to the Throne and the Prince they’d decided to throw their lot behind. I had to respect that much of our traditions—if nothing else.

Chapter 4: On the Bridge

“Are you sure you don’t want to transfer your flag, Admiral?” Captain Laurent asked with a small moue of concern as soon as I stepped onto the bridge.

“And just why exactly would I want to do that? The battleships are already at the transfer point or on their way, including the half-destroyed ones,” I shook my head as I stepped over to the Captain’s chair on the bridge of the Furious Phoenix and sat down.

Laurent frowned as I appropriated his chair without so much as a ‘how do you do,’ but I didn’t let it concern me. Captain Hammer might have different—perhaps higher—standards when it came to the separation of powers between Captain and Admiral when said Admiral (meaning me) shared her warship, but she also had the luxury of a main bridge and a re-purposed flag bridge (it used to be the ship’s auxiliary command center). The Furious Phoenix, on the other hand, had to make do with only one bridge and quite frankly Laurent and I, despite a few rough patches here and there, had a fairly good working relationship.

Oh, we’d had our ups and downs but on the whole we did just fine. He was competent enough that I’d given him an independent command, and he trusted me to command the fleet right.

We’d been through some major battles together, and that created a not-insignificant bond.

While I was brooding over such matters, Laurent cleared his throat pointedly and my attention snapped back to him. “I was thinking about something more along the lines of putting you on a fast ship, a corvette or destroyer, and shooting you over to one of those battleships faster than the Phoenix or anyone in this system can manage, Sir,” Laurent said in a respectful voice that nonetheless clearly indicated his feelings on the subject.

I stopped the instant rejection on the tip of my tongue and gave the idea a real moment’s reflection before speaking.

“I don’t think we’ll go that route, Captain,” I said finally, “I hear what you’re saying about moving faster than our enemies but I think the Phoenix is fast enough for my needs.”

“Potential enemies, Sir. Please don’t forget that,” Laurent advised, “I know there are a number of commanders in this system that would follow the orders of their home systems over yours if push comes to shove. But they might prefer to follow the ‘letter’ of those orders, let us say, so long as we don’t back them into a corner. We do still have a few friends out here,” he reminded me.

I grunted. “Point taken,” I finally agreed, because in fact he really did have one—a point, that is, “it does grow a bit tedious though, the way we’re called in like the cavalry whenever there’s galaxy-shaking trouble on the space winds. But as soon as things settle down the slightest bit they turn on us faster than a parliamentary member breaking a campaign promise after an election.”

Laurent snorted. “Enough with the whining, Sir; you knew what you were getting into after the second or third time through the ringer. At this point it’s like death and taxes: something you can count on. There’s no point bellyaching about it.”

I stiffened, suddenly remembering all the various reasons I’d transferred to a flagship with a new captain and left Laurent behind. Well, those reasons were valid but they were in addition to the fact that he’d been more than ready for an independent command.

“Hmph!” I grunted and shot him a harsh look before I settled back into my chair. “Take us out of here, Captain.”

“Shall I take us toward the captures, Admiral?” Laurent asked crisply.

My brow wrinkled. “Where else would you take us?” I asked rhetorically before adding, just in case he was feeling smart, “yes. Take us to the captures.”

“Aye aye, Sir.”

I leaned back in my chair and flipped open the screen built into arm of the captain’s chair. Keeping one weather eye on the bridge I started flicking through the slate.

Nothing broadcast unconcern with current events better than a senior officer working to catch up on his paper work…or at least appearing to catch up on his paperwork. As right at that moment I was…

“The Sector Governor’s escort are moving to follow and they’re hailing us, Captain,” reported the Com-Officer.

Laurent turned to me with his mouth open.

“I heard, Captain,” I said eyes narrowing. What to do about our unwanted guests? I wondered as I pondered the situation/

“Do you want us to respond?” prompted the Captain after several seconds.

“Ignore them,” I said shortly.

“You heard the man, coms,” Captain Laurent said.

“Aye, aye; ignoring the hails now, Sir,” replied the Com-Officer looking highly concerned.

I nodded with satisfaction, pulling up the schematics of the Sector Battleships as I waited. It was high time the Sector Guard started learning their place in the scheme of things, or at least the place where one Jason Montagne was going to put them. A little waiting would be good for them. Or rather it would be good for me, and right at this particular moment there was little they could do so that worked.

My lips quirked in a smile as I imagined the outrage currently taking place, both down in the brig and more immediately over on those Sector battleships and the impact this maneuver would have—assuming it didn’t blow up spectacularly in my face, of course. Someone lightly cleared their throat, breaking me out of my calculations both local and regional.

I turned with the barest hint of a frown. “Yes, Ensign…?” I asked coolly. If he was smart he would lie and say it was nothing, or immediately back away claiming he needed my permission to carry out some asinine duty but of course he didn’t.

“I’m sorry for the interruption, Admiral, but I felt it incumbent on me as an officer and your Flag Lieutenant to remark upon the normal course of ship-to-ship protocol: which is to promptly reply to hails from ships labeled non-hostile in case they are experiencing an emergency and ask your instruction on the subject,” Ensign Jones said, his voice professional while his eyes watched me with a keen interest I wouldn’t expect from a mere ensign.

“Oh you would, would you?” I asked, my voice deceptively mild. He could play all the games he wanted but the fact was that he was, ever so respectful and under the guise of asking for me to teach him, calling my judgment into question on the bridge of a warship.

“I’m here to learn from you, Sir,” Ensign Jones said respectfully, but I could see it in his eyes. It didn’t matter how smooth or respectful the voice—the eyes rarely lied. He was a wily one, my new Flag Lieutenant, foisted off on me by Captain Hammer a short time before I jumped ships.

“Hmph,” I snorted, lifting a brow. Well if he wanted to play games, then we’d play. I was master at playing games. “So you’d like me to teach you, would you, Ensign? I suppose that since you are my Flag Lieutenant, and as I have been remiss in the educational aspects of your training, we should begin immediately,” I said with a smile that, if he was smart, would send him running for the door. “I appreciate the timely reminder. After all,” I continued mock pompously, “I suppose it is the duty of all senior officers to pass their skills onto the next generation.”

He didn’t look cowed but I could see that Ensign Jones suddenly appeared a lot more cautious. It was too late for him, though. He’d already brought himself to my attention, and once a person came on my radar they didn’t easily leave it. I’d had dozens of yeomen come and go with my teacup or bottle of water without ever registering as a potential thorn in my side, but bare days into his duty and Jones was already making waves.

“I appreciate the chance to serve, Admiral,” Jones said, one eye drifting back toward the very agitated battleships on the main screen. “The ships, Sir?” he prompted yet again.

“Ah yes, the ships,” I flopped a leg over the arm of my command chair, letting it rock back and forth several times before bringing it to a stop before continuing in a serious tone, “as you will gradually come to understand, when you’re in command of your own ship—or star base—it is not often the wisest course to immediately open a command channel with a quad of battleships when they have every reason to believe that you have just kidnapped and imprisoned the elected Governor of the Sector, especially when he is the man who signs their paychecks.”

Jones suddenly started coughing, as if something had just gone down the wrong pipe—even though he hadn’t been eating or drinking anything during our conversation.

“Careful there, Ensign. You’re liable to cough up a lung if you’re not careful,” I said with faux concern, just to throw salt in the wound.

“Are we?” the Ensign asked, swallowing rapidly to clear his throat and looking at me wide-eyed.

It seems I’d finally got under his skin. Good.

The Ensign seemed to realize something and hastily added, “I mean ‘are we, Sir?’”

I scowled at him. “What kind of question is that?!” I demanded. “You’ve got a lot to learn, Ensign. Asking such questions like that on the bridge of a fleet flagship where every Tom, Dick and Henrietta with a pair of ears and recorder button could just as easily spread rumors below decks as they could squirt the information to the enemy. Thank the blessed Saint we’re on the Furious Phoenix and not some other ship or your loose lips could start sinking interstellar warships,” I scolded relentlessly.

“My apologies, Admiral,” Ensign Jones said coloring at the rebuke before once again fearlessly treading where even fools and heroes hesitated, “so I take it then that we aren’t actually keeping captive Governor Isaak?”

“You’ve got a lot to learn, son,” I happily lectured a young man that had to be close to the same age as myself, “of course he’s not a prisoner!”

“That’s a relief,” Jones said, his shoulders slumping.

“He’s in protective custody for his own protection,” I continued blithely, now playing as much to the audience that was the bridge crew as I was to the hapless flag lieutenant whose actual rank was that of an ensign. “I mean after all the laws he broke, the number of times he’s tried to kill not only myself but each and every member of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet, and the various and many blunders that led to the full-fledged invasion of this Sector while he hid under the proverbial desk until after the battles were safely over, what else was I supposed to do?” I asked piously. “What if some MSP loyalist, believing he’d gamed the system to escape justice, decided to take matters into his own hands and delivered unto him his just deserts? That would be a complete and utter disaster!” I exclaimed with patently mock concern.

Slowly, the Ensign’s eyes had been only growing wider and wider until he finally blanched. “Sir! You can’t possibly mean to hold the Governor captive for alleged crimes against yourself and this fleet, not without a hint of proof! This isn’t some kind of third world space navy with a kangaroo court; we’re Confederation Fleet,” he cried.

“What are you blathering about, man?” I demanded sternly. Meanwhile, heads all over the bridge had turned in our direction as I continued, “I just told you that my each and every action is only intended to secure the Governor’s life and continued freedom! Which is why, for the duration of his temporary stay with us, I have placed him and his entire staff in the safest place aboard this ship.”

Jones blinked rapidly. “S-s-sir-” he stuttered to a stop.

“So you brigged him, aye?” asked Laurent, feeling free to rejoin the conversation at anytime.

“Admiral!” Jones exclaimed.

“Where else was I supposed to put the man?” I asked the ship’s Captain with a grin while completely ignoring the other man, “Ignoring the literally thousands of officers and crew scattered throughout this fleet who are too honorable to hold the Governor to account for his actions, all it takes is one new crew transfer or visitor from another ship within the 25th Amalgamated Fleet with well-justified grudges against him to cast a shadow over the MSP and,” I declared, piously placing a hand over my heart, “bring an abrupt end to his life before he attempted to clear his name before a jury of his peers. What else was I to do?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Laurent said sarcastically, “maybe send the man back to his own ship? You know, where he’d be safe from all the supposed threats aboard my warship,” he finished with a decided edge to his voice on that last part.

“Pfah!” I decried. “And risk him being assassinated immediately upon his return with all the blame being foisted off on us, the hapless stooges in this dirty palace play the Governor has unwittingly dragged us into? Hardly,” I said firmly, thumping an index finger on the arm rest of my chair, “you may have forgotten the countless thousands that have died under Governor Isaak’s term and during the Reclamation War but I assure you that I have not. The only safe place right now is aboard this warship—and the only safe place for him here is in the brig.”

“I fear you’re dangerously misguided, Sir!” protested Jones, “you’ve all but convicted a sitting Sector Governor of malfeasance and murder without a trial. I advise you to reconsider.”

“Reconsider?” I asked dangerously.

“I’ll believe the middle portion but not the rest of that claptrap,” Laurent told me before turning to Jones with thunder in his eyes, “and far be it from a mere ship driver like myself to interfere in the internal affairs of the Admiral’s staff, but I assure you that if any of my officers dared to tell an Admiral that he was ‘dangerously misguided’ he’d be transferred to a shore posting so fast his head would spin!”

I suppressed a smile and then turned a beady eye on Jones. “Well said, Captain,” I said with a smile which turned thunderous as I turned to the ensign. Well,” I demanded harshly, “what do you have to say for yourself, Ensign?”

Jones’s head swiveled back and forth between us before finally settling on me. Realizing he’d just been boxed into a corner, the Ensign quickly schooled his features. “I apologize for my remarks, Admiral. I was taken by surprise, overcome with emotion, and failed to understand the entire situation. It won’t happen again.”

“Not a problem, son,” I said seriously, a gleam in my eye that promised we would discuss this further in private, “it’s often difficult for those of us who are not senior officers, and have never had to sit in the big chair, to understand the way most politicians operate or how those of us who have lost friends and crew mates to their machinations feel. We all have our limitations, after all.”

“Yes, Sir,” he replied, his eyes opaque.

There was a pregnant pause in the room as all parties fell silent. So, of course, I decided to break that silence.

“Alright, Captain,” I said after a moment’s consideration, “I think we’ve toyed with the Governor’s military escort long enough. You may inform them that the Governor has, for various reasons, decided to take a tour of the more prominent features of the star system and intends to personally inspect Project Waypoint—the location of all those ships they’re just itching to get their hands on in the middle reaches of the star system. Oh, and you can relay the instruction that they are to take up standard escort positions around this ship as soon as they are able using my authority—while maintaining the Furious Phoenix ’s current course and speed of course,” I finished with a smile.

Laurent looked at me flatly, “They’ll be furious and they won’t be able to keep up.”

I waved a languid hand. “It wouldn’t do for the Sector Guard to think that they could dictate to the Sector Flagship while both the Sector Commandant and Governor is aboard,” I scoffed, “it is high time they begin adjusting to the new reality: Sector forces do not give orders to the Confederation Fleet. It’s high time they were reminded of that. Oh, and make sure to record if any of the Governor’s battleships perform below specification so that I can make a note in their file during the upcoming Sector readiness review.”

Laurent shook his head and turned, pursing his lips. He spoke into his microphone, listened, and his faced went rigid before he looked back to me.

“I am unavailable for comment at this time,” I said, flipping a leg over the arm of the chair as I adjusted captain’s chair backwards for better comfort, “I have important affairs of state to consider at this time,” I finished, lacing my fingers and placing them behind my head.

Laurent turned back spoke again and then winced before shutting the com-channel. “The Captains of those battleships are incensed,” he informed me stone-faced.

“Remind them via electronic text communication that their propulsion performance will be graded and evaluated,” I said.

“They may fire on us,” warned Laurent.

“They don’t have the speed,” I dismissed.

“That’s true for now, but we will need to slow down at some point…if we want to join the hulks out at,” he rolled his eyes, “‘Project Waypoint.’”

“They can’t risk firing on us; they might kill the governor,” I assured him. “No. If they attack us with lasers, and that’s a big ‘if,’ it would only be to lower our shields so that they may attempt to send over boarding teams to safely escort the Governor back to his ship.”

Ensign Jones put a hand to his forehead.

“You are crediting the Guard with a level of intelligence—a level which I am not sure is warranted,” Laurent riposted.

“You think they’ll want proof of life?” I asked, taken aback.

Jones made a muffled sound which he quickly squelched, and Laurent shot me a hard look. “I think these are new ships, or new to the Sector Guard at any rate, and that whatever passed for experienced officers and crew joined with us in repulsing Warlord Janeski and the Reclamation Fleet. We had no prior information on these battleships, let alone on the temperament of their captains whoever they are. For all I know they might think it entirely reasonable to punch great big gaping holes in my ship, certain in the knowledge that anyone who is important aboard—such as the Governor—could not have possibly been vaporized in the attack!”

“I don’t remember you being this excitable,” I frowned, looking at Laurent with concern.

“Oh, in the fie!” Laurent swore and then turned away while throwing his hands in the air. “You’ll do whatever you’ll do anyway, I don’t know why I even bother trying.”

“Don’t worry so much, Captain,” I chided, “I know what I’m doing.”

Time, of course, would be the ultimate judge.

Chapter 5: Project Green Pea

“We’re approaching the Spindles now, Admiral,” Laurent said, pointing toward the giant Elder Tech jump engines and the mass of warships lashed together between them, “it’s time to either slow down or plan to overshoot.”

“Excellent news, Captain,” I said, looking up at the screen and the Sector Battleships trailing along behind us, “please open a channel to the Lucky Clover. I’d like to speak with Commander Spalding . Oh, and you can take us in slow.”

“Aye aye, Sir,” Laurent grumped.

Turning to the head of my personal protective detail, I motioned and Sean D’Argeant leaned in close. “Orders, my Prince?” he asked in a low voice.

“Please have the Governor escorted back to his shuttle,” I instructed in a low voice.

“Yes, my liege,” he said bracing to attention before turning away to pass along my orders.

“I have the commander on the line,” reported the Com-Officer.

“Excellent news,” I said with approval.

“Putting him through now,” said the Com-Officer.

“Are we on track, Commander?” I asked as soon as the Chief Engineer appeared on my screen.

“The Spindles are fit as a fiddle; everyone over here is secured and we’ve battened down the hatches. Ready to go on your order, Sir,” reported the old reprobate.

“Be ready to activate the engines as soon as the Furious Phoenix comes to a full and complete stop, Commander. No need to wait on my orders,” I said.

“Aye aye, Sir,” Spalding said with satisfaction and cut the channel.

I blinked as normally I was the one closing the channel as of late but then shrugged it off.

“The Battleships are starting to gain on us, Sir,” reported Captain Laurent.

I glanced at the screen, where no miracles had occurred to favor the enemy and the Sector Guard was still gratifyingly distant from the Medium Cruiser that was my flagship, and nodded.

“You are aware that they can bring us into firing range before we reach the flotilla if they don’t slow down?” Laurent offered.

“I do have a plan to avoid that, but yes, Captain,” I said irritably, “I’m well aware of the risks involved if the enemy is too hardened—or too green—to consider what might happen to the Governor, a man they view as the highest authority in this Sector. Please, have a little faith.”

“Oh, I know you have a plan,” Laurent said with an edge to his voice, “I also know that no plan survives contact with the enemy.”

“Which I’m sure would be true enough if they were the enemy. But as these members of the Sector Guard are simply my very own misguided subordinates let’s see how this plays out first, hmm?” I riposted.

“It’s your funeral,” said the Captain.

“Oh no, if I’m wrong, it could be all of our funerals. Everyone in this star system,” I said with a sharp-edged smile and then turned away.

D’Argeant leaned over towards me and reported, “The Governor has reached his shuttle.”

“I love it when a plan comes together,” I said, looking over to Laurent. “Captain, please inform the shuttle bay that they are to release the Governor and his shuttle from the ship.”

Laurent blinked, but the seasoned veteran of several Montagne campaigns by now simply rolled with it and began issuing orders.

Ensign Jones, on the other hand, couldn’t help himself.

“I thought from the way you were speaking earlier that you were going to detain the Governor indefinitely,” he observed.

“Is there a question in there somewhere, Ensign?” I queried irritably.

“What changed, Sir?”

“What are you talking about? Nothing’s changed, Ensign,” I said with a snort.

“Then the whole ‘keeping him in protective custody’ line…” he cocked his head at me with a penetrating gaze that ensigns just simply didn’t turn on their Admirals. Yes, this one that Captain Hammer had sent me was definitely something other than your standard run-of-the-mill snot-nosed junior officer.

I waved a hand dismissively. “He’s in the safest place he can be right now, Officer Jones,” I assured the other man, “the very safest.”

I’m afraid from his reaction that the smile I revealed as I said those last words was not exactly the nicest one I’d ever shown but it was something I was willing to live with.

“Admiral, the shuttle has cleared the bay,” reported Laurent.

Chapter 6: Governing Outrage

“Sir, the shuttle is attempting to transmit,” reported comm., “we’re jamming, but…”

“Quick thinking, Coms, but please let the Governor speak,” I said as my voice hardened fractionally. “There’s nothing he can say that we haven’t all heard before.”

The com-officer gave me a disgruntled look, but followed orders.

“Are you sure that’s the wisest course, Sir?” questioned Laurent, and Ensign Jones nodded in tacit agreement.

“I agree with the Captain, Sir. The Governor has no reasons to sing your praises,” Jones said neutrally—or at least as neutrally as a man who was going against the stated position of his commanding officer for the third or fourth time in a conversation could reasonably manage.

“Two of the battleships are maintaining speed and adjusting course for intercept,” reported Tactical, “the rest of the squadron is slowing down for a zero-zero intercept with the Phoenix at Point Harvest.”

“Understood,” Laurent and I said at almost the same time.

The Captain shot me a neutral look but I shrugged it off.

“Communications is reading a series of encrypted communication between the Sector Governor’s shuttle and the battleship squadron,” reported a com-tech, his Officer standing over his shoulder and nodding along with the report.

“Your orders, Sir?” asked the Captain.

“I thought I was clear,” I lifted an eyebrow as our Strike Cruiser continued to approach the Spindles, “we’re going to stall for time and let this play out.”

“The Governor is now broadcasting in the clear,” reported the Tech. The Com-Officer standing behind his shoulder cleared his throat and the Tech reddened. “My apologies, Sir,” the Tech said, ducking his head and glancing between me and his Department Head before continuing the report, “he’s broadcasting in the clear, but his message his directed at us.”

I pursed my lips. “Oh he is. Is he?” I asked, snorting on the inside where no one could hear or see.

“So much for playing for time, Admiral,” Captain Laurent said pointedly.

I frowned, casting a quelling look at the Captain who for his part studiously ignored my look.

“What’s he saying, Technician?” I asked ignoring the mood-ruiner beside me.

“He’s quite angry, Sir, and he’s demanding to speak with you,” reported the Senior Lieutenant in charge of the section.

“Although I haven’t the slightest idea why,” I said with a straight face, “by all means, put the man on.”

A red-faced Sir Isaak appeared on the screen. “You’ve gone too far this time, Montagne!” roared the Sector Governor, the redness of his forehead and a throbbing vein on his forehead failing to disguise the hint of fear that remained from his scant handful of hours in the Phoenix’s brig.

“Why, whatever do you mean, Governor?” I asked, drawing back with entirely fake effrontery and wondering, ‘if this was how the man responded to a mere handful of hours held firmly within the power of another but not actually harmed, how would he have handled being held for months on end, threatened, abused and nearly executed as like I nearly was?’

“Kidnapping and false imprisonment, not to mention a series of not-so-veiled threats against my life,” growled Isaak. “Don’t pretend you have no idea what I’m talking about, Admiral,” he all but spat the last word, “I had our entire conversation secretly recorded by a member of my staff, so there’s no point denying it!”

“While I highly doubt your staff recorded anything through ‘my staff’s’ highly effective and routine jamming techniques, that’s entirely beside the point,” I said perfunctorily before continuing, “as I have literally no idea what you’re talking about!” I then pasted a look of mock horror and growing concern on my face, looking as much like a falsely accused subordinate as I was capable of at the moment.

“Try that one in the courts, your royal Highness, Jason Montagne! This is not Capria where you can do whatever you like, threatening and then throwing a duly-elected Sector Governor into the brig. There are actual rules outside the despotic dictatorship you grew up in. You overplayed your hand this time, my pampered little Prince, and now the full weight and measure of the law are about to descend upon you like the vengeance of angels upon a sinner found trying to break into heaven with a skeleton key!”

“While I am more than willing to face any and all accusers in the court of a ruling Sector Judge to prove my innocence, I find your allegations simply shocking—especially after all the efforts we had to go through to keep you safe, Governor,” I declared, slapping a hand on the arm of the command chair and glaring at Sir Isaak. “Talk about all the two-faced, double backstabbing malarkey, Sir! And all because our staff simply couldn’t deliver you the chardonnay and caviar you’ve become accustomed to as quickly as you liked.”

Isaak’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You can’t spin your way out of this, Vice Admiral Montagne, I have witnesses—my entire staff, in fact!” the Governor threatened. But I noted that we were back to using my rank instead of actively maligning my former title to score points.

“And I have holo-recordings showing we warned you of a potential threat to your life and then placed you—and that staff of yours, I’ll point out—in the most secure location on this ship. I’m sorry if relaying to you reports of direct threats to your life, without the usual filtering by your staff, made you feel threatened and psychologically harmed, Governor,” I said solicitously, “but the Confederation Fleet has a certain protocol it has to follow and I’m afraid it doesn’t take the potentially fragile mental state of its recipients into consideration when there is a threat to their life and limb.”

“You don’t get to be a Sector Governor by having a ‘fragile mental state,’ and I resent the blatant insult,” snapped Isaak. “Please be aware that this entire conversation is being recorded for personal review by Judge Himmel as we determine whether to take this issue to trial! As it is, you can consider yourself officially stripped of your position as Sector Commandant and you are hereby formally requested to hand yourself over to the Provost Marshals. Barring that, this Sector demands you leave this Sector and move back to Tracto where you at least ostensibly belong!”

“While I’ll have to refuse Sector Judge Himmel on the grounds of his compromised status, having renounced the Confederation and sworn personal loyalty to the Sector Regime, I would consent to appear inside the court of any other Spineward based Sector Judge to face my accusers. Sadly I’ll have to decline the Provost Marshals at this time, as that would be the sort of unqualified attempted Sector overreach—said overreach being the blatant infringing upon Confederation prerogatives and primacy—that I am sworn to protect against. However,” I raised a hand, “that said, I am more than willing to step down from my position as Commandant, take my warships with me, and go home. My doing so would leave the previous Wolf-9 chain of command in charge of Easy Haven,of course.”

“Oh no, you won’t. I tried to do this the nice way and split the winnings with you but you cast this Sector’s gratitude back in my face. So no, Montagne. You’ll not be leaving with a single one of those warships until after a prize court, empowered by the Sector Assembly, has had a chance to rule on every single one of those ships,” glowered Isaak. “In point of fact, you won’t be stepping down from anything as you’ve just been terminated as Sector Commandant for cause!”

“I understand all your various points, Governor, which is why, having reached what appears to be an impasse, I’m afraid we’ll have to agree to disagree,” I said righteously. “Furthermore, I can assure the Governor that no matter how many injunctions he feels the need to file in Confederation court that I feel no personal animosity towards either him or his Sector for their actions.”

Sir Isaak lowered his brow and glanced away from the screen.

Laurent leaned in and whispered, “He’s probably checking to see if his shuttle is outside of weapons range, which it is.”

I grunted in response.

The Sector Governor turned back to me with a vicious smile. “I didn’t want it to come to this but it seems you have given me no choice but to inform you that I have a full squadron of battleships and, as of your ouster as Commandant—which became official this very moment—the pledged loyalty of those parts of the 25th Amalgamated Fleet still inside this star system that belonging to this Sector’s various SDF’s,” Isaak said bluntly. “I, not you, hold the balance of power inside this star system, Admiral Jason. And you would be wise to remember that before testing me further.”

There was a stir on the bridge of the Phoenix as the Sector Governor all but threatened to destroy us.

“Is that a threat, Governor?” I asked calmly.

“Make of it what you will. But you will be leaving those battleships you’ve corralled out here in the outer system behind,” he stated coldly. “There will be no legal arguments, plucky maneuvers, or bluffs that will stop this from happening. Until the day you learn how to play ball—assuming you survive that long, which current evidence suggests is highly in doubt—you have proven you cannot be trusted with that amount of firepower and weight of metal. Jason Montagne,” Isaak said drawing himself up formally.

“Yes, Isaak?” I replied.

The governor’s nostrils flared. “All prizes taken inside this star system were done so under the aegis of the Sector Fleet, of which you yourself were the undisputed commander. The Confederated Sectors have abandoned us to chaos and despair, and on top of that this Sector currently possesses firepower to secure its interests in this Star System. These facts are not in dispute,” said the Governor, pausing fractionally, “the only question is: will you accept this reality or not?”

“I’m afraid I do not recognize your authority to give me orders, and am going to have to decline your offer,” I demurred.

“Then, by both legal right and the ability of force majeure, I am informing you that we have come to claim what is rightfully ours. Heave to and prepare to be boarded or place yourself in a rogue status,” Sir Isaak informed me.

“Do what you have to do,” I said with a seemingly unconcerned shrug.

Ensign Jones made a strangled sound and Laurent shot me a penetrating look, but I wasn’t worried. Jones didn’t have the kind of clout that could cause me problems in the fleet, and while Laurent might not like where I was taking us he’d follow me through the other side. What he’d do after that was anyone’s guess.

I mean, look, obviously I thought I had all the angles covered here, but the guy on the other side of the board was the Governor of an entire Sector. It was always possible that my little tricks might not be as much of a surprise as I was hoping and that all my maneuvers had been seen through—or somehow leaked.

Not that I was concerned—at least that’s what I told myself. My face hardened as I continued to ignore my team and stare at the Sector Governor on my Screen.

“Very well,” Isaak said, lifting an eyebrow at me and then looked down at another smaller screen in front of him.

I leaned back. This should be interesting.

“Prepare to fire on any rogue elements inside this star system, Captain,” Isaak said to that smaller screen before looking back up to find and hold my gaze.

The ball was now firmly back in my court—and I wasn’t about to be shaken this easily. I was in this one for all the marbles…or at least all the important ones.

“Technically this is rebellion, Governor,” I informed the other man speaking clinically. I’d gambled everything on winning the war (and lost much in the process); I would be good and blasted before I would lose the peace afterwards.

“I think we’re past all of that by now, Admiral. Don’t you?” said Isaak, flicking a hand as if sweeping away a bit of dust.

“I guess we are,” I said after a pause. It would have been nice if the Governor had been able to face reality without further prompting. The reality was that I wasn’t here to do his heavy lifting while he got to come along behind and sweep away the panther’s share of the winnings, but as far as I was concerned all’s well that ends well. I guess it was still just up to me to make sure everything ended correctly, “I had really hoped that you would see things differently, Governor,” I informed him sadly.

I was sad not for him, but the innocent men and women he was leading into peril. Some of which had probably been on the same side of the War against Janeski and his imperial ambitions.

“As long as you continue to act like a Warlord, instead of a loyal servant of the elected government like you should be, then that’s exactly how I’ll have to treat you,” Sir Isaak informed me gruffly, “blast it, boy, I know we got off to a rocky start but I had hoped you would be more cognizant of your position than this! Turning against an entire Sector when you’re at your lowest point? I don’t know if it’s hubris or just plain pigheaded stubbornness that was grafted into your line, but for all the much-vaunted Montagne cunning and intelligence not a single one of you seems capable of seeing reason without being hit upside the head with a board first. Well, Admiral, you’ve had a nice run but that run ends here as unfortunately for you I am that board,” he finished looking irked.

“A loyal servant of which government, Sector Governor?” I asked rhetorically. “The Confederation, King James on Capria, my Wife’s back on Tracto or…the one belonging to you and your cronies that helped you rig the Sector Elections?”

“You pompous imbecile!” roared Isaak, “I offered you a toast but you refused to drink it. Good—very good, in fact; now it’s time for you to suffer your inevitable loss! Captain,” he barked at the officer beside him, “order our lead units to increase their speed. I don’t want to give the Tyrant any more room to maneuver than absolutely necessary!”

“Am I to take it from your latest words that there is no longer any room for negotiation? You are bound and determined to kick off this rebellion against the Confederation?” I asked, feeling very much like a race horse at the gate straining against the metal blocking my exit. I had been forced to deal with the Sector 25 government, and Sir Isaak in particular, with kid gloves as I smiled at the garbage they tried to force feed me for years.

It felt good to finally feel the kid gloves start coming off.

“The Confederation is dead and buried. Whatever moral authority it had is gone. It was mortally wounded when they let the Empire pull its ships out of the Spine, blowing up its infrastructure along behind it, and died when it failed to so much as send a fleet of relief goods—let alone actual warships out here to protect us from the Droids, Reavers, Pirates and Warlords that have turned the Spine upside down, at least until we could organize a defense of our own. So yes,” he glared, “you can safely assume that I am done negotiating.”

“Hey,” I snapped, “the MSP has been bleeding and dying for Sector 25 and the Spine. Three entire Sectors we’ve been protecting while you sat safely in your new home at Central and built up your power base.”

“Then maybe you should have done the same,” yelled Isaak, “instead of playing at Admiral with a pretend fleet that no one, not even the old Confederation that abandoned us, asked you to build while you ran around like some kind of white knight out of the story books. Life is not a fairy tale. There are no do-over’s. And its time you learned that history is written by the victors. You are not a white knight, but rather the Tyrant of Cold Space—a dangerously confused young Warlord every bit as dangerous to the free people of the spine as Rear Admiral Janeski ever was. Not because you have more warships, which you don’t, but because at least he never claimed to be doing anything but what he was: an Imperial officer unifying the Spine for his accursed Empire of Man. Heave to, recognize the only legitimate government left in the area or be destroyed,” he said, “no more talk, no more discussion!”

“Very well,” I said with a nod.

“Finally!” exclaimed Isaak victoriously.

“You have left me no choice but to request you have a member of your staff check bulkhead 3 inside your personal governor’s shuttle,” I said with a sigh.

“What?” snapped the Governor.

“I said: please send someone with a hand scanner over to bulkhead 3, Governor,” I released a weary smile, “I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”

There was a stir in the shuttle behind the Governor.

“Just what are you playing at now, Montagne?” Isaak glowered, but almost despite himself it seemed, turned and gave a hurried set of instructions in a low voice to one of his minions.

“I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough,” I said, leaning back contentedly like a man with everything in the world under control.

“If this is a bluff, I’ll-” started Isaak.

“Oh please,” I scoffed, “it’s not like you can kill me any deader than you were planning to before this.”

A functionary came running back into the cramped shuttle cockpit. “It’s a bomb, your Excellency!” cried the other man.

I suppressed a snicker at the shock and horror in his voice. “Next time you might want to wait to threaten someone until after you’re back in your flagship. Just a friendly piece of advice from a person who’s been, you know, actually running a fleet of ships for the past several years,” I said pointedly.

Isaak gave me an assessing look. “You placed a bomb on my ship?” he asked, clearly unsure if he should believe it or not, “that doesn’t seem your style.”

“I assure you that our people swept your shuttle for bombs before you disembarked and that there were no bombs aboard your shuttle when it left our ship, Governor,” I said, piously placing a hand on my chest.

“Damn you!” roared Isaak slamming a hand down on the arm of the shuttle’s navigator’s chair.

“You’ve got me all wrong,” I chortled with mirth as I continued to play him, “just because I was all but certain you would turn traitor to the Confederation sooner rather than later, I can assure you that all I did was instruct my staff to place a few bottles of caviar and wine in the crawlspace next to the bulkhead. That said, I do have to advise you to have your lead battleships slow down and divert course… strictly for their own protection of course.”

The connection cut abruptly. I waited a minute and the governor’s entire flotilla slowed and diverted 25 degrees off target.

“Well that was a surprise,” I said with a happy blink.

“Are you mad?! Placing an explosive device in the shuttle of a Sector Level Official!” Jones gaped.

“Of course not,” I snapped.

Jones’ eyes popped. “Then there was no bomb?” he asked with surprise.

“What do you take me for, a madman?” I asked, giving him a scorn filled look. “Of course there was no bomb! All I ever did was send over a crate of wine and caviar…as well as encourage our engineering department to put in with it a device that would look like an explosive device if it was ever scanned but was actually harmless.” I finished, waving a breezy hand.

“Unbelievable,” Jones said.

“I know. It’s pretty neat isn’t it?” I said with a satisfied grin.

“It’s something,” Laurent deadpanned refusing to buy into my enthusiasm.

“You just violated half a dozen domestic protection laws,” cried Jones.

I openly scoffed at this bit of chicken-little ‘the sky is falling’ routine.

“Forget tampering with an ambassadorial vessel; you could be prosecuted for terrorism charges!” he said with outrage.

“For delivering caviar and assuring the Governor that their shuttle checked out clean?” I said at the same time as Captain Laurent said.

“For using a harmless little ruse to deceive a group of self-declared rebels?” Laurent rolled his eyes and then continued as I stopped talking and glanced over at him. “I don’t think there’ s a military court in the galaxy that would prosecute him for that. Not unless it was a rebel tribunal. Or maybe if they wanted to go after him for supplying the caviar as aid and comfort to the enemy,” Laurent paused, “you know, now that I think about it, there may have actually been a case I heard about like that over in the Purple Cluster Free Territories on the other side of the Empire…”

I suppressed a sudden snort by turning it into a cough. Which somehow or other sent something down the wrong pipe after which I ended up pounding my chest after actually almost choking.

“This is not a game,” Jones protested our antics in a low forceful voice, just as Sensors reported an escape pod along with a small cloud of several suited figures leaving the shuttle by way of the rear boarding ramp.

Laurent looked away towards one of the bridge section, clearly taking a pass when it came to the junior officer’s assertion. Most likely it was a sore spot for the Captain.

Not so much for myself.

“Unfortunately, Ensign, that is exactly what this is: a game,” I deigned to answer to young officer where Laurent either feared or disliked the answer, “that said it is no mere game, it is the most important game of them all: the game of power. The game of lives. It can be bloodthirsty and there are always lives left in the balance. Sadly it is a game that has been played by every single ruler and politician down through the ages, whether they wanted to or not, and all we can do is hope, pray and strive so that as many innocents as possible are left out of it.”

“That’s either the most cynical outlook I’ve ever heard of or outright bonkers, Sir,” Jones told me.

“I am receiving a link request from the pod. It’s for you, Admiral,” reported Coms heedless of the little drama taking place around the captain’s chair.

“Why can’t it be both?” I asked Jones before turning to the Com-Section.

“Put him through,” I instructed the corner of my mouth turning up at the thought of finally putting one solidly over the good Governor. I couldn’t help it, I knew it was wrong but despite everything that said I shouldn’t, I felt satisfaction at the thought of Sir Isaak dancing to someone else’s tune for a change. My tune, for instance.

The Governor appeared from inside the escape pod and he was seething.

“Montagne!” he shouted.

“I take it from your look of dissatisfaction that either the wine or the caviar failed to meet your expectations?” I asked with a butter-couldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth expression. “Was the year no good or had the caviar started to turn?”

“You can take your caviar and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine, your Highness!” Sir Isaak declared coldly.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said with twisted relish.

“You may have delayed the inevitable by half an hour but the moment I am out of blast range of that shuttle and securely aboard my flag ship you and your entire fleet are finished, Montagne! Do you hear me? Finished!”

“Interesting,” I said coolly, “you are aware that a wiser man might have waited until he was actually outside of blast range of that shuttle before spouting off at the person he thought had set it to blow? But then, no one’s ever accused you of wisdom, am I correct governor? Intelligence and ruthlessness, almost certainly. But wisdom?” I continued to mock as Isaak stared at me with snake eyes, “Fortunate for everyone involved, then, that there was only ever caviar and wine inside your shuttle. And frankly, a half hour was all I needed anyway. So thank you for that.”

“You aren’t going anywhere, Admiral Montagne. As the gods are my witness, none of your tricks will save you this time. No man toys with Sir Isaak of Argaon, a fifty year veteran of the Caprian ambassadorial service and the duly elected Governor of Sector 25,” the Governor snapped before once again cutting the connection with the slash of a hand.

“How rude,” I commented idly, and there was a snort from nearby that was so well disguised I was unable to tell where it came from in response.

Which was probably fortunate.

Chapter 7: Now you see it, now you don’t: The Run for the Derelicts

“Status on the Governor’s battleships, Tactical?” Laurent inquired.

“Still decelerating in an off course angle from Green Pea, Sir,” Lieutenant Hart reported crisply.

The Captain nodded,and on the screen one of the Sector Guard Battleships launched bucking cables.

“Still no new ship movements,” reported Hart in a hardening voice as the Governor’s escape pod was pulled into the open launch bay doors of the Sector Battleship.

Several long minutes passed as the Sector Battleships failed to light engines and renew their course for the waypoint containing the most important captured hulls from the last War.

“What’s taking them so long?” muttered Laurent and Hart just shook his head.

I didn’t have the answer.

Then the bay doors were suddenly decompressed and the escape pod was unceremoniously ejected from the battleship.

“Interesting,” I mused, placing a finger across my upper lip.

“No doubt they were concerned with the safety of their shuttle after our Admiral’s repeated assurances of the safety of their shuttle,” remarked Jones.

“Yes, that was quite obvious to anyone with an active brain, Ensign. Thanks for the timely information,” Laurent said dryly.

Jones’s expression flattened, but he nodded stiffly accepting the rebuke with more grace than I might have in his place. Of course, I wasn’t in his place and likely never would be. No, it was fortune and glory or the ignominy of total defeat for my future.

“If only the odds weren’t, and hadn’t been, so heavily stacked against me,” I mumbled unconsciously.

“Eh?” Laurent cocked an eye my direction.

I blinked in surprise that I’d spoken aloud. “Nothing, just a stray thought concerning the past,” I deflected brushing aside the question. The middle road might have been long denied me but, as long as this gambit worked and I could secure these hulls in my secret rebel base, I could dare to defy anything in the Spine. Which, honestly, at this point I would.

“Sector warships have resumed their intercept course with the Waypoint,” Hart reported the instant Isaak’s ships began to move.

I look at the countdown clock. The governor had been delayed for 42 minutes and 34 seconds, a good twelve minutes more than expected.

Or needed.

Chapter 8: The Chase Is On

“I want the Tyrant’s head handed to me by dawn!” snapped Governor Isaak as he stormed onto the bridge of his flag ship, skinsuit clinging to his body as he tore off the suit’s gloves and mask.

“There’s nowhere he can run as long as he’s willing to defend those captures, and his window to fly past and run for the hyper limit with his flagship is rapidly closing. He has nowhere to go as long as he’s determined not to hand over those battleship hulls,” the Captain said staunchly.

“Whoever controls those hulls controls the balance of power in this Sector—and possibly the Spine! He knows that just as well as I do, which is why he’s being so cussed stubborn,” the Governor glared at the screen depicting Jason Montagne and the battered remnants of his ‘Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet.’ In other words, a former joke of a fleet that no one in the halls of power was laughing at any longer. This might be the one last chance the Government had to crush the ‘Little Admiral,’ as he was known among his closest confidants, and Isaak aimed to put the overgrown blighter and his burgeoning cult of personality permanently in his place or rub it and him out entirely. “It’s high time the Tyrant finally felt the full force and fury of the Rule of Law,” Isaak finished with savage satisfaction.

“Are you sure he won’t run? It won’t sit well with some of the officers and crew that served during the Amalgamated Campaign,” the Captain warned, “they’ll do their duty to Central and the Sector even if it turns their stomach sour, and I’ll not claim there aren’t any number of hands old and new itching to blow the Tyrant to Kingdom Come. But even though it’ll raise morale in some areas it’ll hit it in others; stabbing our allies during the campaign in the back like this won’t sit well across the board.”

“Murphy blast it, Captain Bluetooth,” swore Isaak, “those were not allies of our Sector serving alongside the Guard, they were constituents! They did their duty then and they’ll do their duty now or face justice like any other traitorous unit. Set aside your precious Spacer’s Honor for one hot second and look at the bigger picture.”

“I am! And I do, Your Excellency,” flared the other man, “but you would be ill-served if I failed to point out the consequences to the Guard before dutifully carrying out your orders.”

Sir Isaak gritted his teeth, looking like he was about to explode and then finally nodded before relaxing fractionally. “While it’s certainly not music to my ears, I recognize the service you do by speaking it, Captain. Do not think for an instant that I fail to recognize the gravity of this situation or the impact upon the Guard and our Sector if we succeed or if we were to fail. However, I would be remiss in my duties as Governor if I let a rogue operator like the Tyrant of Cold Space run off with enough firepower to dictate terms to the government,” Isaak said smooth finality. “I’m sure that despite whatever qualms you or your men feel they will carry out their duty to the best of their abilities.”

“Of course, Sir. We are the Sector Guard,” Bluetooth said with obvious pride in his statement.

“Good man,” Isaak said clapping the Captain on the shoulder. “Now if that is quite enough, let us go and bag a Tyrant why don’t we?”

“With pleasure, Governor,” Bluetooth bared his teeth.

“Why, Captain, for a moment there I almost thought you shared the qualms of certain of your crew,” Isaak observed with surprise.

The Captain shook his head stoically. “While I would be a poor captain if I didn’t understand my men, I have no love for criminals who cut the heads off Sector Guard service Admirals or execute their flag rank detractors inside briefing rooms, Governor. No, this is one order I will be quite satisfied carrying out,” Bluetooth said flatly.

“Captain, it appears you just might have had hidden depths overlooked by my staff during your last several yearly reviews,” Isaak said, his eyes narrowing.

“That’s not why I’m doing this, Governor,” the Captain frowned.

“All the better,” Isaak mused, one corner of his mouth climbing upward, “I always have a place set aside in my administration for a principled man who hates my enemies just as badly as I do.”

Bluetooth’s brow lowered. “I serve the Sector, not any one leader. I try to put aside any personal grudges I have for the good of the service, your Excellency,” the Captain demurred stoutly, “that’s one of the key difference between a guardsman like myself and the hired thugs of a two bit warlord like Montagne.”

“An excellent outlook for a Guard officer,” Sir Isaak approved, “keep telling yourself that when the times get rough, Captain, and you’ll go far in this man’s Sector defense force,” he turned away with a smile.

After Governor Isaak left to look over the battle-space plot, he left behind a disgruntled-looking ship captain who opened his mouth several times as if to speak before ultimately closing his mouth with a snap before turning away himself.

“Message to the Governor’s Escort Squadron,” growled Captain Bluetooth, “all ships are to resume previous orders. The governor wants the Tyrant’s head if he refuses to surrender and recognize Sector authority. I recognize that this might not sit well with some, however I expect every man to do his sworn duty and follow every lawful order despite personal preferences. That is why, in the name of the Sector Guard and all the guardsmen who lost their lives at the hands of this rogue Admiral and our former illustrious Sector Commandant,” he scoffed, sneering as he added his latest most previous title. “As well as those who died because of the men and women who sold their souls to the space demons in order to follow him into this infamy. I say enough is enough! Enough is more than too much! Enough with the Warlords, both those sent by the Empire and those who are home-grown! Enough with the chaos and darkness that has swept our people, our worlds, and our Sector! Enough with the lies and death and carnage and chaos. It is time and past someone stood up and took a stand!”

He paused to assess the room.

“Never doubt for a moment people that that someone is us. The Sector Guard. As the Governor himself says: this may be our only, last, and final chance to stop this Warlord in his tracks—and I aim to take it. Which is why I ask you, the men and women of this squadron, to help me stand on the side of law, order and proper discipline as I deliver the latest in a long series of would be warlords, men who shook the Spine and nearly brought our Sector to its knees, to the Governor on a silver platter! Thank you in advance for your support. That will be all.” He finished with a sharp resounding nod before stepping back and sitting down in his Captain’s Chair, his back ramrod straight.

After the captain’s words, a pall hung over the bridge until suddenly one operator broke it by standing up and saluting. After him, as if a dam had broken, two others stood up saluted and started clapping. Soon a groundswell of support swept the bridge as every member of the crew and nearly every officer stood up in wholehearted support of their leader and the task he’d set them until their cheers literally shook the walls.

“The MSP can disband or die. Up the Sector! Down the Tyrant! And long live the people of the Spine and Sector 25! Huzzah!!!”

“Huzzah!!!” shouted the bridge crew.

“Huzzah!!!”

“Huzzah!!!”

After a penetrating look followed by a sharp nod from the Captain the ship’s Executive Officer stepped forward.

“That’s enough, people; get back to your work. Attention on deck!” he barked.

With an assessing look, Governor Isaak stood silently off to the side as he observed the Captain and the state of the Sector Guard officers present on the bridge.

Engines flaring, the warships of the Sector Guard resumed their top pursuit speed. Like six angry pylons of death they tore through space, eager to bring down pain and punishment to all those who would defy their legal authority.

Chapter 9: Finished, or the Finish Line?

“The Sector Guard has entirely changed their encryption protocol, Sir,” reported the Com-Officer.

I gave the man a penetrating look, wishing for a moment I was dealing with Lieutenant Steiner instead of the current head of the Furious Phoenix ’s com-department. But beggars cannot be choosers, and Lisa Steiner was currently on the 2.0 with Commander Spalding updating its fleet com-protocols for future command and control operations and ensuring by her very presence that I would have communications with that most critical of warships if the need arose. Saint Murphy knew it was hard enough dealing with Spalding when he was on the same ship; how much worse would it be when he was off in another part of the system?

“Understood,” I answered the com-officer, “how many ships in the rest of the system have changed protocols to match?” I inquired curiously.

The Com-Officer blanked for a moment and then nodded.

“I’ll check, Admiral,” he said respectfully and then turned away.

“You do that,” I said.

“Good catch, Sir,” said Laurent.

“No one likes a suck-up, Captain,” I rebuked mildly.

“Of course, Sir. It won’t happen again,” Laurent promised with what sounded like anything but true sincerity.

I looked at him sideways and had to resist an eye roll at the faint smirk on his face.

The answer when it came back wasn’t as bad as I’d feared, but still much worse than I’d hoped. I was looking at more than twenty starships which had already changed their transponder code to the new Sector Level Encryption. As I watched, two more transponders blinked and then changed their encryption.

“If this is not the very definition of ‘fair weather friends’ then I know not what it is,” I said damningly as yet another ship changed its transponder slowly edging the number of newly self-declared Sector loyalists, and finally my temper started rising. I closed my eyes, trying to center myself out of this sudden storm of wild emotion. “Mama, they try and break me,” I whispered as a fury like a rising tide welled up from deep within me until I felt I was about to burst, “relentless and without shame or consideration they just…keep…TRYING.”

“Calmness, Sir,” Laurent said, sounding more concerned and urgent than I’d ever heard him as he stepped closer. “This wasn’t entirely unexpected; we knew they had partisans among the remnants of the 25th Amalgamated defense fleet lingering here for repairs. This is exactly why we made contingency orders, Sir.”

“Planet after System after Sector, we have continuously saved them from themselves—entire bloody Sectors, Laurent!” my voice rose with a growing sense of outrage or, in all honesty, probably just plain rage, “how many times must I offer my people up, a sacrifice upon the altar of their own stupidity? No, stupidity doesn’t take it far enough. ‘Blatant stupidity’ works so much better, Laurent. “Well?” I demanded of no one in particular. “Exactly how many times will they demand we cut our own throats for their greater good so that they may sleep better at night? How many times!?” I shouted, realizing I was totally out of control but unable to stop myself.

Laurent looked at me with a wide-eyed and alarmed expression. “I don’t know what to tell you, Sir,” he said cautiously, and even through the almost red haze of fury I was feeling, I hated to see the suddenly hooded look in his eyes, “we’re space officers. This is literally what we do: we fight, we bleed and—when necessary—we die. We serve at the pleasure of the president, governor, government, assembly…or whatsoever it is we swear loyalty to, Admiral. That is who and what we are. A true fleet are the people’s protector, the stout shield and sharp sword that stand between darkness and the light, between life and the machine death. We are all colors and creeds but though we may fight each other ultimately it is our blood and our sacrifice that keeps humanity free.”

The breath whooshed out of me as he drove his counterpoint home. Feeling like I’d been hit in the gut, the wind went out of my proverbial sails.

“We serve not for a ‘thank you’ nor for recognition, although being only human we can’t help at times but to greatly crave it. For myself it is rather the simple conundrum of ‘if not us then who?’ that keeps me at my post. To my mind, better a known person of grit and principle than a blank slate wild card who might do any blasted thing,” he suddenly grinned, “sorry as I am to say that to you of all people, Admiral. But that’s why I serve, sacrificing myself upon the altar of my leader’s stupidity, as you say, in a nutshell.”

I placed my face in my hands and rubbed the inner corners of my eyes clean before once again looking up. “I’m ashamed…and greatly embarrassed,” I admitted, reaching out to clasp his shoulder, “thank you for the timely reminder that it is the duty of spacers, up to and including Vice Admirals, to make that sacrifice.”

“It’s my duty, Sir,” the Captain crisply replied.

For a moment I looked around the bridge, and despite the wide eyed concern and doubt on the faces of the crew, I took strength from the fact that I was leading people such as these. Men and women of this quality demanded that I give nothing less than my best. I might be angry, stressed, once again betrayed (that it was a highly expected betrayal did little to remove the sting after the number of lives we’d lost in the service of this sector) and ever-so-tempted to do something rash (well…more rash than my current plan entailed, at any rate) but however tempting it was to vent my spleen, do some damage, and then thumb my nose on the way out, I just simply couldn’t.

Not the least because the Imperials were still out there. Somewhere. Waiting. In the darkness they were lurking like a bad uncle with evil intentions.

“I’m glad to see you’re more yourself, Sir?” Laurent made the statement into a question.

“For far too many reasons to elucidate, we have to stay the course, Captain,” I said, grimacing to show the measure of my determination. “Please get me a tight beam laser link to Captain McCruise. I’ll need to speak with her one last time.”

“Of course, Sir,” Laurent said giving me a measured look before turning and motioning with his head to his Comm. Department, and then instructing his helmsman to bring the ship’s engines to 110% of maximum.

I grimaced at being forced to rely upon another person’s staff to get anything done—and the fact that we were squeezing every extra second we could out of our engines chafed no small measure as well. While Laurent could be trusted to drive his ship, I liked my own setup perfectly fine thank you and good night. Sadly, the galaxy was not how I’d like it to be but rather how it actually was—and needs must when the demon drives. In the end I guess I was just spoiled, used to having my own flag bridge and personalized bridge crew.

“Link established, Admiral,” reported Comm. just as the ship began its final approach on the mass of ships within the Elder Tech jump spindles.

“Thank you, Coms,” I straightened in anticipation.

“Captain McCruise here, Admiral,” reported the Captain as the Furious Phoenix slid into position to the side, in front, and slightly below the Lucky Clover 2.0.

I nodded with satisfaction at the deftness of Laurent’s helm. “I just wanted to offer one more time, Synthia. I realize it’s too late for you to join us here at the waypoint for Green Pea, but you could still load your remaining people up onto that pair of freighters you’re holding onto as working quarters for your yard reconstruction crew,” I offered.

McCruise shook her head in negation. “Thank you for the offer, Sir,” she said dipping her head, “but other than the few remaining serious cases that have been transferred to your flotilla for transport to medical facilities over there none of my people are interested in leaving Easy Haven.”

“Are you sure I can’t convince you to leave?” I pressed. “I know I offered to evacuate everyone but I feel like I’m playing with people’s lives here. Governor Isaak is not going to be happy, your people will be easy targets of opportunity. I’d like to think that he’ll see reason and leave you alone once he realizes he can’t stop us—and that infuriating me would only bring the MSP back down on his head as soon as we’ve got the new battleships up to speed—but…”

“Even if he strikes us down, you’ll come back stronger than he could possibly imagine, is that it?” McCruise’s resulting smile pulled her hatchet face into what would otherwise have been called an unseemly grimace. “Well don’t mind it—or us, Admiral. You have to do what’s best for everyone, and if that means leaving us hanging in the wind then—”

“That’s not my intention at all!” I protested.

“Oh and I know it. Just like me and everyone here knows that we’re taking our lives into our hands by choosing to stay here. But,” she scowled angrily, “at this point you couldn’t order us to leave… sir,” she added belatedly, “nope. Our orders were to hold Wolf-9 and that’s exactly what we aim to do. We’ve lost too many people protecting this system to just give it up at this point. Especially to a passel of traitorous curs determined to bite the hand that feeds it!”

“I understand your feelings on the subject,” I said, “but now that Colin’s gone you’re in the driver’s seat for your people and that means—”

“With all respect, Admiral,” McCruise cut in, “no, you don’t understand. You weren’t out here back when we had a real fleet presence, you weren’t here when everyone else pulled back to the Core Sectors or retired, and you certainly haven’t been out here standing your post tired, hungry and alone while the rest of the Fleet and everyone back home seems to have forgotten you even exist. We haven’t seen a relief fleet that didn’t originate from the MSP for more than four years. Everyone back home seems to have forgotten we exist while their lives just go on. Well blast them, we’ll still be waiting right here ready and demanding answers for when they show up.”

“While I respect your resolve, that is neither here nor there as it concerns living long enough to rebuke your superiors, Captain McCruise,” I said.

“What? I’m supposed to just up and run after LeGodat gave his life holding this place?” McCruise’s brows rose for the rafters before crashing back down thunderously, “and not just him, but dozens of people I’ve known for decades—as well as thousands of green trainees? Over my dead body!”

“I’m not going to try to convince you further except to warn that it may in fact come to that,” I said.

“While I might have come to a different conclusion regarding the distribution of prizes if I was in command, that is neither here nor there. It was your decision to make and you made it. If that causes those Sector blighters to raise the flag of rebellion and attack us, so be it. We have sacrificed too much of our blood, sweat, and weight of metal for them—and we’ve been the only ones doing so! Here we are and here we’ll stay and if need be we’ll go down swinging and cursing those rebel dogs…assuming it comes to that which, honestly speaking, I don’t think it will,” she said seriously. “Not after the Governor calms down enough to realize you’ll be strong enough to take on the entire rest of the Sector combined by the time you fix up and repair those Battleships.”

“Betting your life on the restraint and intelligence of any politician, let alone this one, is a fool’s game in my experience. But as the new System Commander of Easy Haven, that is of course your call to make,” I said helplessly. I really wished I could have convinced her to pull up stakes and follow us back home. Tracto, to say nothing of the Gambit Yards, needed all the hands we could lay hold on. Sadly it didn’t seem destined to be and because of that—and because I wasn’t willing to give into sector extortion—McCruise and the much-expanded stalwarts of the Wolf-9 defense squadron risked not just defeat and capture, but total annihilation.

“You do what you have to, Admiral. And we here at Wolf-9 will rebuild and do the same…assuming the Governor and his Sector Guard will let us,” McCruise said unhappily.

It was a grim realization, to know that when it came right down to it I wasn’t willing to hand my captured Battleships over to Isaak in exchange for the lives I was leaving behind at Easy Haven, but there it was. In the end, and after all the sophistry, I was a right bastard who placed my own power over the lives of my people.

I clenched my fist angrily. Blast it all, I wished there was another choice but if there was I was too stupid—and too late—to winkle it out. I wasn’t ready to give into the Governor’s sector terrorism and hand over the battleships. I mean, we were talking about more than ten potentially repairable Battleships here. His ‘split them how we decide or we’ll rebel and you’ll lose them all anyway, oh and along with all your lives too’ just didn’t sit well with me.

Not that it made me any less the blighter but…curse it all anyway. No! On one level I was totally responsible because I could have avoided it. But on another, smoke the Governor, his entire posse, and the whole herd of metal horses they rode in on. I was not the man pulling the trigger or pressing the button.

If he was going to pull the trigger then that was on him not me, I had not attacked the man and my threats had only been in direct response to his and for all of that I was still a terrible leader for not finding a better way around it.

I looked up with burning eyes to meet and hold Synthia McCruise’s gaze. “There’s something I want you to remember. No matter what happens in the future, you have an ally in me, Captain McCruise,” I said, silently vowing that if they survived Isaak’s fit of rage,

“I’ll pass on your sentiments to the crew, Admiral Montagne,” McCruise said formally, “now if that will be all, I need to get back to it.”

“I think there’s still one last thing that still needs doing,” I drew myself up. Standing up from my chair I braced to attention, “Attention, Captain.”

I waited until a now-frowning McCruise slowly pushed herself up from her command chair. “Admiral,” she acknowledged.

“On this day I hereby promote you, Captain Synthia McCruise, to the rank of acting Commodore in the Confederation Fleet and confirm your position as system commander until ratified or relieved by the Confederation Grand Assembly. The electronic paperwork to follow,” I said formally.

“I’m not sure if I deserve or should accept a promotion from you, Admiral,” McCruise said with a persistent frown.

“I’ll tell you the same thing I told LeGodat: at the very least, you’ll need the rank if you’re going to do your duty out here,” I said, suppressing a twinge at the less than enthusiastic reception.

“I understand, and as the senior surviving officer I will hold this post to the best of my abilities, Admiral,” McCruise said, snapping a salute.

“Carry on, Commodore,” I nodded as she started to sit back down and then cut the connection. For a long moment I stared blankly at the screen depicting Governor Isaak’s oncoming wave of battleships. “Well then,” I said heavily.

“It needed to be done, Sir—if I may be so bold as to say,” Laurent observed.

“Indeed it did, and while I have no doubt McCruise will do a decent job of running the place I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’m going to miss the steady hand of Commodore LeGodat,” I took a deliberate moment to again mourn the loss of one of my earliest and closest allies. Once again, a strong supporter was gone and things would never again be quite the same. But life goes on…until it doesn’t, but in the meantime I had more immediate concerns.

“I completely understand, and even share some of the same concerns,” Laurent admitted. I looked at him with surprise. “You were not the only person to interact with the Commodore. He will be missed,” Laurent said simply.

I sighed and then shook it off once and for all.

Times were hard all around but that’s how it was. At least I was alive and intact. Colin LeGodat had been crushed when his bridge collapsed during the battle; Glue’s ship had been shot out from under him resulting in burns over 80% of his body, along with forced amputation of an entire arm and one hand starting from before the wrist; Kling had been cut in half trying to make it to an escape pod; and Bottletop had suffered some kind of last-ditch viral attack during an internal droid mutiny, requiring his immediate return to Tracto for defrag and backup program re-installation The droids I’d spoken to were cautiously optimistic that his personality matrix would be entirely unaffected. Captain Rampage had been in and out of the tank and was currently in physical therapy, forced nerve regeneration, and rehabilitation services back at Gambit in our most high tech, top of the line medical facility, along with the other critically injured survivors of his crew. His ship, of course, was now a total write off for anything other than scrap metal and spare parts.

The list went on and on, and we were certainly lighter on the ground than I would like but at least things were better than back in the days of Tremblay as my First Officer when I’d had to constantly watch over my shoulder for actual mutinies.

I looked back up at the battle screen projections. Those lead Battleships were getting a lot closer than I was entirely comfortable with.

“What’s the status on the spindles?” I asked, turning to Captain Laurent. “How long before we can jump?”

“I’ll get Commander Spalding on the line, Sir,” Laurent replied.

I leaned back as the Com-Department tried to raise the Chief Engineer.

We were here. We were waiting. Now it was time to see if all of Spalding’s big talk of jumping inside the hyper limit was bluster or if mankind was going to break through the hyper barrier for the first time in history.

No matter what happened, we’d either reached the finish line or we were finished. But I was confident. After all, the Chief Engineer hadn’t let me down yet…well, I mean, not in any major ways.

Chapter 10: Spalding Has Difficulties

“I won’t do it! Do you hear me? The answer is ‘no!’” shouted an Engineer standing protectively in front of a junction box with what looked like half its internals spread out across the floor.

“You’ll do it and right blasted now or you’ll be confined to quarters and I’ll bloody well do it!” bellowed Parkiney.

“Over my dead body!” yelled the Engineer.

“That can be arranged!” roared Parkiney.

Spalding broke into a run, his legs clanging thunderously as he charged down the hallway.

“What the blazes is going on here?” he demanded, slamming hip-first into the wall to bleed off momentum with an audible boom before bouncing and staggering back into the middle of the walkway, “I ordered an increase in power, and the generator stepped up but the power reaching the Spindles cut in half!”

“This engineer is refusing orders, Sir!” Parkiney declared, pulling out a blaster pistol and pointing at the engineer in front of the junction box.

“I’m telling you, you’ve got to reroute and install a new junction relay two decks up or the whole ship will blow,” the other man argued stridently.

“Preposterous,” Spalding declared dismissively, “this is just one of thirteen working junctions. We only need 11 to relay the power levels we need but you’ve somehow taken three of the relays out of the network by shutting this one down.”

“Just put the box back together, Tucker,” Parkiney said angrily.

“Listen, you imbecile: the power system won’t bear the load—the ship will go,” Tucker rounded on Parkiney.

“Then just replace it,” cried Parkiney.

“This is getting us nowhere,” Spalding snorted, grabbing Tucker by the front of his shirt shoving him aside and reaching toward the relay’s control box.

“Hands off that control panel!” Tucker shouted, grabbing Spalding’s arm at the wrist.

Shaking his head and sneering, Spalding shrugged him off and reached…except somehow instead of breaking the other engineer’s hold, his arm didn’t move.

“Blast it all,” Spalding swore, reaching over with his mechanical hand. But even with the mechanical assist, he wasn’t able to break the other engineer’s grip.

Servos whined back and forth and the pain in his still flesh-and-blood arm started to grow.

“I said ‘I won’t let you!’” Tucker shouted.

“It’s a brave thing you’re doing here, lad,” bellowed Spalding, “I’m the Chief Engineer of this warship!”

“I don’t care if you’re the Chief, Captain, and God-King of the universe all rolled up into one,” grunted Tucker, “I have no desire to be atomized, which is what’ll happen if you pull those relays off the grav-system for our single remaining antimatter generator!”

“Preposterous,” cried Spalding, “they have their own dedicated generator.”

“It was overloading the power distribution system between it and the grav-plates, which is why I had to reroute it through the series I pulled off line,” the other engineer shouted.

“The generator was tested and was working fine up until someone manually took it offline despite being within tolerances,” interjected Parkiney.

“Why wasn’t I informed? Everything was working just fine five minutes ago,” Spalding growled.

“There was a spike in the system. And while that might not matter with a fusion generator, we’re not dealing with a fusion generator here—we’re dealing with antimatter, the stuff that immolates everything else in the galaxy,” Tucker retorted angrily.

“Look, I’ve got a pair of Battleships about to enter firing range and right now I can neither jump this ship using the Spindles nor fire the main cannon because of the way you’ve been monkeying around with the power system. Something’s got to give—and I assure you that it’s not going to be the Lucky Clover!” Spalding snapped.

“If wishes were fishes, all engineers would be rich—but I’m still working for a living. So find another that doesn’t involve interrupting the power flow to the only thing keeping this starship from blowing sky high,” Tucker said. “If you try to bring this relay back online it’ll send a surge into the other two that could cause a wobble in the grav-plate system, resulting in a chain reaction that’ll destroy the ship,” Tucker retorted. “The thing may have passed all its load bearing tests with flying colors five minutes ago, but when it was put under actual pressure if almost killed us all!”

“Blast it. I put in triple-quadruple redundancy, and now this? Blast-blast-blast!!!” Spalding said, tossing Tucker up against the wall with the other man’s feet two feet off the ground. Then he let the other man go and broke into a run.

“You’re welcome!” Tucker cried out behind him. “I’ll stay here and make sure no other well-meaning morons try to blow us all sky high…ya blighter.”

Parkiney belatedly broke out into pursuit. “Where are you going, Sir?” asked the crew chief.

“Get me that engineer’s name, rank and serial number. After this is all over I’m going to tear into that relay with a fine-toothed comb and either give that engineer a commendation and a promotion or I’m gonna kill him,” Spalding growled.

Parkiney blinked. “Aye aye, Sir,” he said.

Up ahead, another man came running in their direction.

“Thank Murphy I caught up with you,” Bostwell said as he started to slow, “I’ve got the Admiral on the line and—”

“No time, son,” Spalding shouted, blowing past the engineering com-tech and jumping into the nearest lift, “take me over two decks!” he shouted at the voice activated system.

“But Sir!” Bostwell cried as the lift doors started to close and it was clear he wasn’t going to make it into the lift on time and no one was about to hold the door for him. “What am I supposed to tell the Admiral?”

“What do you tell him?!” Spalding shouted back. “Why, you can tell him that ‘we’re having a small problem’ and that ‘making miracles takes time,’ is what you can tell him. So he’d better—”

Then the door closed shut and he really didn’t see the point in talking any further. He had about five minutes to bring one or more relays back online, a solid one hour job each one.

There was no time for jibber-jabber.

Chapter 11: Nothing Happened

“Time to jump…just passed,” the Phoenix’s Navigator said, looking up at the screen as if to see if they had somehow mysteriously jumped without him being aware of it before looking back at us helplessly.

I put my forehead in the palm of my left hand feeling a sudden headache coming on.

“Blast,” swore Laurent.

“What did Spalding have to say again?” I asked Comm.

“There was a small problem and, I quote, ‘making miracles takes time,’ whatever that means,” the Lieutenant said, his lips pursed disapprovingly.

“Of all the unholy Imps, that’s all he can say at a time like this?” Laurent said grim-faced.

“It doesn’t get much worse than this, timing-wise,” I agreed, straightening up and trying to project resolve and determination, “but on the other hand we’ve been through a lot more catastrophic situations. We’ll get through it.”

“Of course we will,” Laurent agreed scowling.

“It looks like we’re going to have to step up to the plate and buy the Chief Engineer some time,” I said, taking a deep breath, “alright then. Captain, prepare to bring the Phoenix around to protect the 2.0 and the lighter ships. We know they’re after us—or, more exactly, me—so let’s dangle ourselves the ship out there, do a quick little dance, and hope they take the bait.”

Laurent cleared his throat pointedly, “That’s my ship you’re talking about making like she’s some kind of port side dancing girl trying to pick up Johns, Admiral.”

“If the shoe fits,” I shrugged.

“Oh-ho, you did not just say that,” Laurent’s sharp look turned into an outright glare.

“Just run your ship and get their attention, Captain,” I said, waving him off forcefully.

“We’ll talk about this later,” said Laurent.

“You and my wife,” I grumbled, but even I was wise enough to maintain my silence beyond that.

Chapter 12: Let the Gloating Begin!

“Look at her dance,” Isaak sneered, doing a little jig as the Battleships, one after the other, slammed a powerful broadside into Montagne’s little ‘flagship’ before beginning to roll in order to present their other side.

“Shields down, some out-gassing and…now she’s rolling, Captain Bluetooth,” reported Tactical.

“Like a fox, we’ve run you to ground,” Isaak gloated.

“If the Admiral hadn’t sacrificed his legs in order to join and protect those derelicts, he would never have even been so much as kissed by our lasers,” Bluetooth said with a frown, “what I don’t understand is: why? Why did he stop, Governor? That’s the question.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Isaak said dismissively and then stopped himself, “I mean, look, obviously why he did it could be very important, and to my mind I’d go with a misplaced sense of greed combined with loyalty, but I could be biased. I’ll admit, however, for the purposes of this discussion why he did it is less important than the fact that, for all intents and purposes, we’ve caught him and hurt him.”

“I take your point, and I hope you’re right. But I’ve looked at the record of his exploits and as far as our information on the man seems to go, when Admiral Montagne does something inexplicable it’s almost always followed up by a sudden and unexpected side strike no one—including his confidants, and possibly even himself—was expecting. So if it’s all right with you, I mean to keep my guard up, Governor,” he said, his tone making it clear that even if the Isaak did care he, the Captain, was just going to do it anyway.

“You must do what you feel is right, of course,” the Governor said easily, “in the face of a Montagne, an overabundance of caution is never the wrong way to go for a military man such as yourself. Countering any last-minute wild gambits is your job, after all, and why you are here. Far be it from me to impede that. That said, for myself I intend to take as much joy in his comeuppance as possible. His chickens are finally come home to roost and I intend to savor every minute of it,” he finished with satisfaction.

“I just don’t want to be counting any chickens before they’re hatched,” Captain Bluetooth countered.

“Just watch out for the usual. Minefields, pop-up missile silos, jamming fields, hidden ships, et cetera. You know, the usual last ditch desperate attempts to stave off the inevitable long enough to somehow turn the tables,” he said waving an airy hand shooing the Captain off.

Bluetooth opened his mouth and then closed it. “Aye aye, Governor,” the captain acknowledged with a shake of his head.

He didn’t say anything further because he didn’t see a way for the Tyrant to slip through their fingers this time anyways. At least not without the fight of his life and minus anything larger than that medium cruiser flagship of his at any rate, he silently amended.

The Tyrant might fight to run away just so that he could live to run another day, but that was about as far as the Captain was willing to give him.

Of course, the Tyrant of Cold Space hadn’t received his peculiar moniker just because he had a good PR Department behind him and his exploits, but rather—as far as Bluetooth could tell—because he was almost as wily a tactician as he was a deluded megalomaniac.

It was going to be interesting to see how things played out.

Over the next several minutes, the lead Battleships advanced into range of the MSP Flagship and the fleet of derelicts she was protecting and began to pound the Tyrant’s cruiser.

The Furious Phoenix twisted and turned, actively placing itself between the Battleship’s turbo-lasers and the hulks drifting powerlessly behind her.

“Captain Bulmorni’s ships have achieved shield punch-through, Captain,” Bluetooth’s Tactical Officer said with a bloodthirsty gleam in his eye as Bulmorni’s ships completed their roll and the next salvo rocked the Tyrant’s ship, causing MSP Furious Phoenix to shudder and start venting atmosphere.

“Acknowledged, Tac-team,” Bluetooth said keeping up a stoic front as he continued to observe the developing battle plot with a sharp gaze. If the Tyrant was going to make his play, this would be an opportune moment to do so.

Then Bulmorni’s Battleships reached the edge of their engagement envelope without receiving more than a handful of shots returned in anger and had to come about and begin decelerating without anything happening.

Bluetooth frowned. “How long before the Isaak Newton reaches engagement range?” he demanded.

“Within the half hour, Captain,” Navigation came back on the snap with the answer.

His frown deepened.

“Helm, slow the ship; I want to extend the time to intercept from a half hour to forty eight minutes seventeen seconds. Coms, get on the horn and inform our Cruiser escort that they are to maintain current course and speed while they act as beaters with their sensors cranked up to maximum, and then tell the Battleships they are to maintain position on the Isaak Newton,” Bluetooth ordered.

There was a brief but notable pause. “Aye aye, Sir,” answered the Helm, with Coms acknowledging close behind him.

Isaak cocked an eyes brow. “Something up?” he asked.

Bluetooth ignored him, “Tactical, what’s the status on MSP Lucky Clover, MSP Royal Rage, and anything else MSP that’s Cruiser or larger drifting alongside the derelicts?”

“MSP Lucky Clover continues in a low-powered state, no indication she’s begun charging the capacitor for their so-called Hyper Plasma Cannon; MSP Royal Rage shifted position alongside MSP Furious Phoenix in what appeared to be an attempt to block any strike by Bulmorni’s ships on MSP Lucky Clover and the derelicts. Anything else is either at a half-power status or floating dead in space and kept from floating away with bucking cables,” reported Tactical.

Bluetooth’s frown deepened.

“Captain?” Sir Isaak prompted.

Magnifying the plot, the Sector Guard Captain observed the way everything in the view screen seemed to be clustered around the half-built-and-badly-damaged MSP Lucky Clover, as if everything—even the derelicts—were there for her protection. And then there were the strange, over-sized pylon-like constructs framing the fleet of damaged and derelict warships. From their size and placement, the pylons were too big to be anything other than some kind of system defense—or possibly communications platforms—but they were too few in number and too slender a reed for the Tyrant to rely upon.

Something was off.

“Captain Bluetooth!” the Governor exclaimed.

Bluetooth’s head snapped around abruptly at the other man’s outburst. Apparently satisfied and somewhat consoled by finally securing the Captain’s attention, Governor Isaak partially relaxed, “What’s the problem, Captain?”

“Something just doesn’t feel right, Sir,” Bluetooth reported, “everything about their formation makes absolutely no sense. They don’t have the chops, in the form of combat power, to contend with us. And yet they’re in some kind of defensive formation, as if all the ships—including the captures they are so desperate to keep out of our hands—are set up to protect that ship,” his finger thrust out to hover over the icon of the MSP Lucky Clover. “But if it’s an attempt at a defense formation using derelicts and half-powered warships, it has to be just about the most incompetent formation I’ve ever seen. If we destroyed anything with a power plant, everything is packed so tightly together that they’d risk a cascade of ship-to-ship impacts that just might destroy half the hardware.”

“Hmm,” Isaak said like he’d just tasted something sour, “I think perhaps you’re reading too much into this. Jason Montagne’s finally kicked a steel plate and run into something he’s never been able to deal with,” he thrust a thumb at his chest, “me—and the Guard of course. So he finally panicked, ran off, and tried to hole up in the middle of nowhere with everything we want positioned around him as negotiating leverage. Not that it will do him any good, of course. Even if he’s set everything to blow, my previous offer is completely off the table. He’s not getting so much as half the original deal, and that’s final.”

“While I’m strictly a Guard Officer and I couldn’t say one way or the other if this is a negotiating ploy, if it is I’d have to say it’s a pretty dumb one, Sir. Maybe I’m reading too much into the situation, or just plain seeing things, but when a man as blasted competent as the Tyrant is—or at least as his advisers are—makes an inexplicable move, I start to get…itchy, Governor,” reported Bluetooth grimly, “real itchy.”

Isaak’s eyes narrowed. “I hear what you’re saying, Captain, and I still think you’re probably wrong but there’s one way we can find out,” mused the Governor.

“There is?” Bluetooth cocked his head in surprise.

“Most indubitably. Open a hailing frequency to the Furious Phoenix and tell then them it’s Sector Governor Isaak for Admiral Jason Montagne,” instructed the Governor.

Chapter 13: To Gloat or Not to Gloat…Let the Gloating Begin Again!

“Governor Isaak, what a pleasant surprise,” Jason Montagne said with that incipient royal smile of his, “My time is rather precious at the moment so if we could hurry this conversation right along I’d greatly appreciate it.”

“Did you think you could fool me?” Isaak demanded, making sure to put just enough jut in his jaw to project the proper emotional state.

“I’ve fooled you about any number of things, Governor,” Montagne drawled, his face just a little too smooth and unaffected as he responded to Isaak’s highly-trained mind. “What have I done to get your goat today, your Excellency.”

Isaak frowned. “As arrogant as ever, I see,” he said. Just like all the rest of your bloodline, the Governor silently added. It has to have been wired into the genetic code.

“Is it arrogant to speak the truth?” Montagne asked.

“The jig’s up, Son,” Isaak replied, ignoring the quip.

The young Montagne lifted a brow as his only response and Isaak’s frowning lips started to curl upwards.

“I’ll admit it was a nice scheme—fascinating, even—but you’re not the only one with a set of competent advisers behind you. And, Vice Admiral, you may have the better part of a planet to draw your best personnel from but remember that I have the best minds in the entire Sector,” Isaak paused, waiting for a response that didn’t come before continuing, “but now that we know what you’re up to there’s no way you’ll pull it off.”

Reaching a hand into the inner pocket of his outdated Confederation uniform, Jason Montagne pulled out a toothpick and examined it before putting it into his mouth and rolling it around on his teeth with every evidence of satisfaction. “Since you’re the ones chasing us and you seem to believe I’m up to some sort of dastardly plot, I really don’t see the percentage in trying to dissuade you further,” the young Scion of House Montagne said after a reflective pause. “I mean, it just doesn’t seem in my best interests regardless of the truth of the matter, now does it?”

The governor felt a chill and, outside the view of the holo-pickup, he grabbed a data slate and quickly dashed out a message for Bluetooth. The Captain nodded and then turned away.

Isaak noted how the burgeoning young warlord on his screen noted his distraction, but failed to remark upon it.

“Honestly, I don’t understand what drives men like you to fall into infighting at the first opportunity. And over what? A handful of battleships that we, the MSP, captured?” the young Montagne asked, leaning forward and going on the attack.

“‘A handful of battleships’,” Isaak mocked, pleased to see he’d elicited a response even if not nearly as pleased as what it implied, “you say that as if it were peanuts and not the literal balance of power in the Sector. You’ve got more than two full Core Worlds’ worth of derelict ships of the wall—warships that were, if I’m not mistaken, in fact captured by the united forces of this Sector and not your personal fleet—and while you speak to me of ‘infighting’, I have to consider the balance of power in the Sector and the best interest of its people.”

“The balance of power…is that all you think about?” Montagne said angrily. “That’s your justification for attacking this fleet when the threat of a renewed Imperial offensive hangs over our heads?”

“You don’t need to play it up for the cameras,” Isaak snorted, “the Reclamation Fleet has been bested, its flagship destroyed and its leadership decapitated. You were there. In fact, you were the one who sent them packing.”

“Let’s forget such questions as ‘where were you during the battle, Governor?‘and ask: have you actually watched a replay of the battle?” the young Montagne asked with disbelief. “They still had a lot of fight in them when they jumped out of this star system. We didn’t drive them off—they left, Governor! You, me, everyone in this entire Sector of space—and those beyond!—are at risk.”

“There you go again, trying to make everything about you. Get over yourself,” Isaak said flatly, “I can assure you that we the Sector Government have everything under control. In truth, even if the threat is as dire as you claim, why, that only makes what we’re doing here all the more necessary.”

“You’ve lost your mind,” Jason Montagne snapped, “if the remnants of the Reclamation Fleet in Sector 26 attack, you really think that justifies attacking me? Just what are you thinking, Governor?” the young Montagne demanded furiously.

“I think that by spreading those battleships in need of repair over the shipyards of half a dozen Core Worlds, I can have them repaired, crewed, and back out defending this Sector much faster than you ever could, Vice Admiral. Get over yourself and, as you keep saying, look at the bigger picture,” Isaak smirked.

“Unbelievable. Up is down. Left is Right. And once again I need to take one for the team. What’s next? Put my head on the chopping block and thank you for the service you’re about to provide? You’ve finally lost it,” the young Admiral declared, jumping out of his chair and glaring at Isaak, “I defend you and this Sector using every bit of blood, sweat and treasure the MSP possesses and instead of a ‘thank you,’ you stab us in the back and expect us to be grateful?”

“I never expected gratitude. It’s a hard world over there. But please put aside your ginormous Montagne ego for one precious minute and think it through: not only do we have you dead to rights but, more importantly, it’s time to stop playing star-sailor and come home. Acknowledge governmental authority, set aside your personal vendetta with me and make the ships, officers and crews of the MSP what they are and were always meant to be: loyal members and protectors of this Sector.”

“A nice little piece of sophistry, Governor, but unfortunately for you we’re not biting,” Jason Montagne said dismissively.

“It’s time to put aside this childish fantasy you seem to cherish,” Isaak said seriously.

“Oh, and which fantasy is that? Because as far as I can see, I’m the only one around on this com-channel that has his head screwed on straight and is seeing the galaxy for what it is: a dangerous place where people like me far too often die fighting so that people like you can screw us over as soon as we come back from the border,” Jason said cynically.

“I hate to break it to you but, just like there’s no tooth fairy and no Santa Clause, there’s just as certainly no Confederation out there waiting in the wings to validate everything you’ve done. Grow up,” Isaak said.

“Nothing you can say is going to convince me that I should allow a backstabber like you to decide our fates. The people of Sector 25 may have placed their lives in your hands but I’ll be good and blasted before I willingly give you power over the lives of myself and my people ever again,” Jason said with ringing finality.

“They abandoned the Spine and now it’s up to us to forge our own destiny—together, I had hoped—but clearly all you’re interested in is fear-mongering No amount of viewing our borders with alarm is going to save you now, Vice Admiral. Even though you kidnapped me and threatened to blow up my shuttle, I still offered you a toast but you refused to drink it. Very well,” Isaak said flatly and then turned to Bluetooth, “take us in and prepare to give these rebels everything they deserve, Captain.”

“With pleasure, Sir,” Bluetooth said savagely.

“You’d rather shoot your own side because we won’t bow down to your authority, when at any moment the Reclamation Fleet could return, and you still dare to call it principled? You really are something, Sir Isaak,” Jason sneered, “In a way I’d be glad…if it wasn’t so tragic.”

“They say you can lead a horse to water, shove its nose in that water, kick it in the ass all you like, but you still can’t make it drink. You’re about to die, so it doesn’t really matter, but on the off chance you don’t die I’ll be sure to take your alarmist rhetoric under advisement,” said Isaak.

“The squadron is entering attack range, Governor,” reported Bluetooth.

Isaak smiled, “I’ll see you in Hades, Vice Admiral.”

“Not if I see you first,” Jason Montagne replied before cutting the channel with a sharp gesture.

“Well, it looks like you were right…he’s up to something,” said Governor Isaak. “I assume you’ve been looking ever since I gave you that pad?”

“Since even before that,” Bluetooth agreed, “we still don’t know what it is but we’ll be ready for it.”

“You’d better be, Captain, for all our sakes,” said Isaak still not entirely convinced that there was much of anything the young princeling could actually do. He, like Bluetooth, was now convinced that the young Admiral thought he still had cards to play but just exactly what remained a mystery.

And when it came to dealing with a Montagne, he hated mysteries.

Chapter 14: Target Practice

“Blast it, Spalding! We’re sitting ducks out here. You promised me we’d jump fifteen minutes ago,” I snapped just as the image of the cyborg engineer disappeared. “Where did he go? Get him back here now,” I shouted, slapping the side of my holo-screen.

“Sir, can you please slow down?!” exclaimed Bostwell.

“We don’t have time to repair the relay; we’ve got to go direct!” Spalding said, tossing the data slate still in his hand and laying hands on an emergency bypass line.

Bostwell opened his mouth and then sighed. “Then what do you want me to tell the Admiral, Sir?” he asked, hurrying alongside the Chief Engineer.

“Tell him any old thing. Say I’ve gone out to dice with the devil and dance all night with the harpies, or any other fool thing that crosses your mind. Why would I care what you tell him?”

“Uh…because he’s the Admiral?” Bostwell said.

“Lad, if I was interested in continuing to waste my time I’d have stayed on the line!” Spalding snorted, deliberately trodding on the data slate crystal matrix shattering under his droid legs. “Wave him off. Or better yet, toss your communicator and grab the other end of this here line.”

“The things I do for Queen and country,” Bostwell said unhappily.

“I hate to break it to you, lad, but the Queen’s been overthrown.”

“Oh, never mind!” Bostwell sighed.

“Now that’s more like it,” Commander Spalding said as Bostwell grabbed the other end of the emergency bypass and started dragging it down the hall in an attempt to catch up with the Chief Engineer.

The two of them were soon joined by Parkiney’s work crew but Spalding stayed focused on Bostwell.

“Put your back into it, lad,” he instructed, lecturing the younger man freely, “you don’t get enough work sitting at a console all day. A real engineer has to get his hands dirty.”

“Aye aye, Sir,” Bostwell replied with an expression of long-suffering.

“Overthrown and thrown away, she was,” Spalding said nostalgically, returning to the subject of the old monarchy, “there’s a king sitting on the throne now—and a right proper usurper he is, too,” Spalding rambled as they hauled the heavy power cable down the hall, “which is me going easy on him, but the new king’s definitely got a bit of a temper on him. The Veknas are an old family but no bloodline dates as far back as the Admiral’s…I wonder how long he’ll be content to leave us alone? Kings don’t really take kindly to people that flout their authority. On the other hand, o’ course, some would say ‘better a proper usurper than a line of tyrants’ but I’ve always thought that saying held water. I mean, sure, down with the tyrants and all that—but one man’s tyrant is another man’s freedom fighter…am I right or am I right or am I right?” he quizzed Bostwell without ever taking his primary attention off the task at hand.

The engineering com-tech looked decidedly ill at ease. “I’m not sure I care to comment on home world politics—even now that we’ve separated from Caprian service, Sir,” Bostwell muttered.

“What? Speak up, son, I almost couldn’t hear you,” Spalding said darkly, “and what’s there to be so timid about?! Why, back in the days of the coup—what your generation likes to call ‘reconstruction’—we’d have given a pinky and an elbow to be able to speak freely and say what we liked about our leaders. Why, we used to have a room down in Engineering called the closet, a terrible place full of used oils and grease but we swept it three times daily to ensure we weren’t being monitored…of course, most of the lads used the Closet to smoke but there you have it,” Spalding shrugged helplessly. “You lot take for granted far too much, in my opinion.”

“Mother always said not to discuss politics or religion in the workplace, Commander,” Bostwell replied, “far too liable to make waves and get you fired she said.”

“Hmph,” Spalding grunted, “well your mother’s not half wrong, so how about we leave it at that?” he said as they arrived at their destination. “Let’s see if we can’t get our little power problem fixed up.”

“Aye aye, Sir,” Bostwell agreed.

After attaching the bypass to one of the still-functional mainlines feeding out from Antimatter 2, Spalding instructed Bostwell to follow him around around the corner and into a maintenance closet.

“This’ll do the trick nicely,” Spalding grunted, eyeing the cramped closet with a delighted eye.

“Uh, sir?” asked Bostwell.

“Right about…” Spalding said, stomping his foot on the floor right next to a small electrical outlet used for charging hand held devices.

“I don’t think that plug can handle the line, Sir,” Bostwell pointed out.

Spalding blinked. “Well of course it can’t,” he scoffed, activating his plasma torch and bending down, “it’ll just take a minute now,” he explained as he started cutting through the floor.

“I’m no expert, but…” Bostwell trailed off.

Spalding was happily cutting away and about half way through creating a circle large enough to fit a man when Parkiney and his work crew arrived.

“We almost lost you, Sir,” said the Petty Officer.

“Be faster next time,” Spalding advised, “this is a time-critical job. No time to lay about!”

“What are we doing in the Closet, Commander?” Parkiney asked respectfully.

“What do you think we’re doing? We’re bypassing the damaged power lines,” Spalding snapped.

“As I recall, the distribution network is the other way, Sir,” the petty officer observed.

“The burned-out relays for the Antimatter 1 and Antimatter 2 generators, you mean,” Spalding nodded.

Parkiney blinked and then agreed.

Spalding shot him a sharp look. “You can’t tell me I’m the only one in this room who can read a schematic?” he groused as he continued to cut and rant at the same time. “Since the distribution network for those two generators is either damaged or fried, we have to reroute.”

“What are you rerouting to, sir, if I may be so bold?” asked Parkiney.

“Anti-matter 1 and 2 may be down or damaged, but since we never installed her the power lines running out from Antimatter 3 should work just fine,” Spalding explained, and then hesitated, “of course, since we never installed the blasted thing the power lines have never been fully tested…”

“Oh…” Parkiney said and the two men shared a look.

The moment was broken seconds later when the torch completed its task and a large metal disk fell to the deck below with a resounding clang.

“Alright, lads, here we go,” Spalding said grabbing a hold of the end of the bypass line and then jumping down into the hole, “Geronimo!”

“Sir, since we never actually installed the generator do you want me and the rest of the team to start running the load bearing test now?” Parkiney called down.

“No time, Parkiney,” Spalding shouted back, “those battleships will be on top of us any minute now.”

“The computer will automatically shut it down unless we input the override, Sir,” Parkiney reminded.

“Stop botherin’ me with trifles! Take a work party to the sub-node and shut it down, then have the rest of your team start manually throwing open the circuit breakers. We’ll just have to go direct with the power without computer oversight and hope nothing burns out before we are able to jump!”

“Aye aye,” shouted Parkiney turning back to his crew, “follow me boys!”

Minutes later, the line running from Antimatter 2 main trunk line had been tied into the missing antimatter 3’s power network.

And shortly after that, Parkiney reported that his part of the operation was completed.

“Here we go!” shouted Spalding as he closed the circuit.

Chapter 15: In Range

“We have them now, Governor,” reported Bluetooth.

“You have permission to fire, Captain,” Sir Isaak said coldly.

“With pleasure, Sir,” the Captain replied hungrily.

“The enemy ships are presenting their broadsides,” said Laurent’s Tactical Officer.

“Your orders, Admiral?” Laurent asked.

“Hold position and full power to shields!” I commanded.

“Sir, that will leave us sitting ducks,” observed the ship’s first officer, “the least we could do is fire back.”

“Our only hope is to buy enough time for those Spindles to charge,” I said flatly, “nothing else matters.”

“If they’ll charge,” said the XO.

“We can’t fight our way out of this, Executive Officer,” I said harshly, “so you’d better pray the Commander comes through in time.”

There was no further argument from the bridge.

Beam after beam slammed into the Furious Phoenix, and the few other fully-functional warships as the Sector Guard Flotilla entered striking distance.

“Yes! Target engines and shield generators. Tell Gunnery I want them on their knees, Tactical,” crowed Bluetooth.

“Excellent work,” Isaak said with a hard-edged smile.

“Its just a matter of time now, Sir,” said Bluetooth.

“Twenty nine casualties on deck 9,” reported Damage control, “and one of our secondary engines just went offline.”

“Not that we were using it,” muttered the XO.

“We’re getting killed out here, Sir,” said Laurent.

“Tell me something I don’t know, Captain,” I growled, turning to the com-section, “any word from the Commander?”

“None, Sir,” said the Com-Officer, “he’s still unreachable.

“This isn’t working, Admiral. We must withdraw! If we maneuver around behind the derelicts, placing them between us and the battleships, they’ve slowed down enough that we might have a chance at a run for the hyper limit,” Laurent’s XO said urgently.

“Its too late for half measures, Officer,” I said flatly, “but you’re welcome to jump into an escape pod and ride this out from there any time you like.”

Laurent’s number one officer actually had the gall to look offended, prompting me to shake my head.

Come on! I silently urged.

“Spindles are charging, Sir,” the crewman manning the console controlling the Elder Tech jump engines on the bridge of the Lucky Clover reported, “and according to the interface will be ready to make the jump in another 30 seconds. Your orders?”

“Where is that crazy old man when you need him?” Baldwin asked exasperatedly.

“Do you want me to try and reach him while we wait for orders?” the operator asked nervously as the Clover took a glancing hit to its forward armor.

“Are you daft? I’m not waiting around while the commander takes his sweet time playing with his toys,” Baldwin exclaimed, but just to be sure she asked, “Navigation?”

“C-c-course laid in. Get us out of h-h-here, Sir!” exclaimed Navigator Shepherd

“Alright jump us!” ordered Glenda Baldwin.

“There goes the Phoenix’s port shield generator,” Bluetooth said with satisfaction.

“Coms, bypass the MSP Flagship and inform the rest of his fleet that we are willing to accept their surrender. Its already over and I’d hate to see their ships destroyed and crews killed over nothing but pure stubbornness,” Governor Isaak said.

“Relaying message,” said the Com-Officer.

“Not that I expect them to surrender, but at least no one can say I didn’t try…and who knows, we might get lucky,” said Isaak.

“Reading a power surge at these points around the derelict formation, Governor,” reported Tactical.

“What are they, Captain?” Isaak asked.

“At first we thought they were some kind of defensive emplacements but so far all they’ve done is sit there and soak up the occasional stray shot,” said Bluetooth.

“Power curve is climbing,” reported Sensors in a rising voice, “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Bluetooth’s eyes bulged. “Spinal lasers! We heard the MSP captured several antimatter-pumped spinal lasers. Tactical! Open fire on suspected defense cannons,” Bluetooth yelled.

“Gunnery, you are receiving new priority targeting instructions. I repeat: new targeting instructions,” Tactical said urgently.

Gunnery was still re-targeting when space around the derelicts and MSP warships seemed to ripple.

“Full power to shields!” shouted Bluetooth, fully expecting a spinal laser strike.

“2.0 reports Spindle Jump Engines activating!” cried the Engineering watch-stander.

“Yes!” I clenched my fists—and then the galaxy blinked.

Chapter 16: Strange Bedfellows

Commander Spalding felt it the moment the Elder Tech Engines engaged.

He knew it because something felt horribly indescribably wrong.

“Gah!” he grunted, clutching his midsection and starting to hunch over. But when he blinked later the pain was gone just as suddenly as it had arrived.

“Blasted things need to be re-calibrated, that’s for darned sure,” Spalding snapped, looking over at Bostwell. “Come on, lad, don’t just stand there; we need to get to the bridge…” the old engineer trailed off, because he suddenly realized everyone was gone—they had all just completely disappeared!

“Greetings, Commander,” said a suspiciously familiar voice as if speaking through a haze of static.

“What the blazes are you doing here? Go on, get out of here,” Spalding barked and then turned, but instead of seeing the figure he was expecting he saw a large, giant spider made out of dark blue, glowing crystals crawling out of the wall.

The Spider looked at him and hissed. The noise seeming to bypass his ears and lance straight into his brain, causing a pain worse than a migraine headache—and after the way his brain had been almost turned into Swiss cheese before they were regenerated, he ought to be considered an expert on just exactly how a painful head felt. That mandatory regeneration service ought to have been called ‘20 Different Ways To Suffer A Vicious Combination Of Diarrhea And Migraines’ instead!

“Blasted creature!” Spalding swore, and the thing jumped. Well-prepared, his plasma torch was in his hand and active in an instant. “Gah!” he cried ,and then almost over-balanced as the torch passed right through the infernal creation. “What the blazes?” he cried, scrambling to recover his hand passing through the creature yet again.

The leap of the spider-like creature continued unimpeded by the ineffective torch, and gave lie to the idea that it might be a proper illusion when it raked the front of his uniform, cutting through blaster-resistant clothing and lacerated his flesh.

Landing on the ground beside him, the glowing crystal monstrosity looked up at him and hissed, once again gathering itself for a jump.

“The Demonic Saint!” Spalding bellowed, pure murder in his eyes as he touched his now bleeding belly and then lifted his blood-coated lips to his tongue. His mouth twisted; yep, it was definitely his blood and, unless he’d turned into a complete and proper loon, there was nothing he could do.

With eyes seasoned by several boarding actions—and more mutinies than he cared to remember—he saw the way the creature’s claw tips went through the Duralloy decking like some kind of optical illusion—that is, when they weren’t digging great big gouges through solid metal.

The old engineer furiously lifted his foot, as if to stomp the thing to death, before turning on his heel and running down the corridor as fast as his power-assisted legs would carry him. Like a fresh crewman fleeing a reactor breach, the old engineer cast propriety to the wind, put his head down to increase his speed, and flat-out ran.

The spider creature gave an infuriated hiss, and he could hear the sound of its claws digging into the wall and decking as it chased him.

Up one corridor and down the next the old engineer ran, and the monster pursued until he finally saw exactly what he was looking for: a grav-cart.

“Report for duty, you blasted loons!” Spalding shouted, raising a ruckus as he skidded to a halt on the metal decking and jumped on the cart.

Deafening silence was the only answer from a deck that should have been swarming with space-hands

“You’ve lost it, old man. Flipped your lid and dropped straight into the loony bin,” Spalding growled, trying to activate the cart. But the controls flickered and died. “Come on, you hunk of highly technological junk,” he said, flicking the controls back and forth but with even less response than before. “Is it that you want to die when that space spider sinks its extra-dimensional hooks into your processor—is that it?!” he shouted, kicking the cart in the side and suddenly the cart flared to life. “Now that’s more like it,” Spalding sighed with relief, jumping into the seat, activating the grav-cart control, and gunning the anti-gravity repulsors. With a spin of the controls, the cart turned around in a fast one eighty to face the crystalline creature still scuttling toward him.

For a moment the old engineer suffered a crisis of concern. If he really was hallucinating, he could cause quite a bit of damage taking this old cart down a highly-active corridor.

“Probably about to take a cart right into the middle of a crowded corridor, squishing spacers left and right, you are,” he informed himself, “for all you know, that creature could be the good old doctor come to drag your wrinkly, hallucinating arse straight off to the psych ward—and then after they discharged you for cause you’d have to do your duty and blow your own brains out with a blaster for doing such a fool crazy thing when you knew better.” He paused and then surreptitiously toggled the safety switch, enabling the auto-evasion routine that utilized the cart’s sensors to automatically avoid any human or humanoid shapes, be they bio-forms or robots, “Not that I’m crazy or anything; the old egg between my ears has never been better,” he righteously assured himself, taking firm control of the cart controls, aiming at the crystalline creature, and throwing the throttle wide open.

Seeing the engineer approaching at high speed, the spider crouched and the crystals on its back suddenly shifted and scuttled like deranged beetles as its color started morphing from blue to a pale purple tone.

But the old chief engineer didn’t have time for whatever nonsense the creature was up to.

“It’s time for some payback!” he bellowed as the grav-cart ran over the spider with a satisfying crunch.

The cart squealed in protest, repulsors whining like they were sucking up too much juice, as it fishtailed before smashing sidelong into the wall when two of the repulsors on the left side flared and finally stopped working. Before it could overturn, the cart righted itself, automatically compensating for the damage and swerving away from the wall thanks to the automatic avoidance system.

Glaring over his shoulder, the Commander pumped his fist and was more than satisfied to see the creature appeared to have been flattened. “Take that, slackers!” he shouted.

He then swore as the creature seemed to re-inflate, its crystals shifting and squirming until the spider had once again regained its former shape.

“Well, that tears it,” Spalding swore, silently cursing the Demon Murphy for a timely assist providing divine intervention against him in favor of the spider. “I’m done playin’,” he snapped, guiding the cart around the corner at high speed.

Twisting and turning throughout the ship as fast as the little cart could take, he flipped active his communicator but, alas, no one answered.

“Useless piece of junk,” he snapped, tossing the communicator off the cart and into the wall.

Even when he passed through areas he knew someone should have been standing watch, no one was there and no matter how fast he went he could still feel the creature following him, locked on him like some kind of extra-dimensional a heat seeking missile.

“It’s an angry imp of darkness and confusion!” he cursed as he hightailed it back to his quarters. Arriving outside his door he jumped off the cart. “You’ve gone mental, Terrance,” Spalding informed himself irately, “completely bloody mental! Thinking like you’re on some kind of ghost ship all alone…ha!” he declared, storming into his quarters. Hurrying over to his bed he reached underneath and punched in a code.

The door to his little safe swung open.

“Well, when crystalline entity bugs attack and reality takes a vacation there’s only one thing a man can do,” he declared, pulling out the safe’s contents and dumping them on the bed, “and that’s gun up, prepare to repel boarders, and go defend the fusion core—or, in this case, the antimatter generator.” He picked up a short-stock flash shotgun, jacked a round into the chamber and started to turn away, resolution on his face before an idea occurred to him and he hesitated.

After filibustering for the better part of five seconds, Spalding finally gave up the ghost and irately snatched up the peculiar looking pistol he’d somehow picked up during his last hallucination and angrily shoved it down the front of his trousers.

“Nothing for it,” he mumbled, fingering the hilt of the pistol.

Unfortunately, when he went back outside the grav-cart was gone. “Murphy’s angry imps!” the superstitious engineer cried, running out of his room and looking down both ends of the corridor but wherever it had went the grav-cart was long gone. “The fly is definitely in the ointment this time, no doubt about it.”

While he was still grumbling to himself, the spider phased through the bulkhead and pounced. Fire lanced across his shoulders and a crystalline leg punched through one side of his arm and out the other in a spray of synthetic blood.

Levering up the flash shotgun onto his shoulder—dangerously close to his own head—he fired a round into the thing. The recoil tore the shotgun out of his hands and sent him sprawling to the ground.

Jumping clear, the seemingly unharmed crystalline entity crouched and began to morph and glow while staring at him with a demon’s gaze.

Spalding’s hand fumbled around for another weapon before landing on the butt of the pistol sticking out the front of his pants. He drew and leveled the pistol at the creature, squeezed the trigger…and nothing happened.

“What a piece of junk,” he said witheringly, preparing to draw back his arm and throw the thing at the creature if nothing else, when the light on top of the pistol started blinking. Slowly it morphed from an angry red color to a light and pale green.

“Hahaha! I’ve got you now, you creature from the abyss,” he chortled. “In the name of Murphy, Patron Saint of the Engineers—” he started leveling the pistol, and then yelped as the pistol jumped in his hand and fired all by itself. “What the blazes!?” he cried as a net of green energy enveloped the crystalline entity that far-too-closely resembled a spider.

The Spider screeched, twisting and flailing, its legs digging into the deck as the energy net steadily pulled it back toward the pistol in his hand.

The pistol vibrated and with a “whump” the crystal creature was compressed and sucked into the pistol. Spalding dropped the pistol to the floor in surprise and backed away.

“That just isn’t right,” he grumbled as he warily eyed the pistol. After seeing that the pistol wasn’t about to explode and nothing was set to jump out at him and attack, he shook his head, returned to his room, came back out and placed the pistol in a bio-hazard containment box, and then placed that box inside an even bigger briefcase-sized container designed to block out—or, rather, to keep in—harmful radiation. He wasn’t taking any chances.

After that he looked around for a bit to make sure there weren’t any more of the things ready to jump through the walls at him and then, with a shrug, he left for the bridge.

Poking his head through the blast doors, Spalding peered around suspiciously. Relieved to not see any of the things he was expecting, like more hallucinations of himself yelling and screaming at each other, as if that was the way he would act if he ever encountered himself he silently scoffed, he quick-stepped onto the bridge and headed toward the Elder Tech jump engine interface.

He knew he was either crazy or something had seriously malfunctioned. Although, now that he considered it, what he thought of as a malfunction may have been a deliberately designed feature added in by the drive’s creators—they were aliens, after all, and old ‘Elder’ aliens at that. Old people are hard enough to deal with as it was, he thought, shaking his head, throw in a bunch of people that don’t even think like humans and you had a recipe for an engineering catastrophe. Couldn’t live with them and can’t use their mechanical inventions without serious repercussions.

“The monkey’s in the wrench on this one,” he nodded knowingly and sat down at the console. He started to pull up the interface program when his console went on the fritz, randomly pulling up text and alien symbols.

“What the blazes?” he growled, fingers punching the keyboard while the sound of white static started to emit from the interface console’s external speakers.

Spalding tried to shut down the noise but the speakers only went off for a second before switching right back on. His hand slammed down on the console.

“Confounded thing,” he cursed, pulling out a data stick from the console’s storage compartment, “we’re going to have to do an emergency system image restore,” he decided.

Then, mixed in with the static noise, it almost sounded like someone was coughing. Spalding blinked.

“Testing-testing,” said a static-laced voice.

Spalding’s brows lowered thunderously. “Identify yourself,” he barked.

“Testing, two-four-six-eight, testing,” repeated the voice.

His blood ran cold, he recognized that voice now that the static interference was lessening. “This is moldy cheese speaking…come in, old potato?” said the other voice.

“Get off the channel, you blasted hallucination!” Spalding cried furiously.

“Is that you, old potato?” the voice said with satisfaction. “Good to know I managed to calibrate this thing properly. You don’t know how frustrating it is to be a tenth of a micron off and be sending tachyon pulses all the way out of Tau Ceti for all you know.”

“I don’t have time to listen to the work problems of imaginary people,” Spalding said witheringly, “not when there are actual people here with actual work to do! So kindly take yourself away and get lost.”

“I’m hurt, you old meat bag,” chortled the voice with deep satisfaction, “and here I was about ready to give you the secrets of the universe. But oh well, I guess you’ll just have to fumble your ham-handed way through things like usual. No point in helping out the helpless.”

“Ham-handed?! If you knew half the things I’ve had to do to keep things running, you’d be down on your knees praying you moldy piece of…grrrr—” Spalding roared furiously as he fell into the hallucination’s trap. “Go, I said! Be gone and stay gone! We’ve got no need for the likes of you, you pompous, confounded…” he spluttered off into incoherency.

“Ha! I’ve done everything you’ve done and more,” the voice cackled triumphantly, “so while I envy you the years of vigor and adventure before you, the sense of adrenaline flowing and blood pumping, the smell of sweet air,” there was a loud sigh, “anyway, my young whippersnapper, it’s time to listen to the voice of reason and experience!”

“Youthful! Apprentice? Ha! You can pull on the other leg now,” Spalding snorted derisively.

“Sweet crying Murphy, you’re just as pigheaded as I remember,” swore the voice.

“Pigheaded! Just who do you think you are,” Spalding growled temper rising.

“I am the ghost of future yet to come—but you can just call me e-Spalding,” sneered the voice.

“You’re cracked,” Spalding chortled.

“Laugh it up while you still can, you miserable excuse for an engineer. Because if you don’t listen to me you’re going to walk down a dark path, a dark path indeed!” snarled the voice, this supposed ‘e-Spalding.’

“Hey,” growled Spalding, “don’t try to push your failures onto me. I’m proud of everything I’ve done!”

“You know, it’s hard to believe how insufferable I was back in the day,” e-Spalding said sullenly, “full of myself and entirely too ready to rest on my laurels.”

Spalding’s head came up and he glared at the console. “Now you wait just a cotton-pickin’ second. I’m no slacker to sit on my duff. I’ve got plans—plans that would blow your socks off if-”

“Says the man who only half-rebuilt the Lucky Clover after months of work, and then promptly threw her straight into combat,” sneered e-Spalding.

“That’s a low blow, you piece of electronic junk!” Spalding jumped to his feet and slammed his hands on the console. “Half my work crews were stolen and I only had nine months for a year and a half job!”

“Tell that to the ship! You almost failed the Clover back then just like you’re going to fail her in the future unless you wise up and come to your senses!” barked e-Spalding.

“There’s only one man that knows what’s best for this ship,” growled the old Engineer, “and it’s certainly not some hallucination that claims he failed to do the one job he had—which was taking care of my ship!”

“Bah. If I leave things up to you you’ll just screw it up,” e-Spalding scolded, “it’s your fumble-fingered hands that—”

“First I’m a slacker, and now I’m fumble fingered?” the old engineer said with outrage.

“I was you, you fool! I’m the only one qualified to tell you where you went wrong so wise up and bend an ear,” barked e-Spalding.

“Likely story,” Chief Engineer Spalding said skeptically, “there’s no way you’re me because I’m right here and the only time travel that’s possible in this galaxy is the one that moves you forward, not back. Next I suppose you’ll try to tell me something that only I could possibly know. As if—”

“Don’t be more of a fool than you have to be,” snorted e-Spalding, “mind-reading or half a dozen drugs and a couple of machines could have been used to get that kind of information. Sweet crying Murphy, you’d think permanent brain damage was done to that head after medical got its hands on us, except I’ve clearly recovered while you’re still trying to play with half a deck.”

“Oh, you imp-loving blighter!” Spalding fumed. “You just wait, yours is coming for you soon enough!”

“Can’t handle the truth, can you?” chortled e-Spalding. “I’m older and wiser than you—not to mention on a higher mental plane than you are. We both know by this point that trying to convince you that I’m your future self by telling you about all the things only you possibly know would be an epic failure,” e-Spalding paused, “which, let me tell you, was a really upsetting realization once I stopped and thought about it.”

“Ha! You’re welcome,” Commander Spalding said happily.

“And that’s why,” e-Spalding continued, clearly trying for long-suffering but falling firmly into irritable and cranky instead, “as punishment for being a really stubborn blighter, and as proof of who I am, I’m going to give you the schematics of future things you don’t yet have the equipment to build.”

“What?” Spalding blinked.

“Read ‘em and weep, you old reprobate!” chortled e-Spalding, and immediately on the screen of the interface console all the alien symbols disappeared to be replaced with standard text and diagrams.

“That’s…impossible…no one could be that…” the Commander trailed off as he unconsciously looked at the diagrams. Minutes later, he was hooked—and then he stopped to take a look at the engineering specifications and his face flushed.

“Finally saw it, didn’t you?” snorted e-Spalding.

“What kind of nonsense is this?! All of the base materials require impossible tolerances,” Spalding purpled with outrage.

“If by ‘impossible’ you mean ‘just barely on the edge of what’s possible in your time’…then yes. That’s exactly what you’re looking at,” e-Spalding said happily.

“But with this I could upgrade the Lucky Clover, double the power output of her antimatter generators, triple her shield strength with regenerative shields, and add a potential 40 percent increase in speed,” at this point the old Engineer was practically drooling at the avalanche of thoughts.

“Sucks to be you right about now, doesn’t it?” e-Spalding said rhetorically, “convinced, yet old bean?”

“You can’t honestly mean to tease a man like this,” Spalding snapped, shaking his head mulishly, “as they are right now…these schematics are blooming useless!”

“Well, of course—I’m not a moron, after all,” e-Spalding said, as if speaking to a slow person. “I already had the Clover up and running at her top performance potential with the currently available tech and equipment at your current time period. And if I couldn’t do it any better than it is then you certainly can’t improve on my work!”

“Just what the blazes are you on about?” Spalding snapped. “I’m the one that put this ship back together, not you!”

“Since you are me—or, rather, I was you—the difference isn’t worth the spit it’d take you to talk it out,” the so-called e-Spalding snorted.

“Now wait just a blasted second,” the old Engineer said irately, “the only ‘me’ in the room is me! Furthermore, I’ve got no time for hallucinations insulting me—and what’s this nonsense about ‘I couldn’t do a better job than you?’ Why, if I could go back and give my younger self a piece of my mind he’d have twice the ship we had back in the day!”

“What a bunch of utter nonsense,” e-Spalding sneered, “maybe when you were younger that might have been the case, but as of today you’re just an old man, fixed in his ways and bellyaching about the good old days; a washed up engineer without the drive he had in the past—or the drive he’ll be regaining in the future. In short: you’re at the lowest point in your career, old man. Just too young for any real wisdom but entirely too old to be willing to take direction from anyone else. In short, you’re a skirt-chasing old dog, too set on chasing a woman that doesn’t want to be caught, to take my ship to the next level.”

“You can say what you want about me but no one talks about my ship that way! Just who do you think you are?” Spalding shouted, pulling out his plasma torch and waving it around. “Come on out and fight so I can send you to meet your maker—and that’s the straight download, you moldy bit of cheese.”

“Finally got your dander up, yeah? Well good for you. You’re going to need some fire in your belly if you’re to survive the coming storm. And if you think all the suffering and hardship you’ve been going through on the Gorgon Front are bad enough, just wait until you have to head through the Passage of Doom. It’ll be enough to make you long for the days of those Locust ships!” e-Spalding chortled.

Spalding opened his mouth furiously and then slowly closed it. “Locust ships you say?” he paused and then his voice firmed, “they’re not so tough. After all, it’s not like they were so much as a patch on the troubles we had back in the Spine…comparatively I mean,” he bragged, keeping a crafty weather eye on the interface console.

“Not so much as a patch! Have you lost your mind?” e-Spalding snapped. “I always knew I was a proud man, but now you’re just embarrassing the both of us.”

“You can’t honestly tell me Command Carriers are like peanuts when it comes to space combat,” Spalding said, still fishing for information. After all, even if the impostor in his dream was nothing more than a hallucination, it still had to come from somewhere in the back of his brain after all. And wasn’t that where they said that a man’s best creativity came from? Certainly all those schematics he’d been looking at earlier would have to show that in the back of this old engineer’s head was a pretty dedicated worker. Might as well milk his own subconscious, or the alien impostor, whichever it was for as much information as he could.

After all, he reasoned, anything my own brain could come up with is rightfully mine anyways even though it was proving to be an infuriatingly, judgmental, tightfisted blighter. Not that I’d honestly expected anything else, but a few of those hits had been below the belt.

Another moment of consideration and he decided that the odds he was dealing with an alien subversive of some kind were a lot higher than he’d initially thought. Maybe there was as much as twenty percent chance this wasn’t a hallucination—fully twice what he’d originally estimated.

“Eh, what’s the problem…cat got your tongue?” Spalding demanded.

“What time did you say you were from?” e-Spalding asked after a moment. “I seem to be experiencing more temporal flux on the scanners than I originally allowed.

“Ha! You keep claiming I’m the incompetent one but it’s your incompetence which you keep trying to foist off on me that strikes again. And no I didn’t ever say when I was from because you never asked,” Spalding chuckled.

“Sweet crying Murphy, the fly’s in the ointment on this one,” e-Spalding cursed, “I knew I got the vector wrong when it connected but there you were. I should have known things were going too easily.” Slowly his voice started to get fainter and fainter, “Now I’ll have to try again and hope I have enough left in the capacitors to make another connection.”

“Hey, where are you going?” Spalding asked, instantly regretting that final dig. Not so much the dig itself but that he hadn’t held off for more information; he never knew his sub-consciousness had such a thin skin or the old engineer would have milked it for more information first before hitting it upside the head with its failures.

“No time, old man; the Sweet Saint waits for no sentient,” e-Spalding said cheerfully, his voice increasingly static filled.

“Now wait just a blasted second,” Spalding growled.

“Best of luck with things; write me a secret journal I can look at later. You know how things are, blunt force head trauma followed by memory transference issues. I’m really excited to remember how things went for us,” said the increasingly diminutive voice.

Spalding upped the volume on his end. “What, that’s all you’ve got? ‘Hello, best of luck, hope things work out for you?’ Why the blazes did you mess with the jump drives and try to contact me anyway? I was almost killed by some kind of crystalline spider creature,” he said impatiently.

There was a pause. “Heh, it’s almost like I forgot for a moment, catching up with my old self like this and all,” e-Spalding said, “well, old potato, let’s see if I can’t help steer towards the shoals of disaster a little quicker than you might have otherwise managed.”

“Don’t do me any favors,” Spalding frowned.

“Just remember to super charge the shields when you go through the ring of doom and I’m sure you’ll do fine,” e-Spalding said sagaciously.

“I’ll do fine?” Spalding asked.

“Yep! That’s the ticket, lad,” confirmed e-Spalding.

“That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?” he replied crossly.

“Well…there is one other thing, but I don’t think you’ll like it,” said e-Spalding.

“What?”

“Make sure you’re not late for your doctor’s appointment,” e-Spalding said seriously, and then laughed evilly as the connection cut.

“Son of a cut worm!” Spalding bellowed.

Moments later, reality reasserted itself on the bridge and the bridge crew appeared around him.

“Commander?” asked the Ensign at the nearest console.

“As you were, lass,” Spalding said taking a few deep breaths to regain his control.

Glenda Baldwin looked over and did a double take.

“Just what are you doing here?” she asked irritably.

“What do you mean ‘what am I doing here’?” Spalding blustered, “I have just as much right as anyone to be on this bridge—no, that should be twice as much right as any man jack to be anywhere on this ship I please.”

“Ha! Then why are you sneaking onto my bridge like a thief in the night, I ask you?” she demanded, giving him the hairy eyeball.

Spalding instinctively scowled.

“And don’t try that innocent act with me! You obviously bypassed the alarm I set to warm me every time you get within twenty meters of the bridge, so don’t try to feed me some line,” she frowned.

Spalding blinked. “You’ve been monitoring me?!” he yelped, his voice rising with surprise.

Baldwin looked momentarily surprised and then her expression faltered. “It’s just a simple algorithm, nothing so Machiavellian about it as all that, Commander Spalding,” she said defensively.

“Oh, its ‘Commander’ now, is it?” he chuckled happily. “Can’t just admit how much you care about an old man like me, can you?”

The Construction Manager and acting ship’s XO purpled. “You—” she snorted before regaining control of herself, “are completely and wildly off-base. Don’t read so much into me placing a bell on you.” Spalding smirked. “Anyway, just how did you get onto the bridge without anyone noticing you, Commander?” Glenda demanded.

“Hmph!” Spalding snorted, his mood instantly souring. “None of your confounded business how I got up here. The most important thing isn’t how a man gets somewhere, it’s where he’s at!”

The Construction Manager gave him a complicated look. “I’m sure any number of despots and ‘ends justifies the means’ types have said very similar things throughout history,” she said.

Spalding purpled. “So now I’m a mass murderer for coming onto my own bridge?” he exclaimed furiously. “Well that’s rich—that’s very rich indeed!”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” Glenda protested.

“Bunch of nonsense!” Spalding threw his hands in the air and stomped off, heading towards the engineering work station. Angrily, he pulled up the security feed from moments before…and froze.

“Hey, lad, come take a look at this,” he instructed the engineer pulling watch duty on the bridge and then reran the sequence.

The other engineer blinked and did a double take. “What’s that, Sir?” the other man asked.

Spalding fell back in his chair. “Well doesn’t that just tear it?” he muttered.

Chapter 17: Confusion and Rage

“Fire!” Bluetooth shouted excitedly.

“Good work, Captain,” Isaak said with satisfaction.

“They can’t take much more of this, your Excellency,” said the ship’s captain.

And then every target in the ship’s tactical plotter wavered and disappeared.

“What the…” Bluetooth stared at the screen.

Cries of alarm shot through the bridge.

“Where did they go? Did they use a stealth field, Captain—are they still there?” Isaak demanded.

“Fire for stealth reveal, Tactical,” ordered Bluetooth.

“Stealth pattern fire, aye, Captain,” replied Tactical.

On the screen, lasers danced all over the last known positions of the various enemy ships.

“Negative, Captain. No stealth field present,” Tactical said almost sounding numb.

“Full sensor sweep—maximum power. Coordinate with the rest of the flotilla,” instructed the Captain.

“Find them, Captain!” ordered Isaak.

“Negative, Captain. Nothing on the max sweep,” reported Sensors, “the only thing I can find on the sweep is an unusual reading of strange particles.

Bluetooth stood up abruptly. “That isn’t possible,” he said angrily.

“Captain!” Isaak cried.

The Sector Guardsman in command of the flagship took a deep breath and then released it shaking his head. “Sensors, verify that reading. Tactical, stealth sweep again,” he ordered.

“Aye aye, Captain,” both officer said in unison.

“If someone doesn’t start speaking to me in plain Standard, careers will end,” Governor Isaak said flatly.

On the screen, lasers swept a new pattern once again finding nothing. Bluetooth shot the officer at Sensors a look but the Senior Lieutenant shook his head negatively while looking bewildered.

He turned to face the former Caprian Ambassador.

“They’re gone, Governor,” Bluetooth said evenly the words like ashes in his mouth, “we’ll keep looking but all signs point to the Tyrant doing the impossible.”

“Impossible? He’s still here—find him!” Isaak snapped.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” Bluetooth said officiously.

“What are you talking about? Its obvious, he’s just slipped away in stealth,” Isaak said.

“And that’s a possibility we’ll continue to work with, Governor,” he assured him, “but with the strange particle surge, the fact our own laser strikes can’t hit un-moving derelicts, and that there are no stealth fields known to the Sector Guard that could cover for the kind of acceleration those derelicts would need to avoid our fire…the only logical conclusion is that somehow, someway, the Tyrant has managed to do the impossible. He’s jumped out of the Star System from inside the hyper limit.”

The Governor stood there as if struck.

“Everything we can see is consistent with that notion, Excellency,” said the Captain.

There was a stir in the Communications department.

“Sir, a stealthed platform just appeared and dumped a compressed message file into our com-net,” reported a communications officer.

“Tactical, target that platform,” commanded the Captain.

“On it, Sir,” said the Lieutenant Commander.

“You’ve scanned it for viruses?” Bluetooth asked the communications officer.

“It’s clean, Sir,” said the Lieutenant.

“Play the message then,” ordered the Captain.

“The message is addressed to the Governor, Sir. It’s from the Tyrant,” said the Lieutenant looking uneasy.

The Captain and the Governor shared an uneasy look. “Play it Lieutenant,” instructed the Governor.

Chapter 18: The Tyrant’s Final Dig

“Greetings and salutations from the other side of the Sector,” the Tyrant on the screen said with a cheeky grin. “And sadly, no, this is not an FTL transmission, just a recorded one. But as you are no doubt now aware, those portions of the MSP which were located at Project Waypoint have successfully egressed this star system. Meaning the greater part of the derelicts and potential firepower once within this star system are now in my hands—completely in my hands, I should say,” the Tyrant’s sunny smile slowly disappeared to be replaced by a thin, hard line. “Now, another man might take this sudden exit from Easy Haven as weakness. The fact that I now have a good half a dozen battleships in need of quick repairs and crews—problems for the far distant future—might be enough to evoke a fit of frustrated rage for such a man, but such a fit might force me to later make him regret his short-sightedness. It is then incumbent upon me to assure such a man, should he exist, that this particular line of thinking would be a critical mistake.”

The young Montagne paused, his eyes now boring into the screen.

“I’m not going to dance around with veiled threats and innuendos. All I’m going to say is: don’t touch Easy Haven. As of this moment I have enough power in a hidden shipyard that, within six months, when repairs are complete, I’ll have the ability to rain pain down on this Sector so hard what few survivors remained would be begging me to leave,” the Tyrant then leaned back in his chair and flashed a false smile. “Or you, as you know, could just do what you were supposed to be doing all along: leave me and the MSP alone, let us guard the edge of known space and ward off stray invasions of robots, Bugs and wide-eyed Imperials while you lot—meaning the Sector Government and Sector Guard—do what you were always supposed to be doing,” the Tyrant now glared at the screen like he now had some kind of moral authority, “protecting our borders with the rest of the Spine and regulating interstellar commerce. To my mind, keeping the remnants of the Reclamation Fleet out of 25—and, you know stop trying to frame me for everything that’s gone wrong since the Empire pulled out—should be your most urgent number one priority. But, as always, the choice is entirely yours. Live, die, run. Yours in disregard, Jason Montagne,” the Tyrant said and the transmission ended.

There was a long moment of silence. “That utter blighter,” swore Bluetooth, “who does he think he is to talk to the elected head of an entire Sector like that? The Sector Guard will not sit still for this. Attempting to blackmail a sector official? Why—”

“He thinks he’s a man soon to have half a dozen new battleships in his fleet, with more to follow, Captain,” Isaak’s voice cracked like a whip, causing instant silence. “And that’s not counting the ships he captured before joining the 25th Amalgamated Fleet in Easy Haven; remember the reports of our own Sector Guard units that accompanied him to that first battle with the Reclamation Fleet, or what might be repairable from after our final battle with Janeski? Remember how they refused to allow our inspectors on the Metal Titan after the battle, not to mention the wrecked remains of an Imperial Command Carrier—a Command Carrier!”

“Even an Imperial yard and a dozen years couldn’t fix that ship. Easier to build a new one, and I dare say that’s beyond even the Tyrant’s amazingly criminal abilities,” Bluetooth said stoutly.

“Don’t be a fool, Captain! Criminal abilities? I don’t care if it’s broken in half and completely irreparable, Jason Montagne now has his unrestricted hands on multiple working examples of the Empire’s best and highest level technology with no one left to stop him from doing whatever he wants with it,” Isaak threw his hands in the air. “Give the Vice Admiral enough time with that Command Carrier and the battleships to retrofit that new technology with, and the next thing you know we’ll be staring down the barrel of Imperial grade weapons technology. I don’t need to tell you what that would mean for this Sector!”

Bluetooth looked like he’d just bitten into something sour. “If we can find his secret rebel base, then…” Bluetooth paused.

“A secret rebel base? You mean his hidden shipyard, obviously,” Isaak looked at the other man in disbelief and shook his head.

“If we turn the full weight and force of the Sector and Sector Guard on the problem of his location, I’m sure we can run him to ground,” Captain Bluetooth said stoutly.

“We?” Isaak asked dourly. “I have assigned three intelligence gathering organizations and several of my best personal agents the task of running Jason Montagne to ground. The question is not ‘if’ they will discover his location but rather ‘will they discover it in time’?”

“You can’t mean to let one man hold an entire Sector hostage, Sir,” protested Bluetooth.

“Of course not,” Isaak said instantly, “however’ a wise man always hedges his bets.”

“Meaning, Sir?”

“Meaning no decision will be made until I am satisfied the Tyrant is no longer in this star system. That he says he is gone, and that you believe him to have left, does not satisfy me. I want every grid, every asteroid, every space rock scanned measured and compared to the star system’s scan index,” said Isaak.

“That will take time, but we can do it,” Bluetooth said slowly, “and if the scans come back negative?”

Isaak glared at the screen. “Then we will leave this star system to further our search for the good Vice Admiral and his…Patrol Fleet,” said Isaak with a grimace. “I may be bold but I am not quite ready to start a war with a man I cannot find who is in possession of more than ten currently active or soon to be repairable battleships.”

“An admirable goal,” said Bluetooth, “only I wonder if after our attack the…‘Vice Admiral’ doesn’t consider the war already started? After all, we were rather firm with him just now—I mean before we actually opened fire,” he finished with more than a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

Isaak paused for a moment. “It is a risk but I think not,” he said before continuing decisively, “no if he was ready for war the rabid young royalist wouldn’t be urging me to look to our borders for trouble and threatening war if I continued my attack on Wolf-9.”

“You would allow him to dictate policy? Even the appearance of caving to his threats could cost more than a reprisal attack,” Bluetooth said.

“When I want policy advice, Captain, I have advisers for that sort of thing—and they are far better and more up to date than a ship’s captain, however talented he might be,” Isaak rebuked. “Continue the search.”

“Aye aye, your Excellency,” Bluetooth said stiffening his face returning to a professional mask.

Chapter 19: Gambit and The Future

“Well that was definitely something else,” I said, taking deep, rapid breaths. In and out, in and out, in and…I released that last final pent up breath before calming down. We were alive. We’d made it!

A previously stunned bridge broke out into spontaneous applause. I wasn’t the only one who was apparently surprised at our survival. No, not at our survival—at our open defiance of the very laws of physics.

“I don’t know how you did it, Sir, but congratulations. We’re all alive,” Rick Jones said, stepping over to pump my hand up and down enthusiastically.

Instinctively, I shook his hand with the political training of my youth taking over before the rest of my brain caught up to what I was doing. When it did, I gave the Ensign an odd look before shrugging it off and releasing his hand. I don’t think this Flag Lieutenant of mine, even though he was technically an Ensign, was going to work out for me long-term.

A sensor sweep said it all. This was where we’d wanted to arrive: we were at the edge of Gambit Star System, with Gambit Station and its accompanying mining industry, factories and ship yard complex flashing brightly for us to see.

As I watched a converted shuttle, part of a semi-independent wild cat mining operation scuttled from one asteroid to another, meanwhile a pair of ore barges made their slow and stately process back to the giant ore processor next to the factories. On the other side of the star system, an old retrofitted corvette patrolled between the border of the star system and the miners.

“It’s looking even more developed than the last time we were here,” I observed idly.

Captain Laurent nodded. “Yes it is, Admiral. Although I did mention the latest developments in my reports, I believe,” he said.

I waved a hand in the air. “Yes of course, and the freighters with supplies forwarded their encrypted reports from Tracto as well. But there’s nothing quite like seeing something firsthand to give a man the full impact,” I said, feeling a swelling of pride at just how far this star system had developed since I’d decided to build a secret base out here, in this otherwise dead star system.

There were no habitable planets and a relatively high radiation count compared to other inhabited star system, but it was nothing we couldn’t handle with the proper shielding, and the local mineral wealth was not to be dismissed—nor was all the system industry we’d built since then.

“The only real drawback is that Gambit Station is no Wolf-9 Starbase,” I said, even as my eyes were inevitably drawn toward the repair slips in the shipyard complex.

Battleships and Heavy Cruisers were being actively repaired—captures and spoils of war taken from our first initial clash with Task Force 3 of Janeski’s Reclamation Fleet—even as I watched.

Of course, thoughts of the Imperial Fleet that had tried to covertly, or not so covertly, take over this Sector for the Empire of Man caused my mood to darken.

“I’d like to get the remnants of that fleet in range of my broadside,” I mumbled angrily before reality set back in and I hastily decided against it. After all, right now most of my fleet was either in the repair yard or needed to be sent there as soon as a slip opened up. Maybe after I had those ships repaired and crewed back up…make that definitely after they were crewed and ready for combat.

Then I was willing to take on anything the Empire still had in the Spine.

Of course it was easy to be brave when you had as many battleships as I now had. “Enough wool gathering; take us in to Gambit and dock with the station, Captain. It’s time to begin planning our next steps.”

Of course, before I could get to the planning phase of our next operation, I had to deal with the large backlog of electronic paperwork and reports waiting for me first.

I grimaced. Paperwork…

Chapter 20: The Paperwork

Two days later I was still buried under a proverbial mountain of e-paperwork.

I sat back in my chair with a groan and rubbed my aching head. It was proving impossible to go through literally months of backlog in just a few days, more’s the pity.

“Well, this blows,” I said, tossing a stylus onto the work desk. I could really use a break right about now and, considering I was the quote unquote leader of this operation, that’s exactly what I was going to do: take a break.

Which was exactly what I was doing, up until Sean D’Argeant buzzed my coms notifying me someone on my preferred visitor’s list had appeared without an appointment.

“Let them in,” I said with a sigh, not really wanting to spend my sudden break time on something that would undoubtedly turn into yet more unexpected business. Just like my surprise visitor. My face turned gloomy.

“Hello there, Jason,” Akantha swept into the room with a grin, and I had to suppress a frown.

“Hello, yourself,” I hazarded, and then eventually added in the face of her sunny disposition, “what brings you into this neck of the woods?”

Her lips pursed and she looked at me clearly having expected a different response before shrugging it off. “It’s time to get you out of this stuffy office,” she declared.

“To what purpose?” I asked, drawing back instinctively. It’s not that I didn’t trust her, just that I sensed something was off and that smile of hers did nothing to dispel my concern—quite the opposite in fact. Remember the last time she’d gone strange on me I’d been challenged in a duel to the death by her former suitor and my would be usurper Nikomedes—his death?

Okay, so I didn’t trust her. Not deep down inside, anyway, but was that such a bad thing?

“I think it would be obvious. The needs of our duty have drifted further and further apart of late, and I would remedy this,” Akantha said and held up a hand to forestall my protest.

Of course I had been too surprised, was too surprised in fact, to do anything of the sort but she didn’t know that.

“It’s no one’s fault…or rather, if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine,” Akantha said seriously. “You’ve been busy saving your fleet and my world,” she waved hand in the air, “oh, more than just that of course but even if it is just an afterthought as you go about doing what you need to do in order to protect us all, it was still in service of my world, my Hold and myself.”

“I suppose that’s true, from a certain point of view,” I allowed more cautiously than I would have preferred but there I was: overly cautious.

“So guarded,” Akantha exclaimed unhappily. Some of the sunshine and happiness left her face and, strangely, the fact she wasn’t quite so cheerful actually seemed to improve my mood.

“Well, what do you expect?” I demanded, upset with myself for taking pleasure in her unhappiness but unable to stop feeling the way I did.

“If you would just—” she started irritably and then cut herself off. She took a calming breath, “I deserve that. Even so, I’m getting you out of this office for your own good,” she said defiantly.

I leaned away from her and lifted an eyebrow. “After months away I’m far too busy catching up to do anything but—” I started seriously.

“What utter nonsense,” she interrupted, “you can’t seriously be telling me you don’t have time to take a stroll?”

“First, I don’t know where we’d be strolling and second, yes, that’s exactly what I am telling you,” I said shortly. “I’m literally buried here. It’s going to take me at least a week to dig back out. At least a week,” I repeated.

She stopped and gave me an assessing look.

“That’s what you have servants for, you know,” she then firmly informed me, “to help with the administrative load. My mother is the Mistress of a Hold. Do you think she takes care of everything herself? No,” she answered her own question without waiting for my response, “the same as myself. You just have to find able administrators, preferably ones you trust, and then give them the freedom to do the job.”

“Sounds like a recipe for disaster,” I remarked skeptically. Especially since while my beloved sword-bearer might have a whole host of childhood friends, confidants and people she knew and trusted from her home polis of Argos, when it came to able non-combat personnel my circles of the same were rather light by comparison.

“Messene seems to be doing just fine,” Akantha said, an edge in her voice, “and we both know how little time I am able to spend there.”

“We do,” I agreed, looking at her evenly.

She colored. “Some might not understand the sacrifices I make in order to stay by your side out here on the river of the stars,” Akantha said with some heat.

“Especially since you seem to enjoy the call to battle so much?” I questioned leadingly.

Akantha looked disgruntled. “Maybe to some I shirk my responsibilities with too light a heart, but I chose to look upon it as the god’s favor, calling me to a higher duty while at the same time allowing me to fight directly for my people…and myself,” she added that last part reluctantly.

“Do I sense a bit of the glory hound, from a culture of would-be glory hounds, in there my Lady?” I flashed a smile.

“Maybe so and maybe not,” Akantha sniffed before rounding back on me like a predator catching hold of her scent yet again. “But all of that is besides the point.”

She leveled a finger at me and said, “You. Out of this office. Now.”

“I live but to serve,” I mocked, not moving so much as an inch from my chair, “but as we can both see there is no one left to do this massive pile of paperwork backed up and—”

“Oh, pooh,” she rolled her eyes, “I happen to know of a very underused Flag Lieutenant sitting outside your office in a chair, kicking his heels with nothing to do. From my conversations with your bodyguards it is the duty of such a Lieutenant to sift through such mounts of files and only pass along those few important things that slipped through to land on his desk.”

“Yes the ‘unimportant’ things!” I exclaimed. “Someone has to go through it first before handing any of it off. And furthermore you would have me trust ‘Rick Jones’ to do it?!”

“So get a chief of staff to sort it for you and if you distrust this Jones so much. Clap him in irons or release him from service in the process,” she said impatiently. “I hate to scold but either you trust a servant—a person—to do their job or you release them. Alternately, if they are too politically important to release then you shuffle them off to actually doing some minor unimportant jobs and replace them—even if without the official recognition, should politics demand such—with someone competent and trusted enough to get the job done while they are off fiddling in the corner. Surely I don’t have to teach you such elementary reasoning!”

“But…but,” I protested not liking being dictated to but finding myself without a good excuse.

“‘But’ me no butts,” Akantha said, “and get out of that chair.”

Realizing when I was beat, even if not yet entirely willing to concede the field, I stood up. “A chief of staff,” I mumbled, recollections of my time with the two-faced spiteful Tremblay as my ‘First Officer’ back when I was essentially just captaining the Lucky Clover floating back into my mind.

“How you have managed to run things without a proper group of servants and officials to help manage things is beyond me,” she continued. I opened my mouth to…I don’t know…protest? “No I don’t want any explanations or worse yet excuses,” Akantha cut me off, “just get it done, Jason,” here she finally paused and added, “but after that, we have our walk.”

“Oh, all right,” I conceded grumpily, giving up the ghost. I didn’t like it but she was right. So far I’d been using my Flag Captains and a few trusted individuals, when they were available, as well as whatever local command staff were on site but she was right. The Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet had grown and now it was time my Admiral’s Staff grew as well.

“I’m glad you finally see things my way,” Akantha said.

I nodded, not entirely trusting myself to speak as we swept out of my office, picked up my armsmen and then decanted to the nearest lift.

“So what is it you wanted to talk about, my dear?” I asked, wondering what special pet project or special interest she was championing today.

She eyed me sideways, “Do I need a reason to see my Protector?”

“Generally; you don’t come and see me otherwise,” I nodded, and for a moment she looked almost sad.

“Well this time there is no such reason. I simply wanted the pleasure of your company,” she said.

“Your Confederation Standard has really gotten better since you first came here,” I commented. It was never wrong to throw out a compliment or two when it came to women—especially if the compliment was true.

“Why, thank you,” she said, “what say we go through the arboretum?” she asked.

I turned my hands upward in passive agreement. “Will we be meeting the babies there?” I asked, inwardly steeling myself for some more parent time. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the little tykes but just moments ago I was in full-on work mode and now I had to suddenly switch gears. Sometimes that was harder than others and right now she had me off-balance which made it harder. Especially since I didn’t want to be the type of father that allowed his frustrations at the job to impact his children.

“No,” she said to my complete surprise, “no children, no hidden agendas, except those between a woman and a man. There are no battles looming in front of either of us, no hidden plots that I am aware of, no threats to our lives or way of existence. Just us.”

I looked at her questioningly, “Meaning?”

“Meaning there is time to simply be us,” she said irritably.

“And what do we do?” I asked, completely off my stride and starting to feel befuddled.

“We take a walk through the arboretum. Maybe share a bit of our day. Or, if that’s too upsetting, just silently spend some time together,” she said, reaching over and taking my hand.

“That’s all?” I asked with surprise, glancing down at my hand now clasped in hers.

“If you want, I’ll leave,” she said sadly.

I stared at her. “No. No we can walk through the station’s hydroponics section,” I said reservedly. My wife, sometimes the strangest and most incomprehensible of creatures, I thought. And then because I appear to have become a complete workaholic, she actually gave some very good advice on who and how to pick for filling out my staff…in between walking me around the station and then eating at an open station café like we were on some kind of…date.

Just plain weird, that’s what it was.

Chapter 21: Isaak and his Frustrations

“Remember, I want massive troop movements from Central and Aegis to liberate New Pacifica as well as major fleet movements to drive the Imperials out of Sector 26, now that the derelict ploy to strengthen our hand within the Sector and elevate the Sector Government above its enemies once and for all has failed,” Isaak said briskly as he strode down the hall followed by his advisers.

“Approval ratings are sliding across the board and public support for this government is at an all-time low,” warned his new policy adviser, a former colleague that had replaced the last spineless weasel to hold the job, “it’s risky to call for new troop movements so soon after the last war.”

“We won, didn’t we?” pointed out the Governor’s military adviser.

“Another victory like that might break us, and if we go down it could take the entire Sector Government down with us,” warned the Policy Adviser, “after that goes inter-world trade, and I don’t know about you but I for one am not looking forward to the possibility of food riots.”

“Surely you exaggerate,” the Military Adviser protested.

“Surely I don’t,” grunted Policy.

The Military Adviser turned to the head of PR, and the former news anchor held up her hands to indicate she had no desire to take sides.

“I don’t know about food riots, but the government is teetering on a PR precipice here. Policy is right in that polling shows the public won’t stand for another debacle like Easy Haven, and the fact that this isn’t the first time the Governor’s stubbed his toe in that particular Star System and the name recognition that gives Jane Z Public does nothing to help us,” she said flatly. “But he’s right that this administration has to do something and the usual PR stunts and economic stimulus packages just aren’t going to cut it. The public is rightly horrified at our losses and the Governor’s foes smell blood in the water.”

“Our victory was not only unexpected, it was frankly amazing,” yelled the Military Adviser, “it’s amazing we won when, by all rights, we should have lost. We were outnumbered, outgunned, out-”

“And our losses were just as amazing,” Policy cut in witheringly as they entered the conference room, “you say we flipped the odds and that’s great. But until and unless John Q Public feels the same way, we’re going to be stuck pushing a bolder uphill without any heavy machinery.”

“Break it down for me without the hyperbole this time. What does that mean for us?” Isaak interjected, drawing attention back to himself where it belonged.

“It means we can’t risk using the military to sway the public and domestic projects just aren’t going to cut the mustard. So unless you’re going to hand out universal tax cuts…” the former news anchor said with a snort.

“While simultaneously solving all our Sector’s economic woes,” added Policy.

“Right, that too,” said PR, “basically the usual dog and pony shows aren’t going to fly. I still say we try but it looks like we can’t photo op our way out this one either.”

In short: we’re screwed,” his former colleague said.

“Bottom line,” agreed the former news anchor flicking her hair over one shoulder.

“But we just won a major battle!” protested the Military Adviser. “Play that up and milk it for all it’s worth.”

Even Isaak had to shake his head at the naivety of that statement to say nothing of the other two in the room.

“You mean the Tyrant of Cold Space won a battle, after the Governor ‘caved’ to his rapacious piratical demands and made him the virtual military dictator of the entire Sector,” PR rebuked. “We, on the other hand, took massive casualties because we were foolish enough to entrust the Tyrant with the defense of the Sector.”

“But that’s complete poppycock,” spluttered Military.

“Yet that’s exactly what’s already hitting the airwaves as news travels throughout the Sector,” Policy said viciously. “The public is used to successful police actions with dozens or possibly hundreds of casualties. They become absolutely incensed over extended actions involving several thousands of casualties in multi-year conflicts—and that’s when we ‘win.’ There’s no way we can weather this storm using conventional wisdom or conventional solutions,” he ended with finality.

As one, everyone turned to look at the leader in this room.

“Then it’s time we stand convention on its head,” Isaak said resolutely. “Who was it that said ‘one is a tragedy but a million is just a statistic?’ I believe it’s time to distract them from the whole ‘Tyrant’ issue, assuage their juvenile rantings’ and give them that statistic.”

“You’re actively courting a high body count as a way out of this mess? Interesting,” said Policy looking intrigued.

“I’ve consulted with any number of people regarding this dilemma we find ourselves in, including my temporary Flag Captain,” said the Governor. “Bluetooth might not be right about any number of things, but he’s absolutely right that we cannot afford the appearance of caving to the MSP taking center stage. Not when we’re so close to consolidating our control over the Sector Assembly.”

“Aren’t they the very body that’s threatening to unseat you?” Military said, brows climbing for the rafters.

“The last painful bite of a dying animal, so long as we don’t bungle our follow up,” Isaak dismissed.

“If you say so,” said Military.

“A lot of talk but I’m still waiting to hear this great plan,” Policy said skeptically.

Isaak shot him a quelling look. “I’m getting there,” he said shortly, “now, sadly, destroying the last of the Confederation forces, Easy Haven was out of the question for various reasons. Which leaves us looking around for another diversion to chum the waters with if we are to distract the public from our grievous loses. And, much as I hate to the very depths of my bones to admit it, Montagne is right about one thing: a war on the border would certainly help refocus attention nicely.”

“But the risk…” the former news anchor looked horrified, “we don’t ‘start wars,’ we ‘complete police actions’!”

“Same difference,” Military shrugged before adding, “not that I’m for sending men and women out to die for poll ratings,” he said flatly, “because I’m not.”

“It’s risky as hell, but no…I see it,” said Policy after a long moment.

“The heroic Governor going boldly where the lackluster—or, dare I say, risk-averse or even cowardly MSP—feared to tread,” Isaak said, projecting a jaunty air into his voice completely at odds with the almost murderous look in his eye, “I think it has potential. And by pointing the public’s ire right back on the boogeyman we just defeated instead of the Government that oversaw those crippling losses…” He paused meaningfully.

“It would be less risky than anything else I can think of involving the military, after all we did just defeat them,” said PR.

“They’re a defeated force on the run and it would both help shore up his position nicely as well as kill any momentum the Tyrant might try to build in the heart of the Sector,” Policy said rubbing his chin.

“Defeated force? Are you insane,” exclaimed the Military Adviser, “they left an intact force and it’s quite possible that, if they had stayed, we would have lost!”

“A telling point but…the public doesn’t know that,” Policy pointed out.

“And I don’t aim to tell them,” Isaak agreed, sharing a smile with his former ally.

“I think we have the beginnings of a plan.”

“You’re all stark raving insane,” said the Military Adviser.

“Sometimes you have to take risks in order to get what you want in the games of power,” Policy chided.

“Exactly,” Isaak leaned back in his chair, once again grateful that he had enough blackmail material to bury each and every person in this room if they dared to betray him. Because not just his political career but the fate of an entire Sector depended on what had been said inside this room. It couldn’t be allowed to leak…at least not before it was too late and could be vociferously denied.

He smiled grimly. “Now that that’s settled, let’s see what we’ll need to do to get things set into motion. They say two years is too soon to start thinking that, but in my experience it’s never too soon to lock up a nomination and purchase a super majority of votes. After all, I have an impeachment to stave off, a reelection campaign to plan, and now a war to coordinate. Busy times.”

Chapter 22: Grumbles

“I’m telling you: it just isn’t right that we have droids running around willy nilly inside of Tracto. Droids! And there’s not a thing we can do about them,” growled the deck hand irritably.

“They say the Little Admiral knows what he’s doing,” another said uncertainly.

“It just isn’t right!” grumbled the original deck hand. “My great-great died back when to kick the machines out of human space. Tried to get them all until the day he died but,” here the hand spat onto the decking, “you can see from our current situation how well he did at that job. HA!”

“Are you sure that we should be talking about this,” the second deck hand said looking around with worry, “if the officer’s hear—”

The first deck hand frowned.

“The day a man has to look over his shoulder about what he has to say about a machine is the day the machine overlords have returned and not so much as a second before,” another man said striding over a serious expression on his face.

“They’re supposed to be our allies. I mean they did fight,” said the second hand, “at least that’s what the officers say. Right, PO?” he finished weakly, looked at the newcomer as if to make sure what he said was true.

“Oh that’s true enough as far as it goes. Vice Admiral Montagne thinks he can play with fire and not get burned like our ancestors all did,” the new Petty Officer said with a shrug, “I wish him luck with that. I just don’t want to be around when the rubber hits the road and the droids show their true nature,” seeing the first hand pick up and the second hand looking concerned all over again he stuck out his hand, “The name’s Malcolm. Malcolm Sagittarius what’s yours?” asked the new man.

“Ernie Seasons,” said the younger more squirrelly looking of the two hands.

“Bert Bricks but everyone calls me Bee Bee and it’s a relief to finally hear someone around this place talking sense,” said the unhappier of the two, “you can’t trust a droid and that’s a fact!”

“I just call ’em like I see ’em,” the Petty Officer shrugged, “and Vice Admiral Montagne seems to think he’s smarter the best thinkers of a thousand years and heck for all I know he may just be right but I won’t be holding my breath on that, that’s for darned tooting sure. One hand for the fleet and the other hand on the ladder for yourself and you’ll never fall down I always say.”

“I just wish our supervisor felt the same way. Why the man practically worships the ground his Little Admiral walks on and must think the guy farts gold dusk the way he carries on sometimes,” Bee Bee said with disgust, “and you’re right about that one thing. The day we have to shut up because we’re telling it like it is when it comes to those buckets of bolts is the day we see the beginning of the return of the machine tyranny!”

“Man not Machine,” Malcolm Sagittarius said flatly.

“Man not Machine,” the other two echoed dutifully.

“Well hopefully the Admiral comes to his senses in time. Although like I said before I have my doubts on that front. As for your current supervisor he’s probably been with the fleet since the beginning. There’s no talking with that sort, they won’t see the light until the machines rub it in their faces,” said the Petty Officer with a sigh, “speaking of which. Do you two want to get an ale after work? I’ve got an opening on my work crew for a couple of men who know how to work and don’t want to ever see humanity back under the metal boot-heel.”

“We will if you’re buying!” said Bee Bee

“My pleasure,” the PO said looking over at Ernie speculatively.

“I have to warn you I’m a teetotaler but I wouldn’t mind a change of scenery,” Ernie said quickly, “and the machines make me nervous too. I’m just not as eager as Bee Bee to have a notation put in my file. I don’t want to be an enlisted for the rest of my life.”

“Oh-ho a man chomping at the bit to make officer I see!” Malcolm chuckled, “well we’ll either have to break you of that or help you start studying for the test.”

“There’s a test?” asked Ernie with a sinking expression on his face.

“Buckle boy, in this man’s star fleet there’s always a test,” the PO chortled, “better be ready for it or get such thoughts out of your head. Personally I never wanted to turn into an ossified piece of space rock constantly filling out paperwork but that’s just me. I know that some people seem to love pushing electronic files around at the end of a long work day.”

“Well alright then,” Ernie said.

“We have an accord. First the beer and then work party and after that I’ll get you set up with some of the basic material you’re going to need if you want to turn yourself into a space rock.”

Chapter 23: Listing the Battleships

“Okay Jones, give me the run down on our current build estimates,” I told the Ensign sitting back in my chair and giving him a skeptical measuring look. I was trying out Akantha’s idea of loading down the Ensign until something broke…or, rather, I just decided to expand upon her idea of offloading some of my nonessential duties upon my staff. The overloading of the uppity little snark basket had been an all original Montagne expansion of my own creation, on that I wasn’t feeling the least bit bad about.

Nope, not a bit, I thought rebelliously as I stared at the Ensign. Normally I’d have at least felt bad that I didn’t feel worse about such rank exploitation of labor with the intent to find fault and fire my Flag Lieutenant, but Ensign Jones had managed to finagle himself a Jason-Montagne-can-get-out-of-psychological-pain-free card.

They say ‘judge the group, not the individual’…at least until after you actually knew the person. But when you knew an individual the way I did, the obstinate Jones judgment almost became a mandatory exercise. Still, let it not be said that I was one of those shoot from the hip, no redemption is possible Montagnes. Which is why I’d weighed him down so heavily that and I was still interviewing for my Chief of Staff position just so it fell to either him or me to pick up the load. And when the choice was ‘go easy on Jones or spend more time with Akantha and the babies,’ it was a tough call but Jones just seemed to lose out every time for some reason. Go figure.

“Right,” Jones said seriously and then turned to begin his presentation, although worn down with dark semicircles under his eyes and with a slightly rumpled-around-the-shoulders uniform, he still seemed entirely on task and ready to go. Which was a shame really. Maybe I’d been going too easy on him?

“As you can see here,” he continued, pulling up a graphic representing various ship types in flashing green, yellow and red bars, “I’ve broken out each group into broad categories. To wit: Battleships, Cruisers, Destroyers, etc..”

I nodded, feeling sorry for the green line—the miniscule green bar looking small and sad in comparison to the near giants that were the other two colors—which of course meant I felt sorry for myself and the MSP. Oh, so many warships and so very few of them usable. It really was a sad state of affairs.

“Green are our currently operational warships while yellow lists out those ships in various states of damage that Engineering and the shipyard consider repairable, while those ships in red have been down-checked for the breakers,” Jones reported, using his stylus to point at each bar. As that stylus touched each line it expanded, taking up more than half the screen and enlarging the statistics and ship images beside it before he moved to the next one, “That said, I have been reminded by members of the command staff that all designations are temporary, and that just because an inspector from one organization has down-checked a warship I am not to consider that status permanent until the other department has had a chance to look it over,” he said with a nod to one of the members in the meeting.

“Darn right!” Spalding declared, leaning back in his chair with satisfaction.

I sighed; my question dying in my throat before it had even drawn its breath. I mean, why was I even surprised? But surprised or not I wasn’t the only member of the team with a reaction to this new information.

“And just what’s wrong with a yard inspection that it needs to be gone over twice to determine a ship’s status?” Yard Manager Baldwin asked Jones before turning to glare at Spalding.

“Engineering has requested—” Jones started.

Spalding leaned forward to hit the table with a hammer fist. “There’s nothing wrong with the yard inspections,” he cut in, “the yard inspectors do a good job of telling us what the yard is capable of, but as far as I see it they doesn’t accurately reflect what Fleet Engineering is capable of.”

“Oh, it doesn’t? And by that I suppose you mean that ‘Fleet Engineering’ thinks it’s more capable than a fully-fledged repair yard?!” Yard Manager Baldwin said, her voice rising.

“Well I wouldn’t have put it that way, but if the shoe fits,” Spalding demurred.

“Of all the off-base, pigheaded, stubborn nonsense,” Baldwin glowered, “that has to be one of the worst-”

“As has been proven time and again, the Yard does its estimates and then Engineering gets the job done,” Spalding pooh-poohed, giving her an eye-roll, “like with the Jumbles, the yard down-checked them, saying they’d never fly again, but Fleet Engineering still found a way to get those ships back in the fight.”

“And they didn’t fly again, not as the Battleships they were designated as, and we were asked to inspect for a return to service as ‘battleships’. Frankly, if you ask my opinion, those things are more properly designated as flying death traps! Entire sections listed as no-go zones, areas more likely to kill our own people if they go into them than the enemy are capable of threatening,” Baldwin protested looking my direction for support before rounding back on Spalding without waiting for my input on the situation, “and if it weren’t for the emergency situation and the fact that we thought it almost impossible to actually get them working, the Yard would have never signed off on their temporary designations as gunboat carriers.”

“You’re just sore that the Glenda’s Disbelief lived up to her name sake,” Spalding said dismissively, “it’s time to admit you lost and moved on.”

“You insufferable man, you can’t see past the end of your nose!” Glenda exclaimed. “The Yard could have done the same job you did in half the time and with twice the quality, with at least a 20% increase in boat capacity. But our focus was on following orders and getting battleships repaired and into service as fast as possible. Like we did with the North Hampton, a ‘battleship’ I’ll point out, unlike those junk carriers, and a job which we did at an amazing speed and which I still stand by! Not like that junk Jumble job. A more misnamed set of ships, whose only reason for existing is an old man’s overweening pride, I doubt we’ll ever see again.”

“Junk? Overweening pride??? The Disbelief was named for a reason—one that still seems very much valid to this old engineer,” Spalding stood up and shouted.

“All right, I think that’s enough,” I said sharply, taking back control of the conversation.

“But Sir,” the Yard Manager protested.

“Admiral!” glowered Spalding.

“I don’t care who did what. The yard has a proven record of identifying which ships they can repair and whereas engineering…er, Fleet Engineering, as it were…clearly has a talent for turning around ships otherwise thought irreparable in innovative ways, even if they don’t exactly return to us with the same designations they had upon reaching our engineer’s fine hands,” I said, trying to make peace. “All of which is neither here nor there, as this is Ensign Jones’s presentation not Fleet Engineering’s or the Yard’s. If either of you want to set up such a presentation for next week, please speak with Jones after this meeting when he has time to look at my calendar and see when I’m free again.”

“Yes, sir,” said the Yard Manager.

“Aye, Sir,” Spalding said, sitting back grumpily.

I waited a moment to make my point. “You may proceed, Ensign,” I gestured to the other man.

“Thank you, Sir,” Jones said a hint of irritation in his voice, not I think pointed at me so much as our two rambunctious colleagues. “Now, as I was saying before the interruption, in addition to the nearly destroyed Command Carrier—which both departments interested in the matter have declared irreparable with our current technology, yard and labor force—we have a number of other ships,” he clicked his slate to bring up a new image.

“That’s right…sadly,” Spalding agreed unhappily.

“Now, as I was saying, regarding Battleships—the pride of any fleet,” Jones continued an edge in his voice as he spoke, “I’ll provide a brief recap for everyone present. Over the course of MSP history, not counting that portion of time under command of our late adversary Admiral Arnold Janeski, the Patrol Fleet has both gained and lost a number of warships.”

“That’s one way to put it,” the Chief Gunner grunted, “hopefully there’s a point to all this in there somewhere? Some of us have actual jobs to do, you know. We can’t all shuffle paperwork all day long.”

Jones ignored the interruption “As I was saying,” he pulled up a list on the screen.

****************Screen Shot*******************

Lucky Clover (Combat Destroyed/Recovered)

1st Pirate Campaign (Omicron):

Armor Prince (Active/Repair Slip)

Royal Rage (Active/Repair Needed)

2nd Pirate Campaign (Tracto):

Queen Anabella (Captured: Combat Destroyed/Recovered)

Star Kingdom of Caprian Rescue Campaign:

Parliamentary Power (Combat Destroyed/Lost)

Elysium Campaign:

Metal Titan (Combat Destroyed/ Recovered)

Messene’s Shield (Combat Destroyed/Recovered)

1st Battle – Reclamation Fleet Campaign (unnamed star system):

The North Hampton (Active)

Victorious Alignment (Combat Destroyed/Recovered)

Pyramid (Captured/Needs Repair)

Norfolk (Captured/Repair Slip)

Liberation of Persecution (Captured/Needs Repair)

-50 various other warships or pieces of warships recovered

3rd Battle – Reclamation Fleet Campaign (4th Easy Haven?):

Battleship (Combat Destroyed/Recovered)

Battleship (Combat Destroyed/Recovered)

Battleship (Captured/Needs Repair)

Battleship (Captured/Needs Repair)

Battleship (Captured/Surrender)

Battleship (Captured/Surrender)

Battleship (Captured/Surrender)

Battleship (Captured/Surrender/In-Transit)

Battleship (Captured/Surrender)

Battleship (Captured/Surrender)

-153 various other warships captured or destroyed

*************End Screen Shot**************

There were satisfied nods around the room at the number captured battleships displayed on the screen. It was information we were already all well aware of, but it never hurt to play up our wins—especially after the devastating losses we’d suffered in the last series of battles with the Reclamation Fleet.

If this was what facing a covert Imperial fleet was like, I shuddered to think what an overt fleet would have been like. As it was we only won because they withdrew. I shook off such thoughts and turned back to the presentation.

As Military Commandant for Sector 25, I’d gone above and beyond the call to duty, once again presenting my back for the Governor’s dagger in the name of protecting the citizenry against the darkness—the same citizenry, if the Cosmic New Network’s holo-feed was to be believed, that actually hated and feared me more than ever.

Sheep-people who eagerly swallow every lie they see on the holo, I thought with disgust.

Well someday they’d go too far and they’d pay for it. Oh, how they’d pay…long and hard. Personally, I was thinking some kind of tribute arrangement, say a 5% gross domestic product surcharge. I mean, you can only keep hating me and electing leaders to stab me in the back for so long before I would no longer save you for free.

Oh, I would still save them, whether they asked for it or not, but they’d pay for the privilege. A lot of people said that life has a value that cannot be measured, but I for one had no problem measuring it and my calculations came down to saving you was a free service as long as I had the people and equipment. But hating or resenting me afterwards was going to cost you…and 5% of the taxes you paid for a couple years sounded like a burden I could gladly live with you shouldering.

I chuckled darkly.

“Is there something you wanted to add, Admiral? A problem with the index figures perhaps?” Rick Jones asked.

Rats, it seemed I was chuckling inappropriately; next thing you knew I’d wake up to find I’d been in cryogenic stasis for the past seven hundred years.

“No! Nothing,” I said hastily and then cleared my throat, “I was, uh, only thinking about the battleship repair schedule and what we could do with them after they’re crewed up and put into service,” I lied as convincingly as possible, seeing as I hadn’t been thinking anything of the sort. Although hopefully no one would notice as this was exactly the sort of thing I’d been thinking about off and on ever since we hit Gambit.

“Well I have a question,” Captain Laurent grunted, “we all know the battleships have names; why aren’t they listed for the captures from the 4th Battle for Easy Haven?”

“It was decided that because the majority of the captures happen to come from various worlds of the Spineward Sectors, it would be prudent to ‘rename’ them prior to putting them back in service,” my Flag Lieutenant said promptly.

“Well that doesn’t make any sense,” Chief Lesner pointed out, “as the four battleships we captured during our very first battle, back before we were just the Allied Fleet before that 25th Amalgamated nonsense, are quite clearly named.”

“Ah, I believe the decision was made after the 3rd Battle of the Reclamation Campaign and warships captured from the previous battles were grandfathered in so to speak,” Jones stumbled.

“That’s even more moronic. Who came up with that fool idea?” Commander Spalding demanded throwing himself into the conversation with both feet. “We’ve got something like a hundred warships of all sizes and classifications that are going to need new names now. Are we really going to pull people away from their jobs to form some kind of Naming Committee when there’s plenty of good honest work to go around? I mean just who came up with this nonsense anyway?” he demanded, looking around the table with a squinty eye.

I cleared my throat. “That would be me,” I said, not feeling embarrassment, No, not even the smallest tiny bit of it; I was completely guilt free, yes I was. “And it seemed like a good idea at the time but as always I am open to new information and new ideas on how to proceed,” I finished without so much as a twinge on my face.

“Look, Admiral, I’m as interested as any man in renaming one of these ships if there’s a name that’s just boiling to be used but do we really have time to fiddle around with renaming more than fifty warships?” the old Engineer snorted. “That’s the job for a bunch of REMF’s not honest spacers like the rest of us. Frankly it’s a slacker’s dream come true: nothing but time to waste while they stroke each other’s back trying to get their pet names put up on hard working warships. Why I remember the time that-”

“Yes, thank you, Spalding,” I said clearing my throat, “a fascinating story for another time, but at the moment I believe the Ensign was in the middle of his presentation.”

“Yes, well…fine. Fine,” Spalding groused, reaching forward to pick up a spacer’s vacuum-sealed drink pouch, popping open the straw and taking a drink. “If that’s how you want to be about things….” He trailed off muttering to himself in a voice too low to be heard by most human ears—most, but not all.

“As I was saying,” Jones cleared his throat, “all of our Sector 26 and Elysium captures that could be repaired have either done so or been traded off.”

“To the droids, among others,” muttered Spalding.

“Yes, them,” nodded Jones, “as for anything else from our Sector 26 campaign, they’ve either been fed into the factories, stripped off of broken ships for tech samples, or used to repair others or are sitting in the boneyard waiting to be used.”

“For our captures from Task Force Three, we retrieved five battleships, one of which was in pieces, the other four repairable. One, the North Hampton has been placed into service. Another, Norfolk, is waiting on crew, a space trial and any further repairs, while the other two Pyramid and Liberation of Persecution are still waiting for a repair slip due to extensive damage, both external and internal from battle and boarding actions.”

“From what we’ve seen already, going through the battleships retrieved from Easy Haven it looks like both ships are going to be pushed to the back of the queue,” remarked Baldwin.

“Quite,” Jones agreed, “in any case, regarding our most recent battle.” Here everyone in the room subconsciously leaned forward. “Two battleships were captured after sustaining serious engine damage, crippling both engines. The crew aboard one revolted, declaring they were done with the Empire and only wanted to go home. On the other the Imperials fought to the bitter end, forcing our Lancer and Marine force to sustain heavy casualties taking the ship—and doing nothing for the interior of the vessel, much of which will need to be replaced. The damage is thanks to our Lancers’ efforts combined with deliberate sabotage from retreating Imperial officers and their ardent janissary crew forces.”

Take what you can and destroy the rest, I thought silently. Not a terrible strategy, to be honest.

“After that, we brought back the broken remains of two more battleship which are considered structurally unsound and designated to be reprocessed by our factories in Gambit,” Jones said, looking down at his slate as he read off the information while behind him on the screen were images of heavily damage battleships, one of which was missing the front fifty meters of the ship, “next we have another six battleships with minor to moderate internal and external hull damage, the former sustained again after the crew rose up, overthrew their imperial Reclamation masters and then surrendered their ships.”

“Similar to the situation with the six battleships that mutinied on their Imperial overlords, there is still the Praxis Battleships situation,” the intrepid Flag Lieutenant said, followed by a pregnant pause. “I didn’t add them to my list because their status was still unclear. I’ve asked before, but I was hoping you could clarify their status in this meeting, Admiral.”

My lips thinned and looks were exchanged around the room. It appeared no one wanted to be the first one to speak.

“‘Situation’ is a strong word,” Laurent said eventually, throwing out a softball to kickstart the conversation.

“I’d have called it a weak word, myself,” Captain Hammer riposted, lightly placing my two most frequent Flag Captains in friendly opposition to one another.

“Have we actually decided what we’re going to do with the Reclamation mutineers?” asked Spalding, changing the subject and no one seemed to object, except possibly Ensign Jones from the thin line his lips made at the old engineer’s words.

“I’m not sure ‘mutineers’ is the right word, Commander,” the Chief Gunner disagreed, “patriots or loyalists to planet and Sector, maybe.”

“No, they’re definitely mutineers,” Spalding grunted, “textbook definition. Disobeyed orders, shot or threw their officers in the brig, and it’s not like they were hiding out in the Jeffries tubes biding their time to take back their ships in some kind of classed-up counter-boarding, take-back-the-ship-from-the-invaders operation. They made their mark and signed on the dotted line as some kind of glorified Janissary crew and then shot their captains the first chance they saw. If that’s not a mutiny I don’t know what is,” he finished with a growl.

“And I’m saying that without them we might all be dead or worse, with the whole Spine soon to follow. So maybe out of a little respect there’s things that ought to be said and somethings that oughtn’t to be said!” Lesner glared at the crusty old cyborg. “Especially by those of us who have been involved in one too many mutinies and boarding operations ourselves!”

“I don’t know about others, but I stand by everything I’ve done,” Spalding shot back, “far as I’m concerned, I’m in the light. If I don’t like the man in charge of an enemy warship, I shoot her down and board her. If someone tries to take my ship out from under me in the name of his or anybody else’s Empire, I fight back and if they throw me in the brig for my efforts I bust out and come at them twice as hard, straight from the front and with overwhelming firepower. I’m not some parliamentary hack job ready to stab a man in the back, even as I speak out both sides of my mouth about how things both are and are not exactly how they be! So if those blokes are mutineers then by Murphy’s almighty space wrench they’re still a bunch of blasted mutineers!”

“Maybe that line of reasoning is why so many of my friends and fellow crew members were purged from the SDF: because a bunch of old guard spacers like you would rather standby and do nothing than cross some kind of arbitrary moral line,” Lesner snapped right back. “Maybe it’s a good thing my generation is in the driver’s seat.”

“‘Maybe?’” Spalding said incredulously. “Are you stoked? Tricks are tricks, and deceptions are all fine and dandy in a battle or a war but right is right and wrong is still all-the-way-blasted wrong. Without a moral center you’re nothing more than parliamentary light! Maybe doing the wrong thing can be forgiven in the heat of the moment, when everything’s on a hair trigger, and then again maybe it can’t. But let me tell you a few things, Chief Gunner,” he glowered, “men like me and Chief Bogart may not have seen eye to eye on every matter ‘twixt the stars, but when it comes to losing friends and colleagues we lost a whole of a blasted lot more than you young sprouts will ever know! You lost friends? We lost entire crews and graduating classes. We had anti-mutiny devices, missiles, turbo- and heavy lasers on our ships that might not have been able to win us back the fleet, but sure as all get out could have been dropped on cities and civilian targets if we had no ‘arbitrary moral center’. But right is right and wrong is still blasted wrong; even if they’re throwing your Captain in a waste recycler because he’s got the wrong parents, transferring your officers back down to the planet for Murphy knows what, and busting your petty officers back to able spacers!” Spalding had a fire and a fury on his face and a suspicious wetness to his eye I’d rarely seen. “We didn’t have the power to fix things, all we had was the power to destroy. Destroy our ships, destroy ourselves, maybe even wreck and destroy Capria herself but we didn’t. By Murphy’s sweet name, we refrained because unlike those elected butchers we had ‘arbitrary moral lines’ we would not cross. And thanks to that, you and I might no longer be welcome there but everyone back home still has a planet to fight and quarrel over. Your generation is in the driver’s seat? Well, Saint Murphy help us, my generation died so that yours could live long enough to try and set things right. Which is why I’ll keep calling things like they are until someone new decides to throws me in the brig for speaking out of turn.”

Lesner, his face still hard and closed, looked off to the side refusing to meet the old engineer’s eyes. But I could see that the old former Chief Engineer’s impassioned speech had made a deep impact.

“Let’s table the discussion over the actions of those ships’ crews,” I said, deciding to speak up and break the impasse before it had time to set into stone. “We can circle back around later. The reconstruction was a tough time for those of us from Capria. All of us,” I added, placing myself on the same boat as everyone else and then sat back.

There was a pregnant silence. “Why don’t you continue your report, Ensign?” instructed Captain Leonora Hammer.

“Yes, of course, Captain.” He paused and then shook his head and then squared his shoulders and turned to me. “Just what is the status on those Praxis battleships, Sir? Two of them are listed as having an indeterminate status.”

As an ice breaker, it fell so flat I felt like smacking him upside the head but I manfully resisted the temptation. Being asked the hard questions and then being expected to come up with reasonable answers came with the job description. So I decided to recap recent history before going further into detail.

“Well, as we all know, obviously we sent one of them home loaded to the gills with their wounded and as many of the rest of their hale and whole officers and crew as we could fit on her. The same goes for the majority of their still functional lighter warships,” I said, thinking as I spoke. “And considering that they were all technically mutineers and traitors to the Sector, if not outright cowards for making a deal with the Reclamation fleet and then trying to cut and run in the middle of battle, I think we were being pretty generous with them.”

Leonora Hammer snorted derisively.

“Generous?” repeated Lieutenant Hart, interjecting himself into the conversation. “That’s like saying ‘what’s the big deal with the Praxis Battleships, we sent back one of the three last week?!’” he shook his head dismissively. “It doesn’t matter how many lighter warships were sent back, it all comes down to the wall of battle and how many of their capital ships they have in their hands at the end of the day.”

“Honestly, you’d probably have had a better reception if you’d executed all their officers for mutiny and then just shipped Praxis back their battleships rather than handing out blanket amnesty like you did while only giving them back one of the ships,” Captain Laurent observed.

“Amnesty?” I cocked a brow. “I offered no such thing; I sent them back to be tried by their own people, Captain.”

“Semantics, Admiral,” Leonora supported her counterpart, “you may not have called it that but effectively that’s what you’ve given them by sending them back home.”

“Agreed,” Laurent said.

“Besides, who said I only plan to send back one of their battleships?” I asked with a smile.

“You’re actually going to send them back?” Spalding asked brow furrowing.

“I didn’t say that either,” I smirked.

Both Captains at the conference table frowned at me, as did several others including Senior Lieutenant Steiner.

“Oh, all right,” I said unhappily, “I haven’t made an official decision yet because something might have come up. But Praxis betrayed the Fleet when they attempted to run away, and betrayed the entire Sector again when they tried to surrender to Reclamation Fleet in the middle of battle. Home rule back at Praxis in exchange for military support in the midst of battle, I believe it was? Sweet Murphy, why would I hand that kind of firepower back to them?” I asked rhetorically.

However, there appeared to be one man in the room who took my rhetorical statement seriously. “In preparation for just this concern, I took the initiative to approach the Fleet’s Legal Department for an answer,” Jones said with satisfaction. “Mr. Harpsinger is waiting outside to present Fleet Legal’s take on this entire situation.”

My blood pressure instantly spiked. It appeared that not only were my off-the-cuff responses being managed, but now I was actively being outmaneuvered by my own Flag Lieutenant. What an infuriating situation; I knew I shouldn’t have listened to Akantha and taken so much time off.

“With your permission, of course,” the Ensign turned to me.

“Wonderful,” I said. Now if I didn’t at least listen to the Legal Department’s position, it would look like I was trying to circumvent the law instead of just ignoring it and asking forgiveness later if it turned out I was technically in the wrong. But if I did bring the Legal Department directly into this discussion I couldn’t expect anything except that my hands would be tied even further than they were already were. What a mess.

“Sir?” prompted Jones.

“By all means, bring Mr. Harpsinger in so that we can hear his well-considered legal opinion,” I said wearily.

Ensign Jones smiled before bringing the Lucky Clover’s former paralegal, and now lawyer, into the conference room.

“Admiral Montagne, Captains, Commander Spalding,” Lieutenant Harpsinger saluted as he came into the room.

“Thank you for joining us, Lieutenant,” I said with a tight smile for one of the few lawyers I actually halfway trusted. If it weren’t for Harpsinger I would have likely found myself in even deeper trouble than I had. Particularly in regards to the charge of planetary piracy… I scowled as memories of my time in the Durance Vile at Central and my questioning by the Security Council and Governor—then ‘Sir’—Isaak.

“Thank you, Sir,” Harpsinger said promptly.

I waved a hand. “If you would present your findings to the group, Lieutenant,” I said grumpily.

“Of course, Sir,” Harpsinger said linking up his slate to the holo-screen, “while I have to admit my surprise at the request for legal clarification on the status of the Praxis Battleships, I have prepared our legal opinion for your review.”

With a tap, Harpsinger replaced the current graphics on the screen with a wall of pure text.

“I’m forwarding everyone a file now, and after you’ve had time to review it you will see the various issues involved. However, for now if we will turn to the forward summary then-” Harpsinger started studiously but I cut him off.

“If you could just go over the main points with us, in your own words, perhaps we can circle back to the forward later?” I suggested, not at all eager to derail what had up until now been a rather straightforward strategy meeting.

Harpsinger blinked rapidly. “That is more in line with our past meetings than what I had been led to expect,” he said agreeably. I shot a look at my wayward Flag Lieutenant.

“My apologies to Legal, Lieutenant,” Jones saw my look and jumped, “although I’ve served on Commodore Fog-Runner’s staff and attended a number of Old Confederation Fleet briefings, I’m still not entirely synced in with all the idiosyncrasies of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet.”

“I shall relay that to my team, Ensign,” Lieutenant Harpsinger said. He then looked my way. I waved my hand in a ‘get on with it’ motion. “Right then,” Harpsinger placed his slate on the table with a click. Folding his hands he stepped to the front of the table, “It is our legal opinion that turning the remaining battleships back over to the Praxis government would be an acceptable—or, rather, an uncontested—move with sufficient legal standing behind it that no one would contest it, and it certainly would not open the Admiral or the Fleet to any legal action. With that said…” he said possibly catching sight of my increasingly darkening features. “There are any number of precedents available to us for stripping the Praxis system government of those warships, formerly belonging to them, which we retain in our possession,” he said seriously.

And the dark faces began to lighten. “Now that’s more like what I want to hear,” Spalding said with satisfaction.

The Chief Gunner grunted with dissatisfaction. “Aren’t the only warships ‘in our possession’ the two battleships?” he demanded.

“Mainly, but we do have a few of their more damaged warships that they were forced to abandon,” Spalding said irritably.

“Right,” I said to cut off any more back and forth between the two irritable Caprians, “continue with the presentation Mr. Harpsinger,” I instructed, not only because of the two but also because I was interested in what he had to say. Despite my distrust of lawyers, the Lieutenant had yet to really let me down. Being a night school lawyer with a correspondence degree, he wasn’t exactly the sharpest tack in the tool box but he always tried his best. At least…so far, I reminded myself, my thoughts taking a dark turn.

“Option one is the least feasible but the most straightforward,” Harpsinger gestured with his hand, “simply assert your status as a Confederation Admiral and, when challenged, remand all captures to the Confederation prize courts for assignment.”

“That sounds promising,” Captain Laurent said hopefully, “what’s the hangup with that option?”

Captain Hammer shook her head at her colleague as our lawyer drew a breath to reply.

“Other than the fact the Admiral specifically stipulated in both writing and holo-conference that he would set aside his Confederation Authority for the duration of the Reclamation Invasion?” Harpsinger frowned.

“Yes, I suppose there is that,” Laurent sighed as he sat back in his chair.

“While I did agree to the terms, I don’t recall actually signing anything that I couldn’t back out of?” I pointed out. “I mean, these are self-proclaimed rebels to the Confederation we are dealing with here.”

“I checked to verify my memory but in addition to the recorded holo-conferences,” Harpsinger said, looking meaningfully at me, “I also found it in your official written acceptance of Sector Commandant authority. It was buried in a sub-clause but it is there.”

“And just why wasn’t the Admiral notified of this beforehand?” Spalding harrumphed.

The Legal Lieutenant glared fiercely at the old engineer. “We were asked to ensure that any documents the Admiral signed were in strict compliance with his verbal agreements with the Sector and Sector Guard, which his grant of command authority was on all accounts! There was not a single legal power grab in there to trip up the Admiral or this Fleet after the Sector Fleet was disbanded as it has done here, Mr. Spalding,” Harpsinger said angrily. “We did our duty, nothing less, Commander and I resent the implication that we did anything else. We who do not turn a wrench also happen to serve!”

Spalding raised his hands in surrender. “I was just asking, lad. Sweet Murphy, there’s no need to call out the firing squad over a simple question,” he said, settling back into his chair grumpily.

Lesner and several others smirked at the sight of the fiery old engineer back-footed and on the defensive for once, which of course only caused the old man to become even grumpier than he was before and fold his arms across his chest huffily.

“As I was saying, the Admiral’s Confederation Authority was specifically set aside in this instance and there are case histories of other Admirals doing so in similar instances. Admittedly those were mainly during the founding years of the Confederation, but still it complicates things as from a legal standpoint such a route would be chancy,” Harpsinger said. “Furthermore, even though the Sector Governor and presumably the entire Sector are now in rebellion against the Confederation, several cases could be made which would make things problematic for us,” he started ticking off points on his fingers. “First, they were not in rebellion at the time the battle and thus prize ships were captured, so any apportionment would still need to go through the courts. Second, they could make a case that they were not in fact in rebellion and were only attempting to stop what they viewed as simple piracy. They could claim that any statements they made at the time were merely to try and get said pirates—us—to surrender the warships. Third, they have at least one current—or former, depending on how you look at it—Sector Judge, the Justice for Sector 25 as an active participant in their new government. All of which are very good reasons for us to consider our other options.”

“And those options are?” I prompted.

“Our second option is to assert your previous right as Sector Commandant and say you had already apportioned those warships using your Sector authority,” said the Lieutenant.

Heads nodded but the Ensign providing our briefing look upset. Since this was nominally good news I silently tallied up another strike against the man.

“How is that possible since as far as I know the Admiral hadn’t then, when he was still Commandant—and from what he himself has said right here—still hasn’t made any determination on the subject?” pointed out my ever-so-loyal Flag Lieutenant. Even in my own thoughts I could practically hear the sarcasm dripping.

“I’m sure I provided Admiral Montagne with the forms and paperwork necessary to designate the Battleships anyway he chose, Ensign. If there has been a clerical error in the filing of said forms I can only apologize to the Sector Governor,” Harpsinger shot back. “Of course now that the Governor is technically in rebellion, it is the opinion of Legal that any attempted override of the Sector Commandant’s—or rather former Commandant’s—discretionary powers should be disregarded until its status as a rebel Sector has been clarified.”

The Ensign looked taken aback. “I’m not sure that this kind of backdated legal contrivance is the best way to start-” he stopped speaking at seeing the surprised look on Captain Hammer’s face.

“As the Admiral’s Flag Lieutenant, I would have expected you to be the first to apologize for the failure to forward the Admiral’s electronic correspondence to the Governor in a timely fashion, if the Admiral should choose to do so at this point, Ensign,” Hammer said, her voice strict and unyielding.

I was actually happy to hear that I wasn’t the only one displeased with the Ensigns recent performance. It made me less paranoid that maybe his actions had been some kind of plot or ploy by my former and maybe again Old Confederation Flag Captain.

“Sir, I…” he stopped and swallowed whatever he had been about to say, “I mean, of course, Sir. I shouldn’t have attempted to misplace the blame for misfiled paperwork. It was clearly in my bailiwick in the absence of a Chief of Staff. It won’t happen again, Sir,” the Ensign said, looking like he’d just been forced to swallow something unpleasant but still determined to do his duty as he turned to me.

“I’m sure you will be more dedicated to your duty to myself and this fleet in the future, Ensign,” I waved the man away. After all, it wouldn’t do to rub too much salt in the wounds of a man throwing himself on a minor procedural grenade in the name of more battleships and less legal hassles for this fleet.

I released the Ensign from my gaze and looked back to the lawyer.

“An interesting proposition,” was all I was willing to say on that subject at this time, “but tell me about the third option, if you will?”

“Lastly, we have the Tracto-an option which we can play,” Harpsinger smoothly continued.

“The Tracto-an option?” Spalding asked. “You mean ‘load up the shuttles and board more ships for the ones we’re lacking’?”

Snorted laughter around the room sounded in response to this non-sequitur. Harpsinger didn’t take the engineer’s ribbing as well as the rest of the room and his lips made a thin line.

“Actually I was referring to the fact that the Tracto-an SDF and, more specifically, its home star system has never once signed any of the Old Confederation diplomatic accords. It is not now, and has never been, a signatory member and only by the most technical of standards can it be considered a provisional member of the Confederation at large,” Harpsinger said, his voice turning a bit on the strict side as he spoke.

“Sounds like a bunch of legal mumbo jumbo to me. Break it down into words that those of us who are simple engineers can understand,” snorted Commander Spalding.

“Meaning we can throw out much of the precedence that is used in the disputes between member worlds, between world and Sector or worlds outside of a Sector with another Sector,” he replied. Obviously seeing the increasing irritation and lack of understanding on the faces around him, Harpsinger sighed, “Basically we can say whatever we want and, so long as we have the power to make it stick, there’s not much they can do about it; possession being nine tenths of the law in this particular instance.”

“That’s more like it! Now why couldn’t you have said that in the first place?” Spalding simultaneously crowed and scolded the young lawyer.

“Because there are a few caveats,” Harpsinger sighed, “if they ever got their hands on those ships again, by any means—including stealth or even outright attacking us—there’s nothing we could do legally speaking our hands would be tied.”

“Not a problem; let ’em come,” Spalding said.

“Agreed. That’s been a risk we’ve always had. Anything else?” I asked.

“They could still take us to the courts but since Tracto hasn’t signed any of the unified space treaties, the most they could impose was a cash settlement. But considering the large amount of trillium we possess even that could be dealt with, by sending a couple freighter loads of trillium,” said Harpsinger.

I didn’t like the idea of paying for something I already owned. But since we had so much the trillium seemed a small price to pay. I mean, if I could trade trillium for battleships I wouldn’t be out here sending boarding parties and fighting over every scrap I could lay my hands on, I’d have simply gone out and ordered as many ships as I could trade trillium for!

“I think we can live with that,” I said.

“Finally, if Tracto ever changed its policy, signed the space treaty, or the Tracto-an Governing Council made a deal trading those battleships away, we’d be up a creek without a paddle,” Harpsinger explained. “So basically unless we’re actually in violation of Tracto’s real policy, we run out of trillium, or we’re out-fought by Praxis and their allies, whomever they might be, we’re good to go under that scenario.”

“An awful lot of two-faced squirreliness built into that statements of yours,” Spalding declared with dissatisfaction, “but then I suppose a man shouldn’t expect too much when the lawyers are involved.”

“While also a legal issue, this is a matter bordering on the diplomatic. And let’s be clear here:, while acting as part of a Sector-wide force, we captured the battleships of a Sovereign Star System and then claimed every major warship said force captured for ourselves,” Harpsinger said with a glare at the old engineer. “Be thankful we have a government behind us and a legal leg to stand on, otherwise what we just did would look an awful lot like piracy.”

“Piracy?!” Spalding howled, jumping out of his chair. “Now listen here, pup! We saved this Sector and captured those warships. It’s up to the Admiral whose hands those warships end up in, not our esteemed Sector Governor,” he declared, his voice dripping with scorn. “What’s more, we didn’t even haul those ships out of Easy Haven until ‘after’ the Sector Governor tried to claim everything for himself and screw us over. Without the MSP, the Admiral, and the Lucky Clover the entire Spine would have fallen to those imperial jackanapes! And if the Governor hadn’t been so greedy as to…” The old engineer trailed off incoherently, his face twisted with rage as he seemed to reach out and grab an invisible throat with both hands and start strangling the air.

“Ah yes,” I said, looking at the old cyborg with concern, “while the Chief Engineer seems a little overwrought, he does have a point.”

“As always, there is the moral and there is the legal. We have the laws to keep us from degenerating into a society where revenge plays, family feuds and vendettas are the actions of the day, just the same as we have morals to keep us from wandering down the path of rigid laws and societies that have legalized, among other things, torture and genocide,” pointed out Harpsinger. “Fortunately I am only here for my legal opinion, not our moral stance—which, by the way, I happen to agree with. How can we continue to sacrifice for the good of the Sector when the system and Sector authorities seem to vacillate between unappreciative and determined to destroy us?”

There was a pause and heads started to nod in agreement before Ensign Jones cleared his throat. “Ah yes, thank you for that, Lieutenant, but if you could stick to the legal side of things I’m sure we would all appreciate it,” Jones said firmly.

“Would we indeed, Ensign?” Harpsinger asked, looking down his nose at the junior officer ,his voice strict and unyielding as he faced the Ensign.

Jones flushed at the pointed rebuke from what was technically a superior officer, even if he was a staff officer. The lawyer was a Lieutenant while Jones himself was actually only an Ensign after all, even if he was holding down a slot that technically should have belonged to a Lieutenant.

Meanwhile, I suppressed a chuckle.

“So it looks like the choice is between invoking my former authority as Sector Commandant and facing possible legal action, or play the Governor’s farce to the hilt that we were ever only the Tracto-an SDF and not a Confederation Fleet, even though we were fighting inside a Confederation held star system—perhaps the last such outpost in the entire Spineward Sectors…and almost certainly face legal action as well,” I said turning serious.

“Well when you put it that way the answer seems clear to me,” Spalding snorted, thumping a fist on the table, “damn the torpedoes and let the politicians rot!”

“I like the enthusiasm, Commander,” I smiled wryly.

“It comes down to whether you trust the Tracto-ans more than the Sector Government,” Laurent observed.

“Is that even a choice?” Spalding snorted.

“I hate to say it…but the Engineer has a point,” Chief Gunner Lesner said unhappily.

“Glad to see that Gunnery is finally ready to see reason,” Spalding declared, prompting Lesner to shake his head.

“It is the Admiral’s decision, not ours,” Hammer pointed out.

“Our job is to advise, not set policy for him,” supported Captain Laurent.

Once again, it was all on me. Was I going to roll the dice, playing a game Governor Isaak and the Sector Assembly were familiar with, or did I throw myself upon the mercy of Tracto and my wife? Alternately, I could just declare it was all mine and cheerfully start down the same path as my…uncle, Jean Luc Montagne.

I shuddered at that particular notion. I was not a pirate and I didn’t aim to ever be one. I started out to save people and stop piracy, not become the very thing I most detested. When you put it all that way, the answer was clear.

I’d rather declare Harpoon a sovereign asteroid nation state and go out on a spree of conquest than kickstart a Jean Luc style black op pirate operation only on a grander scale.

By the same token did I go with the group that tried to stab me in the back or the one than came at me from the front with a sword. At least with the Tracto-an’s I’d always see them coming. I might not always have the cultural background to understand why they were coming, or identify the lead-up, but when things blew up they drew a sword instead of a knife.

I could deal with them.

“We go with the Tracto-an option. The Governator specifically invited us as the Tracto-an SDF, not the Confederation Fleet, and my leadership as a Tracto-an Admiral, not my Confederation hat. It would seem a real pity to disappoint him,” I said finally.

“Darned blasted right!” Spalding shouted.

“It’s a risk, Sir. But one I think we have to take,” Captain Hammer said, showing solidarity.

“I’m glad you approve,” I told the Captain and the rest of my command team.

“I’ll prepare the necessary paperwork,” said Harpsinger.

“Should we combine the Tracto-an option with your previous authority as Sector Commandant, Sir?” Lisa Steiner hazarded as soon as it looked like a decision had been made, but while the question was addressed to me she was looking at Fleet’s Legal adviser.

“An interesting notion,” Harpsinger mused as he considered her idea. He hesitated as if thinking and then looked back at me, “I think rather than your power as Commandant, I’ll use a more roundabout method and instead make sure all the proper briefs and background papers on Tracto-an space and warfare customs have been filed. Specifically, the ones on the traditional powers of Tracto-an Warlords and their methods of apportioning captured equipment and enemy soldiers,” he said after reflection.

I tried to snort and laugh at the same time, causing something to go down the wrong tube. Hacking and coughing, I thumped my chest several time.

“Are you okay, Admiral?” Lieutenant Steiner asked.

“Keep what you can capture and duel for the rest,” I wheezed.

“Sir?” Steiner asked again with concern.

“It’s nothing,” I coughed, clearing my lungs with a deep expulsion of air, “anyway, I’d be more than willing to face their leaders in single combat to decide the proper apportionment of equipment. It’d be nice if the Tracto-an tendency to challenge everything in sight worked in my favor for once in this lifetime.”

Captain Laurent shook his head. “A Confederation Admiral dueling with local Admirals, Planetary Leaders, and Sector Governors over battleships,” Captain Hammer said her voice filled with deep censure, “once word got out it would bring shame upon the entire service.”

“And what was it when the Tracto-ans were trying to attack me left and right, chopped liver?” I asked irritably.

“It’s one thing to be the victim of barbaric practices and have no choice but to fight against them, and another thing entirely to welcome such tactics, court their use, and predicate our entire fleet’s future policy upon,” she said severely.

“Besides, civilized people aren’t used to actually defending their positions like that and those politicians are nothing more than spineless cut-weasels,” Spalding chimed in. “If you go and show the Tracto-ans just how incompetent our Planetary Leaders are when it comes to face-to-face fighting, who knows what might happen. You don’t want a give those Tracto-ans any edge or crazy notions if you can avoid it, lad,” he said sounding like a wise old man giving advice.

“You’re not helping,” Captain Hammer told the old engineer shortly.

“Sorry las-, erm, Captain,” Spalding said raising his hands in surrender, “I was just trying to help.”

“Fine. Fine!” I relented, throwing my hands up in the air, “I won’t make any plans for when our enemies exploit the loopholes in the Tracto-an honor code and be just as surprised as the rest of you and completely off footed when they come for my life with a vibro-blade,” I said with disgust.

“Now that’s the spirit, lad!” Spalding exhorted me. “A civilized man takes it on the chin and then comes back with space marines and turbo-lasers when they throw away thousands of years of rule of law. You just stay fat dumb and happy for the record. Don’t worry, the rest of us will have your back against the moral turpitude of the politicians!” the old engineer finished eagerly, already picking up a data slate and happily tapping away.

“Still not helping, Commander!” Captain Hammer said in a rising voice.

“No, I think the Chief Engineer is onto something here,” Captain Laurent said reluctantly.

Leonora looked betrayed as she turned to glare at him.

“I know it’s not my place to say it,” Chief Lesner said slowly, “but if there’s one thing we’ve learned it’s that the leaders of this Sector will do anything and say anything to give us the shaft.”

“Then we’re in agreement. Plausible deniability for the Admiral is a must,” Lieutenant Steiner chimed in making a note on her tablet.

“Hey now! I meant that ‘fat dumb and happy’ part as a joke, Lieutenant,” I chided, not sure if I should feel proud or betrayed at the way she and my command council were freely managing my future without my input.

“Are you all insane? You’re planning for the elected leaders of this Sector to physically attack an Admiral of the Confederation Fleet? With a premeditated counterattack already in the works?” Ensign Jones finally exploded.

“The plausible deniability angle does makes sense from a legal standpoint,” Harpsinger spoke up, “assuming they decide to go down this route. Although I have a hard time believing they would risk themselves personally.”

Ensign Jones looked nonplussed.

“The lawyer’s right: they wouldn’t risk themselves,” Spalding nodded in agreement, “which gives me the idea. It normally wouldn’t occur to the rest of us but is there some way they could get someone else to fight in their stead?”

“Sending out a champion—of course! Why didn’t I think of that before?” Harpsinger agreed. “I’ve seen it somewhere in the records…” he trailed off before turning back to Ensign Jones, “at this point I think we’re going to need to ask the Admiral to leave the room or table the discussion until later while the rest of us work on this problem. That goes double for you, Ensign,” he turned a stern look on Rick Jones, “several of your statements have been particularly borderline as it concerns the plausible deniability angle.”

“That’s right; listen to Legal, lad,” Spalding urged, “you don’t want to be the one pulling down the whole operation!”

“What are you talking about? These are the leaders of billions of people. They’re not going to get down and brawl in the mud, nor are they likely to send out paid champions to cut the Admiral down with swords like some prehistoric duelists!”

“That’s right! That’s exactly the ticket, boy. And don’t let anyone force you to say anything different,” the old Engineer said with a wink, “remember: you’re MSP Fleet now.”

“We could possibly use a deposition to get that fact from the Ensign. It would help build up a defense when they issue a case in the Sector Courts,” Harpsinger agreed, “I mean, assuming you think you can pass a basic veracity examination?” he looked at Ensign questioningly.

“Perhaps it would be better if the Ensign was not a part of Operation Fat, Dumb and Stupid alongside the Admiral, Lieutenant. Might sell the whole thing better,” Chief Lesner pointed out.

Spalding’s eyes brightened and then promptly clouded over. “But then who’s going to run this meeting then?” he demanded. “Because I sure as Murphy is my witness am not going to try to figure out what slides he was about to show the rest of us. Waste of both my time and yours.”

“Then we’ll agree to table this part of the discussion until later,” Harpsinger said, and the others who had been with me since the beginning or close to it all nodded in agreement.

“Captain!” the Ensign turned to Leonora Hammer.

Captain Hammer’s eyes were calculating. “It does no harm for the other members of the Planning Staff to work on contingencies, Ensign. Just stay focused on your job,” she told him.

“That’s fine just so long as you remember your job in any future hearings, Ensign,” Spalding said seriously. “When they ask ‘due to past experiences, did you expect the foul perfidy of the Sector government?’ you can honestly say you had no blooming idea! ‘What past experiences?’ you’ll say, followed by ‘me and the Admiral were like mushrooms: we sat in the dark knowing nothing and doing nothing.”

“Is ‘perfidy’ even a word?” Chief Lesner asked.

“Looked it up just this morning,” Spalding replied.

“No leading the witness, Commander,” Harpsinger scolded severely.

Jones looked like a man trying to figure out if he was having his leg pulled or if he really needed to be worried.

“Hey, I just work here,” Spalding said raising his hands in the air, “you’re the expert so we’ll just go with whatever you want.”

“Right, so back to our previous discussion,” Captain Laurent said, trying to drag the group back on task, “I believe we were about to turn from battleships and Sector politics to total warship numbers?”

“Actually—” Jones brightened.

“Yes, that seems like an ideal area to jump into,” I said, taking back control of the conversation now that we were past any kind of potential legal issues our Fleet might have with its leader, you know, actually planning a counterattack. It’s like they say in the old adage: it all started when we hit them back. After my time on trial in front of the Security Council, I was willing to entertain a certain amount of CYA when it came to potential future legal troubles and Harpsinger, as the man who had saved me from a number of attempts by Sir Isaak to use the law to execute me in the past, had my trust.

For a moment Ensign Jones looked mildly disgruntled before turning and restarting his holo-presentation.

A list of ships, broken out by classification, appeared on the screen along with a rotating series of warship images beside each classification. Judging by the varying amount of damage shown on each image, it was almost certain that these were representations of actual ships now here at Gambit.

“Of the fifty warships captured or destroyed during 1st Reclamation, five of which were battleships, the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet and its allies were able to retrieve all of them. Thanks for this feat is mainly due the Constructor on retainer, the Multiplex. Now, of the 45 warships of Cruiser or Destroyer classification retrieved by the constructor,” Jones said, throwing up 3-D images of all forty five ships, I winced as a large number of them looked like they were ships in name only from the various parts and pieces floating on the screen, “half were either destroyed or have been assessed by both the Yard and Engineering as useless for anything more than spare parts. These ships are scheduled to be run through the orbital smelter, to be reprocessed into materials useful for our growing industry in Gambit after they’ve been stripped of anything marked for salvage by the inspection teams.”

“There’s a lot of good tech left on those warships that we can pull out,” the Fleet’s Chief Engineer said with satisfaction.

“A lot of unnecessary salvage, in the yard’s opinion,” Yard Manager Baldwin chimed in, “we could cut the salvage operation by 20-30% and not even notice.”

Spalding bristled. “There’s no reason to throw good money after bad,” he growled, “everything tagged by my teams is good stuff. Tech we can use to get everything up and running again, just like it’s supposed to be. It would be a shame to throw a perfectly good light laser system or repairable plasma conduits into the smelters when it would take longer to smelt and rebuild them in the factories than to just yank them out and refurb them.”

“I’d agree except that we have limited manpower reserves and every worker pulled off the yard, factory, or ship repair, for salvage duty just makes us that much slower. I agree with 80% of the picks but the other twenty is dead weight that we could replace just as quickly as your teams could pull them out. That is if we can keep people at their assigned duty stations and let them fully train in now that the factory has been expanded and running at capacity.”

“Cross-training is key if any of these factory and yard workers are ever needed to form emergency ship crews or engineering cadres,” Spalding growled, “besides I thought you said your people could handle anything?”

“And they can, Commander,” Baldwin shot back, “but in my opinion, better an expert at his or her job than a jackanape-of-all-trades who does everything poorly but nothing right—like you want to turn my highly-skilled and specialized workforce into!”

“Jackanapes? That’s rich from a head-smasher like you who thinks applying a wrench to the head when she doesn’t get her way is proper procedure! As for manpower shortages, it’s only good practice to cross-train your people but even then it’s hardly like we’ll be pulling more than, say, five to ten percent with most of those replaced by engineering departmental cross-trainers who are confused about their calling and need a little time in the salt mines to help straighten out their perspectives on shipboard duty,” Spalding sneered, throwing his hands in the air and then leveling a finger at her. “Besides, Personnel assures me that we’ll have a recruiting ship with a batch of freshly-recruited greenhorn wrench turners anytime now. That should help offset any manpower losses the factories experiences.”

“You want me to replace trained and seasoned specialists with ham-handed, mudball-trained, sub-par freshies straight out of university?” she demanded incredulously.

“No. I thought I made clear most of those freshies are mine, and I intend to put them straight onto salvage duty. Most of the rotaters will be engineers who think they’ve lost the gleam of a starship in their eye and need a stint on punishment duty in the factory to get their space legs back under them,” Spalding pounded the table once before continuing, “your people should be short-timers on salvage duty. Just enough time to get their feet wet ship-side and to see what a ship has to offer before I send them back to their hum drum—like on an orbital factory where nothing happens and they’re going nowhere fast.”

“I’d almost be insulted if your description of a stint in the yard wasn’t so laughable,” Glenda rolled her eyes.

“Laughable? Why it’s the Sweet Saint’s own honest truth and further more-,” Spalding started building up a good head of steam.

“I think that’s all we needed to hear on the Salvage front in order to make an informed decision,” I interrupted the growing spat between Yard and Engineer and turned to Steiner, one of our former recruiters, “what’s the ETA on that batch of new engineers, Lieutenant?”

She rubbed the side of her chin as she pulled up the data on her slate. “Looks like the latest batch of recruits landed at Tracto last week. After the security checks and inevitable poaching by Orbital and Fleet there, we should be seeing something over this way in another two to three weeks,” she reported, still looking up information. She turned to me, “Maybe we should hold off on the salvage operation until the new recruits arrive if personnel allocation is going to be an issue?”

“Hold off for three weeks?” Spalding protested.

“Exactly!” exclaimed Baldwin. “Right now much of our schedule is predicated on operating the factory at full capacity—a factory that needs that orbital smelter running full-out if we’re going to meet the…,” she shot a sideways glance at Engineer Spalding, “ambitious build schedule we’ve been handed.”

I suppressed a wince, wondering just what it was I’d rubber stamped when the Commander Spalding’s series of requests and work orders had appeared on my screen which, after taking a look at the first few, I’d just basically rubber stamped the rest. It looked like I really needed a Chief of Staff to help me keep on top of things.

I shot a sideways glance at Lisa Steiner before focusing back on the here and now. “Then we’re just going to have to adjust, adapt and move forward,” I declared with force, and if it was motivated by my own errors in not keeping on top of everything and feeling embarrassed, and not as much a desire to keep this meeting on track as everyone might have assumed…well, no one needed to know that. I knew it, and was about to make some changes as a result. “I want a proposed plan from the two of you by 1600 hours,” I said to Spalding and Baldwin, “in the meantime, please continue, Ensign.”

“Yes, as I was saying before we digressed, of the fifty captured or destroyed warships we managed to retrieve nearly all of them—forty five of them of Cruiser or Destroyer size. Of those, half are unusable for our purposes as anything more than salvage. Of the remaining twenty two warships, ten of them can be put back into service relatively quickly,” he said, pulling up an image the ten proposed warships.

Heads nodded around the table. “About time,” the Chief Gunner growled.

“That is, they could if we had both the repair teams and crews to run them,” Jones said, pouring cold water on the growing enthusiasm, “as it is, every slip in the yard either has a battleship in it, or one of our active duty warships recently returned from Easy Haven with a repair team on it. In short: while we could get them up and running if we had the people and facilities, right now we’re tapped.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” I said neutrally.

“Frankly, even the salvage teams seem problematic from a strictly Command Staff and planning view. Although,” he raised a hand when Spalding looked like he was about to explode, “as Engineering has explained, and is completely understandable, we would really rather have the new engineering recruits tearing into or tearing up ships that will never return to service as a training exercise than turning them lose on new or already active ships as their first assignment.”

“Like I said: training and cross-training are key for a well rounded Engineering Department. We keep the fleet running,” Spalding said with a shrug

“And we’re the ones that build and rebuild it. Don’t forget it,” Manager Baldwin said.

Spalding turned his mouth open, no doubt with a withering retort, but I’d had enough of their nonsense.

Fortunately for his career, Rick Jones beat me to the punch.

“None of which is here or there,” the Ensign said forcefully, “what is germane is that the ten warships will be waiting until we are able to get work parties and crews on them. Meanwhile, from 3rd Reclamation the 25th Amalgamated destroyed or captured 48 cruisers and 103 destroyers. Of those warships, except for a few tech samples from their most advanced warships we, the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet, only retrieved those warships that were ultimately deemed repairable.”

“We decided to leave those with severe or potentially crippling damage behind in Easy Haven,” Spalding interjected. “Just the stuff that had no chance of jumping out there on its own merit and would be costly, time-wise, to repair.”

“Correct,” Jones cut back in, “in total, of the 48 Cruisers and 103 Destroyers, we only brought back with us some 20 Cruisers and 53 Destroyers.”

There were thumps on the table signaling approval for this number.

“By the Sweet Saint, it felt like more,” Captain Laurent swore.

“First time using an entirely new, untested system built by aliens, rigged by our engineers while facing two squadrons of the wall that could destroy everything we had left at that time put together,” Captain Hammer said dismissively. “I’m sure we’ll do better mentally next time.”

There were a few laughs around the table at that.

Lisa Steiner cleared her throat. “I’m not sure if it’s my place to be the one to suggest this or not, but it occurs to me we might not need to wait until we are able to service them here,” she said, clearing her throat and then added, “the Destroyers and maybe a few of the Cruisers, I mean.”

“Interesting,” I said. I could see where she was going with this but since it was her idea in the first place I decided to let her carry it to the finish line and see what she did with it. After all, if she was going to become my Chief of staff I was going to need to have a better feel for how she’d do as a more active part of these sorts of meetings. “Go on?” I pressed.

“Yes, Sir,” she said, and feeling my eyes and the attention of everyone else in the room settle on her the tips of her ears turned pink. She took a deep breath, “As I was saying, or about to: not only are there additional fleet repair facilities in Tracto, there are additional factories and repair slips outside of MSP control—and not only in Tracto but also at Omicron and throughout the entire Border Alliance are the facilities and the warm bodies to crew those warships. I mean, if getting those lighter warships into service is a priority,” she finished in a rush.

There was a pregnant silence, and both of my ship captains looked at each other while my engineering teams looked like they’d just tasted something sour.

“An interesting suggestion, Lieutenant,” I told the petite former com-tech and, even though I’d been waiting for her to say it, I still had to suppress the sudden urge to keep everything for myself. Forcing down the childish urge to declare ‘Mine mine, it’s all mine and I won’t share!’ I looked around the room and asked, “Any comments on Miss Steiner’s bold proposal?”

Captain Laurent finally took the bull by the horns. “While it pains me to see any of our warships go, it would improve relations with our allies,” he finally muttered, “and it’s the gods’ honest truth that we can’t crew them ourselves…at least not right now.”

“Now if that isn’t the most unappealing reason the Sweet Saint gave a man for giving away his own warships like they were party favors…that has to take the cake!” Spalding cried.

“Please, let’s remember that we would never have won the first battle, let alone the third against the Reclamation Fleet, if it weren’t for our…steadfast allies,” Hammer almost choked on ‘steadfast,’ but for the rest of it she seemed impassioned as she glowered at the Chief Engineer. “And I don’t think it shows a very professional demeanor for us to act so uncharitably and entitled towards them that stood by us when we fought the enemy. I’m not talking about the Sector Guard that turned on us, or Praxis that ran and hid, but those ones that stood with us to save this Sector. Even if we don’t agree to give them anything but our thanks, it’s talk like this…” she glared at the old Engineer, “that’s simply unacceptable.”

“Now then,” Spalding said hastily, “I didn’t say I was against replacing losses or helpin’ a fellow out with an extra warship here or there,” he backtracked as rapidly as he could. “I just don’t want us so eager to help them out that we forget all about us and give away the whole blasted store is all.”

Chief Lesner snorted. Loudly.

“Well it is, I tell you! I’ve seen it happen before during the Great Bust of 39, after the pirate base raid, not to mention when we traded those droid motherships over to the droids back before the Reclamation Campaign. And let me tell you-” Spalding declared throwing his hands wide.

“I hardly think we need to-” started Hammer.

“Hey now, Spalding, you were the one who traded battleships for motherships with those Droids so I don’t want to hear any more about that little transaction,” I said firmly. “And as for the Great Bust of Whatever, I honestly couldn’t care. None of that has any bearing on what we do going forward. Now I’m not entirely sure I like the idea of handing over any Destroyers—much less Cruisers—to anyone, even our allies,” I hesitated, “you know what? Make it that I definitely don’t like it. But as both Steiner and Hammer, not to mention Laurent, have all pointed out: we owe them. I’ll repeat that. We. Owe. Them. And I’m not someone who willingly stays in anyone’s debt.”

“Well isn’t this just wonderful?” Spalding said, chewing furiously on his lower lip. “We’ll probably have to give up those XR-422’s on account of they’re the only ones those Sundered clowns can fit into without retrofitting—and don’t even get me started on what we’ll have to fork over to the droids!”

“And as long as we’re handing out warships,” I continued doggedly in the face of Spalding’s belligerent bellyaching, “we might as well not be stingy about it.”

“I say we only hand over the ones we don’t want to fix up ourselves!” Spalding declared, folding his arms across his chest. “Those ones that need a refit or with repair lists a mile long.”

“I don’t want to hand our allies a bunch of lemons,” I said sternly and then added, “not that I’ve made any final decision yet.” Although now that the subject had been brought up in front of my command team, I was leaning that way. People had died in a war I dragged them into—a war that many of them would not have participated in at all if I hadn’t personally requested their support. The more I thought about it, the only conclusion I could come to was the very least I could do was replace their ship losses and then some.

To be fair, it’s not like I hadn’t thought about it before. But that was always back when I didn’t know if the jump would be successful, or exactly how many hulls we would have, or if we would even have to leave Easy Haven at all. Then afterwards I’d been buried under paperwork…

Well, all of that was nothing more than a big steaming pile of excuses.

“Alright then,” Leonora Hammer said, “let’s take a few moments to look through what we’ve got available.”

“Since most Sundered’s losses were Corvettes and all we have are Destroyers, we’re going to have to replace them with those. But for the droids…” there was a pregnant pause.

“Just give them whatever’s fair,” Spalding grunted, muttering something under his breath that sounded like ‘automated idjits’ or something like that.

“I’m not sure that’s going to be a…popular move, Commander,” Ensign Jones said tactfully.

“The crew is just as liable to riot as they are to understand us handing warships over to the machine menace,” the Chief Gunner said dourly.

“You saying they didn’t pull their weight with those droid marines and Penetrator-class landers, Chief Gunner?” Spalding demanded, glaring at the Chief.

“I said the crew might not stand for it, not that I thought the blasted droids hadn’t fought, Commander,” the Warrant said back angrily.

“Well it sure sounded like it, and as for the crew you won’t have any trouble from Engineering or I’ll put them in the hurt locker and spin them around so hard they’ll be begging for mercy and have no time for anti-droid conspiracies,” Spalding declared flatly. “I have my people under control—of course I can’t speak for Gunnery.”

“Anything an engineer can do, a gunner can do twice as fast,” Lesner shot back.

“You mean half as good, and that’s when they don’t just break it outright. ‘Oh, you wanted that pump line unhooked, sir,’ well don’t worry, we might have sheered it—and the coupling it attaches to—straight off the gun mount but at least it’s clear of the machine, right? Bunch of ham-handed grease monkeys,” Spalding snorted.

“Clear of the machine?! Clearly you haven’t worked a day on the deck in your life if you’re calling our babies ‘machines’,” the Chief shot back. “Probably why you can’t recognize it when a genuine machine threat gets our lads stirred up. You’re too busy trying to defrag your hand scanner to notice the lower decks are starting to get up in arms about the whole droid business.”

“There’s not a man what served with the Admiral that would turn against him,” Spalding declared stoutly.

“Oh? And who said they’d actually served with him? I’m talking about all those new sprouts from the Border Worlds. They’re here in entire job lots thanks to our recruiting drive, and the old hands are starting to get light on the ground,” said the Chief, pounding the table. “I’m tellin’ you: something needs to be done and handing warships over to the droids might be the right thing to do for our allies but if it’s not handled right it’s the wrong thing to do for this Fleet.”

“What’s this about crew?” I asked, leaning forward intently. The last time there had been rumbling I’d almost been killed when the Tracto-an’s turned. The last thing I needed was trouble with the civilized half of our fleet, “I’ve had reports that some of our people have had trouble with us dealing with our droid reinforcements, but I was told it was under control?”

“Sir,” Lesner said, his jaw bunching as he looked at me, “it is under control. The boys and girls might not like the droids, but as long as they’re dying out there instead of us they can deal with an Admiral smart enough to outmaneuver the machines. But handing over warships, even if the droids have earned it, might be a road too far for some people. I just don’t know.”

“Some people?” I asked, my ears perking up. ‘Some people’ sounded to this particularly persecuted royal like code for ‘ring leaders,’ “give me names.”

“Just some of our more vocal anti-machinist spacers. I’ve got my deck chiefs and their petty officers sitting on them but it’s not like being anti-machine is a crime,” Chief Gunner shrugged.

I drummed my fingers on the table, sensing from his slightly evasive answer that I probably wouldn’t be able to find the identities of these agitators from Lesner without crossing the Gun Chief’s bottom line. Which, while not something I was against in principle, wasn’t something I was eager to do without more than just ‘rumors’ and ‘anti-machinist rhetoric.’

Still, it never hurt to be overly cautious.

“Well I’m certainly not going to let a few angry deck hands dictate Fleet policy to me,” I said flatly, “that said, there’s no need to tell the lower decks exactly where everything is going and deliberately agitate the situation ourselves. Since both the Omicron and the Sundered will need more warships shipped out there under our new initiative, we’ll just say we’re sending warships to them…and possibly a few of our other Border Allies. That should quiet the rumors, and if it doesn’t we’ll know we have a leak or deliberate agitators and we’ll be ready to take the appropriate steps.”

“That might work,” Lesner allowed, “until they see the droids floating around in their new warships.”

“Which we can say they captured themselves and, being the grasping machines that they are, never turned over to our control, suspecting us of exactly what our lower decks desire: that we wouldn’t give them so much as a single ship. I don’t know, we can make up a party line,” I shrugged.

“And if they show up exact ship and IFF matches and demand answers?” Captain Hammer asked.

My eyes slitted and I could feel my face turn hard. “I am not in the habit of caving to demands,” I said flatly and then smiled, deliberately relaxing my face. “But your concerns are noted and, just to be on the safe side, I’ll be ordering increased ship patrols and we’ll double the guard on all critical ship areas. Just to be safe. As you’ve all noted, even if this is nothing more than a little agitation we’ve lost far too many of our original hands and replaced them with new blood. I’d like to think that the majority of those who’ve only been with us through this last campaign will side with us if anything goes down, but with our sudden plethora of battleships we’re going to need to increase our recruiting drive massively. That means even more untested hands. This move will at least keep all these greenhorns from doing something stupid that might damage their own ships.”

“Placing a rotating guard on all critical systems will be a large manpower drain on our Lancers, Sir,” pointed out Laurent.

“My heart bleeds for our soon-to-be-sleep-deprived Tracto-ans,” I said uncaringly. Yes, they’d proven willing to fight for me in the Reclamation Campaign, but that still didn’t excuse their standing by while Nikomedes tried to take off my head. A little suffering on their end in order to ensure I slept better was a price I was willing for them to pay. That said I couldn’t seem too heartless or those barbaric lunk heads might think I didn’t like them anymore.

Hmmm. As I took a moment to think more deeply about it, an idea occurred to me.

“Since we’ve already integrated a number of Marines into our ranks and I’ve been hearing good things about these Cold Space Commandos or whatever they’re called from Akantha, I think we’ll help lighten the load by mixing one team of Lancers with one of Marines or Commandos,” I said.

“I’ll draw up the orders and see they’re ready for your signature,” Ensign Jones nodded.

“Thank you, but no. I think I’ll have Lieutenant Steiner prepare the orders for my signature. I have a more important task for you. We’ll speak after the meeting,” I informed the Ensign.

“Of course, Sir,” said Steiner while Jones nodded.

“Alright, well, if there’s nothing else? I think we’ll break for lunch,” I declared. The current state of our repair efforts and nebulous worries about anti-machinst agitators was more than enough for the moment.

“Aye aye, Admiral,” said Spalding, happily getting up.

There were murmurs of agreement around the table as the other officers and senior crew stood up and stretched.

“Excellent,” I said.

It was definitely past time I spoke with my security team. I hoped winning the battle against the Imperials hadn’t made me far too complacent, and that if it had there was still time to rectify the situation.

The Chief was concerned, and nothing more than that—but I was a Montagne. We had a nose for this sort of thing and my instincts were telling me to head these agitators off at the pass before they had the chance to become something bigger.

I’d come too far to lose my Fleet to a handful of angry agitators. Sure, it might be nothing, but that was something I would make sure of before turning my attentions elsewhere.

Chapter 24: Man Not Machine

“Why won’t the Admiral just see reason?” demanded a senior petty officer, a new import from the Border Alliance, as we’re all the chief’s in this impromptu little meeting in the bowels of one of Environmental’s down checked air processing tanks, “there’s no dealing with their kind!”

“The monkey men are bad enough if you ask me but at least they’re flesh and blood. If you cut them they don’t bleed red—just black oil,” spat a junior Petty Officer that had to be almost sixty years old.

“Maybe he’s lost his nerve,” suggested a big hulking brute of a senior chief from the Gun Deck.

Several heads nodded.

“I disagree,” Malcolm Sagittarius interjected firmly, “clearly the man’s got balls of solid duralloy when it comes to combat. It’s just that the Vice Admiral’s all but blind when it comes to the metal heads. Remember when the entire Sector Fleet was barreling down on us back at Easy Haven. He stood and he held until we jumped out even placing the Flagship between the rest of us and their turbo-lasers, those are not the actions of a coward. Only someone dangerously misguided when it comes to the machines.”

“Man not Machine!” spat the over aged junior petty officer, “this fleet is rotten to the core, filled with a bunch of machine loving bootlickers who don’t know how to do anything other than use their tongues to shine their Little Admiral’s backside until it gleams.”

“Man not Machine,” said senior petty officer looking unsettled and the others echoed him, the Big Gun Chief with an angry satisfaction as he said the words.

“We’ve got to talk him out of it. The Little Admiral has to see sense!” said the senior petty officer his nose dripping as he spoke.

“The likes of Vice Admiral Montagne are not about to listen to us,” Malcolm Sagittarius said sadly.

“Agreed any rumblings from the lower decks are just as likely to see those genetically engineered super freaks landing on us with both power armored feet,” the gunnery chief said angrily, “the big bellied dastards may not be useful for much else but the one thing they know how to do, other than speak with that atrocious almost non-understandable accent of theirs, is fight!” He spoke like a man who knew what he was talking about and, given his big size the Gunnery Chief, he might actually have gotten into a few scrapes with the Tracto-ans along the way.

“Well if he’s not going to listen to us then what are we to do? Just stand here with our fingers in our ears and thumbs up our bums until the machines decide it’s high time to pull a mickey and get rid of us?” demanded the old junior petty officer.

“An interesting question,” said PO Malcolm with a serious expression, “a very serious and interesting question but one I think more appropriate to another time. Why don’t we all sit down, think about things in the cold light of day, and then get back together with anyone we feel might have something positive to add on how we can all work on saving this fleet from itself—if in fact it needs saving from itself? I mean maybe the Admiral’s just biding his time. I don’t agree with the thinking but maybe he thought he needed to get rid of the sector forces trying to blow us all the way to kingdom come before dealing with the blighted machines. But then again I’m not the admiral.”

“Alright we’ll break then,” agreed the gunnery chief.

“Just so long as the machines got what’s coming to them or at least long gone. That’s all I care about,” the old junior petty officer said sourly.

“I’m sure the Little Admiral will do the right thing,” said the senior petty officer, using the back of his sleeve to wipe his dripping nose, “we just need a little more patience. You’ll see.”

Chapter 25: Interviews with Security and the Opposition

The door swished closed behind me after a long strategy meeting with my command staff and, after scanning the room for threats, Sean D’Argeant turned to leave.

“Stay. I have a few questions,” I said, my back still to the head of my personal team of Armsmen.

“What can I do for you, my Lord Prince?” he asked.

I went to my desk and sat down facing him. “Please, have a seat,” I gestured toward one of the chairs set aside for visitors and then waited until the Armsman had been seated.

“Sir?” D’Argeant said, turning serious as he saw the mood I was in.

“I want you to tell me everything you know about potential agitators on my ships,” I informed him.

Sean D’Argeant frowned. “We are mostly concerned with your current location and those places you are most likely to go, your Highness,” D’Argeant said after a moment. “The flagships, Gambit Station and so forth. Due to our limited numbers we are forced to rely upon Fleet personnel and reports for any other information.”

“Your clarification is noted. Continue,” I said, giving him a level look, “I am most particularly concerned right now with anti-machine agitators but, considering my most recent troubles prior to this have originated from Tracto, I am not ruling anything out.”

“On the Flagship there have been a few incidents aptly handled by the chain of command. Although nothing I’ve heard of has risen to the level of the ship’s Captain, at least not officially,” D’Argeant explained, “all of them minor level as far as we could tell.”

“So you’re not concerned?” I asked.

The Armsman stiffened. “When it comes to your safety, I am always concerned. But the Royal Armsmen have been pragmatically dealing with threats to the throne and the Blood Royal since King Larry founded of our world. Anti-machine bigots, while potentially alarming, are nothing new to us,” he said seriously. “If and when they rise to the level of alarm, we will notify you.”

I steepled my fingers. I was tempted to say that wasn’t good enough, but I forced myself to take a step back. My Armsmen were my personal protective detail—my bodyguards, if you will. Their job was to keep me safe from any threat, not to head them off at the pass, although they were clearly ready to do that if the occasion called for it. In short: they were a personal security service, not a fleet-wide one.

While potentially helpful and needing to be linked into whatever I did, they by themselves were not the answer and I did them a disservice by treating them as such.

“I understand. I just don’t want this lost in the shuffle and so I’m reaching out to all my sources of information right now,” I said.

“We are here to serve, my Prince,” D’Argeant said pointedly, and I wanted to shake my head.

I had no interest in being a Caprian Prince, or rather I had no interest in being one who returned home to fight for the crown. I was more than content to be a Caprian Prince married into what passed for a local Tracto-an royal family. Or would that be more of a ducal line, since there were so many different city states? I wondered.

At least, most of the time I was content. None of which was relevant to the issue at hand: my incipient little would be rebels or rather potential rebels. The restive elements of the population, as it were.

“All right, keep your ears to the ground and please show Lieutenant Steiner in as soon as she arrives,” I said.

“Of course, Sir. Is there anything else?” D’Argeant asked, and I started to answer in the negative when something occurred to me.

“You know what, there actually is something else,” I said, surprised that I had let it slip until now. “Call Gants and tell him I want to talk with one of our prisoners, and that I’d like him to escort me personally.”

“A prisoner, my lord Prince?” D’Argeant said with a hint of disapproval. “Who is it, and are you sure this is strictly necessary?”

“I’ve decided now that things have settled it’s high time some would say pastime I spoke with Mr. Shrub personally,” I said.

“As the head of your personal protective detail, I must strongly recommend against any such meeting, your Highness. It simply isn’t safe,” said Sean.

“You’re telling me our most secure brig, in our most secure star system, combined with your own team of highly-trained men, isn’t capable of protecting me from one single prisoner?” I asked scornfully.

“I’m saying it’s a risk and an entirely unnecessary one. You have brig personnel and interrogators for a reason. If you have any questions, relay them through those channels. Letting them do their jobs frees you up to do yours,” Sean D’Argeant pointed out.

“Objection noted,” I said with a nod, “now summon Lieutenant Gants.”

Sean frowned. “Or, you know, I could always just call him myself,” I said, reaching for the desk console.

“No, it’s better if I speak with the Armory Lieutenant before he arrives to make all necessary arrangements,” D’Argeant said, turning to stalk out the door.

“Thank you,” I said perfunctorily. Having to wrangle with my security team every time I wanted to do something the least bit productive was challenging. But I was doing my best, just like I knew they were.

Ten minutes later, the door to my ready room chimed. “Come in,” I said.

Lieutenant Steiner strode into the ready room and drew herself up to attention, “Lieutenant Lisa Steiner, reporting for duty, Sir.”

I raised my eyebrows. “A little on the formal side today aren’t we, Lieutenant?”

“Sorry, Sir, I’m just not used to…I mean, I heard—that is, what did you want to see me about, Admiral?” she finished weakly, sounding flustered.

“I see…so word leaked about my new plans?” I inquired deceptively mildly.

Her brow furrowed and she looked uncertain. “Plans? I thought maybe you were going to take me to task for proposing we give away our warships in the last meeting, Sir,” she finally hazarded.

“Take you to task?” I asked with surprise.

“Well I did speak out of turn, and I could tell you weren’t happy about it. Then before I even left the room after the meeting, you asked me to see you in your office so I just sort of assumed, Sir,” she replied, her brow wrinkling.

“Now why would I want to take you to task when I’m about to offer you a job as my new Chief of Staff?” I rolled my eyes.

“Wow, that’s a relief—” she said and then stopped her eyes widening with surprise, “pardon me…b-b-but did you just say ‘Chief of Staff’?” she stuttered

I smiled broadly. “That’s exactly right,” I agreed.

“C-Chief of Staff…for you, Admiral? Not Commodore

Druid or one of the others?” she clarified.

“My Chief of Staff,” I nodded.

“Squee!” she cried, pumping a fist and jumping into the air.

“Squeee?” I pursed my lips and forced a disapproving look on my face.

She froze mid-jump and then landed back on her feet with a dull thump, after which she immediately colored.

“I’m sorry, Sir. I was just so excited; it won’t happen again,” she told me seriously.

I eyed her, suspicious of whether more sudden outbursts were still in the offing. It’s not that I was some old stick-in-the-mud who couldn’t handle a little joy or excitement in my life. It’s just that this was serious business and…

I paused.

Was I turning into an old stick-in-the-mud? No, I decided, I most definitely was not!

It was just unprofessional and, being as how I was an Fleet Admiral with an honorary commission…and an acting rank……

Well enough of that. I was a Protector of Tracto, the Admiral of the Tracto-an SDF—or at least the Messene SDF—and, yes, the only recognized Confederation Admiral left in the Spine, as well as a Tracto-an Warlord. So expecting a little professionalism from my hopefully soon-to-be Chief of Staff did not make me a hypocrite or old fuddy duddy.

At least, that’s what I assured myself.

“Well let’s at least try to act professional, Lieutenant,” I suggested.

“Of course, Sir,” she acknowledged, the twinkle in her eye giving the lie to the serious tone of her voice. But if that was the worst I had to put up—someone who liked their new job—then I was coming out ahead in the deal, “Now, about the position as your new Chief of Staff. I think I have some idea but is there anything specific you were looking for me to do?”

“I think I have a job description in here somewhere, but basically you’ll need to help me with the paperwork and coordinate with the rest of the Fleet,” I said fumbling around on the console before finding what looked like the relevant files and shooting them over before looking back up at her. “Mainly I’ve come to the realization I can’t work with a temporary staff any longer. I feel like I’m starting to miss a step and when it comes to keeping up on everything it’s time to finally admit we’ve grown too big—and I’m swamped. Anyway, you’ve worked with me before and have served in a number of staff positions from Communications to Personnel. Having someone with your skills in secured communications as my Chief of Staff is a big plus.”

“I’m familiar with the basics of the job. I’ll try not to let you down,” Steiner said.

“I wouldn’t have you in here if I didn’t think you could more than handle the job,” I said seriously. I’d gone through a number of supportive staff in my time out here in cold space and with the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet, from Tremblay and Science Officer Jones, to Laurent, Hammer and their command teams. So I had some idea of who I wanted to work with. Besides, it was time I finally owned up to what everyone else already knew: we already had a real fleet, I was a real Admiral, and the Admiral needed a real staff to help cope with the load.

“Thank you, sir,” she said.

“So you’ll take the job?”

“I’d be a fool not to,” she said, and I wondered why it was only now that she didn’t look excited then I shrugged it off.

“That’s hardly a ringing endorsement for the job but, given your former enthusiasm, I’ll take it,” I snorted.

Lisa Steiner rolled her eyes. “So what does your wife think of all this?” she asked.

“My wife? You mean Akantha? Why would she be involved in me building a proper flag staff?” I asked, idly wondering if the two of them had been in secret communication. It was possible I could be dealing with a feminine conspiracy here.

The Lieutenant eyed me and I broke down. It’s not like it was some a big secret after all.

“All right, after seeing how buried I was under the workload after we returned to Gambit and reconnected with the rest of the fleet organization, she was actually the one that suggested I build a proper staff,” I explained.

“So she knows you picked me for your Chief of Staff,” the Lieutenant said releasing a pent up breath.

“She knows she made a few suggestions, but I’m the one that ultimately decides who is on my team,” I said, my brows wrinkling.

“So she doesn’t know you were going to choose me?” Lieutenant Steiner asked—relentlessly as far as I was concerned.

“This is a fleet staffing issue, not something she’s directly involved in. Why does it matter what she thinks?” I asked irritably.

Her face instantly blanked. “Of course it doesn’t,” she said in a way that appeared to agree with me, but made me think that secretly she thought it was a big deal. It made me want to growl at her, but I manfully kept my cool and simply rolled my eyes.

“Well, now that that’s out of the way-” I said.

“But she does know I was on the short list, doesn’t she?” she burst out cutting me off.

Meeting her eyes, I silently tapped a finger on the desk. “Not that it’s any business of yours, but to answer your question she did think you were someone able to reliably fill one of my staff positions. However, I’m the one who decided on you for my Chief of Staff position. Please don’t make me regret that decision.”

“Thank you, Sir. I just wanted to be clear,” she said, smiling with relief.

“Now that that’s cleared up, let’s turn to filling the other positions needed for an admiral’s staff. What are your thoughts?” I asked.

Lisa Steiner’s face scrunched up causing her nose to wrinkle. “Well, traditionally we’d also need at least a Tactical Officer, an Operations Officer, and an Intelligence Officer. Fortunately we’ve already got a Flag Lieutenant who’s already familiar with the job and has been with your for a while now,” she said.

“Ensign Jones,” I said darkly, my eyes dropping down the glower at the table. After a moment I looked back up at her, “I’m not sure the good Ensign is a proper fit for my staff,” I told her quite frankly, “but let’s put a pin in that for the moment and circle back around to the subject of Ensign Jones later.”

Steiner signaled her agreement, “I did notice a bit of friction.”

“I’m not looking for a group of ‘yes’ men to surround me,” I explained to the female Lieutenant, “but at the same time I do expect to stay updated and informed and when I take a stance on a subject I expect support not active opposition.”

“Alright,” she said agreeably, “I’ll talk with the Ensign personally and see what the problem is and if there’s anything I can do to smooth things over or if he’ll just have to go.”

I hesitated, preferring to just fire the man outright but she was supposed to be my Chief of Staff. The person who kept everything running and updated on everything I was going to need to know, and it wouldn’t make a very good start to our working relationship if I shot her down the very first time she tried to do her job.

“Well, take a look and let me know what you think. After that I’ll make a decision,” I finally compromised. It cost me little to allow her the chance to talk with the man and it was true that he could be a veritable well spring of information on how an Admiral’s staff was supposed to set up, run and operate in the real world. It was easy to read a job description and another thing to actually hold the position.

“It’ll be my first priority after we get done here. I won’t let you down, Admiral,” she assured me. “If he’s not a good fit for our team I’ll find him a different position, one that will utilize his skill in service of the MSP to the max.”

“Rick Jones,” I muttered.

Steiner opened her mouth to ask another question when the door chimed. It was the erstwhile Lieutenant Gants, head of the Armory Department.

“Please come in, Florence,” I said, opening the door with the flip of a switch on my desk console.

The other man’s face twitched and Gants strode up to the front of the desk and saluted.

“Lieutenant Gants reporting for duty, Sir,” he said staring over my head stonily.

It seemed my using his first name had achieved the appropriate response.

I looked at my time piece pointedly.

“Sorry I’m late, Sir,” he apologized. “I had to clear up an issue on Deck 2—an issue of an illegal still clogging up the air filters and causing a dangerous rise in carbon dioxide,” he explained.

“Well you’re here now and that’s what’s important,” I said, returning his salute.

Gants dropped his hand and relaxed his body. “What can I do for you, Admiral?” he asked curiously, looking down and meeting my eyes for the first time since entering the room.

“Have you readied the brig for an inspection?”

“I thought you just wanted to see one of the prisoners?” he replied, looking perplexed.

“Inspection, interrogation… what’s the difference?” I laughed.

“I can take you to see whoever you need to, Sir,” Gants said.

“Excellent,” I said, standing up, “lead the way, McDuff!”

“My last name is Gants, Sir,” the head of the Armory said cautiously.

I rolled my eyes. “I know that,” I said. Gants might be one of the most loyal and eager people in the MSP, and no idiot either, but the smartest person I’d ever met he was not, “Let’s go!”

“This way, Sir,” Gants motioned toward the door of my ready room as if I was unaware of the main exit lading out of the room.

“Did you want me to come too?” Lisa Steiner asked me.

“Why not?” I agreed and just like that the three of us left the room.

As my team of Armsmen swept around us, we entered the lift and punched in the code to take us to the brig.

Chapter 26: A Delay in Interrogating The Prisoner

“Did you have someone particular in mind when you came down here?” Gants asked curiously. “Most of the Imperials—actually all of the Imperials—have already been shipped out to Tau Ceti for the prisoner exchange. All that’s left are men and women in here for petty ship board infractions, although we did sweep up a small ring of data thieves we believe were attempting to smuggle data—specifically the point transfer coordinates of Gambit Station—out of the star system. They’re up on treason and espionage charges.”

I stiffened. “What?” I asked, surprised that this was the first I was hearing about this.

“These are just low-level idiots that stuck a sensor probe on the hull of their ship. Nothing to worry about,” Gants said scornfully, “they thought that by hooking it up to their data slates they’d be able to stealthily extract our astrological position, but when their slate couldn’t crunch the data they hooked up to one their ship’s sub-nodes and the Distributed Intelligence sounded the alarm,” Gants said scornfully.

Immediately, my blood pressure shot through the roof.

“The location of this star system is our most important secret. How long have they been in the brig and why wasn’t I informed about this?” I demanded hotly.

Gants brows rose. “You were informed, Sir. I sent you a notification personally,” he explained with surprise, “why, they’ve been in the brig for the better part of a week while Fleet Legal builds an airtight case against them. Both myself and Harpsinger have been sending you daily updates.”

As this was all news to me, I stood nonplussed, my good head of steam completely broken up. Had my electronic mail been hacked or perhaps intercepted by the good Ensign Jones? Because this was exactly the sort of priority information that simply couldn’t wait, and I’m sure I would have looked into immediately.

“I’m extremely curious as to exactly what happened to the notification I didn’t get,” I said stiffly, “as well as why Lieutenant Harpsinger failed to mention this during the command briefing.”

Gants splayed his hands and shrugged. “I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t invited to the meeting,” he said.

I gritted my teeth. Something was rotten in the state of Denmark and I only hoped that it was an innocent foul of some type that could be explained by overwork and simple incompetence.

“An oversight that I’ll be sure to correct for the next one,” I said tightly, “if for some reason you don’t get an invitation, don’t send another message—call me or my new Chief of Staff, Lieutenant Steiner, directly.”

“I’ll make a note to include Lieutenant Gants on our next meeting attendee list and I’ll personally look into what happened in this case, Admiral,” Steiner said smartly.

Just to be sure, I once again opened my electronic message and failed to find anything from Gants, the Armory or the Legal Department. “Please do that,” I affirmed. “Are you sure you swept them all up?” I questioned Gants.

“Pretty sure. We intercepted all their electronic correspondence between one another as well as sweated the people themselves. Several of them broke down crying during the interrogation and confessed everything they knew. It’s all been verified by the electronic intercepts. It seems they were to be hired by a wealthy corporation to sign up for the fleet and discover this information. After it was found they were to transmit the information via courier, a freighter which we’ve already identified, and await for payment and extraction from the military. The corporation has been traced back to an independent world in Sector 26 that is known to practice an extreme version of free market capitalism that seems to exceed all practical bounds set by most other provincial star system nation states,” Gants said.

The fact that it had happened was bad enough all by itself, but that I had missed it for more than a week was intolerable. This time it was a captured espionage ring. Next time? I shuddered to think.

“Make a note. We need to go over our electronic lines of communication with a fine toothed comb and ensure we haven’t been hacked. I want those files found yesterday,” I told Steiner.

“Aye aye, Sir,” she said.

I was quietly stewing as the lift opened on the brig.

It was a subdued group that followed me through the various security checks to make sure we were both authorized and carrying anything with us into the brig that could potentially assist in an escape attempt.

“Bring up the prisoner list I want to take a look at them myself,” I said.

“It’s here, Sir,” said the shift supervisor.

I slowly scanned through it. Most of it was just like Gants had said: a bunch of petty crimes, the espionage ring, and I made careful note of which cells they were inhabited and finally…I blinked.

It seemed there was also a deserter from 3rd Elysium who tried to shoot his supervisor, a petty officer, in the back and…I opened the full file to continue reading. He was caught with a thumb drive full of top flight Imperial design specs stripped from the computer banks of the Invictus Rising minutes before her systems crashed and…my screen flashed red and orange with a security lock.

Irritated at the interruption, I reentered my security clearance and the screen started to clear and then re-locked, stating that it required Fleet Command level clearance. What was I, chopped liver? Right now there was no higher authority in this fleet than myself. Angrily, I entered my top level codes the ones that were supposed to get me into any system on the ship and it still wouldn’t unlock.

“What’s going on here?” I demanded, gesturing for the shift supervisor and our former com-lieutenant both to take a look.

“I don’t know. That file has been locked ever since this prisoner transferred over here,” the shift supervisor shrugged.

I gave him a piercing look and turned back to the former communication specialist. Steiner synced up her pad with the brig system and started playing around with the file.

“Anything?” I asked shortly, moments before the orange-red security block out flashed one last time and disappeared.

“Looks like it required double verification from two high level sources before it would unlock,” she said with a ‘voila’ motion of her hand.

“Is that normal?” I grunted, not sure if I should start feeling paranoid about it or not.

Her mouth made a small moue and she shook her head. “I’ve read about it but other than master database backups and certain critical engineering areas like the ship’s scuttling charges, I’ve never seen it used in the MSP before. But then I’m no expert on brig protocols,” she said, turning the palms of her hands up and swiveling her head to look over at the brig supervisor.

“Don’t look at me, I just work here,” the supervisor raised his hands in the air.

“You’re in charge of the brig and that’s all you’ve got to say, ‘you just work here’?” I asked dangerously.

The brig supervisor broke out into a fresh sweat. “I used to run the brig on the Flaming Franklin, one of our Destroyers, but it was only a part-time job and I knew everything there was to know about it. A few of the boys got to drinking too much or a couple was caught in a crawl space violating the fraternization standards, that’s all I dealt with—not hardened criminals!” he protested, pointing to the cells down the hallway. “Then, during our last battle in Easy Haven, our ship survived but was determined to be irreparable. Most of the crew made it off her, thank the Sweet Saint, but now I’m sitting there unassigned when suddenly I receive a notification from the Fleet Personnel Department that I’m supposed to report for duty as the new shift supervisor on our highest security brig. That was a week ago, and the previous supervisor received a shipboard assignment and transferred out after only two days of showing me the ropes. As it is, I’m still just studying manuals and trying to play catch up to learn my new security protocols. Sweet Crying Murphy, I’m a trained ship’s assistant gunner—what do I know about dealing with hardened criminals??!” he paused and then seemed to realize how far he’d gone and then hastily added a belated, “Sir!”

Activating my slate, I pulled up the personnel chart for the brig and opened the Supervisor’s file. “Were you aware the new Supervisor is new?” I asked Gants, who was looking taken aback by the Supervisor’s impassioned defense.

“I mean, I knew Cartwright wanted to transfer back out to ship duty. No one really likes being assigned to the brig,” Gants said, looking perplexed, “especially when the choice is sitting here or being out there actually doing or making something. So I wasn’t surprised when his request finally went through and a new supervisor slotted in to take his place. Most of the boys here like to rotate back out into the Fleet before too long.”

I looked back at the file of the prisoner and then switched to looking at the supervisor’s transfer orders. My brows rose. “It says here the ship supervisor’s transfer orders came through from the Fleet’s Tracto-an Personnel Department. Is it normal for our Personnel Departments to be issuing orders in completely different star system from their current location?” I asked Lisa.

“We do have a lot of inter-system transfer orders, thanks to our recruiting efforts and the need to screen recruits thoroughly through Tracto and run security checks before bringing them over to Gambit. They do issue a lot of orders to transfer them back out again but that’s almost always coordinated with the Fleet’s Gambit Personnel Department. I don’t think it’s normal practice for them to be issuing intra-system transfer orders, and if it is then it needs to be stopped,” Lieutenant Steiner said, and as a woman who had helped spearhead our initial recruiting drive she was more of an authority on the subject than me. My usual stand was that if it wasn’t broke I wasn’t going to try and mess around with it. But this required more investigation.

“Another thing to look into,” I said, my lips a hard thin line. The more I dug into things the less I liked them. Nothing stood out as outright enemy action but it was either that or the stink of incompetence, corruption or cronyism wafting past my nostrils.

“I think we need to issue strict orders that the personnel department in Tracto is not to be issuing orders that transfer officers and crew around in Gambit and visa versus. With your permission, I’ll draft the orders,” she said.

“That’s fine,” I said shortly, “but what do you think about this?” I pointed to the unlocked security file for the prisoner that started this entire discussion. “The prisoner, a former shuttle pilot who supposedly joined from one of the border alliance worlds, is suspected by his supervisor, an old salt from Capria, of Parliamentary connections,” I informed the others. “It says he all but admitted to it either right before or after he shot his supervisor in the back.”

“He what?!” Sean D’Argeant demanded, stepping forward to look at the information himself. “We have a potential parliamentary agent aboard? Why wasn’t I made aware of this?”

“Again: how was this missed?” I asked rhetorically, ignoring the Chief Armsman.

“Who was the person that placed a lock on the file?” Gants asked.

Steiner frowned and immediately tried to look it up. “At first glance it appears to have been code-locked, but after it’s opened,” her frown deepened, “it says the lock was issued by security officer Jim Dane—a warrant officer who couldn’t possibly have the sort of authority necessary to issue such a lock.”

“Find this ‘Jim Dane.’ I suddenly find that I very much want to speak with him,” I said.

Steiner smiled fiercely tapped away on her slate and then stopped in shock. “I tried to send a message but it bounced, returning with a notification that Warrant Officer Jim Dane is deceased,” she said.

I felt a chill. “Curiouser and curiouser,” I said. A warrant officer who shouldn’t have been able to do what he had done; a prisoner that had almost slipped through the system, if not for a bored-but-suspicious Admiral; and a shady set of transfer orders from someone in the Tracto-an Personnel Department?

“I think we’re going to need to investigate whoever sent those transfer orders from Tracto, and I want to speak with that prisoner—now, if not sooner,” I said.

Which was exactly how I soon came to be speaking with the prisoner.

Chapter 27: Suspicious Circumstances

I waited until the prisoner had been escorted into the room and restrained to the table before stepping into the room. The prisoner blinked and then eyed me coolly

I sniffed and moved to sit down in the chair opposite the supposed parliamentarian.

“I presume you know who I am,” I said, rather than asked, sitting down smoothly in the chair, “which means you’re aware of just how much trouble you’re in at this moment.”

The other man snorted. “I’m just another prisoner; a coward who tried to run in the face of the enemy and shot his supervisor when the man went to bring him back into a hopeless battle,” the prisoner shook his head. “I confess I know who you are. I did what they say. So shoot me already. Or send me out to do hard labor for the rest of my life, or whatever it is you’re going to do anyway,” he said with a grunt.

“Now why would I go and do a thing like that?” I prompted, hoping to provoke an answer. I was disappointed. He just leaned back in his chair and shook his head. “After all, you and I are going to be such good friends,” I prodded.

“You and me friends? Oh, that’s rich!” he chuckled. “Normally I’d say ‘not in a thousand years’ but, hey, I’ve got nothing to lose. So sure, why not? I’ll be friends with you, Admiral. Whatever you want.”

“After all,” I continued, as if oblivious to the sarcasm dripping from his voice, “I always try to be friends with every Parliamentary Agent that boards my ship.”

It was there and gone so quickly that I almost missed it, but I spotted the moment when the man on the other side of the table froze.

“Agent? I’m no agent, Admiral, Sir! Just a deserter who knows how to drive a shuttle,” declared the prisoner. “Besides, even if I was an agent, back home we have a congress not a parliament,” he finished as if he’d just said something particularly funny.

“Riiight,” I drawled mockingly, “anyway, like I was saying, I hope we can do this the peaceful and friendly way. Because you know how us Montagnes get when things don’t go our way: kind of irritated, and when we get irritated…” I trailed off meaningfully.

“Montagnes? Huh huh huh,” he laughed , unconvincingly to my ears, “so the rumors are true and you’re a big wheel back on your world, because I can assure you I’m not with the CBI, the Congressional Bureau of Investigation—or anyone else for that matter. I’m just a low level enviro-tech and shuttle pilot who-”

“Who has multiple skillsets, shoots his superiors in the back like a pro, and was found with multiple Imperial tech schematics on a high tech data penetration and storage device,” I rolled my eyes. “So far this all fits the MO of a Parliamentary Agent, so please, seeing as I find this increasingly amusing, tell me another one.”

“You can’t blame a man for a little smuggling on the side!” protested the Prisoner.

“And murder? What’s that supposed to be, just the cost of doing business?” I asked mildly.

“You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs,” the other man shrugged.

“Oh ho-ho,” I chortled, “another admission of guilt. It looks like you are one eager man to meet the headsman.”

“You can fight tyranny but you can’t fight city hall, Sir. And in this case it’s like you’re city hall; I’m caught and there’s nothing I can do about it. Seems like I might as well get things over with quick as I can and besides you seem like a straight shooter, I figure I’ve got to have a better chance being straight with you then I do trying to deny what happened,” he shrugged.

“Not a very good one, as I’m not partial to assassins and murderers,” I observed.

“If the choice is between slim and none, I’ll take slim every time,” the other man said seriously.

I pulled out my slate and started to read. “Nerium O. Shrub,” I said, speaking his full name out loud for the first time, “or the cover name of the day, I suppose, but we do need to call you something,” I nodded as if reading something interesting, even though I wasn’t really looking at the words on the screen at all and deliberately tossed the slate onto the table. “Look, we’ve got you dead to rights. We deep scanned you. That plus the audio evidence on that ship between you and the CPO is all we need to know what, if not who, you are,” I deliberately obfuscated. In truth, all I had right now was the CPO’s written report that I’d looked at right before coming into this room, the rest of it was a lie. Honestly I wasn’t even sure Mr. Shrub was an Agent.

Maybe he really was just a non-governmental, free-election-in-the-street, freelance data retrieval artist who just happened to join my fleet in order to shoot my men and penetrate Imperial security?

I shook my head. Yeah, I wasn’t buying my line either. He was up to no good, and now all that remained was squeezing him for whatever we could get out of him before giving him the long walk out.

“Look, I don’t know what you think you know but I’m just a smuggler with a bad tendency to-” Nerium Shrub started, but I could still see he was playing the hapless little murder-happy smuggler so I cut him off.

“Frankly all we need from you is…” I blinked because, as far as I could think, all we needed to know was who in my fleet had the balls to pull strings for him from the shadows, not that we couldn’t follow an electronic data and not that he needed to know any of that, “you know what? Strike that. We don’t actually need anything from you at all.” I said, leaning back in my chair.

“You don’t need anything from me?” he said seemingly nonplussed.

“Of course,” I said happily, “I mean sure it might save us some time if you cooperated but since your information isn’t of critical importance, I can just wait for the Sundered ’experimental brain jack team.”

“Brain jack team?” Nerium’s pupils shrunk to pinpoints with alarm.

“Yeah, it’s amazing what they can do after installing a little hardware in that wetware,” I said with a rapturous sigh, “oh they can’t actually search your brain for information and they only have a 90% survival rate, but in essence all they do is ‘stimulate’ certain regions of your brain that are involved with memory when they ask you questions and then actively record the results. It’s tech from beyond the rim of known space that they’ve adapted for their own internal use, being a genetically uplifted race, so while it’s a little clunky and it might take some time to get to the parts we want—seeing as how you are a human subject and not an uplift—they believe that with the right chemical cocktail thrown into the mix we’ll get to what we want…eventually.”

“That’s inhuman and a violation of the conventions on war and the treatment of prisoners!” he exclaimed, his voice frosty.

“Yes, but isn’t that the beauty? Since you continue to claim that you are in fact not a Parliamentary Agent, that means you’re just a simple traitor and a mutineer. The restriction on how you treat your own internal populations falls in a different classification from those conventions,” I said with satisfaction, “and besides, who’s going to care or, if caring, even notice the state your body was in when we throw it out the airlock?” I asked pointedly.

“So you’re a torturer as well as a gods-forsaken tyrant,” Nerium said mouth a tight line across his face.

“Oh no, my advisers assure me torture doesn’t work so that’s right out. Put a real dent in my plans,” I hastened to assure him solicitously, “which is why we’ll instead be pumping you so full of happy juice that you won’t notice so much as a stiff neck or a needle-poke. Everyone I talk with assures me that torture is straight out and doesn’t really work anyway, not unless you’re looking to get rich via banking information which you can actually verify unlike when some agent falsely accuses one of your people to cause dissent in the ranks, but you see that’s where the direct neural hookup comes in. I mean, why beat a confession out of you when we can just go inside and extract the information over the course of several weeks, months or even years?” I asked rhetorically. “It’s painless to you, it’s not something we’d consider time-sensitive on our side, and if you die during this completely painless process well…” I shrugged, “wouldn’t that just be carrying out the sentence for your mutiny anyways?”

“You’re a psychopath. Do you think perhaps that runs in the family? Any paranoids, conspiracy theorists, or mad dog killers in the family line perhaps?” asked Nerium.

“I think you’re surprisingly calm considering your ‘supposed’ background and situation you find yourself in,” I drawled, ignoring the dig against my family. What had the Montagne name given me except persecution and pain, or the House, my so-called family, anything other than scorn, pity and neglect before finally sending me off to the MSP on an assignment no one else wanted. Was this the family line I was supposed to be offended for?

“I’m just wondering if you think insanity runs in the genes or if you consider yourself an exception to the rule,” Nerium deadpanned.

I cocked my head at him, “Why do you want me to kill you so badly?”

“No man wants to die,” Shrub demurred.

“And yet here you are, insulting my family while trying—and failing—to provoke me,” I said.

“If you’re as good as dead anyways you might as well spit in the eye of your oppressors, yeah?” Nerium said stoutly.

“What have you got to lose?” I agreed. “Although it’s hard to call me the oppressor when you’re the one that decided to start murdering people.”

“You plan to kill me, yes?” the prisoner cocked his head.

“And here I thought you were attempting to cooperate in the hopes of clemency or, at least, continued usefulness,” I shot back, “this hardly seems to be in line with such a plan.”

“What can I say,” the prisoner said with a mocking smile, “maybe I’m not as smart as I like to think?”

“Obviously…I mean, you are stuck in here,” I grinned.

“You would know more about being in and out of prison than me, Admiral,” he shot back.

“Oh, I’m wounded,” I mimed as if I’d just been hit to the chest.

“You laugh and mock but you’ve spent more time restrained and in prison than I have. It’s all over the news, that’s just a fact even if you don’t want to admit it,” he pointed out.

“Oh, I’m denying nothing but I do find it interesting how you said ‘restrained and in prison’, almost as if you’ve more experience in prisons than I do, just from the other side of the bars,” I shot back.

“Only the most devolved of societies use bars,” scoffed Nerium.

“I note that isn’t a denial,” I said, one corner of my mouth turning up derisively, “so what is it like to switch roles from the one on the outside looking in?”

“Why don’t you tell me since I’m now the one locked up and restrained and you’re the one who put me there,” he said.

“Point of fact, I didn’t put you anywhere. I didn’t even know you existed at all. So imagine my surprise when I come down to the brig to interview a few prisoner to relieve my boredom and find you in here—with your file under a restriction so tight that not even I could access it without help. You must have some pretty powerful friends in my fleet in order to do that,” I drawled, “friends that I’m understandably interested in speaking with.”

When he didn’t say anything, I turned to D’Argeant.

“Send for Primarch Glue and inform him I require himself and one of his top cybernetic tech teams here as soon as he can reasonably arrive,” I instructed.

D’Argeant hesitated before lifting his arm and speaking into his com-piece, issuing the necessary orders. He looked back up at me. “The Primarch is on the way,” he reported, his eyes reflecting his doubts.

I nodded, my eyes remaining on Mr. Shrub. “Last chance,” I said, standing up and turning to leave the room, “we know what you are and thus what you’ve done. We won’t hesitate. As soon as I walk through that door it’s a countdown until the Primarch arrives and the uplifts start monkeying with your brain.”

I was almost to the door when the Shrub finally sighed. “You know it wasn’t supposed to go this way,” he said with a sigh.

“Oh. What way is that?” I asked and stopped moving toward the door, but I didn’t yet turn around. He didn’t say anything. “Cat got your tongue? We’ll know it all anyway, it just might take a while. Do you honestly know anything time-sensitive enough to risk what they’re going to do with you?”

“And here I thought all you royals prided yourselves on being honorable and upright until the end. I guess there really is a reason the Montagne line continued to lead while everyone else stupid enough to believe your lies followed you on bended knee,” the Prisoner said, his voice changing from that of slightly shady shuttle pilot to something else—something vastly more interesting.

I smoothly turned and sat back down in the chair. “We ‘royals,’ as you call us, are just doing the best job we can for our people,” I said lightly. “If that means we have to make a few sacrifices when it comes to our ability to sleep well at night then that’s a small price.” The number of people I’d killed, or had ordered killed, to protect the people of Capria and the rest of this Sector when our fleet’s clashed just kept going up but it was necessary. Our blood, our bodies, and our warships stood in exchange for their ability to sleep safely at night without some fool Imperial’s jackbooted foot resting on their heads.

As for lying, murderous, scum like Nerium Shrub? I couldn’t care less that he’d rotted in a cell for the past several months after the fourth battle for Easy Haven. I cared even less if he thought I was some kind of evil royalist incarnate because I dared to threatened him with cybernetic implants—implants that, as far as I was aware, didn’t even exist. My call for Glue and a cyber tech team was just a bluff. As far as I was concerned, a little mental agony was the least this murderer deserved and if it helped open his lips I was willing to offer even more unsubstantiated horrors to keep his voice well lubricated.

“You say that but I can see that somewhere deep down inside you think you’re better than me. You all think you’re better than the rest of us,” Shrub said scornfully.

“I wasn’t the one trying to kill my supervisor so I could smuggle top secret data off an Imperial ship. Somehow I don’t think you intended to turn that data over to me to try and advance your career,” I observed sardonically.

“No. You just plan to torture your way to the information you want, if you don’t get your way, just like a good little royalist prince,” Shrub sneered.

“So what, as long as it works?” I cocked my head. Again I still had no intention of torturing the man in any way except mentally. Which, as far as I was concerned, he deserved. I wasn’t going to lose any sleep over instilling a little terror into a man up for espionage and attempted murder during the middle of a fleet action. Not when either charge put him up for execution.

“Better a good, clean kill than a torturer any day. Isn’t that what your own side says? Honor over everything, even the betrayal of your own species?” he demanded.

“Come again?” I said mentally replaying that last line he’d just spoke. “Are you somehow implying I’m in league with, what, aliens?”

I laughed mockingly.

Shrub looked at me scornfully. “Your feeble attempts to play the straight man are as useless as tits on a boar since I already know the truth you want to hide. So unless you’re broadcasting this interrogation fleet wide there’s no reason to keep up the deception. No one’s here except you, me and your ‘royal’ armsmen,” he said.

“You’re really that much of a bigot?” I asked, realization dawning even as I kicked myself for being slow. “I mean I make no bones about the fact I’ve been using uplifts, droids, former pirates, and anyone else I can lay my hands on to fight for this Sector.”

“A thinly-disguised veil of truth to hide the real truth,” Shrub shrugged, “but then, you’re the royal and this is exactly why we will always be there to check your power and stop you. Your lot may not give a damn about the people of Capria but we do and we’ll do anything—whatever it takes—to keep her safe and keep her free.”

“I don’t see how the Tyrant of Cold space allying himself with a handful of uplifts or droids threatens the people of Capria. Maybe Tracto and the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet but the home world should be safe. After all they’ve not only disavowed me but tried to kill me on multiple different occasions,” I said stiffly.

Shrub rolled his eyes. “Still you try and hide it but I’ve already said there’s no need for these games, your Highness,” his voice was mocking, “everyone in this room already knows the truth—or they blasted well should, you malignant tumor on the heart of the body politic! Admittedly your openly using the droids makes things harder. Harder to protect our people from our own royals, perhaps, but at the same time easier to conceal the rot that cuts right to the center of Capria and threatens to destroyer her!”

“Meaning me? Or are you talking about the Royal Family now?” I said, rolling my eyes. “Because I have news for you: I’ve had nothing to do with Capria for several years now.”

“Meaning you! The royal family are just a bunch of willing stooges with varying levels of knowledge; you’re the direct and immediate threat to our planet, not the rest of those corrupted and dissipated perverts and pleasure seekers,” he said angrily.

“Perverts and pleasure seekers? Please don’t hold back, tell me what you really think,” I said seriously.

“One thing I’ve always wondered: why do you do it? Are you brainwashed from birth or do you actually believe that taking us back to that hell is somehow better for humanity?” Shrub asked seriously.

“That you think that a bunch of…what did you call us, ‘perverts and pleasure seekers,’ could bring ‘humanity’ back to any sort of hell—except maybe a puritanical one that involved a little too much wine women and song—is laughable,” I chortled.

“Laugh it up, fuzz ball!” shouted Shrub. “We know all about the One Bloodline, the Three For One Society, and House Montagne’s plans. Droids? You think we’re fools? Your precious family isn’t the only one who knows the truth!”

I blinked, drawing back with shock. I hadn’t at all been expecting his paranoid ravings to suddenly start touching on far too many things close to home.

Is there really a conspiracy out there? I had to ask myself and, in response ,I immediately found it far too easy to believe that in fact there was one. Moreover, I was sure and certain House Montagne and the rest of the royal family would do whatever they thought benefited themselves at the time and blast the consequences.

“The royal family may have hidden its treason against humanity so deeply and so well that you think no one would ever find out, but we know,” Shrub said and my brow wrinkled.

“Stop speaking in riddles,” I snapped, “just what do you think the royal family has done that makes you hate us so much? What’s worse than droids and uplifts?” Genocide perhaps? I silently guessed. Or something else equally appalling? Saint Murphy knows I wouldn’t put much past my long-deceased relatives.

“Not every one of our founders fell head over heels into King Larry’s treason. Some of us kept silent to protect our people from a galaxy gone mad while still working tirelessly from the shadows to free us and shut you down,” Shrub declared, “and we—Parliament and its agents—are their natural descendants.”

“Yes. Yes. ‘Royals bad, your shadowy conspiracy good,’ yada yada. Does that about cover it?” I mimed. yawning while desperately hoping to gather more information.

“Shut up. you blasted AI servant,” roared Shrub. only to be interrupted when Sean D’Argeant slammed him face-first into the table.

“Beating up on an unarmed, chained man, armsman?” growled Shrub. “I didn’t expect anything else.”

“Have some respect when you speak with his highness,” D’Argeant growled back.

“You’re a big man, Chief,” sneered Shrub, earning him another face-first meeting with the table.

I lifted a hand, “That’s enough, Armsman.”

D’Argeant took a deep breath and then nodded.

“Highness,” he said stepping back.

“If we could continue without the name calling, please,” I said, despite the outbreak of sudden violence in front of me.

Shrub’s lip curled. “It may be nothing to you, given your family background, but I can assure you Parliament is not so understanding or forgiving. Every agent sworn to Parliament is sworn to not just stop you, but to conceal the truth from the rest of the galaxy in order to save our home world from your kind,” he said.

“Save it from what? Make it clear and stop raving about royals and calling us names,” I snapped, finally losing my cool. “Earlier you said something about a Three for One society? Calling me an AI servant won’t work on me because I am not member.”

“Name calling…” he trailed off looking surprised and then he looked at me scornfully, “you mean you’re really trying to pretend you don’t know?”

“Know what?” I shot back.

“You really don’t know. Not a member? Prince Jason, you were born a member! It seems like all you have are half truths and a few clues,” he threw his head back and laughed long and loud. “Oh, this is rich.”

“Care to share the joke? Because at this point anything would be preferable to your nearly insane ravings,” I said coldly.

“You honestly don’t know that the Royal Family is descended from a genetically-engineered human line?” he asked.

I froze, the glib response on the tip of my tongue dying stillborn. “What does genetic engineering have to do with anything. It’s not illegal,” I said.

“It is when your ancestor—or in your specific case, Clone—was an AI infiltration model. Your progenitor was Larry One, the very man that founded his own royal dynasty on our home world not long after the AI’s fell,” Shrub said, still laughing.

“AI designed…,” I shook my head in instinctive rejection. “You’re lying,” I said my face hardening.

“Larry One. King Larry. The One Bloodline. Any of that ring a bell,” Shrub snickered, “oh, this is too rich. You really didn’t know that you are a 99% match with the founding father of our home world? Hahahahahahahha!”

“You smear not just the royal house but our entire world with your slander and pack of lies,” shouted D’Argeant.

“I’m telling you nothing but the gods’ honest truth! Run a genetic test and you’ll find that all but three of our male ‘King’s’ have less than a 0.3 percent genetic variance match with Larry One, the ‘savior of our people’,” Shrub’s face twisted into an ugly expression. “Your ancestor was an infiltration model who led our people to the promised land like sheep to the slaughter. Did you ever wonder why our world mysteriously never got hit by the AI’s, allowing us to take in more and more refugees, while all around us worlds were being smashed and raided?”

“We fought off the AI’s after we came to a new world far from-” I started parroting the official histories.

“Holo-history lies,” Shrub said with a pitying look, “check the real data feeds from the historical records of the other planets in our sector and the timelines don’t match up. Yes, we fled the AI’s, that’s true. But either they came with us like a silent plague or they were already here when our Founder landed on Capria.”

“It’s not true, and even if it was it has nothing to do with our people or my family,” I said angrily. My anger made even more so by that small niggling little doubt that said my own mother was at the very least AI sympathetic, “We didn’t raid anyone and we weren’t even alive at that time. The AI’s are dead—gone and buried—and, praise the space gods, they’ll stay that way.”

“Call on the gods if it makes you feel better,” Shrub said coldly, “but if you think that the Royal Houses of today do not harbor secret AI sympathizers who, at this very moment, seek for ways to bring back the machine plague then you are not just a dangerously mistaken fool—you’re a complete idiot.”

“First, I don’t believe what you’re saying. And second, if what you say was true Parliament would have used it against the royal house long before now and the populace would have risen up. They wouldn’t have just overthrown but utterly annihilated the Monarchy,” I instinctively denied, after all I was a product of my upbringing and hated the AI’s with a passion. Considering what they did to our people during the AI Wars only made such feelings stronger.

That my mother was at least a sympathizer—and my wife possibly so much worse—was a terrible shame to me but, as I’d told myself many times, that was my wife and the maternal side of my family—but at least it had nothing to do with the House Montagne! The very idea that I had been designed, literally created by a thousand years dead AI, was almost inconceivable to me and I instinctively rejected it. I was not machine’s long-forgotten tool!

“Parliament is not so foolish as to give the Confederation cause to sterilize all forms of life, both synthetic and biological, on our world! Every Agent studies the historical documents before he swears his life in service to protect our planet from the wrath your bloodline would bring down on us if the rest of humanity ever learned the truth,” Shrub said flatly.

I stiffened at the thought, because he was right: the Grand Assembly would do it, too. Or at least they would have back before they abandoned the Spine. Now, it was anyone’s guess although personally I leaned toward the sterilization option after thinking about it for a moment.

“The monarchy defends the people; we would never sacrifice them to cold, heartless machine gods,” I finally said, because I felt like I had to defend myself. Besides, I figured my ancestors were too greedy to ever consider sharing that level of power with a machine. It just didn’t feel right. I mean, the idea of being a tool for a vastly more intelligent and cold-thinking mind than my own brought about an instinctive rejection at my most fundamental core. I couldn’t imagine if I was a direct clone of Larry One that he would have felt any different.

“They would if they’d been conditioned since birth. They would if doing so would save massively more human lives than it cost. Honor, duty, privilege… what a crock! Never again will Caprians be led like sheep to the slaughter by men such as your ancestor—men exactly like you. We would rather die first!” he declared.

“Well, I can certainly agree with the general sentiment and that last part in particular,” I said coldly, my mind racing. “It still doesn’t explain how I’m the genetic reincarnation of a man dead for hundreds of years—and who I do not resemble. Some ‘clone’ I am. I mean, have you ever looked at the features of our historic kings—and yes I’m including King Larry in this, because I have.”

“Have you never heard of plastic surgery? Or nano-tech designed to subtly alter a person’s face as they grow and age? We know a secret society based off-world must help to keep the bloodline pure, the Three-For-One society, because if they were based off Capria we would have found them and rooted them out entirely by now. But every time we purge them they just keep coming back like cockroaches,” Shrub waved it away. “But all that’s immaterial; for whatever other reason or purpose they exist we don’t know fully. All we know for sure are they’re thick as thieves with House Montagne, and the kings of that bloodline always share the same defining characteristics: they are ruthless, intelligent, highly-motivated, paranoid, borderline unstable, and of typical Caprian build and skin tone but always born with a very flat, Asiatic nose. These are the characteristics of what you people call the One Bloodline.”

“No,” I rejected instantly.

“Try to deny it all you want, but a hidden strain of deep AI sympathizers, apologists, and even direct servants if they’re still alive lies nestled deep inside the royal house of Capria like a tick. You people suck the lifeblood from our home world in order to perpetuate your foul stain and it is our duty—as parliamentary agents, and the true sons of Capria—to root out this corruption before the galaxy at large finds out and enacts the anti-AI sterilization and containment protocols. You ask why I would lie, cheat, steal and shoot a man in the back and call it all a good day’s work? It is for one simple purpose: to protect our people—our world—from men like you!” growled Shrub.

“You have no proof, no evidence whatsoever except your word and actions. Words which are those of a self-professed liar and murderer,” I snarled back, “parliamentarians will do anything and say anything to get ahead, and now you’re trying to demonize the foundation of our entire system of government. And you wonder why no one will follow you? You’ll even degrade the very man who saved our people and founded our world. I would rather die with honor than be like you. If the royal house is corrupted then let’s cleanse it via the rule of law it, not like this. Not with secret agents assassinating people left and right just to get ahead.”

“Larry saved them only so he could turn them over to his machine god! Parliament will never bend knee to the royal house and it will certainly never kneel before the Massively Multi-Parallel Entropic Network,” shouted Shrub. “And it doesn’t matter what an ancient infiltration model like you thinks of our methods. We will save our planet from your kind—even if we have to level the Winter Palace from orbit, just like we had Cornwallis bombard the Summer Palace! If our duty to the populous outweighs any considerations of honor or duty to the rest of humanity, then it certainly outweighs any niceties like honor or laws intended to keep us down. Our planet was founded by still very much active AI stooges and sympathizers who were exactly like you, Jason Montagne, and we will stop you or we will die trying,” Shrub yelled.

“I think we’re done here,” I said standing up, “we’ve gotten everything we can from him.”

“ You don’t turn away when I’m speaking with you, Montagne. I’m not done with you yet!” roared Shrub.

“Oh yes you are,” I said, walking toward the door outwardly cold and furious but inwardly incredibly shaken. He might be wrong, but he certainly believed it. I suppose a genetic test against my ancestors’ remains…

I gave myself a quick shake. I had to get out of this room—and Shrub had to die. His lies, if heard by the rest of the crew…I felt a cold shiver.

“All your fake royalist honor and so-called loyalty adds up to nothing? Your oath of loyalty is to the crown, but what if the crown in turn swears service to one of the evil machines minds that were the bane of mankind?” Shrub demanded. “That’s why we won’t stop until Capria’s safe and that can only happen when you’re dead! We’ll kill you and your entire family if that’s what it takes to keep our world free and its people alive!”

“The AI’s are dead and no machine owns me,” I snapped rounding on him, “no man, either. And anyone who threatens my family—my twelve little toddlers—is a dead man walking. Who cares what my ancestors, a bunch of dead men that I’ve already disowned, did or did not do? So have fun with your delusions. I’ve left Capria and moved on. You should have done the same,” I said striding out the door with a thundering fury. I’d sworn no oath to King James, or to any dead AIs! The only things that deserved my duty where my own little family and the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet—especially if there was any truth to Shrub’s wild accusations.

“I am Agent Oleander, the same Oleander that shot you and then again tried to kill you in the original boarding of what is now the Furious Phoenix . Come back here, Montagne, blast you! I said-” the Parliamentary Agent howled, causing me to stiffen and pause in my stride before continuing out of the room.

Behind me the door slid closed on the increasingly strident ravings of our spy and paid parliamentary assassin, long may he rot in his cell before I finally spaced him.

Outside the cell it was a subdued Sean D’Argeant and group of Armsmen that met me.

The head Armsman jerked his head clearing the room.

I tapped a foot on the floor and turned to look at him.

“Yes, Head Armsman, did you have something you wanted to add?” I asked coldly giving him a penetrating look.

“Do I have something I want to talk about!” D’Argeant said his voice low and intense. At my level stare he calmed slightly and although still just as tightly wound regained a look of calm, “didn’t you hear what he said?”

“Every word,” I assured him and then seeing he wasn’t going to let me go without something more I pressed my lips in a tight line, “what exactly is it you want from me, Armsman?” I demanded angrily. “A prisoner starts making wild accusations about the royal family, but what do you expect from a self-professed Parliamentary Agent—one who, by his own admission, has tried to kill me multiple times? Unless you’re telling me there’s actually some truth to his increasingly wild accusations?” I demanded, meeting and holding his eyes as I searched them for any hint of the real truth.

“He said some pretty intense things in there, Sir,” D’Argeant said, relaxing fractionally.

“Yes, he did. Some very intense things,” I agreed, “do you want me to deny them? I’ll deny them right here and now. I have no idea of what he was talking about, no ancient royal knowledge about some kind of conspiracy regarding ancient AI’s or anything else like it,” I paused, “other than what everyone learned in primmer school, of course.”

“Of course, sir,” said the lead Armsman.

“Look, he’s just trying to shake us. Don’t let him get to you. Whether there’s any truth in anything he said, I haven’t the foggiest, but the one thing you can be sure about, his type will say or do anything to throw us off our stride and put what little truth they do tell you in the worst possible light,” I said frankly. “For all I know, it’s an utter fabrication or, at best, ancient history where everyone involved is dead. As far as I’m concerned even if our founder was included—and who can say how much of that man’s ravings are true at this late date—then the conspiracy died with them, if it ever existed at all. Right now we don’t know anything.”

“Talk to Duncan and see what he has to say about this if you’re concerned. House Montagne didn’t trust me enough to tell me the family access codes to the residence, let alone whatever deep dark secrets might exist within the family vaults,” I said with a shrug, “frankly I have no way to verify anything that he said. If it will make you feel better, I’m going to officially assign you the job of looking into this. If only so we can disprove it. After all, even the assertion of AI manipulation in our planet’s early society could bring galactic scrutiny to Capria. I mean assuming the rest of the galaxy cared enough about what happens in the Spine to actually launch an investigation,” I ended wryly.

“Thank you, Sir, but I do not need to speak with the former Armsman,” said the Head Armsman, his face stony. “As a Senior Armsman I already have access to certain information that might help shed some light on the topic.”

My blood ran cold. “Please speak, Armsman,” I said.

“I don’t know whether or not you and any of our previous Kings are clones, but King Larry saved our people. He fought and bled for our world, your Highness, never forget that,” D’Argeant said stiffly. “Like our friend in lockdown,” he sneered, “the royal guard has also studied historical records not available to the public and not only did the ships of our world led by King Larry personally, escort refugee ships full of our future ancestors to Capria he and they battled and boarded AI run slave ships freeing thousands of former slaves.”

I paused to digest this new information.

“I thank you for your information, Armsman,” I said after a moment, “although it doesn’t completely dispel his lies, it does give me some comfort that it isn’t only parliament that is aware of our…complicated past.”

“I know this is hard for you but, if the founder tricked a few AI’s, or even,” D’Argeant looked like he’d swallowed something painful, “made a few tough calls and secret deals, then I’m sure he did it for Capria. He was no traitor to the very world he founded, Prince Jason. He wasn’t. And remember: even the assassin admits that his ideological predecessors fought beside the King to keep our world free. I’m sure they wouldn’t have done that if they knew for a fact that King Larry was rotten.”

“Ironically, that last bit is more reassuring than anything else,” I said with relief. The idea that Larry One had just been an imperfect man in a real life impossible situation, but still doing the best he could despite everything, actually helped a lot.

“I’m sure that if you checked the family trees you’d find that back in those days there were any number of former AI slaves, servants and even active collaborators among the ranks of our much lauded founding fathers. Especially on the Parliamentary side,” D’Argeant said dryly.

“Thanks, Armsman,” I said with a lopsided smile. “In the meantime we need to get back to work there’s much we need to do to get this fleet back on its feet and ready to defend itself again. If you turn up anything new on the historic front let me know. But I’m not going to let parliamentary lies and ancient history dictate our future. The future belongs to humanity,” I said with finality.

When I went to leave the brig, my arms team swept into place behind me the same as usual.

Even though I felt less shaken on the inside, I cursed the day I decided I just had to go down to the brig to investigate the prisoners. Who would have thought that I would open this particular can of worms?

If word got out, if so much as a rumor started that I was some kind of ancient AI-created human model, the new members of the fleet might riot. I was already facing trouble because of the droid issue.

My alliance with the United Sentient Assembly, necessary at the time, was already coming back to bite me in the backside and would only feed into these sorts of paranoid rumors. I mean I knew that I wasn’t taking orders from any centuries defunct machines or their surviving droid minions, but no one else did.

So while I didn’t at all regret the decisions that let us get to this point, still alive and kicking, the consequences of those decisions were causing entirely expected complications.

Right now we just needed enough time to get our feet back under us. Once we had all those nice beautiful warships outside the hull of this station repaired and crews recruited to man and run them we wouldn’t just be back up to strength, we’d be stronger than ever before and a force to reckon with anywhere in the Spine. Possibly even in the galaxy, I thought with pride.

“Just wait for us, Governor, your day will come,” I muttered. There would be a reckoning one day. One day. And parliament too. I didn’t care if the people elected you, if you sent assassins that threatened to kill my kids I would come for you. The potential sins of my long dead ancestors wouldn’t stop me from protecting what was mine.

Chapter 28: Imperial Maneuvering: The Cornwallis Initiative

Deep in Imperial Territory, on the surface of the Imperial Capitol Planet

Senator Charles Cornwallis stalked through the main hall of his Capitol manor properties, his white cape billowing out behind him. The purple line that signified an Imperial Senator, blatantly illegal for anyone of a rank lower than Senator to actually wear, slapped against the interior stone and ancient varnished wood. Like the stone, the wood was reputed to be from the ancient home world itself and only added to the mystique and aura of ancient wealth and power that clung to House Cornwallis.

“Say that again, Factor?” he demanded of the six inch diameter floating disk with the holo-projected facial image which floated behind him.

“The failure of the Reclamation Initiative to achieve its stated goals in the allotted time frame, and with no sign that this will change within a satisfactory time frame, has shaken the investors. Combine that with the apparent change within the leadership of House Raubach and the sudden attack on several of our patents and ship building operations, and profits are down by 30% across the board,” reported the attendant.

Charles Cornwallis clenched his fists. Long known as the fourth rail of imperial politics, he’d narrowly failed during the last election in his bid for a seat on the Triumvir.

Outside of the Triumvirate, until six months earlier, House Cornwallis had brooked no equals. He had an enviable list of client houses and a faction in the Imperial Senate that was the envy of even the Triumvirs, and things had been looking up.

However, in the cutthroat arena that was imperial politics, you were either on the ascendance or in decline. After losing his bid for one of the three seats that ruled the Empire—with of course the advice and consent of the Imperial Senate that held their purse strings and had the power to launch independent initiatives on those occasions the Senate could unilaterally agree to get something done—he’d known something had to be done.

And following rumors of a lost Core Fragment of MAN, the hard copy crystalline backups that were all that now remained of their dead Data God, the idea for what was to become the Reclamation Initiative had taken root.

Several years of careful maneuvering, and the bungling of the Gorgon Wars by the Triumvirate—some of which bungling had been enabled and encouraged by Senator Cornwallis—had resulted in his plan coming to fruition. The Empire had withdrawn from the Spineward Sectors, claiming it needed Rim Fleet for the Front, and with it had all the assets and potential information sources of his potential rivals for the Fragment. All that had been left to do was gather his forces, finish pinning down where exactly this fragment was located and, of course, put an appropriate stooge in the area to take the fall if something went wrong. That stooge had to be just powerful enough to be believed as the mastermind behind any failures, but at the same time weak enough that they could be dominated by Senator Cornwallis.

“Curse those incompetent Raubachs to the depths of Data Hell!” he swore bitterly. None of this would have been happening if they hadn’t bungled their end of the operation. Everything else, including the proposed re-conquest of the Spine—only this time as Imperial provinces, a feather in his cap that he could have used to sweep into power if all else failed—could have blown up in his face. But so long as he successfully retrieved that Fragment, the Empire would have been his oyster.

“There are also signs of the beginning of a coordinated attack on our House Cornwallis’s other companies and financial interests outside of the shipbuilding industry. But as things stand right now it is too soon to tell,” reported the Factor.

“The flaming vultures have begun to circle but as long as I’m alive they’ll find Cornwallis too tough a bit of gristle to chew. No doubt our favorite Triumvir is moving against us from the shadows for fear of losing her seat on the Triumvirate when we succeed,” Charles Cornwallis grumped. “But with the investors shaken, the Initiative in disarray, and no sign of that flaming fragment in sight I may have to take direct action to salvage this thing.”

“What do you want us to do about the Raubach situation, your Excellency?” he asked.

“Do nothing for now. For all his personal animosity, the ‘new’ head of House Raubach is nothing more than a stalking horse. Any attack on him would only expose us to more dangerous enemies using them as a decoy—for that is all that the failed seed of Jameson Raubach could ever amount to: a diversion. No. Curse the previous house lord and its ruling family for the incompetent menaces they were, if they hadn’t failed—and worse, died afterwards—we wouldn’t be in this situation! As of now we have to stay the course. The die is cast and the new Prince of Raubach’s day will come, but only at a time and place of our choosing.”

“I’ll make a note to avoid any direct confrontations with-” began the Factor.

“No,” Cornwallis cut him off, “if they come at us, fight back; a House that can’t protect itself is useless. Just put out the notation to turtle up. I want no provocative actions others outside of Raubach can use as an excuse to dog-pile us.”

“Very well, your Excellency,” said the Factor.

“Tell me again about our investments in the purple cluster?” Senator Cornwallis asked.

“Pirate attacks are up and there are multiple rumors of low-tech bandits boarding merchant vessels. Unsurprisingly, we have suffered more than five times the number of ‘pirate attacks’ compared to the Merchant Guild’s threat index,” reported the Factor.

Charles Cornwallis’s eyes squeezed together tightly. “Put out feelers and request an invitation from Theodore Kennedy,” he said shortly.

“The Senator Kennedy, of House Kennedy, Sir?” the Factor clarified.

“Yes, the flaming Senator,” Charles Cornwallis flared before remastering himself. “The hoary old coot may charge almost as much as we’ll make in profit to haul our cargo, but only a fool would attack a retired Triumvir. Even Bellucci would think three and four times before making a move that might wake the old Lion of the Senate from his slumber. A ‘no confidence’ vote against anyone foolish enough to hijack his cargoes even by proxy is the least they would face. He might not win against a sitting Triumvir, but no one’s told him that.”

“Under such a scenario we would be treading water, not actually advancing House interests,” observed the Factor.

“It’s a hedge,” Cornwallis admitted, “but a necessary one. When the jackals gather to the feast, the wise bull puts a portion of the herd on the plateau out of reach. Which is why I think we’ll also begin moving key members of the main family to the Cornwallis estate world. In politics it’s always necessary to have a threat that lets them know that they can savage everything in reach while we’re unable to take effective action to stop it, but when it’s all over and Cornwallis is on the upswing we won’t do so from a position of weakness. The mere fact that we’ll have those funds, and the people to utilize them after this feeding frenzy, will stay many hands that might otherwise want to dip into our cookie jar.”

“I’d hardly describe our current situation in such dire terms. Yes things are down but…” the Factor trailed off.

“I’ve seen it happen before. The great game of the Imperial Senate is not a forum for the faint of heart. They’ll turn on you the moment they sense weakness, and with the recent reversals we’ve experienced that’s what they’re sensing. They sense wrong, however; I still have a plan to not just salvage the situation but come out of it stronger than ever! The fourth rail of Imperial politics is not so easily dealt with.”

“I am prepared to carry out any orders you might have,” said the Factor.

“Contact the Free Legion Mercenaries. I think it’s time we turned up the pressure—covertly—on House Raubach. That should prove a nice distraction and let everyone know old Charles Cornwallis is flailing around ineffectively,” the Senator said with satisfaction.

“And then?” asked the Factor.

“Just carry out your part of the operation,” the Senator said, his voice turning cold.

“Of course, Sir,” the Factor replied, signing off.

“Interface, open a secured line and prepare to forward a message. It’s time to use our contacts in the Grand Assembly and let them finally launch that mercy mission they’ve been whining about for some time now,” he chuckled darkly, “with a few adjustments of course. Janeski’s bungling was just an unfortunate temporary setback, and forewarned is definitely forearmed,” he said flatly, and then began dictating a message that would shake one mega government and multiple regions of the galaxy to their core.

Let them snipe, hit from the shadows, and do their worst. The time to settle accounts would all come later. It was time to start calling in over fifty years worth of favors.

The fourth rail had decided to move and galactic power would still one day be his for the taking.

It was time to send his best agent to do the job.

Chapter 29: Cornwallis Maneuvers in the Background

“Senator, it’s been too long,” said the short nondescript man who walked into the House Head’s private study without warning.

“Mr. Simper,” the Senator greeted the other man, “I hope you are fully recovered from the Carnifax affair?”

“Even one of the Triumvir’s vaunted Shadow Guard can be successfully diverted. The operation proceeded as planned and was successful, fulfilling all listed mission objectives. As for any injuries sustained during the job, it was nothing a competent surgeon with a vat full of surgical heal couldn’t set right,” he said with clinical professionalism. “I take it you have work?”

“Mr. Simpers, I have a job for you,” he told the other man with relish, “the operation will be two-pronged.”

“I heard you secured the services of the Free Legions before contacting me,” Mr. Simpers interjected neutrally, his voice betraying none of whatever precious few emotions the man could lay legitimate claim to experiencing. “I’m hurt.”

Cornwallis suppressed a scowl at the other man’s flaunting his knowledge of House Cornwallis’ affairs. “Yes,” he said shortly, “a necessary deception to confound my enemies. They will be there to make noise and hopefully carry out their assignment, although I won’t be waiting with bated breath for word of their success.”

“The Free Legions are a professional organization not known for their string of failures,” Mr. Simpers said flatly.

“Triumvir Bellucci is a formidable foe, and the resurgent Prince Raubach is currently under her eye. Frankly, I have bigger fish to fry and more important matters to attend than the head of a dwindling vassal house—as satisfying as it might be to attend to that matter just now,” said the Senator.

“Thus the Free Legions, followed by our meeting,” Mr. Simpers said appreciatively.

“Exactly,” Cornwallis reached for a Rigellan Cigar, one of the best in the galaxy. Only after the Senator had been puffing away for a good half minute did he look back over at Simpers. “Want one?” he asked, savoring the flavor.

“I’ll pass,” the short-statured man said, sitting rigidly upright in his chair. “It’s a pity about House Raubach; I was almost looking forward to tangling with its new leader, given his particular background and the…interesting rumors I’ve been hearing about this provincial special forces group he’s acquired.”

“Despite the rumors that he’s destroyed the particular…item I am searching for,” Cornwallis said carefully, “it’s inconceivable that he actually did destroy it. Whoever controls it controls the very future of the Empire; only a blind fool would relinquish that power or, worse yet, fail to leverage it for himself. Even a man with Jameson Raubach 2.0’s peculiar history would have to be a complete and utter fool to risk being torn limb from limb on the Senate floor. As such, the prize can only remain to be found and, as I can’t imagine that he would have it without Bellucci finding it and taking its possession away from him, nor Bellucci from using it once it was within her possession…” he trailed off before saying decisively, “no. I have my feelers out and an action team is on standby. But this will be handled as an internal house matter.”

“As you wish.” Mr. Simpers sighed. “You were saying about this new assignment?”

“Yes, down to business,” the Senator said decisively, putting down his smoke and grinding it in an ashtray before meeting and holding Mr. Simpers eyes.

For his part, Mr. Simpers just looked back at him evenly and the former Admiral grunted, pleased with the result.

“I want you to stop our efforts to impede the Grand Assembly. Keeping the Confederation deadlocked with infighting and bills to support the lost Sectors held up in committee has suddenly become counter-productive,” said the Senator.

“That should be easy enough to do,” Simpers said, cocking his head to the side. “Of course, if we do that their relief fleet will in all likelihood sail straight into the Spine and within the year if I am any judge.”

“A year is too long. It’s time to get out and push,” Charles Cornwallis the head of house Cornwallis instructed the Agent Provocateur. “Let their mercy mission proceed… with a few modifications, of course.” The Senator smiled at his last statement.

“What were you thinking, Senator?” Mr. Simpers asked curiously, looking intrigued by the notion of indirectly steering policy of a mega-government on a grand scale.

Charles Cornwallis liked to know the men he worked with, and Mr. Simpers was a man who came from a stolid middle class background. Just high enough that, with opportunity and the right education, he could rise up to himself be one of the levers of Imperial politics but not high enough that he himself could ever rise above a mid-level official. For a man like him, this sort of action was what he lived for.

“Instead of our usual intransigent schemes, I want you to release a series of carefully prepared press releases about droid threats, genetic uplifts, and general chaos in the Spine. I have actual files of their existence and various depredations both inside and outside the former Confederation Border Sectors,” the Senator said, adding that last part dismissively as that was not the main thrust of his designs.

“Manipulating the foreign policy of a foreign mega-government is quite costly, not to mention potentially hazardous to one’s health. You’re well aware of this,” pointed out Mr. Simpers, “plus I have the feeling that there’s more to this scheme than you’ve relayed so far.”

“This is the Confederation we’re talking about; get real,” Senator Cornwallis said dismissively, “rest assured though you’ll get your usual fee.”

“For a job like this, my usual fee will not suffice,” bargained Mr. Simpers, but the Imperial Senator waved it away.

“Whatever it is, including your action fund, House Cornwallis will pay for it, don’t worry,” he said. “However, the next part is highly sensitive information. I cannot stress enough that it simply cannot leak. Not before the Confederation has the chance to vote.”

“Then, by all means, consider me under contract and continue,” Mr. Simpers urged, leaning forward in his chair.

“Next on the agenda, we’ll get them to pass a bill asking for the Empire to clean up their mess,” Cornwallis spoke with a bared-teeth smile. “Oh, couch it however you like: asking for assistance, or making the Empire agree clean up and, more importantly, ‘pay’ for the mess we—meaning you and I—created for them. Word it however you have to, just make sure it goes through. Substance over form is the watchword here,” he lifted a finger for emphasis.

“It might take a while but, being Assembly men, they’ll gladly jump at anything they don’t have to pay for,” Simpers said with a shrug. “Anything that doesn’t require them to get a bill out of the appropriations committee and onto the floor of the Assembly will meet with great favor in certain circles—ones that might surprise you, actually—over there.”

“While I’m always interested in details,” Cornwallis said with a frown, “in this case I’ll take a non-binding resolution if I have to and settle up with the intransigents later. But I need to make this next point absolutely clear: I want it done fast and the prep work done quietly, before word can leak back home and the Senate can put its oar in.”

“That makes it harder,” Mr. Simpers said, his brow furrowing as if he were in deep thought. “But not impossible,” his brow un-furrowed, “with their previous budget, the one before the Spineward Incident, they were able to pay for a full fleet and universal living wages or a full fleet and universal health care but they couldn’t afford both a full fleet and a full living wage along with universal health care. Which was why their fleet was at half mast and they’d turned over most of the police and border duties on their actual borders to the Empire and Rim Fleet. As long as we pay for it, anything should technically be possible…of course, to get it done fast, we might have to pay out more than bribes. Funds for the relief effort might be needed as well.”

“As with so many socialists before them, they decided to make like a grasshopper and sing and dance in the streets while the productive little ants in the Empire did all the hard work,” The Senator said scornfully. “Promise them the moon, money-wise, if that’s what it’ll take to get the resolution. We can always plunder the Spine to pay them off later if that’s the road we choose. Just so long as I get a resolution for the Empire to bring the Spine back into the fold by any means necessary, and a request for the Empire to spearhead the ‘military’ effort. After that, the peacekeeping elements can wait for the fund transfer, staying behind until it’s safe and the area’s been properly pacified. Then they can sweep in like usual, decry the hard decisions the military had to make, and gleefully welcome their former brothers back into the fold with welcome arms of humanity,” he continued with a smile. “And in the meantime I’ll be redrawing their previous Sector borders into provincial administrative districts, waiting for ratification from the Empire before bringing them fully into the Empire of Man.”

Mr. Simper’s breath whooshed out “An ambitious goal, and one that Confederation will cry bloody murder about it if it’s not handed properly and even then…” he trailed off. “Will the Empire even back such a play?”

“The Confederation angle is why you’re paid the big bucks, Simpers. As for the Empire, if the choice is expanding the Imperial zone of control or leaving a region the size of four provinces in the hands of a single Imperial house, which way do you think they’ll jump?” Cornwallis asked scornfully. “As for giving it back to the Confederals? The Empire does not easily let go of that which it has paid blood to purchase, unlike the Confederation which has all but allowed the Spine to fall to warlords and pirates while it bickered with itself on the Assembly floor.”

“I’ll trust you to know the Imperial angle and more specifically the mind of the Senate better than I,” Mr. Simpers splayed his hands, “but I’ll admit even for me it has been surprising just how amenable the Assembly has been to grid lock and failure to take action. This is seven Sectors of their own Empire we’re talking about.”

“I shouldn’t have to tell you they’re a ‘Confederacy,’ not Empire; there is a decided difference,” Cornwallis corrected pointedly. “Someday we’ll have actual human unity instead of this farce and treaty nonsense.”

“Until then we have to keep working for that blessed day,” Mr. Simpers deadpanned, “but on a more serious note, our two systems are just too far apart for an amicable union.”

Cornwallis snorted. “Never happen,” he dismissed, “they’ve already discarded too much of what makes the Empire great while wholeheartedly embracing what are ultimately self-destructive, soft power proposals.”

“The flaming atoms of it is, Senator,” the Agent shook his head, “that if the Empire wasn’t currently at war with the Gorgon’s, with the way our economy had been growing by leaps and bounds, we were almost at the point where we could provide all three of those—military, health and wages—instead of just two and a partial, like with the Confederation Grand Assembly,” Mr. Simpers sighed.

The Senator glowered at the Agent Provocateur. “Don’t let your misspent time manipulating the Confederation turn you soft on me, Mr. Simpers. There’s a reason why the Imperial Senate never has and never will go down that route even if we could pay for it,” he said sternly, “and that’s because, if there is a crisis, you have no reserve to defend your civilization. And Mr. Simpers, despite what the Confederation try to tell us, there is always a crisis. Some alien race, some mad dog demagogue offering safety from imagined enemies, or universal suffrage if you’ll just give him unlimited power, or the coordinates to planetary body Free Lunch will be yours.” He made a popped air balloon sound before slapping a hand down on the table, “The Empire’s citizens stay hard and they stay hungry when they live and die by their own hands. As for a social safety net, that’s why we have the Imperial Colonization program. No one needs to die because they lost their job, got sick, or had a bad turn. All they have to do is ask for help and they’ll get it,” the Senator chuckled.

“They just have to reimburse society for their second chance by turning pioneer and risking their lives, and those of their families, by hopefully expanding the Empire’s borders,” Mr. Simpers said neutrally.

“You can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs,” Cornwallis shrugged callously, “and besides, if you want to join in the great game of Empire and have a shot at real power, there’s no room for that in the Core provinces. You or your family has to go out there and at least bring in a newly developed world first.”

“Even then the game is rigged against them,” pointed out Simpers.

The Senator shrugged. “It’s how most of our key Senatorial Client Houses came up,” he shrugged.

“My point exactly,” muttered the Agent before straightening, “regardless, I believe I understand what you desire and have at least an 80% chance of achieving an acceptable result. I’m in.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear,” smiled the Senator.

Chapter 30: Sending Gants on Assignment

“Mr. Gants, thank you for joining us,” I said as soon as the Head of Armory came into the room.

The Lieutenant braced to attention and saluted. “Lieutenant Gants reporting as ordered, Sir,” he said.

“At ease, Gants,” I instructed, and the other man relaxed fractionally his arm falling back to his side. “So, tell me all about it?”

“If this is about the children, Admiral, then I can assure you that security is tight and each of the children has one of my most trusted men watching them round the clock. There have been no issues,” he assured me.

“Good to know, though not why I called you here, Gants,” I said.

“What do you need, Admiral? Just say the word,” Gants said seriously.

“We’re having a little problem on Tracto and I need a man smart enough and loyal enough to find it and root it out,” I leaned forward, “are you that man, Lieutenant?”

“I don’t know if I qualify very highly on the smart scale, Admiral, but if you need me and can use me I’m your man,” Gants said firmly and then looked uneasy for a moment before he spoke again. “I just worry about who will watch over the children when I’m gone is all, Sir.”

“You think too little of yourself, Florence,” I told him, “you may not be winning prizes in astrophysics anytime soon but, then again, neither will I.”

“If you say so, Admiral. I know I don’t have what it takes to run a fleet like you do. A suit of power armor and a team of men I can handle but more than that…” Gants shrugged as if to say he was willing to give it a go.

“Don’t worry about the babies: half your team will be staying here to continue guarding them. Just pick out the man you want to leave in charge when you go so I know who to go to and set your mind on your new assignment,” I said.

Gants nodded, “What’s the assignment, Sir?”

“I need to send a team back to Tracto,” I said flatly.

“We’ve got lots of people back in Tracto, Sir. What’s special about this mission?”

“I believe there is a fly in our ointment back there, Lieutenant, and I aim to squish it before it can lay any maggots,” I said harshly.

“A fly, Sir?” Gants’ brow wrinkled.

“A traitor, Gants. Maybe a spy, maybe just corrupt and criminally incompetent. Either which way he has to go, along with anyone who’s helping him and I’m going to put you in charge of it,” I informed the other man flatly.

“I’m your man,” the earnest young man hastened to assure me, “but are you sure it’s one of ours?” he asked, looking troubled.

“There have been a lot of new people brought into the MSP very quickly and someone,” here I paused dourly, “seems to feel they can give orders concerning the status of my prisoners in Gambit all the way from Tracto,” I said, bringing up a file onto my pad and shooting it over. “And no one would ever even know about it if I hadn’t gone down there personally. Study that file; it has everything we’ve got on the situation and make sure to a take tech team with you when you go. I’ll arrange transport on a destroyer that will ostensibly be going to Tracto to increase the system defense force but, in reality, will be there to back you up if you need more manpower. I’ll leave sealed orders with the ship’s captain.”

“Will do, Sir,” Gants said, his face hardening. “We won’t let you down. and we don’t need anyone thinking that because the Reclamation Fleet is gone that they can start taking advantage of us and start selling us out to the Sector Government!”

“Whoever it is. I want them stopped. Whether they’re Sector Government, Reclamation Fleet, Caprian SDF, or any other independent operators,” I said.

Gants frowned when I mentioned the Caprian SDF, but reluctantly nodded his agreement. Clearly the idea of fighting with our old home world didn’t sit well with him, but he was ready and willing to stand by me which was all I could ask and more.

“I won’t let you down, Sir,” he repeated.

“Good man,” I said, moving around the table to clap him on the shoulder, “now go pick your team, both the one going and the one staying, and report back to me when you’re ready. In the meantime I’ll look up ship captains and have everything ready by the time you leave.” Or at least my new Chief of Staff will, if I get bogged down with other work, I silently amended, because one way or the other this mission was going to happen.

Chapter 31: Information Gathering in the Grand Assembly

“So how is my favorite Assemblyman?” Mr. Simpers asked, stepping into the most innermost sanctum of the Assemblyman’s office.

The woman seated behind the desk jumped and then shot the Agent a hard look. “Mr. Simpers,” she acknowledged, tapping the name plate on the desk that clearly said her title was ‘Assemblywoman.’ “How many times have I told you not to sneak into my office and startle me like that? And that’s ‘Grand’ Assemblywoman, if you please!”

“Thirty two, if I’m not mistaken,” the short-statured agent said, plopping himself down into the visitor’s chair in front of his desk and lifting an eyebrow. “And I seem to distinctly recall your sharp and vociferous requirements that I address you as ‘Assemblyman’ and not ‘Assemblywoman’.”

“Yes, but that was when I was protesting male privilege and the complete emasculation of the female gender that was an inevitable result of male heritage week by masculating myself with a symbolic gender change. But right now I’m showing my solidarity with people of Cantipola IV, a super-majority of which were strong-willed women and transgender survivors locked into survival capsules against their will by their now dead patriarchal suppressors, during a once in a ten thousand year cycle solar flare. As such, I have re-feminized myself in support. Thus it is more appropriate to address me as ‘Grand Assemblywoman’ or, if you want to subtly rebuke, Assembly-hir, in protest for my overly specific title instructions during our previous meeting,” the Assemblywoman said primly.

“I wasn’t aware that the Yin gender could be emasculated,” Mr. Simpers said solicitously, “but please, let me say how quite recovered you look for a person who’s gone through multiple rounds of physical reconstruction and genetic re-lathing—twice, it seems—and, what’s more, I can hardly see the adverse effects of such massive multiple reconstructive surgeries at all!”

The Assemblywoman gave him a withering look. “That’s because your Imperial brainwashing has failed you once again, Mr. Simpers,” she said tartly. “The Grand Assembly recognizes over 132 genders, many of which do not require reconstructive surgery or any alterations of the physical body in order to recognize an inherently re-gendered state of existence. For the purposes of our discussion, you can consider me to have mentally restructured my gender into today’s more pleasing—read: necessary for solidarity’s sake—form.”

“Interesting,” Simpers said, his eyes flashing with suppressed impatience, “It was my understanding that Imperial Science has definitively found that the chemical and hormonal baths a person’s brain undergoes during their formative years results in structural changes which are unable to be reformed by simple willpower alone. I hope that there hasn’t been any trouble with your current gender assignment?”

The Grand Assemblywoman bristled like a stung cat. “Imperial propaganda and ‘fake science’ strikes again. The whole ‘nature versus nurture’ argument is now a false paradigm,” she declared, throwing her hands wide. “With the latest advances in Confederation science, we can finally accomplish things your Empire can only dream about! The complete restructuring of not just the body, but the brain itself, completely cuts the nature portion of that archaic and divisive ‘nature versus nurture’ debate entirely out of the equation once and for all. Finally, we can put an end to any wrongheaded, regressive attempts at appeasement of wrong thinkers and their aberrant behaviors.”

“A fascinating if, you will forgive me, rather pointless advance in science, at least as seen through the Empire’s eyes,” Simpers said. “But I am amazed that your healthcare establishment is able to provide such enhanced reconstructive services to the entire body politic.”

The Grand Assemblywoman winced. “Currently I am told our budget cannot support such wide-ranging measures, even if certain regressive elements of the Assembly that are automatically opposed to any unnecessary alterations of their physical bodies,” she sighed.

“It is a sad day when the Confederation finally has the tools to fulfill its stated goals, but not such plebian matters as the funding or the legislative support of certain unenlightened factions to do so,” Simpers said without emotion. “Turning from the macro, I hope all is well with you personally in these trying times?”

“Unfortunately there has been a wrinkle of my own creation,” frowned the Grand Assemblywoman. “It seems this outdated level of the Assembly Offices only has restrooms designated for the traditional 32 genders recognized during the construction of the Grand Assembly Building and, out of a force of habit, I mistakenly entered the wrong toilet facilities. However, the gentlebeings present in the facility at that time were willing to overlook my faux pas considering my recent transition and the mental strain that traditionally accompany such changed circumstances. You might not realize it, but such transitions can be quite disconcerting.”

Mr. Simpers rubbed his eyes with both hands. “As fascinating as this discussion on strain of mental gender transition, toileting misadventures, and how much a struggle the transitioning to a traditional female gendered mindset has been for you…” he trailed off, sweeping the woman’s clearly unmodified female body from top to bottom with an assessing look while simultaneously thinking about the millions of Imperial Credit Marks that had been funneled into the Grand Assemblywoman’s private accounts, “if you could indulge a simple Imperial brute then we could get down to the business at hand, which I would certainly appreciate.”

“I’m pleased with both your kind consideration and with how well you’re starting to adjust to a more progressive Confederation mindset,” she said happily. And then her entire affect seemed to change, and gone was the nitpicking gender-conscious crusader while in her place was the hard-nosed, wheeling and dealing politician he’d spent millions to suborn for an ally, “Now, what exactly did you want to know.”

“A simple run-through on where we’re at now would suffice,” Mr. Simpers said simply.

She nodded sharply. “As you requested, a bill empowering the Imperial Senate to ‘save’ the Spineward Sectors from themselves has been floated around through committee,” she said seriously.

“Any push back?” he asked.

She scowled. “As expected, a large protest movement blaming the entire situation on the Empire, instead of those backworld hick regressives in the Spine, cropped up,” she said savagely before smiling with satisfaction. “Fortunately, we fought back with a coalition counter-movement which started by pointing out the Spine stopped paying its taxes years ago to sap the wills of certain budget hawks, before shifting to the abysmal state of their across-the-board universal services acts at Sector level prior to the Imperial Withdrawal that so many of our right thinking political parties love to champion. That, and a combination of outright bribes and backroom trading, successfully stopped the protest movement cold.”

“Good,” he said shortly, “although I’m unsure what the status of their social service programs has to do with anything from a practical stance. Politics do make for strange bed fellows,” he finished quizzically.

“Well if you stop paying your taxes to the central government you can hardly expect to have your social programs subsidized by the Confederation, now can you?” she pointed out brightly. “And if something is not subsidized by a higher authority and earmarked for improvement, local politicians will always find something else they’d rather spend the money on in such a regressive region of space. Thus requiring a resulting backlash from right-thinking political parties at the Confederation level”

“I see,” Mr. Simpers said, shaking his head. Confederation logic was hard to understand sometimes, especially here in the heart worlds.

“Let’s be honest: at this point they’d just pull us back down,” she said looking conflicted, “all hyperbole aside, their hearts are in the right place—or were, generally speaking—but they’re such provincials out there that they simply couldn’t have afforded to implement the Confederation’s new Fairness Doctrine before the separation.”

“You mean the legislation the fringe areas were holding up in committee before communication with the Spineward Sectors became…sporadic?” he asked.

“Yes! But that leads us to another problem,” she exclaimed. now looking ill at ease. “It was one thing to allow the Spineward Sectors to fall out of contact with the heart-region, at least long enough for their representatives to be cut off at the Grand Assembly prompting them to either go home or degenerate into non-voting members until communication could be reestablished…”

“Thus bypassing their intransigence on certain key initiatives, just like we planned,” Mr. Simpers nodded in agreement.

“Exactly! However, now that your principle has decided that it’s time to bring them back into the fold, many—even many in my own party—are dragging their feet on the proposed legislation,” she took a deep breath, “the issues are twofold that once the isolated Sectors rejoin the central regions they might have the votes to overturn the Fairness Doctrine, as well as several other absolutely vital programs that we were only able to ram through the Grand Assembly after they lost their voting rights due to inactivity. And that even if they fail to overturn Fairness outright the sheer number of bailouts we would need to provide to get their economies back on track would be so large that we might have to roll back Fairness or risk a Confederation-wide recession.”

“That is a pickle,” Mr. Simpers said confidently, “recessions aren’t good for reelections.”

“Not unless you can blame it on the opposition,” she pointed out, “which is beside the point. Anyway, with my Absolute Choice party on the fence and our natural allies the One Wayers openly raising concerns in committee this has given our adversaries in the Assembly, specifically Border Integrity Movement and Responsible Labor, the opportunity is here for them to make political hay with all sorts of ‘I told you so’ rhetoric and ad hominem attacks,” she rolled her eyes.

“Such as?”

“Like if the Empire had only continued to pay its ‘fair share’ then we, the Confederation Assembly, could have afforded the very fleet that the Empire is offering to send for free themselves. Which is particularly appealing to the Confederation Industry Party as well as the Balanced Tax Progressives,” she burst out and then looked at him to see if he was about to lose his cool. “I’ve been fighting these vicious slanders against our greatest ally, and your patron, with 230% of my power but it’s been hard to quell.”

“An entirely understandable political attack since it’s essentially the truth,” Mr. Simpers shrugged it off, “perhaps there’s a way we can address everyone’s concerns. Even the Border Integrity Party has to understand that this isn’t two centuries ago.”

“That’s what I keep telling them!” she cried happily. “Everyone knows the Confederation at large won’t stand for thousands of military casualties like in past centuries; it would be career suicide for any Assemblyperson who voted for it!”

“Meanwhile the Empire is prepared to absorb potentially millions of lives lost if that was the cost to reclaim the area,” Simpers agreed frankly.

She blinked looked taken aback and disconcerted before giving herself a quick shake. “Forget the losing millions rhetoric; it won’t play well here no one would believe it,” she said, rolling her eyes, “but simply requiring millions of military personnel to go out into the Spine on peace-keeping missions is likely to cause a voter revolt!”

“I hadn’t realized it would be considered rhetoric here,” he murmured and then made a ‘continue’ motion, “but do go on.”

“I don’t know about how things play in the Empire; your populations appear much more willing to soak up large military deployment budgets than ours. But it would almost be worth it to try sending in our own fleets just to see those road-blocking Border Integrity Assemblymembers voted right out of office the next election cycle, along with their ‘But they’re our worlds!’ slogan with them,” she paused, smiling viciously at the thought of her political enemies laid to waste and removed as a future impediment before giving herself a shake. “It might almost be worth it just to see them completely marginalized…but only almost. I’m a woman of my word and, anyways, better in the long run if we give them to the Empire and be done with the whole hot mess. I surely don’t want to be the one to tell billions of disgruntled voters that Grandma’s life-prolonging treatment has to be delayed for six months, or that their work-free living wage has to be cut by 10-20% for the indefinite future. What are they supposed to do?” she asked rhetorically before answering her query in kind. “Get a part-time job just to cover non-vital expenditures?! Cutting into a voter’s entertainment budget is a surefire way to a slip in polls, and future revolts at the voting booth are all but assured.”

“We wouldn’t want that,” said Mr. Simpers.

“We promised them a prolonged non-working lifespan with free anti-aging treatments in exchange for their votes,” the Grand Assemblywoman declared. “If we turn around and suddenly try to tell fifty percent of a planetary population that they now have to start work and get part-time jobs because we have to go and liberate a few paltry fringe worlds that don’t contribute in any meaningful way to the galactic entertainment channels, or offer anything substantial in the way of real trade or scientific breakthroughs…” she trailed off.

“Or even worse, say we were wrong when we assured them we could afford to pay for everything with just a few savage cuts to a grossly inflated defense budget…” Mr. Simpers pointed out.

“Exactly! It was my two-times predecessor who promised that, and my party stands by those campaign promises. We’d have protests and sit-down movements across entire Sectors of the heartland, shutting down all ground traffic in the streets and blocking the entrances to government offices in major worlds across the Confederation!” she growled. “Plus remember that we’d be risking all of this for those savages out in the spine who still actually ‘require’ something like 80% of their planetary populations to work if they want to eat and maintain a basic standard of living!”

“Perish the thought…but let’s shift to the actual proposals on the table and the number of oppositions members we’ll need to convince or pay off,” suggested the Imperial Agent.

“They don’t even offer a living wage or mandatory free health care like in the Spineward Core Worlds—the Sector-level Core Worlds!” the Grand Assemblywoman said in a rising voice, completely ignoring the Agent. “If a citizen living in those worlds actually refuses to work, the safety net will disappear after only five years and they could literally die! Do you hear me? STARVE TO DEATH!! That’s like telling each and every person in your society that they only have five years of true freedom in their lifetime, after which they should just consider themselves enslaved to the system—and Absolute Choice absolutely stands in diametric opposition to any such system. When you have people literally dying of neglect because they refused to contribute to society in any meaningful way, what’s next? A return to the cost-benefit ratio? Mandatory death squads if you’re too old and your benefits cost too much to payout, considering your number of quality work years remaining or your productivity quotient dropped? This is exactly what our ancestors fought against,” she said passionately, “this AI-driven dribble that requires a person contribute to society or literally die!”

Her dander was well-and-truly up, but Simpers projected the air of a man every bit as interested in hearing her litany as she was in telling it.

“You can’t get more outrageous than this sort of outdated notion in a modern galactic society,” she continued. “The Confederation is firmly pro-choice and the choice to work is a personal decision, not a state requirement! Cradle to the grave entitlements aren’t a requirement—they’re a natural born right! To be a truly free society means you only contribute to that society if you choose. You only work if you choose! The ultimate freedom is to do what you want. That’s the whole point. Freedom. Of. Choice. What else has the entire human race worked for these past millennium, if not to reduce the amount of labor necessary for survival? Well, newsflash: labor is now obsolete and the very natural progression of human development throughout history becomes meaningless if we don’t grab this chance with both hands and nip it in the bud!” she cried.

“You must admit that you’re using technology you refuse to allow outside of your ‘heartland’ Sectors, and that some might argue a life of pleasure-seeking decadence or self-actualization is inherently species-limiting,” said Simpers. “That it was improved competition and expansion into new environments, increasing population growth potential, that drives the species but…I suppose that is neither here nor there,” he said firmly. “Passing legislation such as requesting an Imperial Fleet in the Spine to restore order is the reason you and I both currently have jobs.”

“And they’d be fools if they actually thought that! I realize that might be the official line your Empire likes to trot around in private but I sincerely doubt that even your Senators truly believe it,” she flared before glaring at him. “Besides which, only the Confederation Assembly is wise enough to decide which worlds are competent enough to use that level of technology.” She sniffed haughtily, “And until their awareness levels on both the social and technological front improve, we will not be releasing such techa into the hands of…”

“Grand Assemblywoman Irene Gravity, if you would please…” Mr. Simpers warned. While completely certain that if she knew what the Imperial Senate, or at least several of its most prominent Senators actually thought, she’d be horrified.

“Fine! I know what you really want is a list of who to bribe, who to coerce or convince and so on and so forth. I assure you it’s all in here,” she cut him off, flipping a file over the desk to him.

“Thank you, Assemblywoman, and I assure you my government thanks you for your cooperation as well,” he said with a bow.

“Please, let’s not pretend that it’s the Imperial Government that wants this,” she rolled her eyes, “it’s the specific Senator that’s backing you, and I’m fine with that. This galaxy was built on personal favors and horse-trading, after all.”

Simpers paused. “Just so long as we’re clear that our arrangement is between you and me not the Senator…” he warned.

“That’s fine with me. Having the man known as Mr. Simpers owe me a favor is more than enough for a ‘humble’ Assemblyperson like me,” she purred.

He lifted an eyebrow. “I thought it was Assemblywoman today?” he asked pointedly.

“I think I’m feeling another change sneaking up on me,” she said, running her eyes up and down the length of his body, “but I’m not quite sure exactly what it is…yet.” She eyed him, “But it might possibly even be vanilla enough for an Imperial such as yourself.”

He shook his head and turned back to his electronic data slate and the file displayed on it.

She gave a throaty laugh, which he studiously proceeded to ignore as her thinly veiled machination was exposed for the fraud it was. He didn’t have time for Confederation games right now—and he never mixed business with pleasure. Well…unless that business was pleasure.

“Alright,” he said after scanning the list the Assemblywoman had compiled. His finger moved down the list he stopped on a particular name. “The Speaker is working against us?”

“Not so much against as…open to additional persuasion,” she smiled.

Mr. Simpers grimaced. “I don’t mind paying off politicians, but I detest when a man won’t stay bought,” he said flatly.

“Man, woman or herm,” corrected Irene Gravity.

“As if what I call him will change the fact the esteemed speaker takes credits for favors and then seems to forgets he was paid when it comes time to deliver,” Mr. Simpers scowled.

“What can you do?” the Grand Assemblywoman shrugged, “Besides, the Speaker’s under a lot of pressure lately. Rumor is the extremists are threatening to throw their unilateral support behind his most powerful rival. Without,” she added in the tone of someone relaying very juicy piece of gossip, “asking for anything in return for their support. It’s caused quite the scandal. One might almost think the fascists were standing on principle—if they actually had any, that is.”

“Perhaps it’s time to remind the speaker that credits aren’t the only way to motivate a man,” Mr. Simpers mused, still quietly pondering the issue of the Speaker’s intransigence.

“Didn’t you hear what I said?” she demanded.

“Yes, the speaker is under threat from the loyal opposition and may just possibly lose his job,” he grunted. “I read you loud and clear.”

“Loyal Opposition? They’re a basket of blasted would-be fascist exploiters who want to bring back their version of AI exploitation!” she said angrily. “Thank the gods for those archaic sunlight clauses only requiring five years of review before the legislation becomes permanent, and then it takes a super-majority vote in the assembly to overturn. Soon the new legislation will be permanent and we’ll have fundamentally transformed the Confederation. Then even if the seven Sectors of the Spine return, there will be nothing the fascists can do to stop it!”

“Hardly the democratic process the Confederation so loudly lauds, but quite effective in achieving both our goals none the less,” Simpers observed.

“I admit I was concerned that our little scheme would be discovered when you first presented the idea to me. It seemed…overly ambitious,” she said frankly, “however, you were right: the loss of seven full Sectors in the Spine neutered the fascist voting blocks in the Grand Assembly just as you predicted,” she smirked with satisfaction and then smiled more genuinely. “Thankfully, in another year or two we’ll be past sunlight and those automatic review clauses. When the savages on the frontiers are finally readmitted, if they ever are,” she added pointedly, “they won’t have the votes to change things back. A simple majority will no longer suffice,” she said with a satisfied expression, “the Confederation will finally be back on the right track and no one ever needs to know it was just you and me—two men in a back room, smoking cigars with a plan that transformed the galaxy for the betterment of all.”

“So say we all,” Mr. Simpers said absently, “I’m just surprised there wasn’t more backlash against the Empire than there was.”

“We handled that,” she said and then scowled at him, “are you still focused on your little ‘revenge play’?” she demanded, “you realize all our plans may turn out to be utterly useless if the Speaker loses power, the fascists are really riled up lately, Sweet Asterisk they’re willing to do practically anything, even vote for another party, to achieve their goals!”

Mr. Simpers looked at her and sighed, holding up a finger.

“One, fascists are generally willing to kill anyone who gets in their way and feed long pork to anyone that survives in order to cut down on food costs of keeping prisoners, neither of which your so-called fascist opposition appear at all willing to do,” he observed. “And two—”

“They’re blasted fascists and they would turn back the clock on every important piece of legislation from the past fifty years!” she exclaimed furiously. “The fleet was cut for a reason: the military industrial complex has been almost completely dismantled during my tenure, its workers retrained and shifted to other job sectors. The work of generations culminated in a Confederation free from the sins of its past, and you can take that to the voting booth! Now all we have to do is wait until they die off and, except for a few historical relics, the last remnants of the old militant order will be swept away. Choice, security, and the promise of a grand new age are just around the-”

“And two,” he resumed, a steely edge hardening his voice, “what makes you think that when the current speaker goes down the legislation dies with him?”

She froze. “You mean…you bought the head of the…?”

“Let’s just say that I have prepared multiple contingencies,” he interrupted with smooth confidence. “One way or another, this legislation will pass through the Assembly,” he shot her a discerning look. “I think you know my track record.” It was always best, after all, if your contacts in the Confederation Assembly were left uncertain as to your exact capabilities. It added a level of humility and caution that was sadly lacking among their internal disputes.

She sat back as implications set in, nearly concealing the nervous swallowing of an apparent knot in her throat. “Well then…” she said as a rare note of humility entered her voice.

It was a note which gave him every ounce of satisfaction he’d hoped it would.

Chapter 32: Manipulating the Grand Assembly

Simpers stepped into a room in chaos. The floor of the Grand Assembly practically seethed with activity. On one side were aids and assemblymen hurrying up and down the aisle, rapidly exchanging words and electronic files with a physical tap of one slate against another for secure data transfer. On the other side of the chamber was sheer pandemonium as fists waved in the air and multiple sides shouted at and shouted down one another.

It was hardly the refined, stately image the Grand Assembly liked to portray to the rest of the galaxy.

Of course, anyone who had access to the time-delayed feed from the Grand Assembly floor would know that lie for what it was. But several predecessors of the latest Fairness Doctrine had imposed significant restrictions on exactly who could access that time delayed feed. Citing fake news reports that viciously slandered the august body and caused significant material damage to the morale of the Confederation at large, the Grand Assembly had passed the Truth in Media act which put hard limits on what news outlets like Cosmic News Network could report that were later only partially overturned. Speculation had been sharply curtailed, although direct quotes and video clips of actual Assembly members both on and off the floor, were still allowed.

Several high-profile cases championed by among others the Media before finally working their way up before a Grand Panel of Sector Judges had been needed to reach that point, before the limits of Truth in Media were finally found.

Now every report on the Grand Assembly was required to have an opposing view presented at all times, and you either had to be employed by the government or fill out an hour-long series of disclosure and hold harmless forms, in which you were required to hold the Grand Assembly blameless for any morale-damaging content you might experience. There were also several associated waivers indicating that you held them blameless for any additional psychological counseling sessions that were required as a result of watching the direct feed news.

In short, Simpers snorted, you could get the free counseling you needed but couldn’t sue the government for any mental trauma you experienced from realizing your leaders were a bunch of clowns. Angry, rage-filled clowns at times—at least by Imperial standards—but bumbling buffoons nonetheless.

Confined to a floating visitors’ booth behind security glass—built from imported Imperial mono-locsium—the Agent, currently posing as an important healthcare lobbyist, couldn’t actually go out onto the floor of the Grand Assembly. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t still influence the voting process via use of the large holo-console placed in front of his highly-coveted seat.

At the moment he was monitoring the direct feed coming from the Grand Assemblywoman’s anti-privacy network. The anti-privacy network was required by all members of the Grand Assembly when they were on the floor. However, access to the feed itself was only available if the Assemblyperson granted you access, or a court order from a Sector level Judge authorized the opening of the secure servers deep in the heart of the Grand Assembly. Under the theory that, if they had nothing to hide they wouldn’t mind being monitored 24/7, the Agent had yet to encounter an Assemblyman, woman, or herm that didn’t have a blocker or blurrer of some kind that would still allow for private conversations.

“I’m honestly not sure if this is the right move, Irene,” the Assemblyman standing next to her sounded worried.

“It’s Grand Assemblyherm Gravity to you, Constance,” the head of the Absolute Choice party said irritably. “And what’s wrong about it? Either way the vote goes you’ll maintain your ranking member status on the Social Services Committee panel.”

“The way you cycle through genders so fast makes it hard to keep up, Assemblyherm,” the Grand Assemblyman complained, “maybe you should just admit you’re a polymorph and save the rest of us the headache? And as for what’s wrong, how can you even ask that? Its eight entire Sectors you’re asking us to give up here. This is not like throwing a few worlds in the Bamona Quadrant to the Empire. Sectors are not peanuts or chump change, Irene!”

The Grand Assemblywoman’s eyes bulged and her hand went to her chest. “A polymorph? What a completely sexist remark! If you feel that way then why don’t you just go and join the fascists in the Border Integrity Movement?” she shouted. “I keep my shifts within the mandatory, legally allowed, 3 hour minimum duration, maximum 47 per month quota allowance for safe and psychologically-healthy gender identity shifts.

“Do you want to kill my career?” he retorted tensely, looking around to see if anyone had noticed. “I didn’t mean to threaten your gender identity; you know me better than that. And attacking me to stay in line may help party unity but it won’t save us when you go and try to give away eight sectors to the Empire, Irene!”

“I know your heart is in the right place, Constance,” she said, reaching over to give his arm a squeeze, “and I appreciate your absolute unity with the party when it comes to free choice like this. That said, let’s be honest here: we simply can’t afford the bailouts it would take to repair the damage that even the most generous estimates say the worlds of the Spineward Region have experienced to date.”

“Border Integrity will have a fit, the Industry Party won’t stand for losing the option of exploiting seven Sectors’ worth of raw materials, and Labor will follow along with both of them like loyal little lapdogs hoping for more jobs. You know how they start screaming whenever a planet’s work force levels drop below 15 percent of the population and they lose their voter base, Irene!” Assemblyman Constance cried.

“We dug the ovaries out of Labor and Integrity when we ‘temporarily’ let go of the Spine deal with its own issues, but the situation has changed,” Irene said passionately.

“But the cost, boss! We’re looking at total party suicide if this plays out wrong in the court of public opinion,” Constance protested.

“You can’t please everyone,” she said coldly, “let Border Integrity keep howling in the wilderness. Offer Labor more jobs and they’ll vote their interests like the prostitutes they are each and every time, and Industry Party is almost the same way. Promise them enough money, the rights to build more class one factories, and relax the regulations on future mineral extraction rights and they’ll shift with the wind also.”

“They might…might, if we could promise it, but say you’re giving up a third of the Confederation and—” he said before she cut him off.

“A fourth at best—and the marginal, undeveloped, unpopulated wilderness frontier portion, at that,” she shot back. “The Confederation has other frontier regions to expand and develop into if that is the concern.”

“This is career suicide, I just don’t know any other way to say it, Irene,” Assemblyman Constance sighed, “there you have it. I’m a traitor to the party and you can eject me for saying it. Maybe I’ll go over and join Border Integrity Movement in its pro-military, pro-expansion irrelevancy for this, but I have to speak my conscience. I love this party too much to just stand by and do nothing-”

“Constance, I understand your misgivings, I really do. But I think you’re being vastly too pessimistic here,” the current Assemblyherm soothed.

“I don’t see how,” Constance grudged.

“Bringing those seven Sectors back into the fold would be a tacit admission that the Confederation was partially responsible for this whole mess and, at the very least, we’d be obligated to pay to rebuild them. The honest truth is that the Grand Assembly simply can’t afford the bailouts it would need to cover up this entire fiasco. Not without severe budget cuts and with the Fleet already in mothballs that leaves very few discretionary areas left to trim,” she said.

Constance had a mulish expression. “It might hurt but if we have to do it…”

“If we had to, we would,” agreed the Party Leader. “However, even more important than the money is the fact that if we reestablished contact with the regressives on the fringe and brought them back into the Grand Assembly, a large number of recent policies would be under serious risk.”

Constance froze.

“Just take the Universal Mandate expansion for instance,” she pressed into the opening. “We finally took that away from the local and sector level, establishing a fixed rate and imposed it Confederation wide—that’s not even mentioning the Fairness Doctrine and several hundred other pieces of legislation. The closest we ever came before this was the Truth in Media legislation. Literally centuries of struggle for our way of life has finally culminated in our generation and, sad as I am to say this, it was only possible after those backward Border Sector regressive in the Spineward Region stopped paying their taxes and lost contact with the Greater Confederation, causing their elected Assemblymen, women and herms to slowly term-limit out.”

“But the people out there…” Constance said weakly.

Irene Gravity went in for the kill. “I am thinking about the people, that’s why we need to send in the Empire. They can afford to bear the cost of this,” she said fiercely, “frankly, it was their fault for pulling out of those Sectors in the first place.”

“The Empire? I’m really and honestly not sure that sending in the Imperials is the best answer. Some of their practices are quite questionable in the Border Regions, Gravity,” he muttered, “besides, it sets a terrible precedent.”

“All they have to do is stabilize the situation long enough for us to get past automatic legislative reviews and the Sunlight Provisions. After that we can righteously reclaim the Spineward Sectors in the name of the Confederation if we have to,” she soothed triumphantly. “The plan we’re proposing is one that lets Imperials pay to replace Rim Fleet, which they should have done in the first place. At the same time we’ll solicit Medical Aid, Refugee Services and Relief Ships from member worlds on a volunteer basis to help keep an eye on the Imperials.”

“...that might actually work,” he said doubtfully.

“Right now we hold votes to keep everything in place until Sunlight expires and it takes a super majority to overturn things. Which will never happen. All we have to do is hold on long enough to make that happen and our fundamental transformation of the Confederation will no longer be one wrong vote away, it’ll be set in stone,” she said with certainty. “All we have to do is properly remind the One Wayers of this inconvenient truth and exactly what is on the line and they’ll hold fast. Reluctantly, sure, but they will hold. After that, it’ll be our job to bribe Labor, pay off Big Industry, and soothe the rest of the wounded egos throughout our coalition. If we play it right, we might not even need to hold together the various minor special interest coalitions like the Healthcare Dogs. We could be talking about an enduring new order—a true realignment of political paradigms throughout the Confederation!”

Mr. Simpers nodded with satisfaction as the Assemblywoman slowly rallied her coalition. Now that Absolute Choice was locked down it was time to put out a few feelers to Responsible Labor the Balanced Tax Progressives.

Even a non-binding resolution, while not ideal, was something he could work with.

Chapter 33: On the Floor of the Grand Assembly

“A motion has been entered to bring a bill to the floor regarding the Spineward Sectors Region,” the Speaker’s Voice sounded from the overhead interrupting several hundred small conversations, “do we have a second?”

Grand Assemblyman Charles Thomas shook his head in disgust as yet another proforma bill regarding the Spineward Sectors was brought to the floor.

“Aye, Speaker!” said the Balanced Tax Progressives leader, leaning forward and toggling his microphone.

“A third?” queried the Speaker.

“Oh, let’s get on with it,” sighed the head of the Health Care Dogs, “in case that wasn’t clear. That was a ‘yes’.”

“The bill has officially been brought to the floor,” said the Speaker, to Assemblyman Charles’s more than moderate surprise. Still, it wasn’t like anything was going to happen. Border Integrity had been trying to get a relief effort approved and reestablish trade and contact with the Spineward Region for years now and had been blocked at every turn.

This bill was going nowhere fast. So why even bother?

“Motion to bypass debate and proceed directly to a vote,” Assemblyman Ernest Vonnegut the Elected Leader of the One Way Caucus sounded incredibly bored.

“Seconded,” Irene Gravity said, rolling her eyes, “the sooner this is over and done with the better.”

Charles Thomas felt a wave of intense apathy at the sign that the fix was in once again and then he bristled. One Way and Absolute Choice may have practically gutted the Confederation in their search for power and control of government, but not everyone was as spinelessly useless as those two pairs of populist demagogues. They’d lost the popular vote but somehow still managed to carry the Grand Assembly and seize control of government five years ago, and their actions ever since then had seen the Confederation all but ruined.

“A third?” asked the Speaker.

“Objection,” Charles Thomas stood up and activated his Faction Leader override, determined to give the pair of partisan hacks a good solid piece of his mind. He might be old and increasingly marginalized but he still remembered the days when being a part of the Confederation used to mean something, “The people of the Spine—citizens of this Grand Confederation body—deserve better than yet another in a series of up or down, ‘no’ votes and, by the gods, I aim to give that to them if nothing else,” he growled.

“Aye! I third the motion,” chimed in a Ranking Member of the Health Care Dogs.

“Then the motion is carr-” started the Speaker.

Charles Thomas mashed his override. “Objection-objection-objection and objection again,” he exclaimed angrily, “I demand my right to be heard!”

“As the Grand Assemblyman has no second, he is overruled,” said the Speaker shooting Charles Thomas a quelling look.

Yet another override signal was placed followed by part of a snore and the snort of someone just waking up. “Wah?” said the member.

“There’s a bill on the Spine, Sir,” hissed the voice of what probably had to be an aide.

“Grahahahha! Objection,” came the quarrelsome voice of what had to be the Grand Assembly’s oldest serving member, and one of the Spineward Region’s few remaining representatives in the assembly, “I demand the right to speak.”

Charles Thomas pounced, furious that the only support he seemed to have in the Grand Assembly these days was a non-voting member from the very region affected by the crisis. Although ‘crisis’ was perhaps a weak word to use since the situation had been raging for the past several years.

“The motion to object and bring the discussion to the floor has a second and we demand our right to be heard on the issue,” the Grand Assemblyman said, his jaw jutting pugnatiously.

The Grand Speaker hesitated. “I’m not sure that a non-voting member can stand as second for an objection,” he finally said.

Charles Thomas purpled with outrage. “So after squashing all of our bills in committee, you’ll finally bring a bill up for a vote only so you can shoot it down without any debate whatsoever,” he said, throwing his hands in the air with disbelief, “unbelievable! And this is supposed to be the greatest democracy in the galaxy in action?!”

“Without a viable second to the objection, the objection is overruled and we will now proceed with the-” the Grand Speaker said with pompous satisfaction.

“Oh, let the men speak. Since it’s not like it will do any good anyway, it seems the least we can do,” the Head of the Judicial Committee, and a Balanced Tax Progressive, chimed in causing a small furor among the ranks of the One Wayers and Absolute Choice parties.

Which was the first sign Charles Thomas actually had that this was more than just a proforma up or down vote on a forgone piece of party line political legislation.

His senses as minority opposition leader had been honed over nearly fifty years increasing marginalization, followed by five years in the proverbial wilderness of Confederation politics. The silent alarms that let him know when he and his people were about to get screwed started going off in the back of his head.

“Well then who’s going first?” the Grand Speaker said with ill humor.

There was the sound of more throat clearing. “I defer to the gentleman from Fargone Sector without yielding my right to the floor,” said Granthor Danth the longest serving member of the Assembly.

“It’s your show, Assemblyman Thomas,” the Speaker said crossing his arms.

Charles Thomas’s eyes swept the floor, only now seeing what he should have noted from the beginning. A quick search verified his hunch: just about every single member of Absolute Choice and One Way were on the floor and milling about in their designated sections.

He surreptitiously smashed the internal roll call button on the side of his panel, sending out an alarm to every member of his party both on—and especially off—the floor to rally up and get to their seats.

Worst case, he was wrong. But already he could feel the thrill of a call to action and he didn’t think he was. More than fifty years off the deck of his last flagship might have dulled his instincts, but one didn’t have to be a mind reader to know that an ambush was in the works.

After one more look he decided to air his grievances and simultaneously stall for time. “As I, and the Border Integrity Movement, have been warning this Assembly for years: if you let a boil like the Spineward Sectors fester it will come back and bite you in the rear. This is something that I believe my fellow Assemblymembers on the other side of the room have finally,” here, he fired a proverbial shot in the dark, “started to twig, to but once again and as per usual, it is either too little too late or far too much and far too fast going in the wrong direction.”

“If the Grand Assemblyman could confine himself to policy and refrain from personal attacks on other members, the Chair would appreciate it. You can consider this a warning, Assemblyman,” said the Speaker, and that’s when he knew that not only was he right, he might not have been right enough.

The rest of the party had better not be sitting on their duffs drinking coffee in the ante-chambers and trying to secure pork barrel projects for their worlds while he held the lines out here, Charles Thomas thought.

“My apologies, Speaker. But as your learned self knows quite well: if you slash our military to the bone until it’s nothing more than a glorified customs and border patrol unit, when a real crisis comes along there’s nothing we can do,” he said, falling straight back into his personal pet peeve, while furiously tapping away on his data slate as it finally occurred to him that it might be a very good idea to know just what exactly was in the bill the current majority coalition controlling the Grand Assembly and the Speakership had brought to the floor.

“I mean, honestly,” he continued passionately, which wasn’t hard to do even though he had to be almost completely off subject, because this was a series of issues that was near and dear to his own heart, “what are we supposed to do if the Bugs, or uplifts, droids or—goddess forbid—an actual AI comes back to life to haunt us? You can look at the record and see that I’ve been consistent all these years. Well now, it appears,” he paused as he ran a quick key word search with an adaptive program and came up with a name of an Imperial Senator and an Imperial Fleet, “that our chickens have come home to roost and I have to ask both myself and this Grand Assembly…what now? Are we finally willing to let military volunteers who have been actively petitioning this body—for years—for permission to reactivate their reservist commissions without pay and reoccupy our old star bases, starships and fleet shipyards? Or are we finally going to admit we’re impotent and concede our last final shred of dignity, selling seven Sectors of space to the Empire of Man!”

The speaker started pounding his gavel on his podium as an uproar swept over the floor of the Grand Assembly.

“Order! I demand order!” the Grand Speaker shouted furiously, and Irene Gravity gave him a look so poisonous that a lesser man would have immediately thought about hiring bodyguards.

Well he’d already hired a squad of former marines for his personal protective detail two decades earlier, when several of his former shipmates were downsized out of their careers.

“The Assemblymember from the Fargone Sector will refrain from any further slander on pain of censure!” shouted the Speaker.

“Truth in Media may be able to silence the watchdogs of the fourth estate, but I thank the space gods every day that it doesn’t, by its very nature, apply to the elected members of this Grand Assembly!” yelled Charles Thomas.

“Order!! Order!!” cried the Speaker, “or you will find yourself in CONTEMPT!”

“Mr. Speaker, if I may!?” snapped Irene Gravity the Leader of the Absolute Choice party within the Assembly. “Despite attempted fearmongering by the esteemed member of our Pro-military-industrial-complex, this Assembly never has negotiated—and never will negotiate—with terrorists! Just like we will never cave on our principles and give into the machinations of the vast Pro-border, Pro-military, Pro-forced-Labor Conspiracy!”

“I protest this false characterization in the strongest terms, Mr. Speaker!” Charles Thomas shouted, but the speakers carrying his voice throughout the Assembly floor cut out mid-sentence.

“Assemblyherm Gravity has the floor!” thundered the Speaker as he slammed his gavel onto the Speaker’s Com-Panel.

“Mr. Speaker, I protest! I did not yield the floor!!!” Charles Thomas shouted, simultaneously mashing open the direct faction-leader to Speaker com-channel while smashing the hot key that sent his protest simultaneously to the Grand Assembly Ethics Panel for a rules clarification.

“He freely admits that if it were up to him he would actually have this assembly pay, as in forced to pay, for a massive defense spending and budget expansion,” she said, throwing out a tirade of furious rejection, “this would not only throw our entire economy into chaos but cut the ovaries out of any bail out bills put to the Grand Assembly’s floor! How can you simultaneously fund a seven Sector bailout bill and a military expansion at the same time???”

Charles Thomas furiously mashed his communications holo-button without success before making a fist and waving it through the holo-interface to remove the images from his point of view.

“In his fervor to bring back the Military Industrial Complex that ruled the Confederacy with an iron, fascist fist for centuries, the esteemed leader of our very own Pro-Border Integrity Movement won’t even consider any alternatives!” she thundered, pointing furiously at her com-muzzled opponent.

“Alternatives such as, Hrs. Gravity?” the Speaker asked, looking interested as his voice echoing across the assembly floor as Absolute Choice flaunted its ability to break the rules of the Assembly floor using its position and leverage with the Grand Assembly Speaker.

Now it only remained to be seen if they would get away with it or not.

“When the Imperial Senate, which has quite reasonably, to my mind, offered to pay for everything and send in a liberation fleet as the cherry on top to fix a mess like this—a mess I’ll add that they in no small measure created by their own actions—I think we’d be fools to dismiss their offer out of hand,” she turned away from the speaker and glared at Charles Thomas. “Have you no shame? For shame, Sir!!!” she demanded hotly.

“What?” Assemblyman Charles Thomas blinked with surprise and then his brows lowered as the depths of the opposition’s plans became clear. It looked like they’d been trying to stealthily pass a Spineward bill they actually intended to vote for—a bill that reeked of Imperial involvement.

The head of the Border Unity Movement broke out into a cold sweat. If it hadn’t been for a brief flash of principle combining with two ounces of native stubbornness to overthrow his politics-inspired lethargy, he might have actually voted for the Absolute Choice bill before realizing who was the author. The vote count could have passed with practically the full support of the Grand Assembly.

Those sneaky blighters.

“Is there a motion to censor the minority faction leader?” prompted the Speaker.

“I propose just such a motion,” said the One Way Faction Leader.

“I second it!” Irene Gravity howled.

“Point of order,” called Granthor Danth, stifling a cough. “I appeal to the Ethics Panel for a ruling as I still have the FLOOR!”

Not two seconds later, green lights flashed in a ring all around the ceiling of the Grand Assembly hall.

“We have a ruling. Granthor Danth never ceded the floor. Assemblyherm Irene Gravity therefore infringed upon the rights of the right honorable former Speaker Granthor Danth, and any floor motions are rolled back as premature. Furthermore, the Ethics Panel is proceeding to formally censure the Speaker of this Grand Assembly for not only failing to uphold the rules of our fine institution but also for a second but linked ruling where this Panel finds that Speaker did in fact abuse his authority in a most fascist authoritarian manner when he permanently suppressed the Assemblyman Charles Thomas com-channel through the continuous use of the 3 second emergency mute control,” said the cowled image of the Ethics Panel committee chairman.

An uproar immediately spread throughout the floor of the Grand Assembly. One frothing-mouthed Assembly member had to be physically restrained when he tried to rush the ethic’s committee’s secure booth.

“One Wayists by very definition can’t be fascist suppressors! We stand for the people!!!!” she screamed, throwing her slate at the security glass hard enough to break it, even as a pair of masters-at-arms physically hauled her away kicking and screaming as she writhed in their grip trying to escape.

“Thank you, Chairman,” Charles Thomas said and then turned back to the Speaker.

He had to stall for time now that his ability to broadcast was working again, at least long enough to finish skimming the most important parts of the bill his electronic assistant program had just dug up.

“Mr. Speaker,” he declaimed loudly, “the Assemblywoman asks if I have no shame. No shame??? She and all of her supporters are the only shameless ones here! My proposal, the same one I’ve been championing for literally years now, wouldn’t cost this Assembly one single red centi-cred,” he declared, activating his suite’s roaming function to stay linked to the Assembly intercom speakers. “All I’m asking for is a bill that would give the Confederation Fleet the right to mine a portion of the various asteroid belts that have been set aside for the Confederation against future need, a need which I would argue is actually here today. I would also give military volunteers the right to go out to reactivate all those old shipyards, star bases, and starships that have been sitting in mothballs for decades now! We don’t ask that you pay us. We don’t even ask that you fund us, although both would be appreciated gestures. All we ask is that you give us six months to recruit at-will former space force veterans; not only won’t it cost this Assembly anything, but we also won’t be ceding Confederation territory to the Empire and handing over the Spineward Sectors simply because it’s the easier option!”

“I request the right to make a rebuttal!” demanded the leader of Absolute Choice.

“Granted. You have three minutes Assemblyherm,” nodded the Speaker.

“Mr. Speaker? I would like to—” Granthor Danth’s tremulous voice protested before Irene Gravity talked over him.

“Just like I’d expect from a puppet of the vast Pro-Labor conspiracy! Unpaid volunteers?” Irene Gravity screamed ignoring the aged non-voting assemblyman and former Speaker of the Grand Assembly from the Spine. “You would actually have us violate the wage laws of this great star nation and force individuals to work for free? That’s not only inhuman—it’s illegal!”

Charles Thomas bristled. “I’m not forcing anyone to do anything; you are putting words in my mouth! Volunteers are by definition not forced to do anything, they volunteer of their own free will,” he grunted angrily. “If you would just give us a chance we would—”

The Assemblywoman cut back in without waiting for the Speaker to grant her access or permission. “The Fairness Doctrine has eliminated that fascist loophole once and for all, Admiral,” Irene Gravity cried. “The choice to work or not to work should belong to each and every citizen and shall not be infringed! But if they do choose to work then the law requires that they deserve, that they absolutely must receive, an honest day’s pay for an honest day’s labor! What you propose would be a violation of everything our ancestors fought for! That is why the Fairness Doctrine, the bill with I sponsored and this Grand Assembly made Confederation law, set up the Confederation’s Volunteer Pay Fund. So that anyone who works shall, must, and will be paid!”

“So pay them if you want, just let our people—” Charles Thomas started hotly.

“This Grand Assembly will never fund an expansion of the Military Industrial Complex,” Irene Gravity shot back hotly. “And as long as I’m the Majority Coalition Whip, I swear that the majority coalition will never vote to pay fascists.

“And handing over seven provinces to the Empire because we can’t volunteer due to your refusal to pay us wages—that we don’t want in the first place—is what you actually want!?” he demanded.

“My fascist opponent claims he needs six months?” Irene Gravity switched topics. “People are dying now.”

“As I’ve been telling you for years as I begged and pleaded and offered to resign from this Assembly and retake up my Fleet Commission, if we would only-”

“Even if they’re from the fringe worlds of the Spine,” Irene Gravity spoke over the top of him, “do we really want to let them die? Think of the lives lost while we rebuild the massive military industrial complex necessary to support a military build of of the size the Vast Pro-Labor Conspiracy insists we, the People of the Confederation, need…meanwhile people die in the time-frame available to us. Can we really afford to wait and even if we could why should we? The Empire is offering to pay for everything! This would leave us the funds for bailouts across the board without risking future cuts to critical pieces of key legislation.”

“Oh, that’s rich. Because you insist on paying us we can’t volunteer, that slush fund has already been drained to pay off your campaign workers and because you called me a fascist while you sang and danced instead of building up the bare minimum of an expeditionary force. There’s no longer time to build that force and thus we are forced to throw ourselves upon the mercy of the Empire,” Charles Thomas gave the Absolute Choice Assembly leader a withering look before turning and gesturing to the rest of the floor in an appeal to the individual Assemblypeople. “My opponent’s anti-labor stance and her contempt for the hardworking men and women of the Confederation shines through yet again. It is once again clear that my collegue’s absolute dedication to absolute choice only manifests when it’s her version of choice and she agrees with the choices made.”

“How dare you question my dedication to the very basis of our political platform!?” Irene Gravity howled. “This is exactly the sort of intolerant attitude I’ve come to expect from the Border Integrity Movement! Men, women and herms who will say and worse do anything to push their political agenda at the expense of anyone who gets in their way.”

“Oh that’s rich,” chortled the former admiral, “especially coming from you, who hasn’t done an honest day’s work in her life. And yes, I know of and discount your volunteer and paid political advocacy work.”

“That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? You want us all to put up the work. Slaves to a new system designed to replace the old one where humans were slaves to inhuman machine monsters,” she cried.

“My fellow members of this great body, the AI’s are dead and good riddance to them. Unlike my opponent—and as a man who has actually had to deal with and kill all manner of sentient machines, human machine cultists, terrorists and pirates—I can safely say that despite the slanders heaped upon me by the wild-eyed Assemblywoman, I have less than no desire to see a return of that particular scourge!” he declared, glaring harshly first at Irene Gravity and then sweeping the room with a hard look.

“A likely story,” she snorted, before reluctantly adding, “and if I misspoke earlier in my passion for the safety of our people then I retract my statement.”

Charles Thomas sneered at the double-speaking politician opposite him and then turned to the rest of the body.

“Men and women of this Assembly please remember if you would exactly whose ‘choice’ it was to drag the situation in the Spine out to this date when, at any time in the past three years, we could have fixed everything with the passage of a single bill,” he demanded. “As a fleet professional with more than a half century experience as an officer, all I ask is for you to unmuzzle our military and allow us to save our people. Don’t give into the demands of the very people who manufactured this crisis and hand over our freedom and sovereignty to the Empire.”

“The only people who caused their own problems are the regressives in the Spine,” Grand Assemblyherm Gravity sniffed. “I hate to be the one to have to point this out, but most of those worlds have a 85-90%+ employment rate and people actually die if they refuse to work. Citizens are forced into a job and then they are forced to pay taxes on that work and, if they refuse, then after five years or so of state assistance they are kicked out to die on the streets. There is no living wage, and forget covering vital electives like body morphing or gender reconstruction surgeries! Even basic social services like routine health and wellness checks or life extension services are spotty at best. Yet despite the forced labor state they are mired in, they also have a terrible standard of living.”

“I don’t know if the Assemblywoman is making my case for me or if there is an actual point buried in there somewhere,” Charles Thomas said, giving her a hard look.

“My point is that even the temporary Imperial withdrawal of the Rim Fleet from the Spine to combat the Gorgon Threat proved too much for these backward regressives, and the moment Rim Fleet pulled out they have turned upon one another without the least hint of social consciousness for their fellow man,” she said sadly. “Social justice has completely broken down in that region and, sympathetic as we are to the plight of the Other, we can’t entirely blame them for acting exactly like the savage, pro-competition society they come from. But from our own side, having shown them the path to a better future, neither can we simply dismiss such unenlightened behavior out of hand. So while I wholeheartedly do not agree with everything the Empire does internally, and there is not a member in this assembly who is unaware that I don’t agree, at least they can say that they have peace and prosperity back home instead of fleet battles in the provinces and revolutions in the streets!” she said passionately. “If we let the Empire integrate the Spine into their system of provinces, at least people will not be dying in those very streets! Is this ideal? Not at all, but is it necessary? I put it to you, my fellow Assemblymembers, that it very much is. That is why I call for an immediate vote to turn over the problem of the Spine to the Empire, allow them to settle the situation however they see best under the command and oversight of Senator Cornwallis, whose personal experience in the Spine and record in these areas is beyond reproach. I may not agree with everything my esteemed colleague of the Border Integrity Movement party says, but he makes a lot of sense when he says that a seasoned hand is needed, now more than ever, to restore order in that benighted area.”

“This is outrageous. We’re talking about seven Sectors here!” shouted Charles Thomas. “We’ll only have twenty Sectors left! That’s a fourth of the Confederation you’re just planning to chop off and give away to the Empire!”

The screen flashed and a new image appeared. It was the co-majority coalition leader from the One Wayer Party.”

“I agree with my colleague and second the motion,” the One Way Party Leader said speaking over Assemblyman Charles Thomas, “there is only one way that we can make the Confederation great again, which is why I personally urge everyone in the Grand Assembly to stand in solidarity with the Majority Coalition, headed by One Way, to vote for this bill.”

“Is there a motion to cut off debate and proceed to a floor vote?” the Speaker requested politely.

“This Grand Body can’t do this!” Charles Thomas snapped as there was a second, a third, and finally enough members—either in support of the bill or tired of the back and forth wrangling—moved to proceed with the vote.

“The will of the Confederation people has been made manifest; we will now proceed with the vote,” the Speaker said with a vicious gleam in his eye as the vote tally started to come in and he looked down at the Leader of the Border Integrity Movement with glee.

“Please vote with us to bring peace back to the Spine in a responsible, socially conscious, Gaia-friendly way that minimizes the loss of life and does not endanger the forward progress of the rest of known space,” Irene Gravity declaimed. “By accepting Imperial help we will be able to spend more credits to help our cut off brethren rebuild their lives and for those of us with serious concerns like Border Integrity, if the Empire should bungle the peacekeeping mission we will add a rider to the bill that specifically authorizes our own fleet to reclaim the region in the name of the Grand Assembly, bringing the Spineward Sectors back into the Confederation with a restricted provisional status until their local and Sector governmental structures have been rebuilt and the necessary free and fair elections at Grand Assembly level can be arranged and verified by neutral arbiters from the heartland! It might take a few years to return our brothers and sisters to the fold, but it can be done in a safe and socially responsible manner,” she said forthrightly.

“Brothers and Sisters of the Grand Assembly: no child of the gods should have to suffer what the voters of the Spine have endured these past years,” declared the orange-haired leader of the One Way Party as he overrode the imaging system putting his face on every holo-screen in the assembly. “That’s why I am proposing this bill: to save those voters from the hell they have created for themselves—a hell which no one in this body wants to admit has been spilling over our borders and into the Overton Expanse and infecting our worlds, our populations with anger, fear and strife. Not all of these refugee immigrants are criminals, but far too often it is the criminal elements that have access to starships and hyperdrive technology. Border Integrity may be dangerously misguided but they are not completely wrong. There is a threat to our way of life and it is dire. That is why I am proposing, as part of this long-awaited bill, we heed the muffled cries of our long-ignored Fleet. Starting today, if this assembly chooses to vote for this bill, we will roll the customs and border patrol service along the Overton Expanse into the Fleet. We will reactivate every star base on this side of the Reach, turning them into customs and immigration checkpoints and yes, brothers and sisters, we will build a wall along the Overton Expanse!” cried the Coalition Leader, raising his arm with a single finger pointing skyward which he shook at the ceiling. “From this point on, Immigration Services directly supervised by this Assembly will work hand-in-hand with Fleet services,” the One Way Leader Continued. “Some may ask how we’re going to pay for this, but let me tell you I have a plan that will not just pay for this wall along the Reach but will revitalize our Confederation for years to come. Working with leaders in the Industrial Party, the Confederation will reopen vast numbers of asteroid belt extraction processors that were shut down under my predecessor’s tenure. This Assembly will fund an infrastructure bill the likes of which this great nation has never seen, and because of the deplorable state of the refugees fleeing across the Reach there can only be one way to deal with this situation: we will adopt the Health Care Dog’s proposed legislation on mandatory elective surgery coverages and yes, my brothers and sisters of the Grand Assembly, we will Make the Confederation Great Again!”

The One Way Leader threw his hands wide and slightly over half of the floor of the Grand Assembly went wild, cheering and crying with joy.

Charles Thomas didn’t believe it for an instant, but the fix was in: every wavering political party in the Grand Assembly whose support was vital for the passage of the legislation had just been thrown a pork barrel project. And despite his and the Border Integrity Movement’s best efforts to stem the tide, the Grand Assembly voted to end debate and proceed to a vote on the amended legislation.

The vote was cast, it was tallied, and the Grand Assembly passed a resolution to allow the Empire to return ‘peace’ to the Spine. The best the minority coalition could do was attach a rider activating a task force of warships in addition to the star bases. This on the off-chance that the Empire bungled the pacification and relief effort or the Confederation needed to assist them with more than volunteer forces from the various Sector and provincial worlds of the heartland.

A star base, after all, couldn’t move or make the jump to hyperspace. It was a fixed fortification and industrial node.

The cheers of the Coalition Party as it celebrated its victory over the opposition tasted like bitter ashes in his mouth. Especially since even many in his own party viewed it as a qualified win, in that it reactivated a part of the fleet and defected to vote with the majority party in favor of the passage of this bill.

He never thought he’d see the day that leaders in the Assembly started carving off portions of the Confederation for their own personal power and political agendas.

Even when Granthor Danth accused the Speaker of betraying his sworn duty and called for a no confidence vote after the passage of the bill, he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Seven Sectors lost with just a vote and a stroke of the pen… It was a day that would live on with infamy in the course of Confederation history

Or it would if former Admiral Charles Thomas had anything to say about it.

Chapter 34: Finding a Cartoonist

“Now that things have settled down and we finally have some breathing room, it’s time that we began to deal with one of the most deadly and pernicious problems facing myself and this fleet,” I said, stepping into the room filled with my newly minted Admiral’s staff and catching my Chief of Staff by her eyes.

Lisa Steiner drummed her fingers along the desk as the half dozen highly trusted, but mainly new and junior, officers in the room stilled.

“Things have been rather peaceful of late, Sir. What exactly are you thinking of here, Admiral?” she asked.

“That’s exactly it,” I said, thrusting a finger at her, “things have been peaceful but we’re still under attack!”

“There have been no attacks on our shipping, the fleet, or any of our bases that I’m aware of, Admiral,” my new Tactical Officer, Ensign Jean Pierre, said with his brow wrinkling, “unless there has been a classified incident that I’m not aware of?”

“No-no-no, it’s not our shipping or warships that are under attack, not even our planets,” I declared, slapping the table with an open hand. “It’s our morale and recruiting efforts that are being impeded.”

“How so?” asked Jean Pierre.

“Are you referring to agents on the ground in the worlds we visit or the Cosmic News Network hit pieces on the galactic news channels?” asked Steiner.

“The CNN hit pieces. They all but pander to the Sector Government and I’m afraid that if they’re allowed to continue, the moniker ‘Tyrant of Cold Space’ will stick in the public’s mind and poison them against us. To say nothing of damaging fleet morale, causing otherwise stout new recruits to waver in their dedication,” I said flatly.

“Well I’m afraid we’re too late; when it comes to the mind of the public, it’s already sunk in, Sir,” Steiner replied.

“Blast it, Steiner, that’s not what I wanted to hear!” I exclaimed.

“The general public of the Sector may be lost to us, however your point is well taken when it comes to the other Sectors. We are only just starting to get news into Sector 25 from 23 and 24, and the reverse is true as well. A good PR campaign, now that we’ve just started real trade, could work wonders not just outside this Sector but now that you mention it within it: from Tracto to the Border Alliance and even inside our own fleet,” she paused to think. “Now that you mention it, this is a great idea, Sir!”

“It is?” I asked involuntarily, and then mentally switched gears. This was the advantage of having a competent staff: they not only told you what you didn’t want to hear, but then started to come up with solutions! Now it only remained to see if what they came up with was any good… “I mean, of course it is. I came up with it originally. So pitch me: what have you got?”

“Well, first we need to start with our own fleet and then expand outward,” she said, as if that were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Right,” I agreed instantly, “we need to ensure the loyalty of our own people first and foremost, then—”

She put a hand in front of her mouth and coughed. Loudly.

I stopped mid-sentence and pursed my lips at her.

“Well actually, Sir,” she said with only a brief touch of hesitation, “I was thinking more along the lines that it would be best to create an office and staff it initially with people from the fleet. When you mentioned the recruiting drive, it really drove the notion home to me and gave me an idea. I have one person in mind right now from when I was doing recruitment, who might actually be able to help us get started.”

“Okay…” I frowned and then brightened when I decided that her idea for new staff already was forward progress, “who have you got that could help with this?” I asked, imagining maybe she’d met a former politician, news reporter, political analyst, or maybe even a planetary intelligence agent during her journey to fill my fleet with warm bodies. Possibly even someone who’d give up their former career service in the fleet, I wondered mentally rubbing my hands in anticipation.

In all likelihood, there were untapped resources within my reach that I’d just been too busy, too preoccupied and frankly just too stupid to tap until now.

“Along one of our routes I met a young cartoonist who I think can help us,” she said with relish.

My warm and fuzzy image of a highly trained counter-propaganda professional eventually joining the team came to a sudden and screeching halt. “A cartoonist?” I asked with disbelief. And if I were to be brutally honest, I was feeling more than a little betrayed at the moment. I mean, here I was trying to rally a serious counterattack against the Cosmic News Network and the Governor and Assembly of Sector 25, and the best my team could come up with was a cartoonist?

“Yes, exactly,” she said eagerly, pulling out a data-pad and pulling up a holographic image file on the office projector. The image of a gangly, acne-covered face began to rotate in the middle of the table. I drew back, instinctively distancing myself from this unreliable appearance.

“This is the individual you are recommending to counter CNN and the Sector government’s multi-faceted smear campaign?” I asked, gesturing to the teenaged acne-ridden face of the supposed cartoonist with a growing frown. In the depths of my own mind, I immediately began to try compiling a list of potential firms I could call upon back in Capria to try and scrounge up some talent. I didn’t directly know of anyone, but surely one of the high profile talent agencies could be used to discretely approach someone with the right skills to build a team for enough credits…

“I was thinking we might need a script writer and a production team consisting of several crewmembers designated for tech support, but the general direction would have to come from the command staff,” Steiner explained, quickly tapping out a table of organization for the new team, “our main focus is, or rather has to begin, winning the hearts and minds of the new crew of this fleet. So we’ll have to start there.”

I shook my head in dismay and cast my gaze around the conference room looking for support against this crazy idea. My gaze swept around my new admiral’s staff and finally landed on one of the few members of my old command team.

The old engineer was sitting with his head bobbing forward slightly in a way that indicated he was close to falling asleep. “Spalding,” I said sharply, “what do you think about Ms. Steiner’s proposal?”

Spalding immediately sat up with a snort. “W-what?!” he demanded, sounding bewildered.

“I said what did you think—” I patiently repeated.

“I heard you the first time, lad!” Spalding barked, and then turned to the petite lieutenant. “Just what was it you wanted to do, Lieutenant?” he asked as if he’d just arrived and hadn’t been sleeping through the entire presentation.

After Lisa Steiner had repeated her plan, Spalding glowered thunderously and threw his hands in the air.

“That’ll never work,” he declared.

Steiner’s face instantly turned glum and I nodded with satisfaction. Maybe now we could finally start getting serious about things?

“Are you sure?” Lieutenant Steiner asked crestfallen.

“Absolutely. You might as well forget the whole thing,” Commander Spalding said with the weight of absolute seniority.

Steiner wilted.

“There’s simply no way a bunch of ham-handed junior officers, pardon the expression,” he looked momentarily contrite before continuing with satisfaction, “could possibly give the sort of direction needed to get the proper storyline off the ground! No,” he shook his head sadly, “there’s no way you lot will be able to manage it on your own. This is the sort of project that’s going to need senior supervision. A seasoned hand, as it were; a man with experience in just the sort of webinars and short holo-videos like you’re intending to produce,” he declared, visibly swelling up.

While I slapped my forehead with a hand, Lieutenant Steiner cheered clapping her hands excitedly. I had to wonder why I’d expected anything like reason to come spouting out of the old engineer’s mouth.

Now that the old engineer was preparing to throw himself into the mix, it looked like I’d probably have to go along with this farce while running a side effort to get a real team of experts to help fix my negative PR image.

“What do you suggest?” the petite Caprian Lieutenant asked eagerly, prompting me to hastily move to interrupt.

“Are you sure that your time wouldn’t be better spent on more serious projects?” I quickly interjected. I knew it was weak sauce but…

The chief engineer’s face scrunched up until it resembled nothing more than as sour lemon. “The Clover’s laid up in dry dock and I’ve finally got the interfering hands out of the way so she can be fixed up proper. But a man has to pick his battles,” he said reluctantly, “and those yard workers are just so ham-handed sometimes a man can’t help but give them a few pointers now and then,” his eye picked up a gleam, “that’s why this project will be just perfect. It’ll give everyone time to settle down, especially a certain someone, and then as soon as they’ve gone lax and set in their ways–BAMP—” he slammed his hands together, “they’ll never know what hit them! They want documentation, do they? Well, we’ll document everything and then we’ll see who likes to play the documentation game, yes sir, we will,” Spalding finished with relish.

There was obviously a bigger story hidden in there somewhere, but I wasn’t at all interested in Spalding’s paperwork/women troubles—especially when I had more than enough such troubles of my own.

“I don’t want any slacking, Spalding,” I said severely, “hiding out from a woman is no excuse for putting aside work that needs to be done—especially when it’s in favor of making a cartoon!”

“Why, I never!” Spalding bawled with outrage, puffing up like an angry puffer fish just landed on the deck of a boat. “Me a slacker? Why, I put in twice the work of a man half my age and ten times as much as any man with my number of years would even consider!”

I eyed him skeptically.

“Why, this won’t just be any cartoon; this will be the best series of web-video you’ve ever seen. And this coming from a man with direct and personal experience with this sort of matters,” Spalding swore, crossing his heart as he vowed.

“Direct personal experience?” I scoffed.

“I may be old and over the hill nowadays, but I was a legend in my own time—and don’t you forget it, boy,” Spalding sneered in response.

A legend in his own mind, anyway, I silently amended.

“I had more clicks, hits and downloads than any man had a reasonable right to,” Spalding said waxing nostalgic, “not that I didn’t pocket the money, mind ye. You should have seen the ad revenue! It didn’t make me rich, far from it, but it was a darned sight better than mud in the eye that’s for blasted sure. Why, there was one time…”

“Yes, yes, and finally yes again,” I said, waving the proverbial surrender flag, “I’m sure you’ll be a great asset. Welcome to the team.”

“Thank you,” Spalding said with satisfaction before seeming to remember I’d called his work ethic into question and giving me a glare.

I rubbed my forehead as I sat there, listening to my Chief of Staff start bouncing ideas off my Chief Engineer and, almost despite myself, the more I listened to them, I started to catch part of their enthusiasm.

I mean I still didn’t think it would work, but I had to admit this sounded a lot more fun than ordering men, women and warships to their deaths and destruction.

Of course, only time would tell.

Chapter 35: The Cartoonist Arrives

“Alright what do we have on the agenda today?” I asked with a grin and striding into the conference room like I owned it… which technically speaking I pretty much did.

“The Lucky Clover 2.0 continues in the space dock; it’s still missing half of its antimatter generators. Which it doesn’t look like we will be able to build for several months and Commander Spalding refuses to have it move out of the dock for builders trials,” Lieutenant Steiner said pointedly.

“Now wait just a creeper-scrapin’ second,” Spalding surged out of his chair and onto his feet where he proceeded to stride back and forth along the side of the table, “the Clover’s not finished, not by half! Half the antimatter containment fields aren’t even finished and that doesn’t say anything about the antimatter itself.”

“Which I already pointed out,” Steiner cut in.

“Plus there’s only so many of those spinal projectile pellets,” Spalding shot back, eyeing her sideways while staying focused on me, “which means we need to source more antimatter, and let me tell you that tryin’ to build a generator is not only risky—”

“It’s also technically illegal,” Steiner shot back.

“Yes, it’s blasted well illegal!” Spalding finally gave up and rounded on her. “It’s also bloody dangerous! An explosion could destroy the entire factory before it’s even built and even with the new containment fields I wouldn’t trust working in such a factory myself. Too much radiation. It’s one thing to ride a warship into battle, at least you can turn the blasted things off in between need and let the ship idle on the fusion generators—they call it ‘hazard pay’ for a reason—and it’s another thing entirely to work in a facility that’s going full steam day in and day out.”

I opened my mouth.

“And that’s not being a coward that’s called seeing reason!” Spalding growled.

I closed my mouth, even though that hadn’t at all been what I’d been meaning to imply.

“I see,” I pursed my lips, “but we need more antimatter, yes?”

“Yes, we need more,” Spalding said.

“So where can we get it?” I asked.

There was a pregnant pause as the old engineer looked as if he’d bitten into something sour.

Finally the petite little former com-tech tapped the table. “That’s where the droids come in,” Steiner said.

Spalding growled, looking one part embarrassed and two parts discontent.

“What’s all this?” I asked, looking back and forth between the two of them with a frown.

“The Chief Engineer thinks that because it’s illegal,” she started.

“And blasted hazardous!” the Chief Engineer chimed in and then shook his head furiously. “Plus I’m not the one saying this here, you are!!”

“It was your idea,” she pointed out.

“Anything a machine can do, a man can do just as well or better if he has the proper amount of time to mull things over,” Spalding shot back. “Which is why I rejected and decided not to bring up the whole matter.”

“Well, you’ve had time to ‘mull’ things over. So what’s the new plan?” she asked.

Spalding fell sullenly silent.

I held up both hands and made a T with them. “Okay, hold on here. I feel like I’m being left out of the conversation as well as brought into it halfway through. Just what is the sourcing problem and your,” I paused and then quickly switched terminology, “I mean ‘the’ proposal?”

The Lieutenant looked at Commander Spalding with a cocked eyebrow. It was a ‘do you want to tell him or should I?’ sort of look and it was honestly starting to irritate me. I started rubbing my thumb and middle finger together in a suggestive movement.

“The problem,” Spalding said heavily, breaking down with a sigh, “is that the nearest source of antimatter is in the Confederation. Well, the nearest legal source anyway. Technically it’d be illegal to make it anywhere in the Spine, except maybe Tracto because they haven’t signed any of the peace and war conventions. Beyond that, buying it would be expensive and shipping it here would be both slow and expensive. I don’t say ‘ruinous’ because of the trillium mine, but if there’s anything more expensive to buy than trillium it has to be antimatter,” the old engineer explained.

“Expensive, far away, hard to find and slow to transport. Does that about cover it?” I said with an intent look. “Unless of course we make it ourselves.”

“Commander Spalding’s been looking into building an antimatter plant but…” said Steiner.

“What’s this ‘looking into building’ business?” Spalding scoffed, “I made a test bed and fired it up.”

“And what happened?” I asked leadingly.

“Well, it works and produces antimatter but the radiation levels are no joke. We can expand it from test amounts to serious production but working there long-term…” Spalding frowned.

“Which is where the idea of turning the facilities over to the droids comes in,” prompted Steiner.

“Why droids?” I asked, imagining the PR nightmare if this leaked out. I could see the headlines now:

Tyrant sells means to make antimatter to droids.

Followed by:

Tyrant purchasing antimatter from machines to terrorize his enemies. Is the Spine really safe?

“There’s nothing illegal about purchasing it, Sir,” Lieutenant Harpsinger interjected.

I turned toward him with a mildly surprised expression.

“The main restrictions are on usage but even more than that on manufacturing,” the Fleet Lawyer continued.

“That’s where the loophole comes in,” Steiner added helpfully.

I frowned. “But droids…” I repeated slowly. Now, I’m not a bigot here for not wanting to sell the means of producing what was potentially humanity’s ultimate weapon of mass destruction to the United Sentients Assembly. Really, I wasn’t. It was all those other bigots, about 95%+ of humanity, that were bigoted and would have a cow if they found out what I had to worry about.

Say what you want about me but I personally have no interest in being torn limb from limb by an angry mob. Especially one who would feel, not even without some reason, that I’d sold out humanity for a handful of silver, or in this case a fleet flagship equipped with antimatter generators and weapons technology.

“The more I think about it the less enthused I am by this idea,” I said glumly, imagining a crowd pulling me from a hover-car. I needed to make a note not to head down to any planetary surfaces in the near future, I decided.

“Aye, that’s why I told the Lieutenant it was a bad idea,” Spalding admitted.

“But the droids have the legal standing to own such technology. Or at least they are generally recognized to have antimatter weaponry, like with the Conformity droids. And if we don’t want the USA to own it, which I admit has certain legal ramifications all of its own, we could just have them work for a company owned by Tracto, or even you personally, as paid employees, Admiral,” pointed out the Lawyer.

“Whose side are you on, Harpsinger?” I demanded. “I thought we were trying to rehabilitate my image among the general populace, not give them more reasons to hate me! I mean what’s the law on paying machines for their labor anyways? I can’t image it’s any good, at least from a droid perspective.”

Harpsinger grimaced. “There is precedent for using droids in forced labor situations without threat of legal sanction,” he finally muttered.

“Ah ha!” I said triumphantly. “I don’t think the droids are going to be interested in any forced labor contracts. Do you?”

“Probably not,” he allowed.

“I guess we’re just going to have to pay out for hazard duty,” Spalding said finally. “We’ll have the men work in rotation. No more than a week per month, with mandatory radiation treatments in between.”

“It might be better to hire civilians, that way if we lose anyone it won’t be on Fleet Command,” said Steiner.

“Having civilians experiencing medical harm because of the Fleet is a much worse situation than with fleet personnel, at least from a legal angle,” Harpsinger said. “Can’t we just have Tracto-ans man the plant? Not only are they naturally more resistant to radiation poisoning, the local laws are somewhere between loose and nonexistent.”

“They’re non-existent because the family is liable to kill you if you got their son or daughter killed outside of an honorable combat situation!” I exclaimed.

“Besides, there just aren’t enough trained technicians from the planet Tracto to man the facility. They’re not exactly jumping at the bit to learn a tech trade, Lieutenant,” Commander Spalding added, “and as for the Belters, they know better than to mess with antimatter and our own mixed community on Messene,” he grimaced as if that facial expression said it all. “They’re colonists at heart, sure some might have the skills but not enough to staff the facility. Most of the ones that were young and space crazy, or old and figured out living on a dirt ball just wasn’t for them, have already signed up with us or left for orbit with the Belters or the Station…”

There was a pregnant pause. “Well all of these options sound terrible. Either we hand an antimatter facility to the droids, we hire USA droids to man our facility, we shut down our antimatter projects entirely, or we accept that we’re going to have potential human casualties from running an antimatter generation facility,” I said.

“Now wait just a bloomin’ moment,” Spalding snapped, “shutting down the Lucky Clover is right out. Because that’s what you’d have to do if you couldn’t get the antimatter.”

“You forgot shipping out trillium and importing antimatter,” my Chief of Staff pointed out helpfully.

“Which we would need to apply for a series of permits to legally purchase it from a facility in the Confederation or Empire,” the ship’s lawyer countered.

“So we’d have to purchase it illegally,” said Spalding.

“Not necessarily. It’s possible to purchase antimatter second hand but…” replied Harpsinger.

“Good thing we know an arms dealer,” I said dryly, “it’s just too bad he’s disappeared, taking with him our entire covert-operations arm of the fleet!”

I silently sat there and fumed as I thought about McKnight’s betrayal. Oh, it had been couched nicely, how she’d traded her covert operation for a number of warships, automated defenses, and obsolete power armor. Material which we’d then used to save Easy Haven, if not the Wolf-9 Starbase, and the entire Sector from Arnold Janeski’s invasion forces. But blast it all, that wasn’t her call to make!

If only Middleton were still alive. He might have been a loose cannon who ran off doing whatever the blazes he felt like, but at the end of the day he’d still come home to the fleet instead of selling his services to the highest bidder and haring off into the Empire on a lark!

“So in the end it comes down to endangering our own people, selling massive amounts of trillium to criminals, and then sending out major escort forces to make sure our cargo comes home or…the droids,” I grunted.

“That does seem to be the long and the short of it, Sir,” Spalding agreed.

I sat there thinking furiously. People hated me right now—or better to say they feared the Tyrant of Cold Space. The boogeyman of the spaceways. They’d only hate me if I proved so powerful that they no longer felt safe in bed at night.

I just couldn’t see running convoys into the Confederation through the Overton Expanse, much less the Empire. Either we’d be ripped off at the purchase or our freighters and escort forces would be dogged all the way back home, and the second time we brought a massive convoy full of trillium into the Confederation every pirate in six Sectors would be sharpening their knives—much less the local governmental customs enforcement operations.

Pirates were one thing, but avoiding the tax man was another entirely.

Which left me with the unpalatable option of risking our own people by running everything with MSP or Tracto-an personnel or compromising in some fashion and using droids. On the plus side I didn’t care if some droid fried its motherboard producing my antimatter. I cared deeply if the droids got their hands on antimatter because of me and used it against humanity but, in fairness, they already had a number of antimatter pellets used to fire the spinal lasers of the old Conformity Droid Motherships. So it’s not like I was giving them new tech or anything they didn’t already have their metal mitts on and the capability to build.

So involving them in an antimatter facility as labor risked only my own reputation if things got out, the same only worse if I put them in charge of the facility. That said…

“Is there any way to hire radiation resistant personnel from Sector 23?” I asked with narrowed eyes. “As I recall they have a planet with radiation resistant people living there.”

“That…could take a while,” said Lisa Steiner, “but I think it might be do able. Given enough time.”

“Time? Ask me for anything but time,” Spalding fumed clearly put out, “the Clover won’t wait and neither will our enemies, buzzards who are circling just out of sight waiting to descend on us like a blasted plague to…”

The old engineer railed on for the better part of a full minute before winding down.

“We’re currently at peace, Spalding,” I interrupted him as he started to flag. “For the first time in a long time we have the opportunity to take a few deep breaths and put things on the right track without a crisis or mortal enemy looming over our shoulders.”

“The Clover won’t wait,” Spalding said with finality.

“Keep running your test bed and start building your full sized facility,” I compromised. “Meanwhile I’ll work on hiring a work force from Sector 23. It’s a ways away and we’ll need to run background checks so it will take a while. In the meantime hire whoever we need locally, pay them hazard pay and make sure they know what they’re getting into beforehand. But I’m not going to be selling the USA the means to make weapons of mass destruction. These droids may be different than the rest of them but I’m not going to risk an uprising among the ranks. The last thing we need is another attempted mutiny!”

“I’m going to get the Clover up and running by hook or by crook!” Spalding glared, as if challenging me to dispute him.

“So hire the techs. I’m putting you in charge of the entire operation,” I said.

“Then I want a real budget for it. The kind of shielding we’re going to need to run the antimatter plant without killing our people is almost criminal,” Spalding warned.

“Of course,” I agreed at once.

Spalding scowled and grumbled but finally settled.

“Now what was next on our agenda?” I asked.

“Next is a pre-rollout presentation from our newest staff member,” Lieutenant Steiner said with pride and, at this, even the old Engineer’s countenance seemed to perk up.

I looked over with anticipation as a familiar, acne-ridden face appeared. I immediately felt a headache starting to form.

“This is the cartoonist I told you about. In collaboration with myself, Commander Spalding, and the tech team of the new media department we’ve decided to unveil our new series: The Tyrant of Cold Space!

I immediately stiffened as Lisa Steiner hit a button on her console controls and the holo-screen began to roll.

Episode One: The Tyrant of Cold Space strikes again! rolled across the screen in flashing gold letters.

“What is this?” I asked harshly.

“Just wait for it,” Spalding assured me, leaning forward to eagerly watch a show that he’d, presumably, already seen before.

A cartoon caricature of an incredibly short-looking man with a fiendishly flat nose—one that almost looked like a pancake in the middle of his face—appeared.

“We’ve got to stop those border pirates before they blast those helpless colony ships to pieces,” squeaked the freakish-looking leader in a high-pitched voice. He was dressed in what looked like half an old style Confederation Admiral’s uniform and half some kind of pirate black leathers declared.

“That’ll never happen, Glorious Leader,” sneered an officer in an all black uniform that made him look just like some kind of evil old style AI polit bureau political officer. “The colony ships are waving us off, citing obscure sector regulations.”

“Well, what about the pirates?” the midget demanded nasally.

“They say that we have no weapons and they’ll destroy us after they’re done looting the colonizers if we’re still here,” stated the Political Officer.

“Unacceptable, you sniveling Intelligence Officer,” the ‘Glorious Leader’ declared.

“There’s nothing you can do; the regulations are clear, Admiral. You must turn back and report to the Assembly before taking action!” shouted the black-uniformed Intelligence Officer before chuckling darkly.

“With the FTL com-buoys down that would take weeks. They’ll all be dead!” cried the midget.

“If you do this, you’ll be labeled a tyrant for taking governmental authority into your own hands,” barked the Intelligence Officer.

“Then it’s time for some Tyranny!” declared the mis-uniformed Admiral, punching the other officer in the face.

“All of cold space will turn against you for this you monster!” warned the Intelligence Officer from the floor where he was now holding a bloody nose.

The webisode then continued on into a series of misadventures very—very—loosely based in reality that had the ‘tyranny-loving’ Admiral ramming the Vengeful Clover into an pirate fleet and ended with Captain Moonlight a droid slaying engineer with a hate for slackers and equipped with a very strange hair-do punching the Little Admiral in the gut.

I stared in silence, dumbfounded at the cartoon they had just shown me.

“Isn’t it great, Sir?” Lieutenant Steiner asked eagerly.

“It’s…it’s…it’s…” I stuttered under a rising tide of outrage and anger.

“It’s perfect,” Spalding declared, satisfaction veritably oozing from his pores, “it does everything it’s supposed to in just the right way.”

“What?!” I blurted, turning to glare at the cartoonist. “This is what you want to run? It’s completely outrageous!”

The young man quickly raised his hands in surrender, looking panicked. “I just made it like they told me to,” he said quickly.

“What don’t you like about it, Sir?” Spalding asked, looking surprised that I wasn’t falling all over myself to praise this travesty.

“Well, first it makes a mockery out of just about everything we’ve fought and stood for. And for another thing…” I scowled darkly, feeling my face redden, “that midget on the screen is nothing like me!”

Spalding rolled his eyes.

“That’s not funny!” I snapped.

“Of course it’s funny. The toon characters aren’t supposed to be life-like,” he explained patiently, “they’re supposed to poke fun at everything—including the Sector Assembly.”

“No one calls them ‘toon characters’ any more,” the Cartoonist rolled his eyes, “that’s so last century. What we’re doing here is making a caricature out of real people and putting them into our story.”

“A story that, if anyone hot to disprove our cartoon for a farce takes the time to research it, will discover is more true than they’d like—especially all the important particulars,” said the old Engineer.

“It’ll never work,” I said with complete certainty.

“It doesn’t hurt to try…unless you’re upset at how we made the main character?” asked Spalding.

“As if I’m that vain,” I huffed.

“Then that’s settled. We’ll roll out the first episode and see how it’s received,” the old engineer nodded, as if that decided it. And to my ever-growing surprise, the heads bobbing around the room seemed to agree with him.

“Whatever,” I said, flipping that single word at him before crossing my arms across my chest and setting back with a frown. I wasn’t in the least bit vain about how my character looked, I just hated the whole thing in its entirety, including my malformed doppelganger.

“Then next up on the agenda is a complaint from the quartermaster department. Apparently there have been a number of complaints about the latest batch of ration bars. The ‘spicy lemon bars’ are not as well received as hoped,” Steiner reported.

I shook my head. “I’ve tried them and they’re terrible,” I agreed, recalling the time I’d picked up one of the new spicy lemon bars by accident and chomped into it without thinking. That had been the first and last bite of spicy lemon I’d ever eaten.

“There have been complaints ranging from just the taste to several suspicions that something must be wrong with the fungal base used to make the bars,” Steiner said.

“They’re a concoction not fit for man nor beast,” Chief Engineer Spalding concurred. “I move we shut down the spicy lemon line permanently and have the fungal tanks they were made from purged and thoroughly cleaned before being used again. Whether there’s anything wrong with the fungal vats used to make them or not, once we let the crew know they’ve been scrubbed and the entire line discontinued confidence in the food supply will be restored.”

“That’s good, because we’ve had a run on the fresh greens and vegetables. If everyone uses their fresh ration cards at the same time it puts a strain on hydroponics,” my Chief of Staff said with relief.

“That’s settled then. Make it so, Lieutenant,” I instructed.

Lisa Steiner gave a strained grimace and looked at me apologetically.

“That still leaves the issue of tens of thousands of already processed ration bars on ships spread out all over the fleet. Despite the various complaints, they’ve been tested by medical on multiple ships and there’s nothing actually wrong with them except how they taste,” she looked down at her data-slate as she spoke. “We could recycle them all but that would put a fleet-wide dent into each ship’s mandatory dry food reserve, in case a crop disease or battle damage takes out hydroponics.”

“Since they’re not fit for the crew to eat that only leaves one choice,” Spalding slammed a fist down on to the table, “give them to the marines. The Lancer Department is so full of complainers from Tracto that they wouldn’t recognize good space-faring food if it came and hit them upside the head. If they’re going to complain I say give them the stuff the rest of us don’t want. Problem solved. But just how the blazes did an untested ration bar get put into fleet-wide production in the first place?!” Spalding demanded, angrily switching subjects now that he’d just thrown an entire fleet department under the bus. “The stuff tastes terrible.”

“Umm,” Steiner looked down at her slate, “it looks like it was a recommendation from the Fleet Department in Tracto System. It was recommended by them as a cost-cutting measure for implementation fleet-wide and it passed all our built-in food system processors scanners.”

I gave the Lieutenant a sharp look.

“Whoever recommended this were fools at best,” Spalding said irately, “a ship fights on its stomach and I don’t think a fleet’s any different. This is the sort of morale-hitting measure that leads to complaints, intransigence and work slowdowns and I won’t have it in my Department, do you hear?!”

“I agree with the Commander on one thing,” I said, my eyes turning cold, “since the Tracto-an contingents are already complaining, they can chew on spicy lemon bars until we can recycle and replace the rest of the batch with new bars. Preferably the old style bars. Also, please make a note of whoever recommended those bars and forward the details to me personally,” I instructed with narrowed eyes.

This was the second time instructions received over the FTL system had been implemented causing me all sorts of trouble in the very heart of what was the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet. Once could have been a mixup—though I didn’t believe it for a moment—but the second smelt like enemy action to me.

Chapter 36: Sniffing out the Traitor

Senior Chief Petty Officer Morgan Belfort had always been a careful, if not always a cautious, man. Which was why when a strange-looking team of Fleet Security with Armory patches on their shoulders started moving into and through Fleet Personnel Department headquarters on Tracto’s Alpha Station, he decided it was past time to take his lunch break.

Throwing his Confederation style jacket on, he proceeded out of his cubicle and toward the nearest lift.

“I’m off to catch a meal at the Tea Pot and Battle-Armor, Jenny,” he informed his fellow chief, giving a two finger salute to indicate he was passing along the torch of responsibility for the department’s enlisted while he was gone.

“Bring me back some noodles if you think about it,” the woman grunted her head still down as she wrestled with the constant flow of electronic paperwork that kept their department busy and this Fleet staffed with competent or at least semi-competent crew.

“Will do,” the Senior Chief tossed her a smile before turning and walking out of the room.

Behind him, he could hear a young but very official-sounding voice reading out an arrest warrant Senior Lieutenant Chang, the man nominally his superior.

Whistling tunelessly as he left the office, he decided that Chang’s misfortune was his gain and it was a good thing he was always so careful to cover his tracks.

Poor Chang was guilty of nothing more than a little favor trading with the various ship captains that came to Tracto, but then again any Personnel Officer that wasn’t able to do a little horse-trading now and again wasn’t doing his job properly.

Unfortunately for the Senior Lieutenant when Confed Security searched his office computer they were going to find the personnel officer had an encrypted bank account and had been accepting money for favors for the better part of a year.

Oh, the poor Lieutenant hadn’t actually been on the take, but with his authorization code over a number of questionable transfer orders and a bank accounts with the credits for these dirty deeds sitting there on his computer the Lieutenant was going to have one heck of a time clearing his name.

The best result for Chang, Morgan figured, would be a one-way trip to a Tracto-an penal colony and that was the best case solution. Worst case, they spaced him outright. Sad but true; the blighter had at least been mostly competent, unlike whoever they got to replace him, but then that was the price one paid for not properly managing a fleet department. Really, it was Chang’s own fault for not doing his job better. If Chang had managed his people better, or had better computer security in his office, none of this would have happened…well, probably.

After all, one Morgan Belfort was a driven man he was driven to succeed where others failed.

The Senior Chief smoothly made his way past several fast-moving security spacers, was out of the office and finally on his way to the turbo-lift when he hit a snag. Whoever was running this operation had set up a check point right in the middle of the corridor leading to the lift system.

Someone on the other side of this fiasco was either competent or paranoid to a fault. Either of which was bad for Mama Belfort’s second son.

He paused mid-stride, as if he’d forgotten something, and started to turn on his heel when the security spacer on the left side of the corridor decided to throw a wrench into things.

“Halt,” Ordered one of the Security guards stepping into the middle of the light weight barrier, the same as you would encounter entering any sub-way access terminal back on his home world, and placing a hand on the butt of the sidearm strapped to his left hip.

Chief Belfort immediately stopped. It was never wise to aggravate a constable in the middle of his rounds, so he turned back around with wide smile pasted on his face.

“What’s the holdup, spacer? Is there a security threat I don’t know about? I was just on my way out for some noodles when I realized I forgot to backup my slate back at my desk. It’s nothing major; I’ve heard lately there’s a gang of Belter youth haunting the promenade with high-powered magnets that think it’s a sweet trick to bring them as close as they can to a data-slate and then watch as people melt down when their tablets go on the fritz,” Chief Belfort explained, trying for an easy tone of voice but, after realizing that he was having a mild case of verbal diarrhea from too much nervous excitement, he cut himself short.

“Approach the checkpoint and present your ID, Senior Chief,” instructed the Security Guard.

“Is that really necessary, Spacer?” the Senior Chief put a slight edge into his voice.

The Armory Guard’s face closed. “I’m going to have to insist, Chief,” he said, the palm of his hand riding the pommel of his weapon to a better position for a fast draw, fingers splaying out wide except for the one alongside the trigger. His chin jerked to the other guard standing beside him and his partner pulled out a stun baton. Although he left it angled to lay alongside his leg.

The Senior Chief’s smile froze while on the inside he swore silently. He was used to seeing this sort of behavior back home not here in the local capitol of the Confederation’s Sector Fleet and, while normally he might have dismissed the guards action as those of a hot-blooded young man wanting to play cowboy, something about the sureness of the other’s grip and steadiness in expression said otherwise.

“Hey now, pilgrims, you’ve got me all wrong here,” he said, raising his hands into the air.

“I’m no pilgrim—and I’m not asking again, Chief,” the Armory Guard said gesturing brusquely toward the portable checkpoint and its built-in sensor suite.

“Hey now, just take it easy Spacer. I’m coming,” Morgan Belfort said making sure to keep his hands well away from his sides.

The Armory Guard cocked his head and pressed a hand to his ear. “LeDuc here,” the guard said, face turned to speak into his collar, “I’ve got a fast-talking Senior Chief on his way out for some ‘noodles’,” the Guard said that last with mockery in his voice, obviously trying to provoke him.

The Guard paused, listening to a voice that only he could hear. “Will do, Sir,” said the Armory Guard, “this way, Chief,” he instructed focusing back on Morgan Belfort.

Even though he had nothing incriminating on him, Chief Belfort felt a sense of unease as he stepped in between the scanners. He breathed a sigh of relief as the track lights on the inner sides of the scanners flashed green.

The Armory Guard gave him an inscrutable look and then nodded. “Sorry Chief,” he said clapping him on the back as he urged him out of the small sensor kiosk, “just following protocol. No one gets in or out of personnel without a sensor scan today. Make sure to enjoy your noodles.”

Morgan Belfort frowned at the other man’s hand and then nodded tersely. “I’ll be off then,” he said, starting toward the lift across the hall.

“Did you forget something, Chief?” the Armory Guard asked with a crooked smile. “Didn’t you want to back-up that data slate?”

“I think I’ll just have to take the risk,” Morgan Belfort said dryly, “because if I need to go through a checkpoint twice in a row I doubt I’ll have time to grab a bite to eat. Might as well just stay at work,” he shook his head, turning back to the lift.

Thankfully, the lift doors cycled open almost as soon as he activated the lift’s external sensors with a wave of his hand and he made sure not to turn back around until the doors had slid shut behind him.

“Bilge rats,” the Senior Chief muttered, his mind racing as he ran the angles. Was the smart play to hold everything close to the vest, assume Confed Security was as fat dumb and clueless as usual, and assume everything ended with Chang? Or was it better to hop a freighter and ride out of the system or, failing that, sign his own transfer order on the fastest MSP-flagged ship headed out system?

For a long moment he wavered and then shrugged. It hurt nothing to make sure his bolt hole on the station was primed and ready in case the heat was on.

Whistling another off-key tune, the Senior Chief stopped on the promenade long enough to buy two orders of noodles to go before heading down the concourse.

Another one of those irritating flash holo-ads started blinking in his face.

“Pah!” he scolded, waving his hands through the hologram forcing it to fritz out and the floating ad-bot to flare is anti-grav unit and drift back. “Who in the name of all the great gods wants to eat recycled food?” he demanded, throwing a kick toward the ad-bot, “Burn Styrofoam! Use Aerosol! Ya Dink!!! Do you know what they’re recycling to put inside that food??”

He turned away, shaking his head in frustration and kept walking until he found the bead-covered entry way to Madam Syburna House of Fortune and Palm Reading.

Pushing aside the covering, he stomped inside.

“Madam Syburna, where are you?” he demanded.

“Is the fish still on the loose?” Lieutenant Gants asked, moving up behind the portable console.

“He said he was going for food and picked up some noodles,” Spacer LeDuc reported helplessly, “right after that he went to a fortune teller. He’s inside right now. Maybe I misread him?”

“Doubtful,” Gants opined, “he was the senior enlisted in Lieutenant Chang’s department. If anyone was aware of what Chang was up to it had to be him, so either he knew and turned a blind eye to the situation without reporting anything up the chain of command or he didn’t want to know and deliberately closed eyes and ears. Either way we need to know—and we don’t need his sort in the Fleet.”

“Or he could just be incompetent,” Armory Spacer LeDuc suggested.

Gants shrugged. “Do we have audio?” asked the Armory Officer, who had been placed by the Little Admiral in charge of the investigation into just who thought they could manipulate the Admiral’s fleet without anyone being the wiser.

“I placed a standard tracking and audio bead on his back when he went through the scanners,” LeDuc replied.

“Bring up the audio,” ordered Gants. There was what sounded like voices and then nothing but static. “Clear up the resolution,” Gants instructed.

“I’m trying,” said LeDuc, adjusting the receiver. He frowned, “It’s not working. Something seems to be jamming the signal.”

Gants scowled at the screen and hesitated. “What could cause the signal to fail?” he asked.

“It’s only a standard model so…more than six inches of solid duralloy, certain high-powered sensors, or a jamming field,” the Armory Spacer reported.

Gants’s face hardened. “We could be blown. Send in the extraction team; I don’t want the Senior Chief getting away until after we’ve had a chance to grill him about his boss,” he ordered.

“Aye-aye, Lieutenant,” said the Armory Guard.

“Welcome to Madame Syburna’s House of Fortune, wise spacer. For only six credits I can read your palm and tell you the path to a better future,” said Madam Syburna.

“Enough with the penny ante plays for the rubes, Syburna,” barked Morgan Belfort. “I’ve got some major business going down today.”

“Madam Syburna deals with major business several times a day. What seems to be clouding your normally farseeing judgment?” asked the Madam, stepping behind her gauzy curtain and running a hand along the curtain, causing it to ripple mysteriously.

“I don’t have time for you to blow sunshine up my bum,” Belfort said, angrily stalking over to her gauzy curtain, “I need my walking bag, a set of clean papers, and a ticket on the next freighter out of the star system.”

There was a pregnant pause. “An expensive proposition,” said Syburna.

“I have more than enough on retainer here with the house of fortune, as well as other assets I can lay hands on so cut the chatter and give me what we arranged,” Belfort snapped.

“The House of Fortune is just an interlocutor, a middleman if you will; we have none of what you ask for on hand. In fact…it all sounds highly illegal,” purred the Madam.

“You think I’m wearing a wire!?” Morgan Belfort yelled, reaching over and pulling back the curtain violently.

There was a snick and he froze as the Madam of Fortune shoved a snub-nosed holdout blaster pistol into the crotch of his pants.

“It never hurts to be careful or in your case courteous,” she whispered in a low, intense voice. With her other hand she pulled out a glowing blue wand and ran it over his body. The wand chimed and started flashing. Syburna’s face twisted with rage. “Are you trying to compromise me?” she hissed, shoving her pistol forward and causing him to back up.

“What are you talking about?” he gasped stepping back.

“You’re a fool and I’m not going down with you,” she snapped, backing him toward the door.

“Hey, what about my freighter ticket? We had a deal!” he cried.

“Locker 14-73z near the loading docks,” she said coldly, “and that’s only because the House always keeps its deals. But the next time you come into my place of business with a transmitter, you’ll leave through the waste disposal unit.”

“A transmitter? Blast! Are you sure?” he asked.

“Here’s a portable jammer; it’s clean,” she thrust an innocuous little square made out of metal and plastic into his chest, “but it won’t last long if they make you a high priority target.”

He reflexively caught it. She flicked it on with a touch of her gloved hands and then stepped back.

“It can’t be traced back to me so don’t even try,” she warned, waving a hand toward the door, “now remember what you want is in the locker near the loading docks. If security comes by here I’ve never heard of you before today. Take whatever trouble you’ve brought with you as far away from here as you can, and go.”

“Look, I got all of my jobs through here, so if you know something I need to know then—” he started.

“I’m nothing more than a drop site. The House puts people in touch with one another. What they do after they meet is none of my concern nor do I know what your agreement was or whatever it was that you did in case I’m questioned, so it’s no use trying to implicate me in whatever is going on,” she said and then gave him a boot to the chest sending him reeling onto his rear end in the middle of the concourse.

“So get out and stay out, you blighter!” she shrieked, waving a fist at the Senior Chief. “This is not that kind of business. We read palms. not give palm jobs to depraved spacers!”

After saying that, she started throwing loose objects at the Senior Chief—including a paperweight,a handful of crystals, and a vase filled with water.

Moments later, Security showed up.

“I have a visual on target,” a terse voice reported over the com-channel.

“Apprehend and take in for questioning,” Gants instructed from his temporary command center in an unused corner of station security.

“Larry that, Lieutenant,” said the petty officer in charge of the Armory quad tasked with arresting Senior Chief Petty Officer Morgan Belfort.

Gants watched on the console as seen through the squad leader’s head cam as the team approached the suspect.

“Has Senior Lieutenant Chang started to cooperate?” he asked a technician.

“Nothing yet, Lieutenant. He still maintains he knows nothing and can’t help us,” reported the Tech.

“Senior Chief Belfort, I have a warrant for your arrest and am here to take you into custody,” shouted the Armory Quad Leader as he approached, his camera starting to go static and the resulting image of the Senior Chief became hazy.

“Some kind of jamming field,” said the technician attached to the quad.

Gants clapped a hand on his forehead in consternation as the senior chief scrambled to his feet and had plenty of time to start running away before the quad could reach him.

“I didn’t do anything wrong, just let me go!” shouted the Chief.

“Stop or I’ll fire,” the team leader said, a stun bolt strike going high and wide accompanying his words.

Gants shook his head unhappily. “We need more training,” he said shortly. There was no reason the quad should have announced themselves so soon before reaching the chief, or at least until the chief became aware of them himself.

On the screen the senior chief tripped an overweight female shopper, throwing her into the path of the armory team and then as the team bypassed her knocked over a fruit stand.

Another barrage of stunner fire lashed out, striking the senior chief in the back of his right leg as well as several civilians who unlike the senior chief who kept running promptly collapsed to the floor.

“You’ll never take me alive!” cried the Senior Chief.

“What is this, comedy hour?” Gants demanded of no on in particular.

“There’s nowhere to run!” shouted a member of the armory team as the chief hobbled over to a knee level crawl space, slapping in an override code and then rolling into the hatch which promptly began to cycle shut.

“Four!” screamed the quad’s tech as she spun her right arm in a while circle and hurled a round metal object into the access hatch right before it snapped shut.

“What is this, the girl’s fast pitch team, McCriker?” the team leader demanded as he ran up to the hatch and tried to open it.

“Stun grenade on a one second timer, PO!” Tech McCriker snapped her report as the team leader hammered on the hatch in frustration when the standard station security override code failed to open the hatch.

“We’ve got a non-standard hatch here, Tech. Open it for me—now!” he snapped at her.

“I’ll have it sprung in two shakes of lamb’s tail, PO,” the Tech McCriker replied smartly and, bending down to access the hatch, pulled a device with multiple short wires out of her belt and attached it to the keypad on the knee high access door.

Gants snorted and shook his head but couldn’t quite hide the broad smile trying to break free on his face. That is until he remembered that the suspect may have just managed to get away.

He leaned over and barged into the team’s general push using his command override code. “This is taking too long,” he said with determination. “Technician McCriker, what are the odds that your device failed to neutralize the Senior Chief and, assuming he got away, what are his most likely egress points? I don’t want this man to get away because we were too busy fumbling around the access hatch to set up a proper perimeter!”

“Larry that,” said the Team Leader keeping McCriker at her job and detailing the other two members of his quad to each head to the two closest egress points as suggested by McCriker.

After saying that, Gants felt the urge to kick himself and detailed two more teams to join team three in searching for and detaining the chief and then sent Senior Chief Belfort’s bio-data over to Station Security and the customs and immigration check points for anyone attempting to leave the station with an arrest on sight notice.

“Hatch opening now,” said the Technician.

“Back away!” ordered Team Leader Three leveling his stunner at the hatch.

The image fritzed out once again as the team leader leaned forward and although it was clear the Team Leader was trying to report something all that came over the line was hashed up words and bits of static.

“Can we clean that up any? Maybe have Criker put in a booster signal?” Gants asked.

“We can have her try?” the tech with him said skeptically, “but it would be better if we could just get her to turn off the signal jammer at its source.”

Half a minute later, the jamming cut out and they got a good signal back.

“I’ve shut down the Senior Chief’s portable jammer on my own initiative,” reported the Team Three Technician. “I realize that in doing so I may have damaged key evidence in the Chief’s prosecution, however I felt that-”

“Enough of that,” Gants commanded, once again able to see through the team leader’s helmet-cam. After all, he couldn’t very well blame her for doing exactly what he’d already tried and failed to order her to do anyway. That would be the height of hypocrisy.

The Team Leader leaned forward and he could now see that McCriker’s stun grenade had worked without a hitch. Sprawled out, boots toward the door, in an ungainly heap lay Senior Chief Belfort.

“Looks like the Senior Chief collapsed within the maintenance hatch,” reported the Team Leader now that contact was reestablished, “he should wake up in another ten to twenty minutes.”

“Take the Chief into custody and escort him to the brig,” instructed Gants glad that he wouldn’t have to report a job half done and a man escaped to the Admiral. It was fortunate that the Armory guards he’d placed outside the personnel department on the off-chance that Chang or his confederates tried to run had flagged Chief Belfort as a suspicious character. It was even more fortunate that he’d followed up on their hunch and had a quad standing by while they tracked down the chief using the bead that the self-same pair of guards had placed on the Chief when he was going through their checkpoint.

Gants supposed it could be argued, in light of how the Chief tried running away as soon as someone came to scoop him up, that they should have held him in custody just on the basis of that suspicion. After all, if they were willing to go so far as to put an electronic bell on the man why didn’t they just scoop him up in the first place?

However, Gants disagreed. Before the Chief had run they’d possessed nothing but gut feeling and some minor supposition but now that he’d tried to flee from authority they could put the screws to him. Hopefully Belfort would be the key to unsealing Senior Lieutenant Chang’s reluctant jaw; it would be disappointing to find that the man had ‘just’ been involved in smuggling, drugs or illegal pornography on the side and bolted after seeing security all over the place arresting people, including his boss, but only time would tell.

Morgan Belfort groaned, his head aching like he’d just woke up from an all-night bender or hit with a livestock stun-prod and then he jolted upright in his bed realizing he had in fact been hit with a stunner. Security had lobbed a stun grenade just when he was about to make good his escape.

He gritted his teeth. He’d hoped to buffalo them into letting him make good his escape with a little crazy talk, and for a while it had seemed to work. Then the trigger-happy fools had hit him in the leg and he knew he had to get out of there fast. He’d made it as far as the access tunnel when they’d grenaded his ass and, now, here he was.

He lifted an arm to scratch his nose when his hand stopped abruptly, and he realized he had a set of magnetic cuffs keeping him tied to the bed.

Then, realizing he was awake, they came and hauled him off to an interrogation room where he was once again magnetized to the interview table and stuck there in his backless hospital gown with the cool-to-the-point-of-being-cold air-conditioning blowing up his backside.

A youngish Lieutenant strode into the room, looked him up and down, and then shook his head.

The Senior Chief immediately bridled. “I want a lawyer; I have rights!” Morgan Belfort demanded, shaking his magnetized wrists for emphasis.

“I think that would be an excellent idea,” said the Lieutenant with a nod.

“I’m going to sue you six ways from Sunday,” he blustered angrily.

“Yes, you are certainly going to need legal representation,” the Lieutenant agreed. “In fact, Fleet Legal has instructed me to ask if you have an updated will? Do you have such a will, Senior Chief?”

Morgan Belfort felt a sudden chill, and it had nothing to do with the air vent situated directly behind his chair.

“Nothing to say, Senior Chief Belfort?” Gants prompted. “Fleet Legal has instructed me to ask if you have a name of a private lawyer or legal firm, or if you intend to make use of fleet-assigned counsel?”

Morgan Belfort pressed his lips tightly together and stared at the Armory Lieutenant.

“Do you have a private firm you would like us to contact or not, Senior Chief?” prompted the Lieutenant.

“Hmph!” said Chief Belfort.

“Alright then,” the Armory Lieutenant said, pulling out a data slate and starting to tap away. After a minute, he put away his slate, “Now how about we stop pretending and get to business, Morgan? I can call you Morgan yes…or do you prefer Belfort?”

“You can’t trick me; I refuse to put my fate into the hands of some public defender you’re paying for!” Morgan Belfort snapped.

“I’m sorry we misled you, Senior Chief,” the Armory Lieutenant said earnestly, “but you aren’t currently facing an inquest and a trial—you’re facing the airlock. Hiring a lawyer for you was a courtesy in order that you could settle your estate onto any heirs or elderly parents you might have.”

Morgan Belfort’s eyes bulged. “That’s a lie! You can’t do that to me—I have rights,” he snapped, his voice sounding shaky with a mixture of anger and… fear. Then he rallied, “What’s the charge!”

“Charges, plural, Senior Chief,” the lieutenant, with a name tag Gants on it said, “starting with destruction of private property, resisting arrest, espionage, attempted espionage, desertion in the face of the enemy, and maybe even mutiny. Who knows? The day is young.”

“What enemy? We’re not at war.” The Senior Chief said firmly, “don’t try to buffalo me, lad. I’ve been in one navy or another for the better part of fifteen years. You can’t kid a kidder. There’s no way any of those charges will stick except the private property one and the arrest thing and those are hardly spacing offenses. Dishonorable discharge at absolute worst. Like I said: I have rights here!”

Lieutenant Gants brought out a satchel and placed it on the interview table. Reaching inside, he began pulling out objects. “Item one: false identity papers,” he said, putting it on the table in front of the Senior Chief.

“Having a fake ID may be illegal but it’s hardly mutiny!” declared the Senior Chief.

“What I don’t get is why a senior spacer like yourself would resist arrest and attempt to flee the station within minutes of his boss being arrested for a crime Lieutenant Chang swears up and down he did not commit,” Gants said, looking at him steadily. “It also makes a man wonder just what exactly he’ll find when his tech team breaks the decidedly non-military encryption, or at least non-MSP encryption, on your tablet and in your workspace.”

Morgan Belfort was a man who knew when he’d been dealt a hand full of garbage and the other guy was pulling for an inside straight. In normal circumstances he’d fold and try to keep his losses limited, but with being tossed out an airlock on the table it was time to see if he could bluff or, if that wasn’t possible, fold with style. Either way, he was on a time limit. He had to cut a deal before their forensic specialists had enough time to backtrack him.

After all, he wasn’t incompetent; he’d worked hard to cover his tracks but he wouldn’t consider himself an electronic wizard.

“Look, you can talk to me or you can explain everything to the Admiral in person,” Lieutenant Gants said with an earnest expression.

“You do the best impression of a ‘good cop’ that I’ve seen in a long time, son,” Morgan Belfort said bitterly.

“Good cop?” the Lieutenant said brow wrinkling. “I’m just telling you the beloved Saint’s honest truth. You’d prefer me to the Little Admiral any day of the week.”

“The Little Admiral?” Chief Belfort drew himself back with surprise and then realized that it wasn’t that much of a surprise after all.

“The man himself—and, believe you me, one look from him would be more than enough to turn your knees to water,” Lieutenant Gants assured.

“He deals with droids and those gorilla people,” Morgan Belfort muttered and then shot the Lieutenant a sharp look.

“He’s interrogated them too, and if he can get an uplift to talk well…I wouldn’t give you much more credit than an ape man,” Gants shrugged.

Morgan Belfort shuddered and then remembered his life was on the line. They can only kill me once, he thought as his spine stiffened.

“Tall tales and the boogeyman in the scrub brush won’t scare me. I want a deal,” he said quickly.

“A deal? For what…your attempted mutiny?” the Lieutenant asked, looking incredibly stupid.

Morgan Belfort flushed. “I’m not a mutineer,” he exclaimed, “I want immunity!”

“Why do you want an immunity deal if you’re not guilty? What are you hiding?” Gants asked, his face turning much more serious and less stupid looking by the second.

“Listen, lad, there are a lot of reasons an innocent man might not want everyone under the sun to know his business,” the Senior Chief said, speaking quickly.

Gants’ face hardened. “Look,” he said flatly, “you can either speak to me or wait until we break into your computer files and then you get to talk to the Little Admiral. That’s the only deal you can expect.”

Morgan Belfort was torn.

“Look let’s start with Lieutenant Chang’s place in all this business and go from there,” Gants said.

“Listen Chang can’t give you all the details you want, and going through my computer’s not going to tell you everything. Get me an immunity deal, or at least take the airlock off the table, and I can show you where all the bodies are buried,” said the Senior Chief. “I’m not a criminal like Chang but, as a senior chief, I have a way of knowing more than I should.” He threw Chang under the bus, even though the other man was innocent, without so much as a qualm.

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Gants said, standing up.

“Look, just relay it to the Admiral. I’m a small fish in a very big pond here,” Belfort said desperately, and then his eyes widened as he remembered something, “and you can tell him I know of a plot within the fleet. There’s people that don’t like the way he’s been cozying up to the machines and the monkey people. I can name names—you tell him that!”

Chapter 37: Conspiracy in the Lower Decks

“Well I think we can all agree that we’ve been more than patient,” Malcolm Sagittarius said a hard tone entering his voice for the first time before smoothing out, “but first I’d like to thank all of our new members for joining us. I realize that this is new to some of you but all of you are aware of the problem and hopefully realize that we have to do something about it before we’re all killed.”

“We’ve got machines and monkey boys running around everywhere, PO. We’ve got to do something about it,” Bee Bee said angrily.

“Remember you’re a petty officer yourself now, Bee Bee,” Malcolm said with a smile at his well timed support before turning to look at the rest of the men and women here. This time they were all meeting in a dark mess hall on one of the damaged cruisers still waiting for its turn in the repair yard.

“Darn tooting!” the gunnery chief said loudly.

“Does anyone disagree that we’ve been more than patient yet despite all the time we’ve given him the Vice Admiral does not seem ready in any way to throw over his droid lackeys and bring back to us a machine free spine?” Malcolm asked sweeping everyone in the crowd with his eyes.

He silently made a note when the senior petty officer with the formerly dripping nose looked down and away from him.

“We have to do something. But what?” asked a new man, a hard eyed junior lieutenant of middling years who’d joined both the fleet and its anti-machine conspiracy late.

“As I see it there are only three choices. We convince Vice Admiral Montagne to do what he should have always done from the beginning,” Malcolm said.

“Impossible,” the lieutenant shook his head, “the chain of command and most of the officers of this fleet won’t agree and we’re likely to be thrown into the brig if we try anything more than just asking.”

“Our second option is to force the situation. Wait until our ships are nearby the droids in Tracto and if enough of us are on the gun deck we could take over enough of the broadside to destroy the droid ships while their shields are down,” Malcolm said.

“That’s mutiny and we’d all hang after the Admiral got his hands on us,” replied the Lieutenant shaking his head and seeming to draw back, “you said there was a third option.”

“If Vice Admiral Montagne won’t do his job, he won’t listen to reason and will space the whole lot of us if we try to take matters into our own hands, then there’s only one thing left that we can do,” Malcolm said simply.

“And just what is that?” demanded the over-sized gunnery chief, “because as far as I can tell everything’s just been taken off the table.”

“No. All we have to do is make sure someone else is put in command of this fleet. Someone who will do the job and do it right,” said Malcolm.

“You mean kill the veteran’s precious Little Admiral,” the Lieutenant mocked, “another mutiny and one doomed to fail. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but most of the Lancers are Tracto-ans and they’d tear us to pieces within minutes if we so much as touched a hair on top of his head.”

Malcolm smiled confidently.

“Not all Tracto-ans. I know any number of them who don’t much care for the Admiral. But who said we have to kill the man?” he asked rolling his eyes, “who would take command of the fleet if he fell sick for instance.”

“I’m not sure…,” the Lieutenant hesitated, “one of the Commodore’s perhaps.”

“Who’s to say what such a man would do if thrust into temporary command,” asked Malcolm and looking around to gauge his audience and not seeing a lot more hesitation than he would have liked he added, “I’m not saying we get rid of the Vice Admiral I’m merely suggesting we ensure the droids are killed. Vice Admiral Montagne seems to have done a decent enough job stopping threats to this sector. The Imperial Reclamation Fleet did a lot more damage than I for one am comfortable with but the pirates are gone and we have a Border Alliance now.”

“I still don’t see how we could get one of the Commodore’s to go after the droids if the Little Admiral’s down in sickbay with the flux,” snorted one of the original cadre, the elderly junior petty officer who appeared from his uniform to have been busted back down to technician status.

“They might if it looked like the droids were the ones who had attacked us first. Or better yet had attacked the Admiral,” Malcolm mocked.

There was a long pause of silence and then rumblings of approval.

“You want to frame the droids,” the Lieutenant said with surprise and faint sound of admiration.

Malcolm shrugged.

“We all know they’re going to do something like this sooner or later anyway. I’m not suggesting we actually hurt the Vice Admiral,” Malcolm said with a mocking smile, “we just need to prod the people at the top into doing what they all should have done in the first place. Destroy the droids.”

“This is still technically mutiny, let’s make no bones about that,” said the Lieutenant, “and I’m not sure I’m willing to go that far… yet.”

“This isn’t mutiny against the Vice Admiral or the chain of command,” Malcolm hastened to assure them all, “we’re not mutineers; we’re anti-machine patriots. And before our loyalty to any one man, it is our duty to defend all of humanity from the machine plague. If we can figure out a way to convince Montagne to get rid of the droids and eventually the uplifts, even if all he does is exile them beyond the Rim, then I wholeheartedly support that. But if talk isn’t enough I say we need to take action. For ourselves and for our people. Man not Machine isn’t just a slogan they are words to live by.”

Heads slowly nodded.

“Taking action against the Admiral,” the Lieutenant shook his head, “I still don’t know how we could even get close enough to so much as slip a laxative into his coffee. Let alone convince him of a droid attack.”

“Tea. The Vice Admiral drinks tea,” Malcolm corrected in a calm voice, “and as for getting our hands on a few robots and old blaster pistols. We might not control the lower decks, yet, but we can move around anything we need to.”

“On the flagship? Or are you planning to do this at Gambit Station?” scoffed the Lieutenant, “none of which will help you get so much as within spitting distance of the command deck. We don’t have enough officers.”

“There are more of us than you might suspect, Lieutenant,” Malcolm said and then smiled confidently, “and as for having enough people in place to have a chance at success and get on the command deck… well let’s just say that it’s a good thing we’re not just supported by those of us in the room.”

“Meaning?” asked the big gunnery chief.

“After our strike against the droids takes place we’ll have to make sure and thank our anti-machine brothers in the Personnel department,” Malcolm said with a grin.

“That might just work,” said the Lieutenant.

“Indeed. We’ll have to wait and bide our time and if the Vice Admiral deals with the droids before then we can all go back to work as if nothing had happened but if he insists on making deals with the droids—and worse, actually holding to them—then we have to take action. I don’t know about the rest of you but I want my children to grow up in a machine free star system. Whatever the cost.”

“Hear, hear,” said the majority of those in the room.

The next day the senior petty officer with the dripping nose was found to have fallen off a gantry and broken his neck. He was announced dead on the scene. Security found no suspicion of foul play and engineering improved the safety railing throughout the entire section of the ship.

Chapter 38: Naming Names

I was in the study in my quarters when I received an FTL communication from Lieutenant Gants with an update on his mission.

He’d run the leak in Tracto down, or at least the one meddling with my prisoners and prison guards and the main conspirator on the fleet side of things was offering to spill his guts in return for not being prosecuted.

Apparently the officer issuing the orders to the prison guards hadn’t had the foggiest idea of what had been going on. A senior chief petty officer, recruited into the MSP formerly from a Border Alliance world SDF, had hacked the Senior Lieutenant’s fleet account and then used his access codes in some sort of pay-to-play scheme that Gants was still busy unraveling.

The senior chief also said that he knew names and that there was much more going on underneath the surface of my fleet than just him and his little operation.

Whether that was the truth or not was still in doubt. But if it was true then I wanted the traitors rooted out and any foreign agents purged, arrested or if they were unreachable because they came and went on freighters and were currently out of reach then I wanted them shut down and put out of business.

It all came down to a single question: was this corrupted senior chief telling the truth, or was he lying in order to get a deal and save his life? Well, so long as his deal was contingent upon the accuracy and veracity of his information then I didn’t mind if a little fish slipped from my net. Life in a penal colony, while still life, wasn’t at all pleasurable from what I’d been told and from what my own research told me.

In that context, the answer was simple.

“Mr. Harpsinger,” I opened a channel to the fleet’s Legal Department.

“What can I do for you, Admiral?” Harpsinger replied.

“Draw up a plea deal for Morgan Belfort, the Senior Chief currently in custody over on Tracto’s Alpha Station,” I said, pulling up a file and shooting it over to the Lawyer. “I want it clear that his sentence is commuted from espionage and high treason, with a sentence of death if prosecuted, to ten years in a penal colony on Tracto with the option of permanent banishment from Tracto and release back into the general population of the Sector for good behavior at the end of those ten years.”

There, that should take the traitorous senior chief out of play until everything he knew was history and everything he’d once been a part of hopelessly out of date. At the same time, it would give the Chief hope for something other than death or a permanent life of hell on Tracto. He could suffer and pay for his crimes, I thought dourly but more important than any one man was the safety and security of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet.

“I can do that, Admiral. Although I’ll need to look into the particulars of the case,” Harpsinger nodded.

“I would have thought Fleet Legal would be in on the arrest of one of a department head, as defense counsel if nothing else?” I said, wrinkling my brow.

“I was aware that there was an issue in Tracto but the legal department in Tracto has been dealing with it. FTL communications leaving much to be desired for advising and speaking with anyone, especially someone you are aiming to defend or depose,” Harpsinger said dryly.

“That makes sense,” I agreed.

“If there’s nothing else, I’ll get on it,” said the Lawyer.

“Carry on,” I said and then cut the channel. Now it only remains to be seen if Morgan Belfort was the big fish himself, or a small fish that could lead us to an even bigger catch, I thought with narrowing eyes.

Chapter 39: On the Senate Floor

“One year ago this day, patriots belonging to our Empire attempted to assist our former brothers in the Spineward Sectors out of the darkness which had oppressed their worlds for too long,” Senator Cornwallis thundered. “And what did those ungrateful louts do in response? They spat in all of our faces! That is why, if the Senate accepts my proposal, I will personally lead a Campaign of Pacification and Liberation to reclaim that which rightfully belongs to us,” he stated, turning to address the assembled Senators his purple fringed white cape flaring. “No portion of Human Space, or any part of the Known Galaxy, should be set apart from the control of the Empire and Dictates of Man!”

As soon as Cornwallis was done speaking, the newly-confirmed Junior Senator from House Raubach kicked the elderly Senator in front of him, starting awake the impoverished old politician—a man who had reduced himself to nothing more than a paid mouthpiece for any member of the Senate who could vote, but was too junior to have speaking rights on the floor of the Imperial Senate.

It was a quirk of the Imperial system that while any Senator could vote, only senior Senators or those who had already held specific offices could speak and propose legislation.

“Objection,” the elderly Senator said, standing up proudly—or at least as proudly as a man who sold his voice, if not always his vote—for Imperial credits.

Senator Charles Cornwallis’s steely gaze swept over the elderly Tiberius Morgan dismissively before landing on Senator Raubach—a man who the former leader of House Raubach, with Cornwallis’ support, had supposedly removed from the equation long before the Union Treaty had been signed. Unfortunately, this new Raubach Prince had proven more capable than his predecessor who, according to indisputable records verified by the Purity Council, had been killed around a year ago in the Spineward Sectors.

Fortunately, decades of systematic weakening at Cornwallis’ direction had all but gutted House Raubach and brought it perilously close to Vassal House status. Like any dying beast too stupid to realize its demise is already inevitable, Raubach was still capable of causing more than merely superficial damage if its new Prince was as capable as he seemed to be.

Cornwallis held Raubach’s gaze before turning back to Senior Senator Tiberius Morgan. His upper lip quirked and the fourth rail of Imperial politics was about to respond in an appropriate fashion when he was interrupted by one the few people able to call themselves his superior on the floor of the senate and make it stick…for now: Imperial Triumvir Bellucci, who was absolutely Cornwallis’ most loathed—and capable—rival.

“Just what is the objection, Senator Morgan?” Triumvir Bellucci asked, impatiently tapping her lictor on the side of her section of the impressively raised dais at the base of the granite amphitheater that was the Imperial Senate building. “And please do make it quick. I don’t like people who waste my time with petty partisan debates. There is a war on, after all.”

Senator Cornwallis expression remained implacable but his eyes immediately turned cold. Bellucci was as poisonous as she was partisan and well aware that, due to her House’s several missteps on the Front, he was taking aim at her seat on the Triumvirate. Anything that appeared neutral or helpful to anything he proposed was only part of a hidden attack.

“Yes, Senior Senator Morgan. Triumvir Bellucci is not the only one interested in why you seek to impede the business of the Empire while there is a war raging all along the Gorgon Front—despite this Senate’s best efforts to bring it to a swift and speedy resolution,” Senator Cornwallis said, staring piercingly at the aged Senator.

Tiberius Morgan kept his gaze averted from Cornwallis and continued to focus on Triumvir Bellucci. “Triumvir, it is not that I am against the expansion of this great Empire so much as I question whether the expedition my fellow Senator proposes would not benefit from the addition of several more seasoned…additions to its makeup,” the Senior Senator said as he quite casually tried to throw Senator Cornwallis under the bus and seize everything he’d worked for.

The slight tremble of his hands and tension in the old man’s jawline evidenced the pressure the old man must be under to go directly against a fellow Senator with the power to crush his house into dust and ensure that House Morgan ended with Tiberius.

Charles Cornwallis’s eyes narrowed as he considered what this Raubach usurper must have over a piece of plain toasted bread like the Senior Senator to make the old man openly antagonize him. Since returning to the Empire, House Raubach—which had, under its previous leadership, been a useful if not entirely loyal vassal to House Cornwallis—had made all manner of waves that were far above its station, several of which went diametrically against Cornwallis’ interests. So Cornwallis knew that the new Raubach group was a thorn that needed removing, and he suspected that House Cornwallis was far from the only Great House which had been inconvenienced by Raubach’s recent activities. Not that he was going to let either Raubach or Morgan go in the end, mind you, but Cornwallis was experienced enough to understand how this particular game needed to be played in order to win.

However, now was not the time for reprisals. Everything could be paid back when he returned triumphant from the Confederation’s old Spineward Sectors territories…paid back ten times over.

“The ‘addition’ of several ‘additions,’ Morgan?” mocked Senator Cornwallis as he tut-tutted disdainfully. “I know you’re old but at least try not to stammer when making a proposal on the senate floor,” he said scathingly, “by the god of our youth, your mouth trembles more than your hands do.”

“Cornwallis!” the Senior Senator flushed with anger and humiliation.

“Let’s have some decorum on the Senate Floor, Senators. This is the supreme legislative body in known space; at least pretend to act like you respect that,” Triumvir Bellucci said severely, but when she didn’t continue further it was clear she wanted to give someone enough rope to hang himself.

Cornwallis stood silent as Bellucci use her office—one which he had eyed for a century—as a club to score political points.

“The Triumvir has always been the very height of decorum on the Senate floor, and I’m sure I join my fellow Senior Senator in thanking her for her guidance,” Cornwallis deadpanned to one belatedly muffled guffaw. He was not the only one Bellucci had trodden upon in her path of ascension to a vaunted seat on the Triumvirate.

Triumvir Bellucci looked in the direction of the inappropriate laugh with narrowed eyes, and Charles Cornwallis suppressed a vindictive laugh. The other Senator gaining her ire had all but assured he’d gained one more vote for his proposal.

“As I was saying—” Senator Morgan harrumphed.

“And just who are these more seasoned additions that you want to ‘addition’ to the Spineward Expedition, Senator Morgan?” Senator Cornwallis cut him off scornfully. “I’ve served in this body, been an Admiral in our Navy, walked the path-of-glory to Senior Status from civil service, to military service—in the very Sectors we now consider annexing—to high elected office. And now, after I’ve finally handed all this to the Empire, the opportunity to reach out and claim seven Sectors of the Confederation for the Empire is in our hands if we will but grasp it. Seven entire Sectors! Can you or your ‘more seasoned’ additions say they have ever done half as much? Or say they know the pieces, the players, or our own navy half as well as I?” he asked scornfully.

“No man is perfect, Senator! You should not take my proposed support for your expedition as some sort of attack but for the support that it truly is—” the Senior Senator all but stammered a spineless rebuttal before the Junior Senator behind him frowned and once again kicked him in the back of the leg. “That is, I concur that this expedition would be a great boon to our mighty Empire,” the elderly Tiberius Morgan took a deep, steadying breath and leaned forward his hands grasping the hand rail in front of him for support and shot Charles Cornwallis a suddenly fearsome gaze. Apparently, he’d finally realized that he’d already crossed the line from paid opponent to enemy of House Cornwallis, “And I agree that seven Sectors of the Confederation fringe is something we can’t pass up. But are you really the one to lead this Campaign of Liberation, Pacification and Reclamation? Perhaps you should see to your own House first before attempting to shoulder a burden of this size, young Cornwallis?”

Charles Cornwallis stiffened at the blatant dig at his most recent failure. If the Reclamation Fleet had just done its job then he would have been able to directly accept those seven Sectors in the name of the Empire and there would have been little to nothing his political foes could do about it. But thanks to his old Flag Captain’s bungling, everything had become ten times harder.

“I think a Senator whose own house has teetered on the edge of financial oblivion for as long as yours has, Senator, would be well advised to tend his own affairs and not cast baseless aspersions upon those Houses that are considered the leading lights of the Empire,” he said coldly.

“Yes, but one of the leading lights for how much longer, Charles?” Senator Hampton interjected. “Or will you simply ‘reclaim’ that light at the expense of others once again? You appear to have become rather proficient at that.”

Senator Cornwallis’s fists clenched. Not all the current and former members of the Reclamation Initiative that had paid for Arnold Janeski’s grand blunder was happy about it. Some, like Senator Hampton, had paid less than others. And with House Hampton’s shipyards continuing to churn out warships while being firmly ensconced within an established faction—something that had initially drawn his own attention as a possible ally—Senator Hampton would be hard to displace.

“Everyone has ups and down when it comes to trade, Hampton. Don’t try and shove your inadequacies off on the rest of us,” Charles Cornwallis said coolly.

“Hmph,” snorted the other Senator taking a step back, “we’ll see if you still feel that way in a year’s time, fourth rail,” he finished with finality as he turned back into the crowd of junior Senators.

The vultures were circling, but the House of Cornwallis was as old as the Empire itself and it took more than a couple disgruntled junior partners and former employees with hand-axes to bring down a mighty oak.

He turned back to Senior Senator Morgan and lifted a brow.

“Well, Senior Senator? I’m still waiting for a reply. Please regale the Senate with the superior merits of your supposed ‘additions.’ We’re all waiting with bated breath,” he said dismissively.

“A forest is only as strong as each of its trees, Senator,” spat the elderly Senator Morgan. “You may be a whang-biz Admiral—I personally wouldn’t know—and a decent enough statesman but if you go it alone then you rise and fall all by yourself.”

“Your concern does you great credit, and there is much to what you say, Senator Morgan,” Senator Cornwallis said dismissively. “Personally, I’d be more than willing to share the burden of expanding the Empire; it is not I but the Confederation which specifically requested my assistance by name. Possibly because they are fearful of too blatant a power grab by the Empire. Possibly because they know I am a seasoned and steady hand, intimately familiar with the area and its incumbent regional difficulties. I can’t say which. All we know for sure is this is a chance that the Empire may not see again. Do we dare endanger bringing in more worlds, more resources and, though they are definitely third rate, more warships, especially when we all know how stretched for those very resources our Admirals and glorious Triumvirs along the Gorgon Front already are?”

“The Gorgon Front hardly seems germane to the task at hand,” Senior Senator Morgan retorted. “Except to remark that this Pacification Campaign of yours will not come to us cost-free. The Spineward Sectors will require a great deal of military assets, from Imperial Naval Warships to fleet supply transports, marines and ground forces, all of which are in critically short supply.”

“While I will admit that Imperial Fleets do not grow on trees, Senator,” Charles Cornwallis snorted, “they are not as rare as all that. The 7th Imperial Battle Fleet already stands watch over the Overton Expanse while the Imperial Rim Fleet is fresh back from the Gorgon Front for rest and refit. Those two, along with the 2nd Naval Reserve Flotilla which is only two weeks away from a complete refit, could be used for a rapid strike into the Spine in a shock and awe campaign designed to overawe any resistance before it could be formed. Leading the people of the Spine, already desperate for succor and relief from pirates, droids and burgeoning warlords, to look upon our people as the liberators we would be.”

“Yes, yes; save the propaganda campaign for the locals, Senator,” the elderly Tiberius Morgan rolled his eyes. “We all know the benefits of successfully bringing these Sectors into the fold. It’s the costs associated with this campaign that worry us.”

“You, perhaps, but I think that any serious person who takes a good hard look at our current financial outlook will realize that, while our economy is still running red hot, without additional resources the economic drain from the Gorgon Front will begin to make Senator Hampton’s own personal trade woes look like peanuts as they begin to encroach upon the rest of us. The much-anticipated trillium returns which were promised by the instigators of the Gorgon Conflict have yet to appear—such a continued drain on our resources threatens to cripple our naval operations, which represents a far greater threat than simple financial insolvency like that which your House presently faces.”

“Damn you, Cornwallis, my House is doing just fine!” shouted Senator Hampton.

“That’s not what your Factotum in my pay tells me when he provides me with monthly updates on your financial status, Senator,” Charles Cornwallis said with a tight smile that was met with generalized laughter at the other Senator’s expense.

“This could ruin our standing with the rest of the galaxy if you foul it up with your usual cowboy approach to diplomacy, Cornwallis!” Senior Senator Morgan said, pounding his fist on the hand rail in front of him. “Let us not forget: those of us who were still around during that period, that the last time you entered the Spine you orbitally-bombarded one of their most economically successful Sector-level Core Worlds. That’s hardly the sort of action that will bring you great welcome when you return to them as one of their supposed liberators.”

“You’re just jealous, Morgan,” heckled someone from one of the gaggles of Junior Senator.

“Who said that!?” roared Senior Senator Morgan turning to glare at the now silent Junior Senators.

“Order!” snapped Triumvir Bellucci coldly, striking her lictor on the side of her dais with a sharp crack that resonated throughout the chamber. “I will have order in this Senate; next Senator that disrupts this meeting will find him or herself up for election to Military Tribune with mandatory service at the Front required when he or she is elected—which, allow me to assure this assemblage, they most certainly will be.”

There was a temporary silence as the group of junior Senators and the senior Senator continued to lock eyes. If Charles Cornwallis had to guess, he would say the Junior Senators, currently lacking anyone senior enough to air their legislative proposals before the senate, had tried to hire old Morgan and were now venting their frustration at Raubach purloining their designated mouth piece.

His mouth quirked upward; Junior Senators were all the same. Full of fire in their bellies, a desire for acclaim and power as well as a series of well crafted legislative initiatives designed to achieve both aims. But such aims generally had little to no chance of ever passing beyond the Senate floor.

He turned back to the dais. “I make no excuses for the actions taken by my ships in the Caprian Star System, Ms. Speaker,” Senator Cornwallis said flatly. “I did what had to be done at the time to secure the best interests of the Empire, as well as the long term security of the border of the then Confederated Empire. My record, both in the Navy as well as the Senate, speaks for itself.”

“Yes, yes, we all found your actions completely understandable at the time and in line with the best interests of both the Empire and Confederated Empire of the time. Whether the locals will also consider things in the same light is what’s at question here. Also at question is whether a better…or let’s instead say ‘less controversial’ mouthpiece might be in order, at least for the initial regional level contact and negotiations,” Tiberius Morgan coughed before finishing.

“Although my esteemed colleague may have forgotten, I believe this is rhetorical ground that’s already been covered,” Senator Cornwallis shot back.

The elderly Senior Senator flushed and then paled with fury. “Some points require elaboration as well as revision and extension, Senator Cornwallis. There is no need to stoop to the level of baseless slurs or slanders,” the Senior Senator glared.

“Whatever slanders I might make are never baseless, Senator,” Cornwallis said with contempt.

“Perhaps we should cast aside personal aspirations, and also consider the fact that Cornwallis and their Raubach allies have failed to advance the interests of this Empire, and the Confederated Empire before it, time and time again in the Spineward Region during their decades of ‘service’ within the Spine?” Senator Hampton said witheringly.

“Hear hear,” agreed Senator Wessex and several of Cornwallis’s former Reclamation Initiative allies nodded to indicate their dissatisfaction with House Cornwallis and its current leadership.

“I’d hardly call the Confederation’s latest proposal that the Empire provide relief efforts to restore safety and security to the Spineward Sectors to be a prime example of House Cornwallis’s failure to advance the cause of the Empire,” Charles Cornwallis snickered derisively.

“Some might argue that Imperial interests have in fact for years been hampered, not enhanced as some would like claim, by the bungling of Houses Cornwallis and Raubach in the areas beyond the Overton Expanse!” Senator Wessex said caustically.

“House Raubach has severed its former relationship with, and now stands separate and completely independent from, House Cornwallis,” Senior Senator Morgan declared after conferring with the head of House Raubach.

There was a stir on the multi-tiered floor of the Senate as House Raubach officially declared, on the floor of the Senate itself, what everyone with their head out of their rear and half an ear to the ground had known for months. Regardless, it had been a blow to Cornwallis’ prestige when it had initially happened some months earlier, and it was a blow now yet again when Raubach all but threw the severance of their relations in his face.

Senator Cornwallis forcefully reminded himself that once he had the Spine in his hands, he would once again be in an unassailable position.

“I don’t see what Raubach has to do with our various successes with the Confederation or the Spine, much less any of our so-called and, as far as I can see them, mythical failures,” Charles Cornwallis said. “How a House whose main interests involve small craft and freighter craft drives, bolstered by the sale of hopelessly third rate technology to fourth rate single world powers, could have the slightest impact on my House’s interests, escapes me.”

Raubach looked over and laconically lifted a middle finger in response.

Lifting a brow, Senator Cornwallis smiled, pulled out his data slate and using the holo-interface began to dictate a message to his main Factor. He would soon be heading out beyond the Overton Expanse and into the Spineward Sectors; this was an appropriate time to finally do something about his far-too-big-for-his-britches-lately Raubach

The woman behind the upstart whelp, Triumvir Bellucci, would also be dealt with after his triumphant return. But in the meantime he was going to put his best problem-solver on fixing this irksome House Raubach situation.

Yes, he thought smiling at the Junior Senator and giving him a little jockular wave in response to the middle finger, Mr. Simpers will deal with Lynch while I am gone, and the entire situation will be cleaned up in time for my triumphant return. Sending a reserve fleet to bombard Raubach’s impressively-well-hidden facility had been a half-hearted necessity. And with them already on the Raubach radar, Simpers’ contacts with the Confederation would allow the problem-solver to introduce a completely unexpected angle. Unexpected to Raubach, anyway.

Soon the Junior Senator would be like a stray dog without a home, forced to flee in all directions, and every single one of his supporters would be rooted out from their strongholds, persecuted, and ultimately destroyed.

The fact that the resulting action would send a nice little warning message to one Triumvir Bellucci while Senator Charles Cornwallis was himself outside the Empire, and could later honestly say, even under truth compulsion measures, that he had no idea what had happened to the poor beset Raubachs until after he returned from beyond the Overton Expanse, would just be icing on the cake.

“I’m sure we can set aside Raubach for another time and focus on the series of great triumphs brought to this Empire by your House, Senator,” Senator Wessex said with relish.

“Nicolas…” Senator Hampton warned, giving Cornwallis a glance and placing a hand on Hampton’s shoulder.

“And what exactly have you got?” Charles Cornwallis smiled indulgently, silently daring the other man to expose the Reclamation Initiative and the borderline illegal ventures of more than half a dozen Senators and senate houses. “A bunch of hot air and rhetoric perhaps? Really, Senator, if you have a personal grievance try not to trammel up the affairs of Empire with them.”

“I’ve got this,” Senator Wessex angrily shrugged off Hampton’s hand before rounding back on Cornwallis, “but since you asked about the various failures of your House in those very Sectors, Senator,” he said viciously, “why don’t we start with the daring exploits of one Marcus Cornwallis—your nephew, I believe—who not only bungled the retrieval of several privately owned constructor ships, but also succeeded in getting his ship and his entire crew captured. The black eye this Empire got when a handful of rustics fighting over an old, outdated and mothballed Confederation star base succeeded in capturing a top of the line mono-locscium Medium Cruisers, crewed with Imperial Navy personnel, is something you may have conveniently forgotten but not something this body will soon forget!”

Charles Cornwallis looked at Senator Wessex with a deathly gaze. “We all have our black sheep, Senator. But as we seem to be comparing family failures in the Spine, do you not agree that it would be criminally negligent if we failed to mention officer Nicolas Wessex?” he said pointedly.

Senator Wessex expression turned thunderous. “Don’t you dare attempt to divert the Senate’s attention from the criminal failures of you and your nephew, Cornwallis!” he hollered furiously. “It is your house that—”

“Theft of supplies, criminal negligence, rank incompetence—not to mention cowardice in the face of the enemy,” Cornwallis cocked a brow, “need I go on or should we agree to let bygones be bygone and just say that not everyone who ever entered Imperial service had success their first time around the galactic scene?”

Senator Nicolas Wessex purpled and staggered backward.

“I take it I have your vote to move the Grand Assembly’s petition to the floor for a vote?” Cornwallis asked digging in the knife and giving it a twist. Any further and the whole Reclamation Initiative business, along with Nicolas ‘John’ Wessex’s near-treasonous level of cowardice, would come into the open. If that happened, the House of Wessex would be directly dragged into the same swirling mess as Cornwallis faced right now, only without the potential life raft thrown out by his manipulation of the Grand Assembly.

“I-I propose we vote on the Confederation Proposal,” Wessex choked out before rallying with a venomous glare. “If only so I can personally vote it down,” he yelled, “and expose it for the flawed proposal it is! And I further propose that Tiberius Morgan be added to the list of senior officials added to the Pacification and Liberation Expedition, if by some miracle it passes through a vote!”

“What!?” Senior Senator Morgan exclaimed with shock and no little dismay.

Cornwallis gritted his teeth.

“In light of potential indiscretions among the younger generation of House Cornwallis, such a proposal might not be entirely out of line,” Triumvir Bellucci said in a contemplative tone.

There was a pregnant pause, during which his data slate pinged.

With narrowed eyes Senator Cornwallis looked down at the message.

Kennedy backs Cornwallis Initiative on Senate Floor? was the plain text message.

Charles Cornwallis turned squinted over at the former Triumvir.

How much? he texted after a short pause, fingers typing rapidly then turned back to the Triumvir who was looking entirely too satisfied for his taste. Time to take her down a notch.

“I believe, Madam Triumvir, that Cornwallis and Wessex are not the only Houses who have suffered from the various vagaries of wayward youth,” he riposted smoothly. Bellucci’s daughter had gone missing some years earlier, with rumors of every stripe swirling about as to what fate may have befallen her. Then, a few months ago—and shortly before the bombardment of the hidden Raubach base—she had reappeared to cast a seemingly benign vote on revising a cultural appropriation procedure. Mere weeks after that vote, supposedly irrefutable evidence had surfaced that she had been killed—along with a picked team of Imperial Intelligence Officers many of whom were known to be in Bellucci’s pocket—and, officially, she had been declared dead.

Obviously, Charles Cornwallis was not the type to be taken by the ‘official’ line. And neither were the other seasoned veterans of the Imperial Senate, which only served to reinforce his suspicions regarding Bellucci’s support for House Raubach’s recent radical shift in focus and allegiances. Those suspicions had led him—or, more accurately, his agents—to make a somewhat surprising apprehension which he suspected would come into play in the coming minutes.

Triumvir Bellucci stiffened. “You tread on dangerous ground, Senator,” she said flatly, “be careful you do not slip. Casting unfounded aspersions in public is one thing; doing so on the floor of the Imperial Senate could be considered an adversarial gesture requiring a response in kind.”

“I cast no aspersions and mean nothing adversarial, Triumvir,” Cornwallis said with mock humility. “It’s just that I remember how I lost my own daughter so many years ago,” he made a dismissive, downplaying motion before looking up forcing a tear into his eye, “from my belated third wife. Sadly she was lost to us to a malicious proletariat poisoning plot; the thought of anyone being deprived as I have was more than I could bear.”

“Does any of this have any bearing whatsoever on the potentially criminal failings of your nephew, Senator?” Bellucci asked sweetly.

“Malicious slanders are the products of small minds, and they are promulgated by the even smaller-minded parrots who are too stupid to do their research,” he assured her, hiding laughter at the heat of her gaze when he called her a stupid, small-minded parrot.

“Find your point quickly, Senator. Before I find you in contempt of the Imperial Senate,” she said harshly, “there will be no filibustering on my floor.”

Half was the return message that finally and at long last came.

Half probably meant half of the House Cornwallis assets he’d loaded up onto Kennedy House freighters, but it could mean the ‘old Lion of the Senate’ was trying to stick his fingers into his pockets and later claim Senator Cornwallis and his House owed him future favors.

Not that he was in much of a position to argue.

Agreed. But only if I need it he savagely smashed the send button. He wasn’t paying for anything he could have worked himself out of anyway.

We have an accord Kennedy messaged back.

“I suppose that it does not, Triumvir Bellucci,” Cornwallis said, working to appear appropriately crestfallen before appearing to brighten, “it’s just that I heard of the Triumvir’s concern for Junior Senator Bellucci, lost these past months, and felt the urge to commiserate.”

If her gaze had been hot before, it was now lethal.

“My daughter is none of your concern, Cornwallis,” she glared furiously.

“Any mother would be overwrought at the loss of a daughter, just as I was as a father when losing my own daughter,” he said smoothly.

“I am far from overwrought, and I assure you my daughter can attend to her own affairs,” she snapped.

“Which is why, in the solidarity of the institution of family—to say nothing of my duty as an Imperial Senator—as soon as agents loyal to House Cornwallis discovered your daughter’s mercy mission to the Bamona Cluster had been intercepted by Pirates located beyond the Overton Expanse they moved immediately to intercept the dastardly pirates,” he said with a smirk and at his signal a pair of Junior Senators loyal to the Cornwallis ‘escorted’ the Triumvir’s daughter onto the Senate floor.”

“Senator,” Triumvir Bellucci said, looking up at her daughter.

“Triumvir,” the Junior Senator—a woman with a statuesque body, golden eyes and clearly Imperial blood—said disdainfully, suggesting of an even more complicated-than-usual relationship between mother and daughter.

“It is a happy day for the Senate and the entire Empire that the Triumvir’s daughter can be brought back to us safe and sound, able to once again shelter in the comfort of her House’s arms before once again setting out for the…Bamona Cluster,” he declaimed sardonically. Bamona was on the other side of the Overton Expanse and his agents, members of the Free Legions, had found the Junior Senator on a freighter they had suspected of going to meet with the new leader of House Raubach

“We all have wayward youths whose intemperance in their actions can occasionally lead to adverse consequences. However, I am sure you agree that there is no need to look too closely into the actions of the younger generation. They are out there to make mistakes and,” he gave the statuesque Junior Senator a piercing look, “hopefully learn from them.”

“I believe you are right about old history, Cornwallis,” Triumvir Bellucci said, eyes shooting daggers at him for placing her in this position.

In all probability, her daughter had been in more danger from him than from the so-called pirates—who were, in actuality, House Raubach supporters determined to bring down House Cornwallis—but by parading her through the Senate floor like this the Triumvir had to at least pretend the opposite. All the while she could be counted on to silently sharpen her knives in preparation for the opportune moment to bring him down. Not that she would succeed.

“However, there is still the proposal of Senator Wessex to put the vote on hold until the Senate has had the chance to formulate a list for consideration,” Triumvir Bellucci said, her face like stone as she looked at him.

Cornwallis frowned. He’d thought that playing the daughter card would have been enough. If he’d known better he would have let his Nephew take more of a hit before trotting out the younger Bellucci.

Flaming Bellucci, he thought bitter, it seems I’ll need Kennedy after all.

This was going to cost him, and he scowled even as Theodore Kennedy stood up and cleared his throat and nothing more. The old lion of the Senate didn’t even bother to look at the Triumvir, he just smiled off to the side and waited to be acknowledged. He was certain enough in his power that even a Triumvir couldn’t risk slighting him.

Triumvir Bellucci paused and after a moment looked over at the old Lion. “Censor Kennedy, you have something to say on the topic?” she asked finally, the unwillingness in her voice matched only by the respect she was forced to show one of the Senate’s most powerful member. Charles Cornwallis couldn’t help wishing he could just crush her and take the seat on the Triumvirate that rightfully belonged to him. Bellucci just wasn’t tough enough for the job, as far as he was concerned. If he were in her position—well, he would never be in her position even, or especially if, he had her seat—but, if for argument sake he was, then he would have been strong enough to either pay off or ignore Kennedy.

“Thank you for your indulgence, Madam Triumvir,” Senator Kennedy said gravely. Kennedy, a former Triumvir and current Censor, which was a lifetime Empire-level appointment, might like to be called the old Lion of the Senate behind his back and consider himself ‘retired’ but no one retired from power, they just slowed down.

“I believe there isn’t a person in the Empire who doesn’t know the exploits of Theodore Kennedy in service to this Empire. This is not indulgence but respect, Censor Kennedy,” Triumvir Bellucci said, clearly trying to woo the old Lion away from Cornwallis’s side. But sadly for her they’d already made an accord on this particular topic.

The truth was Theodore Kennedy was just another power-hungry old vulture waiting to suck the lifeblood out of those around him if given half a chance. That was why she stood no chance unless she could come up with more than he was offering, but the old lion did like to play the grand old statesman.

Which, now that Cornwallis thought about it, made Kennedy just like every single other Senator and would-be Senator in the Empire. The former Triumvir just happened to be better at it than most, as evidenced by the way he’d turned his Censorship, normally a sinecure post used by aged Senators to ensure they had an income well into their dotage into real power. The ability to wave your hand and add a foreigner living in the Empire to the Empire’s citizenship rolls gave one a unique form of power and ability to horse trade and curry favors. Not only that, but a Censor was also able to affect the size and composition of voting districts by manipulating the voter rolls as needed or by recourse to the massive Imperial bureaucracy—a bureaucracy which answered directly to the Triumvirate.

“It occurs to me, Madame Speaker,” Kennedy said, turning and acknowledging the Triumvir with a nod, “that Senator Cornwallis has the direct backing of the Grand Assembly itself. I must ask: do we really want to risk alienating the Confederation by second-guessing their explicitly stated will? Whether Cornwallis is up to the task or not…well, I’ll leave to this august body to determine,” the old Lion stated hypocritically, probably so that later on he couldn’t be accused of being an outright supporter but, if things went well, would be able to hold out his hand for a handout and say how he’d been behind the Expeditionary Fleet all along. “I believe we must carefully weigh the will of the Confederation as we deliberate this…gift of theirs. I believe, as a woman of impeccable fairness, you would have to agree, yes?”

Triumvir Bellucci looked like she’d bitten into something sour. “Are there any objections to the Censor’s Proposal?” she asked to a deafening silence on the senate floor.

No one was going to risk offending both the fourth rail and the old lion at the same time, at least not over something like this. Not without Bellucci’s explicit backing and support.

“Then so long as Senator Cornwallis is willing to accept responsibility for any actions taken to secure these sectors, far be from me to refuse the Lion of the Senate. Let us proceed to a vote,” she said with the sort of disgruntled look that said she was secretly infuriated but refused to show it.

Charles Cornwallis suppressed a victorious chuckle. He’d planned for too long. Bribed, paid off, or blackmailed too many of his brother and sister Senators for this to fail now. So long as it came down to a vote, he had the numbers. The only question had been whether Bellucci would be able to use her status to block the vote or not, and now it was definitely appearing not.

“We could still send an advisory board,” Senior Senator Morgan said weakly.

But under the combined gazes of both Cornwallis and Bellucci, he shrunk back on himself and fell silent.

Senator Cornwallis decided to step into the brief silence; now was the opportune moment to seal the deal, one with the most authority and wiggle room he could manage.

“Fellow Senators,” he declared, “it is my intention to return to the Spineward Sectors and restore Order in those blighted/benighted lands at the urgent behest of the Confederation Grand Assembly. Who among us has not heard of the Bugs and Pirates and Droid invasion of the region? The people of the Spine and the Confederation heartlands themselves have begged the Empire to do something and with your endorsement I will do just that. As Proconsul of the newly-annexed Spineward Regions, I will bring order, security, and safety back to those Sectors and, using my authority, I will annex not less than three new Provinces for the greater glory of the Senate and the Empire of Man!”

Heads bobbed approvingly around the Senate floor as he took a pointed respiratory pause.

“All I ask are three of our mighty Imperial Fleets to do the job with authority. Let the pirates and mankind-enslaving warlords of the Spine tremble in fear of our Imperial might!” he said vociferously. “And—”

“I think Praetor is as high as we’ll go with this campaign. Proconsul is reserved for hostile conquests far from our Conduit lines,” Triumvir Bellucci shook her head in negation. “Which fleets were you thinking of requesting?” she asked with the barest hint of a smirk.

Senator Charles Cornwallis checked his tapper, “The 7th Imperial Battle Fleet has just completed a repair cycle, while the Imperial Rim Fleet has just returned back from the Gorgon Front for rest and refit. Throw in the 2nd Reserve Flotilla and I can crush anything the Spineward Sectors can throw at us,” He said with complete confidence.

“Yes, I’m sure you could,” Triumvir Bellucci said acidly. “Why, I think even Senior Senator Morgan could liberate seven Confederation Sectors whose populations are eager to join the Empire with three fleets.”

“While large swaths of the Spineward Region will welcome Imperial rule if it means a return to stability and public order, I don’t believe I ever indicated that there wouldn’t be heavy resistance from certain local despots and hegemons who have sprung up in the mean time—the Droids, to mention only one,” Cornwallis said smoothly. “And it’s hardly three fleets; the Naval Reserve formation alone hardly counts as an entire fleet, let alone the Rim Fleet which sustained heavy casualties along the—”

“This body is well aware of Rim Fleet’s highly degraded combat status, which is why we will not be pulling them from their scheduled refit cycle,” she said severely.

“The officers and crews of those ships are highly familiar with the region,” he protested.

“Rim Fleet has worked hard to attain their well-earned R&R, Cornwallis. They won’t be re-tasked for this,” she said flatly.

“I understand,” he said, projecting dissatisfaction, “but the 7th is a battle-tested fleet. I’m sure that with them at my back this mission will succeed.”

“We are well aware that 7th Battle Fleet was your most recent former command but, again, their position along the Overton Expanse is vital to the security of the Empire, so that’s a nonstarter,” Triumvir Bellucci said seriously and then slowly smiled.

“What the deuce is this?” demanded Senator Cornwallis. “I can’t conquer the Spine without significant naval forces. I need a fleet, plain and simple!”

“And you will get a fleet, assuming the Senate votes in your favor. As you pointed out: the 2nd Reserve Flotilla will shortly be out of naval shipyards,” she said with satisfaction.

“The Reserve formation won’t be enough; it’s only part of a fleet. Not only is it smaller than a real fleet, its ships are outdated and its personnel are largely reactivated reservists,” he said flatly. “And if you think I can absorb the costs of purchasing the lacking warships myself, I thank you for the compliment but you have highly overestimated the wealth of my House.”

“That’s why you will be taking advantage of the offer from the Confederation’s 1st Volunteer Fleet,” Triumvir Bellucci said happily. “I believe they are calling them the ‘Glorious Fleet of Liberation’.”

Senator Cornwallis narrowed his eyes. “I’ve already been in contact with the 1st Volunteers,” he replied evenly, “they are in no way, shape, or form a replacement for a real fleet—an Imperial Fleet,” he said with deliberate emphasis.

“That is why you’ll have the Reserve Flotilla,” she replied.

He shook his head in negation. “That’s simply not enough,” he said with finality.

“And yet that’s what you’ll have to work with,” she said flatly.

He paused as if to mull things over before deciding to launch his last fallback plan. “I can work with the Reserve Flotilla and the…Volunteers,” he said distastefully, “but I’m going to need a headquarters unit—a real headquarters unit, not recently updated eighty year old technology masquerading as a modern command and control center.”

“As long as it doesn’t involve an existing fleet,” she allowed. The corner of his mouth turned up. “Or anything earmarked for an existing fleet,” she said warningly, “we have to keep up the pressure on the Front if we’re going to bring this conflict to a speedy resolution.”

The Senator pursed his lips. “Nothing I’m asking for has been earmarked…yet,” he said baring his teeth.

The Triumvir looked down at him severely.

“Don’t worry, Bellucci. None of this will come out of your pockets,” not directly anyway, he silently admitted. “Actually, as I understand it and I’m sure you’re fully aware, the Pontifex yards have the better part of an entire Task Force working up for their final space trials one month from now.”

There was a stir in the Senate as what had just been highly entertaining political theater previously, with Cornwallis and Bellucci going at one another with proverbial knives, suddenly took on a much different cast.

“The Pontifex yards,” Bellucci said slowly. She would have had to be blind not to pick up the sudden sense of concern sweeping through the Senate.

Cornwallis unveiled a snap-raptor smile. The members of the Triumvirate might be first among equals. They might have powers that Senators only dreamed of. But in the end the military swore their oaths to God, Senate and Empire, not to any one man. And while the Triumvir might be independent in practice, building a private fleet like this, well…

“But of course, and where else could they have been built? As you will recall, all the hulls from the Imperial and Triumvirate-level Yards have already been allocated. Only a House with substantial military contracts and private facilities could manage such a feat, with Pontifex being one of the few,” Cornwallis said, looking down at his fingernails and then back up at the Triumvir with a satisfied expression. “But, as you also know, I am on the Senate’s War Committee and we—and our Senatorial investigators—know everything. The Senate, in the form of its War Committee, is aware and in many cases must approve, or at least not disapprove, of every warship above a certain size that is laid down in any shipyard throughout the Empire. Whether or not we’re actually paying for it.”

Triumvir Bellucci’s face hardened into a stony mask. “The Pontifex Yards,” Bellucci repeated.

Senator Cornwallis met her gaze levelly. “Magnus Gaius Pontifex,” he said simply and, as he said the name of the oldest and most powerful Triumvir of the Triumvirate, it was as if a strong wind had just struck the senate causing Senators to sway back and forth.

Bellucci clenched her fists and glowered down at him. By bringing this out into the open, he was not only making an enemy of Magnus Gaius Pontifex—who, thankfully, was safely out of reach directing the Imperial Battle Fleets on the Front from a regional capital—but also potentially of the rest of the Triumvirate. Or at least he would be if he failed in his bid to join their ranks as an equal. For what was unforgivable in a Senator, while also unacceptable from an equal, was not nearly as deadly.

“Triumvir Magnus Gaius Pontifex, you mean?” she said strictly. “And now you mean to requisition Magnus’ personal ships. You are brazen beyond belief, Cornwallis, I’ll give you that. But wanting to purloin a Triumvir’s personal warships?” She shook her head. It wasn’t obvious to everyone, only someone who had studied the Triumvir as closely as the Senator had, but she clearly hadn’t known about the task force being constructed in the Pontifex Yards by the Triumvirate’s most senior member and she was shaken.

Charles Cornwallis smiled sardonically; Magnus Gaius Pontifex hadn’t risen to the top and stayed there because he was incompetent or because he stood around waiting for the knife in the back before acting to secure his position. He was a truly masterful politician and, some would say, a brutal dictator—both of which qualities were beneficial attributes at the highest level of politics.

“If they were his personal ships, Triumvir Bellucci, there would be much fewer of them. Or they would have been constructed in Triumvirate yards set aside for the Fleets this Senate has directly placed in his hands if they did, indeed, belong solely to House Pontifex. Well…how is that possible, Madam Triumvir? As that sort of war fleet on its size alone, to say nothing of the restricted technology used in its construction, would be a clear violation of Senate Prerogative. Every Fleet in this Empire reports only to God, the Senate, and the Flag Officer placed in charge of it. Everything and anything else is merely a grant of our authority—and what we give, we can take away just as easily,” Cornwallis declared, taking a hard-line, constitutional line.

He was backing himself into a proverbial corner but the die was cast he had to succeed or die trying. Curse Bellucci and that incompetent ingrate Arnold Janeski for backing him into a corner; everything had been planned out so perfectly. Yet here he was with all of his careful planning for naught, riding the razor’s edge because of one political rival, a horde of rubes—even by Confederation standards—and a pack of incompetent fools thought they could thwart the will of one Charles Cornwallis?!

“Are you threatening the Executive, Senator?” Bellucci demanded harshly, bristling like a jungle cat whose fur had just been rubbed the wrong way.

“Not at all,” Cornwallis said, knowing that Senate reality (they were the sole authorizing power in the Empire) and Triumvirate reality were two different things, “in fact, I propose that the Senate give Triumvir Pontifex a vote of thanks and award him the Imperial Civic Legion Star in Gold for his good work. To building up an entire Task Force of Imperial warships, including an Imperial Command Carrier, from his own personal funds?” Cornwallis paused for effect so as to let that little tidbit sink into the naturally paranoid minds of his fellow Senators.

It was one thing to know that this sort of thing went on, but quite another to allow a blatant violation of Senate authority like this to stand.

“That’s why I propose in addition to the Star in Gold, the Senate immediately move to reimburse the Triumvir and House Pontifex for what must have been a very financially ruinous expenditure and take control of this Task Force without delay, joining it to the 2nd Reserve Flotilla slated for service in the Spineward Sectors and at the same time elevating the 2nd Reserve from a flotilla to full fleet status. And finally bestowing upon the newly expanded formation all the rights and traditional prerogatives that go with a command of this nature,” Cornwallis settled back into his chair, “how votes the Senate?”

This time when Triumvir Bellucci met his gaze it was with equal parts fury and fear. Fear that he’d positioned himself to supplant her, and fear of what Magnus Pontifex would do when he found out.

Fortunately, by that time Senator and now Praetor Cornwallis would be safely out of reach. And soon thereafter, he would have within his possession a Fragment of the god itself.

Former economic allies wanted to turn on House Cornwallis? Fine. Raubach decided to ally itself with Bellucci in an attempt to humiliate him in the Senate? Well that was just fine too. Let each and every one of them try to oppose him, but at the end of the day all one needed to do was apply the appropriate leverage and one could move the known galaxy itself. And exposing a Triumvir building a personal fleet was just that lever. Now they had to vote for his measure.

They didn’t have a choice, even if they wanted one.

“In light of this new evidence, I propose we proceed to a vote,” Senator Kennedy said, finally breaking the extended pause, his voice dead neutral as he spoke. The old lion no doubt sensed blood in the water and was busy reevaluating his chances at regaining his old seat on the Triumvirate.

Sorry, Senator, but the first open seat belongs to me, Cornwallis thought coldly.

“There is no House more loyal to the Empire than Pontifex,” Senator Hampton said fervently but, much like Kennedy, in such a way that he couldn’t later be accused of being for or against the Triumvir.

They are all cowards, Senator Cornwallis thought derisively. Kennedy was old and the rest were too fearful to do what needed to be done, not just to protect the Empire but to seize actual power. It looked like he was going to have to help them along.

“I move that we immediately vote to reward House Pontifex for its heroic actions in defense of the Empire in these troubled times,” said Senator Cornwallis. “But in recognition of this Senate’s busy schedule, and in recognition that the usual checks and investigations surrounding the addition of any ships to the fleet, for strictly quality purposes, are not needed when it comes to ships from the Pontifex yards, I propose we carry the motion on a aye or nay vote. There’s no need to waste our time with a roll call vote.”

“Hear hear,” rumbled several Senators.

“Then let us vote on establishing our new Expeditionary Fleet!” Senator Cornwallis exclaimed and then, just to twist the knife, looked over at Bellucci with a lifted brow.

“The ayes?” asked Bellucci, her smile all teeth.

“AYE!” rumbled through the Senate.

“The nays?” she asked perfunctorily.

“Nay,” came the clearly weaker response.

“The ‘ayes’ have it,” she said, rapping the side of her desk with a clear, carrying crack.

“Now for our next vote,” she said poisonously, “the exact funding and grant of power for our Expeditionary Fleet to the Spineward Sectors!”

Cornwallis turned and looked at her warningly, but she merely sneered at him.

Chapter 40: Cornwallis Reflects

Senator Cornwallis swept off the Senate floor and proceeded with dignity to his Senate offices, his purple-fringed cape swirling behind him.

Stepping into his offices, he promptly engaged his top-of-the-line jamming technology and sat down in one of the comfortable chairs in his lounge that was kept there just for such an occasion.

“How could the Senate turn around and stab you in the back like that, Senator!” his aide cursed as soon as he was sitting.

Cornwallis looked at him quizzically. “I thought things went better than expected,” he said with a shrug, “I just openly defied the most powerful man in the Empire, after all. There was bound to be blowback by proxy even if the man himself is not yet aware of what has happened.”

“You should have received Proconsular authority,” his aide declared furiously, “and been bestowed three fleets, not just one!”

“Don’t worry yourself, Benjamin. Everything was within my expectations,” Cornwallis said dismissively, “we knew Bellucci and Raubach would try to hamstring anything I proposed and give me less than whatever I asked for. Which is why I asked for more than I needed. At least I have a fleet instead of a flotilla. One fleet should be more than enough to do the job.”

“And Wessex and Hampton! ‘Ungrateful’ doesn’t even begin to describe their actions against you today, Sir,” Benjamin said, staunchly outraged on his behalf.

“I’m all but certain they’re behind the current economic woes of our House, Benjamin,” Cornwallis informed his aid and distant nephew. “That Raubach whelp has leveraged everything his House had left—and then some!—in his effort to incite our enemies against us. But House Cornwallis is strong enough to weather the storm. Once we achieve victory and, if possible, retrieve certain highly-classified artifacts then my position will be impregnable. And when that happens, all those who went against us today will rue the day they allowed pride and dissatisfaction to cloud their better judgment.”

Because even if rumors said that Raubach may have picked up the Fragment already, Cornwallis didn’t believe it. Correctly leveraging such a treasure would be enough for even a middling House like Raubach to launch itself into the ranks of the top ten Great Imperial Houses. At first, Cornwallis’ concern had been significant that perhaps the Raubach whelp had indeed retrieved the Core Fragment code-named ‘Archie.’ But with each passing day that saw House Raubach deplete its resources in a seemingly suicidal attempt to bring down the eminently larger, deeper-rooted House Cornwallis, without ever bringing the Fragment into play, Cornwallis became increasingly convinced that those rumors had been a bluff meant to intimidate Cornwallis into withdrawing from the Spine.

No, Cornwallis was now as certain as he had ever been of anything that a Fragment of MAN was out there in the Spineward Sectors, waiting for him to claim it. He could feel it.

If you say so, Senator,” Benjamin Cornwallis sighed.

“I do. Now prepare a sealed courier pouch with self-destructive capabilities. I have a few critical messages to send if I’m to simultaneously shepherd the Senate along the rest of the way, form my command team to reclaim the Spine, and take care of certain…other matters while I am gone,” said the Senator.

“Yes, Senator,” his aide snapped to attention with military precision.

Former military service, specifically fleet service, was an absolute requirement for working in his office. At least when working in any kind of sensitive capacity. The Fleet taught discipline and discipline was key when it came to the well-oiled political machine that was Senator Cornwallis’s Senatorial office.

In the meantime, however, that was all beside the point; the Senate and his command team could wait. It was time to transfer his instructions to Mr. Simpers from his data-pad to hard disk. Paid assassins and House special forces were just the tip of the iceberg. It was time to teach the latest Raubach the price of a House-to-House loyalty betrayed and, if possible, end once and for all the rumors of a MAN Fragment being in his possession.

With that finally out of the way, and the missives sent off via courier ship to the Confederation heartland Sectors, it was time to buckle down and begin assembling the war machine that would bring the Spineward Sectors to its knees.

Those rubes would soon be begging to join the Empire as its newest provinces.

It was a two-pronged plan, but he really only needed one of his arrows to strike home. Either the new provinces under his belt, or the MAN Fragment all by itself, would be enough to ensure his place in history and continued political survival. Not just survival, but a rise to even greater power.

Cornwallis rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he considered the endless possibilities now before him.

Chapter 41: Brigga Worshipers

In a dark corner of the ship, a small group of deck hands were muttering darkly when an environmental technician walked around the corner.

“My my my, what do we have here?” asked the environmental technician.

“Copper pipe,” said one of the deck hands taking a step forward.

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” asked the Tech with a wry smile.

“He’s not with us,” muttered one of the larger deck hands before turning back to the tech, “the bacterial tank is down right now. You can come back later.”

“Well that’d be a problem since I’m here to repair it now,” the technician raised and eyebrow.

“Are you daft?” demanded the deck hand stepping forward belligerently.

“You lot will shove off if you know what’s good for you,” the environmental technician said placing a hand on his tool belt and using the other to tap his rank insignia, “especially since I outrank the lot of you as far as I can tell.”

“What of it,” sneered the Deck hand before turning back to his group, “I think we’re done here anyway boys. Let’s go.”

“You know what, not so fast,” said the enviro-tech, “now that I think about it, I’d like the name of your supervisor. All of your supervisors.”

“That aint necessary, tech,” said the big tech turning around and folding his arms across his chest.

“Oh I think it is you see we’ve had a lot of complaints from maintenance lately about broken oxygenation tanks and people running around down here who aren’t with environmental,” said the Tech.

“You don’t want to do this,” said the deck hand.

“Then Shorty got her nose broke and came back so scared and terrified she wouldn’t tell anyone what happened,” the Tech said pulling a stun baton out from his belt and slamming it open with one quick flick of his wrist, “and you see while the department doesn’t mind so much being made to look like fools in front of Engineering because we can’t maintain our own equipment. When it comes to our people especially-”

“Shove him in the tank,” snapped the large Deckhand pulling out a pipe wrench and behind him several other hands pulled out knives, pipes and various other tools.

“Oh I’d so hoped you say something like that,” the Tech glared and behind him a flood of techs suddenly surged around the corner each of them holding a stun grenade in one hand and an unbroken flare in the other, “because technically that’s mutiny boys and our Lady of Glorious Combustion does not hold truck with mutiny.”

“It’s an ambush!” cried the deckhand as another group of environmental techs appeared and almost as one body both groups of enviro-techs broke off the head of their flares against the duralloy walls of the environmental deck releasing a flood fire from the ends of their flares.

“Brigga!” cried the techs as they suddenly threw a whole horde of grenades into the middle of the deckhands and then darted back around the corner.

Shock waves rocked the walls as multiple grenades went off in close proximity of the group of hands and when the reaction cleared the armed and angry deckhands lay unconscious on the floor.

Looking at the blood coming out of the noses and ears of over half the deckhands the original tech came back into the hall and looked down at them coldly.

“What do you want us to do, Sergio?” asked another tech.

“We’re going to find out what Department they’re from and then we’re going to send them back, care wrapped,” the seasoned Technician said coldly, “take their weapons and then use the med-kits to make sure none of them die.”

“Seems like a waste,” grumped Dartmana lead technician from another shift who’d joined up without asking when Sergio had gathered up a group of third shift techs for a little party.

“I said I didn’t want them to die. After we’re sure they’re stable we’ll throw them in the black hole and see how long it takes them to spill their guts,” said Sergio shrugging off the technician’s jacket he’d been wearing to reveal the Senior Lieutenant’s patches on his shoulders, “I’m tired of people breaking our equipment and I want to know which blighter laid a hand on one of our people.”

“A couple hours in a vat of flesh eating bacteria and they’ll be screaming to tell us whatever we want,” grinned Dartman.

“Are you sure they won’t report us to security?” asked one of the newer techs, a recent recruit from the border worlds alliance planets.

Sergio’s eyes turned cold.

“After trying to attack a superior officer with knives and clubs when he demanded to know who their supervisor was?” he asked harshly, “they do that and I might lose my commission but they’ll be out an airlock.”

Ten minutes later the last of the men had been throw onto grav-carts, transferred across environmental hung by a motorized chain from a ceiling beam inside the black hole.

“Lower them down,” instructed Sergio and motors whined as the chains were lowered down into the bubbling vat filled with black bacteria.

Over the course of the next two minutes bodies twitched as the bacteria soaked through their work clothing and then the yelling began as one by one the unconscious deckhands started twisting and shouting.

“Now then boys I want to know exactly what you’ve been up to inside my decks tell me everything and don’t hold back now,” said Sergio.

“Go to Hades!” shouted the large deckhand, “don’t tell them nothing boys. Our supervisors will miss us before too long and there’s nothing these pansies can do that will-”

Sergio motioned downward and the entire group of deckhands were dropped into the vat until their entire body including face, hair and eyes were coated before being brought back up.

“Now let’s try that again,” said Senior Lieutenant, “who are you boys, which department are you from and which blackhearted blighter thought it’d be a sweet idea to start intimidating my techs when they’re on their rounds down here keeping the air on and everybody in this blasted ship alive!” he finished with a roar.

The big deck hand opened his mouth.

“You know what I don’t want to hear it. Give these tools another bath!” he ordered.

When they came back up this time they had started to scratch and try to wipe the gunk off their faces.

“This is illegal! Torture is against the dictates of man and the confederation code of interstellar warfare,” cried the large deckhand.

“Like I care what a bunch of mutineers think,” Sergio sneered, “maybe you lot are the same ones that have been busting up my equipment and my techs. Probably because you had an illegal alcohol still running down here and, now that I think about it, it’ll be too bad the still caught fire while you were in a confined area—this very tank in fact—and you all suffocated and died with a drink in your hand. I’m sure my techs won’t mind sacrificing a little hooch if necessary to sell the story.”

The group of deckhands stared at the Senior Lieutenant with horror.

“I want you boys to think of something, and think hard before you tell me to go to Hades once again,” Sergio said baring his teeth, “right now, I can do whatever I want with you—and if by some miracle I did let you go, all it takes is one sensor malfunction in your living quarters, one blocked air vent, and a disconnected alarm and you’d suffocate in your sleep. You live or die right now and forever after on our sufferance…my sufferance. Lancer Department, Engineering Department and Gunnery, the big three, everyone thinks of those departments when they think of a warship because they’re the ones that make a ruckus and get all the glory meanwhile we’re quietly ignored. Well good, that’s fine, great even because we like it quiet the black rats down here in the bowels of the ship aren’t looking for glory or a ruckus. We’re just here to get a job done and done right and go home.

“We certainly aren’t looking to get beat up by roving packs of wild deckhands,” said flatly and then decided to switch tacks, “now in this particular case we have you lot in a vat of flesh eating bacteria. So unless you like the idea of being eaten alive I suggest someone in this vat start talking and start talking fast.”

It was no surprise to the environmental officer when they shortly began doing so.

What was surprising to him was that he’d been more right then even he knew.

“So let me get this straight. You’re not from one department and you’re not some ship or fleet wide drug gang. Instead you’re group is part of an anti-machine conspiracy on this ship, ready to stop the droids from taking over humanity and more specifically the Multi-Sector Patrol fleet by any means necessary, including beating up my female technicians when they’re doing their rounds. Do I have that about right?” he asked feeling his temperature spike.

“It wasn’t our fault the little witch walked in on us during a planning meeting!” snapped the lead tech.

“Good to know,” Sergio nodded slowly and then turned back to his people, “drop them back in the vat!”

“You promised you’d let us out if we talked,” cried the lead deckhand before going back under.

“Back up!” ordered Sergio.

He had the techs stop when their heads broke through the bacteria enough to breath.

“I promised you nothing of the sort. But in the name of Our Glorious Lady of Rapid Oxidation I swear I will put you all back under unless you tell me who your blasted leader is that thinks he can mess around in my Department! Right here! Right now! Answer me,” he shouted.

“We don’t know! We just answer to our shift supervisor!” shrieked the deckhands.

“Well Hades… Put ‘em back in!” he snapped.

He silently fumed as the deckhands were dropped back in and out of the vat until he was sure they’d given up everything they knew.

He fumed because now he was going to have to take this up the chain of command—and that wasn’t going to be any fun.

Chapter 42: Reaction to the loss of Personnel Contacts

“Of all the inconvenient space rot,” the man known to his fellow future rebels as Malcolm Sagittarius muttered.

First a group of the anti-machinist league he was building had been apprehended by security. Fortunately they’d known little to nothing about the organization and now his contacts in personnel had gone dark

It was a sign that fleet security wasn’t, quite, as incompetent as it had appeared for the past several months. That or they were finally starting to get their act together. Either way it didn’t bode well for his operation. Well he’d known from the start that trying to free or eliminate that captured agent had been a fools errand but orders were orders. He was just going to have to accelerate the timetable, there was no other choice.

Decision made, the man known as Malcolm Sagittarius pulled out a deceptively standard looking data slate and hooked it up to a scrambler that he kept in a concealed panel under his personal effects locker and then used it to send a coded message to his handler before disconnecting the slate and storing it back inside the foot locker.

Minutes later he received a relatively innocuous electronic message in his fleet account. One that made him smile.

Parliament would be notified as soon as safely possible but in the meantime he had the go ahead to proceed with his mission.

Where Agent Oleander had failed miserably, ending up captured, Agent Sagittarius would succeed. Or die trying.

His duty to the people of Capria required nothing less. In the process he would deal Jason Montagne a blow the likes of which he’d never experienced before. And the amusing part of it was that on this mission he hadn’t even needed to lie. The fleet’s precious ‘little’ admiral was making deals with machines and should have cut short hid dalliance with the robots long before now, eliminating the electronic creatures now that their usefulness was over.

But all of that was beside the point. Right now it was time to move his people into position for the final decapitating strike.

Chapter 43: A Meeting of Department Heads

“Of all the foolish nonsense, pulling a man away from his work without so much as a by your leave!” Spalding exclaimed storming into environmental, “if this is nothing more than a lark you’ll regret it. Why you need kidnap the fleet’s Chief Engineer when you’ve got a perfectly good one aboard this ship I haven’t the foggiest.”

“Hmph!” snorted the Environmental Officer looking up from his desk, “an attitude like that might cause any number of wells to dry up on this ship. Kidnapping indeed! You were called here because we have a serious situation but if all you’re interested in is throwing around threats then don’t think we’re not aware of where your engineering wrenches like to stash their nectar of the gods, Spalding.”

“That’s Commander Spalding to the likes of you Senior Lieutenant and if you air plumbers think I give a two blasted figs for what a bunch of drunken degenerates think you’ve got another thing coming your way! Oh yes indeed,” Spalding said swelling up like a balloon, “so if that’s all you got I’m out of here,” he finished turning toward the door.

“Good then you can explain to them that this ship’s suddenly run out of whiskey because the fleet’s top engineer couldn’t bother bestir himself from his palace over in the yard long enough to get his hands dirty on a real working ship!” snapped the Senior Lieutenant.

“Now that’s going too blast far you up-jumped air-plumber!” Spalding rounded on the environmental officer loud and angrily, “in the name of Saint Murphy I’ve never been afraid to work a day in my life but insults to me is one thing! Cast any more aspersions on the Clover and you can just wait and see what I do!”

“Besides what do I care about whiskey? Gorgon Iced Ale now that’s the ticket. Anything else is second best anyway and you’re better off with mead. In fact now that I think about it maybe I’ll ship some of the good stuff over to the Rage after I get back, teach the crew what they’ve been missing,” Spalding gloated.

“By the Lady your an intolerant old tyrant, Engineer,” the Senior Lieutenant glared, “blast it all this isn’t the time for interdepartmental feuds. We’ve got a serious situation on our hands, Commander. A very serious situation.”

“I don’t have time for serious environmental problems unless the air is about to be turned off or there’s a threat to the food supply,” Spalding said waving hand irritably.

“How about a pack of mutineers stored inside a bacterial cleansing tank that claim they’re part of a fleet wide conspiracy getting ready to go against the Admiral?” the Senior Lieutenant asked nonchalantly picking up a stylus and examining it closely.

Spalding turned around and sat down in the chair in front of the desk. Ignoring the tortured groan of the flimsy looking chair under the weight of his duralloy legs he asked. “Alright you’ve got my attention. Just what have we got going on here, Environmental?”

“Looks like your standard anti-machinist rhetoric, Commander. Down with the droids, AI’s were bad and all but they’re gone and the droids are here to stay. The Admiral needs to clean things up and wipe out the droids or we’ll do it for him and maybe do in any of the droid collaborators that get in the way,” said the Senior Lieutenant who Spalding saw from his name tag was named Sergio.

“How widespread’s the support?” Spalding asked shoulders tensing, “and how do we know they’re telling the truth.”

Senior Lieutenant Sergio smiled darkly.

“They were reticent, at least until we explained the vat we dipped them in was chock full of flesh eating bacteria. After that everyone but the leader practically fell all over themselves to tell us whatever we wanted to know. Not that is to say,” he said holding up a hand, “that they knew much of anything at all, like the identity of their leader or council or whatever for instance. But there you go.”

“I think I’d like to have a word with these men,” Spalding said slowly and then nodded standing up slowly, “let’s go,” he ordered.

“My pleasure, Commander,” said the Senior Lieutenant.

“And Environmental,” Spalding said sharply, “not a word of this goes in the system until I say so.”

“I won’t be saying anything unless the First Officer or Captain asks me point blank, Engineer,” the Department leader said with a sneer.

“Keep it that way,” Spalding growled.

Chapter 44: Putting the Pieces Together

Spalding snorted as he stomped onto the command deck. The little band of mutineers hadn’t known much of anything, including even the fact that they were mutineers but what little they did know had been squeezed out of them, that was certain.

“Let the Admiral know I’m on the way to the briefing,” he said over his hand held communications device speaking to the admiral’s armsmen.

He didn’t entirely approve of the armsmen, well actually he would have advised the boy to get them if he’d been involved in the decision making process, which he most certainly was not. However and that said even though they were highly competent and had managed to successfully keep generations of Caprian royalty alive and kicking despite everything parliamentary tyranny and Capria’s foreign enemies had tried to do, they still brought with them certain complications.

He scowled as he thought of those complications.

“Report,” I instructed, turning my eyes on my latest fleet Intelligence Officer, a woman recruited by Lisa Steiner to join my staff. She was both young and junior, this new officer, but she certainly looked the part with the demeanor of an ambush predator and a scar on her left cheek right under her eye that seemed to immediately give her an aura of competence I wasn’t entirely sure she deserved.

Lieutenant Brigit Kelly nodded and stepped up to the table. Tapping the holo-interface she activated the projector.

“Here we have Morgan Belfort the man who we believe to be the conspiracy’s main source in the MSP’s fleet personnel department-” the intelligence officer recapped.

The door of the briefing room slid open and Chief Engineer Spalding walked into the room.

“We need to talk,” he said immediately.

“We’re in the middle of a presentation from the intelligence department,” I observed and looked over at him curiously.

“This briefing can wait until after the Commander is done, Sir,” said the intel officer giving me a nod and the aging cyborg an enigmatic look.

“The Commander is cleared for this information, Lieutenant,” I told her lightly, “please continue.”

“Very well, Commander,” she said nodding to Spalding who paused before reaching the briefing table and began chewing on his lower lip, “as I was about to say interference in the prison system has been linked back to staffing assignment changes in the prison warden roster. This man,” an image appeared on the holo-screen, “Morgan Belfort has been linked to this case. It appears he hacked his superior officer, one Lieutenant Chang’s, access codes and in exchange for an offer of a reduction of sentence from death to a minimum of 10 years in a penal colony with the possibility of parole, has admitted that he perpetrated these crimes in a pay to play scheme.”

“Accounts linked to the former Senior Chief in the Personnel Department, and well outside a Senior Chief’s wage scale, have been uncovered and we are currently tracing them back to their source or sources,” continued the Intel Officer her brows tightening, “as for the hacking of the captured Caprian Parliamentary Agent, former Spacer Shrub’s, and the high level data barrier placed on any information regarding Shrub we are currently without leads. Chief Belfort denies having placed the data-lock out and while he has evidenced some ability to penetrate fleet computer security, he has no reason to lie at this time. At least not that we are aware of. Also his ability with computer systems, at least as shown so far, was probably insufficient to this task.”

“So you’re saying we have another mole inside this fleet,” I asked, steepling my fingers.

“It appears at this time that we have been penetrated,” Lieutenant Brigit Kelly warned, “whether that means a man or woman based inside our organization or an externally based threat such Tracto System based as computer hackers,” she tossed her head and her hair flicked over one shoulder, “we cannot say definitively.”

“While we can take steps to defend against both I think it’s safer to assume we have a rotten apple in the barrel,” I said.

“I agree. Which is why we need to take immediate steps to further tighten up security and start identifying any other members of this conspiracy,” she said nodding sharply.

“I think I can help with that,” Spalding said looking like a top that had been about to burst and suddenly saw its chance, “because I’ve found a conspiracy. One that needs to be dealt with immediately!”

My head, and that of the Intelligence Officer, shot around to track the ornery Chief Engineer.

“That seems rather convenient don’t you think, Commander?” asked the Intel Officer the scar under her eye seeming to climb slightly closer to her eyelid.

“Commander Spalding is above reproach, Lieutenant,” I said sharply, “we’d all have lost our lives many times over if not for this man,” then I quirked my lips, “well those of us who have been here since the beginning at any rate.”

“I only meant that the timing is suspicious. Not that the Commander himself cannot be trusted. There is the chance that we are being deliberately fed false information,” she said not sounding nearly as convincing as she should have. Clearly despite her words she was suspicious of the old engineer. It only remained to be seen if she was the suspicious sort in general or had some kind of axe to grind with the chief engineer in particular. Well… that or like the courtiers of the palace she was looking to increase her own influence at the expense of anyone around her.

I needed to keep an eye on all these new individuals who had been thrust into my confidence. I trusted Lisa Steiner to do her best but there would be growing pains as my staff expanded.

I then turned back to the engineer.

“What have you got, Spalding?” I demanded.

“I’ve just been down on the lower decks of this flagship,” the old engineer said his brows beetling like an angry porcupine, “and I come back with bad news. Its mutiny and conspiracy to commit mutiny, Admiral! We’ve got to make a clean sweep.”

I sat bolt upright in my chair.

“Guards!” I yelled standing up.

Immediately my team of armsmen came storming into the room.

“Are they on the way here? Now, Spalding?” I asked urgently.

“What? No!” Spalding said his brows lifting and then falling low, “whatever gave you that blasted idea?”

“What is it my lord?” questioned Sean D’Argeant as his men took up defensive positions around me and the room.

“Mutiny, Sean,” I said grimly and then turned back to Spalding with a prompting look. While the chief royal armsman spoke urgently into his communicator, “where are they?” I asked the old engineer.

“Now? Well right now they’re tied up in an air processing tank down in environmental but that’s not important right now,” Spalding said looking momentarily befuddled before rallying quickly.

“A mutiny isn’t important?” I asked with a growl. “I think unless they’re about to come storming into the room you’d better take this and explain it from the beginning.”

“The exact particulars about how I got involved aren’t important,” Spalding said waving that part of the story away like a bad bit of air before slamming a fist into the other hand.

Brigit Kelly looked rebellious, as if she were about to object but ultimately held her piece while the old engineer kept talking.

“What’s important is…it’s a Murphy-be-blasted anti-machine conspiracy, Admiral!” he said with outrage. “A mutiny meant to topple you from Command if you don’t renounce the droids and blow them all to Hades!”

“What?!” I asked as some of my worst fears came to me literally out of left field.

“They caught a pack of conspirators in the lower decks and came to me as the only man they could trust to bring it to you directly but the blighters are not just based in one Department and we don’t know who their leader is yet. The blighters we caught were too low level,” Spalding slapped a hand on the table for emphasis, “all they knew for sure was that they and their mutinous cohorts have been converging on the flagship, transferred somehow in ones, twos and small lots! We’ve got to get you off this ship right now and transfer you over to the Clover where you’ll be safe ASAP, Admiral,” Spalding declared, “I’ve screened the crew over there and they’re all hard workers, every one of them. Not slack, lay-a-bouts given to wild flights of mutinous fancy as have infected the Royal Rage!”

“Infected the Rage?” Lieutenant Brigit Kelly asked with disbelief, “there’s no reason these conspirators if they exist, could not be just as hard working as any other woman on this ship.”

“You got it all wrong, lass,” Spalding said drawing himself up with dignity, “conspiracies and even many mutinies draw their numbers from the disaffected. And men who are not well accustomed to hard work are the easiest to become disaffected. I’ve seen it many times, the trouble makers, roustabouts, layabouts and slackers they flock to anything that tells them they don’t have to work hard. They say that in days past men turned to banditry in droves when times got tough because it was easier to shoot a man and take what he had than to put in an honest day’s work! Stand and deliver they said and—”

“A preposterous oversimplification if ever I heard one,” scoffed the Intelligence Officer, “not every mutineer is lazy and loyalist hardworking.”

“A bit defensive are we?” Spalding bridled.

Lieutenant Kelly took a breath and turned to me.

“I agree with the Commander that in a situation like this it might make sense to transfer your flag, Sir,” she said turning to me, “however I’m not sure if the Lucky Clover 2.0 is the proper choice.”

Spalding visibly swelled up.

“And just what’s wrong with her? She’s the largest, luckiest, most powerful ship in the fleet!” he bellowed.

“I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves,” I said sharply cutting through the confusion, “until I say otherwise I am not going anywhere, Lucky Clover or otherwise.”

Spalding blinked and Lieutenant Kelly frowned in surprise.

“Tell me more about these conspirators,” I ordered and Spalding quickly relayed everything he knew. Which as it turned out wasn’t much.

“So in short what we have is ostensibly an Anti-Machinist Conspiracy. One that blames me for making a deal with the droids in order to save two sectors or more of the Spine from being overrun by first the machines and then later the Reclamation Fleet and then blames me again for not destroying the droids the moment we didn’t appear to need them anymore. Do I have that right?” I asked rhetorically.

“That about sums it up. They’re planning something and I don’t think we’re going to like it when whoever’s leading that lash-up gets around to doing business,” Spalding said an unholy gleam in his eye as he finished.

“I agree that they have to go. But I have to ask the question, do they have a point?” asked the ship’s intelligence officer and I had to immediately suppress a frown.

“I beg your pardon?” I asked quietly.

“Have the machines served their purpose. Is there any reason to keep them here and would this fleet be in a better position if they were deactivated or removed by any means necessary?” she asked simply and then her eyes turned calculative. “Just as or more important than those answers; what will the rest of the fleet and the sector population think when word of this gets out?”

I rubbed my chin and nodded.

“You’re operating from the assumption that it will get out,” I pointed out.

Lieutenant Kelly looked momentarily taken aback then she lifted a single finger. “That might work,” she said pursing her lips, “however that still leaves the droid issue on the table to be exploited at a later date. Man not Machine isn’t just a slogan it’s a way of life on many hard scrabble worlds that can’t afford even the most basic of robots and conversely take no small measure of pride in that state of affairs.”

I drummed my fingers on the table as I thought rapidly.

“I’m actually more worried about the core-worlds. They’re well off and they actually use robotics in their daily lives. Gaia guilt might take them down roads more hardscrabble worlds simply wouldn’t consider,” I said.

“Gaia guilt?” asked Chief of Staff Steiner.

“If you look at history,” Lieutenant Kelly said sardonically, “the founding ancestors of many of our current core-worlds, especially out in the confederation heartland, although even out here in the Spineward Sectors to a lesser extent, came to certain accommodations with the AI’s in order to survive. Ironically this tends to make the descendants of such worlds much more hard line when it comes to the anti-AI protocols than those worlds and populations that actually resisted the machine plague.”

Spalding’s mouth twisted with distaste and he spat on the floor, “And though the history books were cleaned up to hide it. Many of those world populations active supporters of the AI’s right up until the machines stopped running and they were left in possession of worlds they’d never fought for,” he stepped on his spittle and ground it into the floor, “they didn’t shed any blood, much less one single drop of sweat to free themselves! It gets in their brains and turns them to mush. Bunch of mush heads! People too deaf, blind and stupid to see what’s really going one because of Gaia Guilt! That they have the best worlds and industry because their ancestors were quislings.”

I coughed into my hands.

“In my observation when it comes to ideology the further you are from the problem, the less it directly impacts you and the more time you have on your hands, the more increasingly hysterical responses you’re likely to get,” I said with a shrug.

“I’m not sure that I see the connection,” said Steiner.

“In short the idea that they’re well off today while other worlds are less fortunate, that they are actually able to use robotics in their daily lives, unlike out on the fringes, makes many on those worlds increasingly hard line on their anti-machine stances. Especially on those worlds where their ancestors were AI supporters,” I explained, “in good times they’re given to loudly decrying the AI’s, their own culture, and even passing legislation to give out reparations to survivors of the cost-benefit ratio and the descendants of resistance fighters.”

Spalding snorted.

“It was before your time but fifty years ago we got a fifty credit rebate on our taxes back on Capria because of a Confederation wide reparations bill,” he chuckled.

“But in bad times they might send out war fleets while the Border remains at a quiet simmer, is what you’re saying, Sir?” asked the Intelligence Officer cocking her head, “but doesn’t that only make my original question; do we really need these droids around, even more pertinent and immediate than before?”

My nostrils flared as the Lieutenant kept pushing her agenda.

“I have no love of droid kind, Lieutenant,” I said evenly, “sentient machines in general can go to Hades for all I care and I don’t mind helping out to make that happen either.”

“Then with respect I fail to see what the problem is,” she said firmly, “the droids served their purpose and it’s time for them to go to that Hades.”

“Unfortunately what I do love, Lieutenant, is my word,” I said meeting her eyes and holding them, “and in return for helping us to save two entire sectors of space from their own kind and another Sector, this one right here in 25, from the Imperials, was the promise that they could stay in Tracto. That promise makes it a little hard to reconcile myself to genocide.”

“Genocide requires, Sir, something these machines are decidedly lacking in,” she shot back.

“My point still stands, Officer,” I snapped, “I promised them life and now I’m to be the one to plant the knife in their back?” I shook my head, “No.”

“Some might point out that no oath, promise or vow to a machine is valid or legally binding,” she said looking down at me with that scar below her eye.

“Yeah well they’re not me,” I retorted, “I didn’t save three sectors and get this fleet as far as we’ve come by knifing my allies in the back at the first convenient opportunity. If and when the droids turn on us we’ll annihilate them and not before.”

“Some will consider the mere idea you believe machines to be your allies, our allies,” she corrected and then pause before continuing, “to be not just a violation of first principles but an outright betrayal of the entire human race.”

I barked out a harsh braying laugh.

“Anyone that thinks they could have done a better job is welcome to send a war fleet into my Sector,” I said standing up and thrusting a finger down onto the table with punishing force, “they will soon find things are not nearly as settled out here as they might like to believe. There are still plenty of anti-human threats out here just waiting for the chance to fall upon us. They want to let me do the heavy lifting and then come complain about the job I’ve done?”

“Let them come,” I said witheringly, “really I’m begging them to send out their warships.”

“I hear you, Admiral,” she replied, “however despite whatever you believe,” she lifted a hand, “and I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m fully behind you on many points.”

“Just not the one where I keep my words to a bunch of machines, right?” I asked.

She frowned and then nodded.

“Correct. Even if you can’t appear to bloody your hands you could always act against them covertly,” she observed.

“Thus breaking my word in private but not for all the world to see,” I said sardonically.

“Or if acting against them yourself in any capacity is against your moral code there is a simple solution. You can issue all the orders you like about leaving the droids alone and then just sit back and allow these mutineers to strike first. From the sounds of it they have a plan to end the droid threat, one that would allow you to keep your hand clean in the proverbial sense,” she pointed out.

“I’m not in the habit of letting other people solve my problems. Not unless I’m the one maneuvering them into the situation not the other way around,” I said and then took a deep breath, “your point is well taken and if this were the sector government acting I might take a difference stance, although I doubt it, but for the sake of argument let’s say I would. This is not a case of an outside force acting against my allies but instead a group of disaffected crew rising up in a bloody mutiny to take control of my warships and possibly even end my life. You really expect me to stand by while they storm the command decks of my battleships or seize the gun deck and turn my weapons to their own purposes.”

She winced.

“People will not understand killing humans to save droids. Just like they don’t understand you not just allowing but encouraging these machines to settle in human space,” she said finally, “the uplifts were bad enough but at least they have genes, they are flesh and blood, their basic code originates from the same home world that was the cradle of humanity, arguments against genocide are valid and in truth are the very reason they were exiled beyond rim of known space in first place. Frankly I don’t see any world other than Tracto accepting both droids and uplifted in their star system and upon their world without a violent and bloody uprising.”

“Look your points are well taken, Lieutenant,” I said working to keep control of my temper, “and I appreciate your read on the situation. However Tracto technically is beyond the Rim of Known Space and as you yourself just pointed out the Tracto-an people have no more problem with the droids and uplifts in their star system than they do with the rest of the ‘Starborn’ population.”

Spalding snorted loudly.

I looked at him and rolled my eyes before turning back to the Intelligence Officer who I could see was unconvinced.

“Do not make the mistake of presuming things are as settled as they appear. Not only am I against turning against allied ships period end of discussion but I think mistaking this calm before the storm for an actual lack of enemies to be a grave mistake. They are out and waiting for us Lieutenant. Waiting for us to slip up and make a mistake,” I said without a shred of proof or evidence just my gut feeling which said that as soon as I let my guard down someone would pop out of the woodwork to rain on my happy occasion.

“Then we will continue to have anti-machine sentiment among this fleet and potential mutinies like this will remain a very real threat going into the future whether home grown or instigated by outside forces,” she warned, “but you’re the Admiral. I can only make the recommendations.”

I opened my mouth for another retort when I was interrupted by the old cyborg stomping up to the table.

“Look I think I know more about identifying a good droid from a bad droid than any man or woman at this table,” he said taking off his tool belt and dropping it on the table, “but future problems are in the future. Right now we’ve got a bucket load of unharmonious blighters looking to rise up in bloody mutiny and overthrow the command structure of this ship,” he thumped the table with a hammer hand, “we can pee and moan about quislings and the anti-machine league all day long but none of that will save any one of us in this room if the blackguards are allowed to go about their dirty business in secret.”

“Then what do you suggest, Spalding?” I asked.

“We don’t know who they are but we can find out and even more important we know where they plan to hit,” he said with a gleam in his eye, “and even more important there’s not a slacker born that won’t get off his backside and move when you put a bottle of rotgut on the break room table and then have to step outside for a word with one of the crew.”

“I don’t see what whiskey has to do with anything, Commander,” said Lieutenant Kelly, “we need to draw out these mutineers, identify and arrest or kill them, not get them drunk on illegal substances.”

“In this case the whiskey’s the droids, Lieutenant,” Spalding said with a wink, “if we want to draw them out. Well there’s nothing a slacker likes more than if you do half his job for him and then leave the keys to the maintenance locker laying around. All we have to do is quietly move our lancers and marines into position and then position the ship near some droids. The mutineers will do the rest of our job for us.”

“Thus exposing themselves to us. Brilliant,” Lieutenant Kelly nodded and the old engineer preened.

“The only problem I can see with that is the droids are not here in Gambit and have no idea how to get here. We’d have to move the Royal Rage back to Tracto,” I said.

“Would that be so bad?” shrugged Spalding.

“First will this mutiny hold off long enough for us to go back to Tracto,” I said ticking off points on my fingers, “second and just as importantly, how certain are we that they’re all going to be gathered here aboard the flagship. I’d hate for us to think that they’re all over here onboard with us meanwhile we’re gone over at Tracto and the rebel uprising takes place simultaneously across the fleet.”

“The mutineers we nabbed sure seemed to think everyone was moving over here but then they were low level, not a real leader in the bunch,” Spalding frowned starting to look worried.

“I think my team will want to speak with those mutineers personally,” said Lieutenant Brigit Kelly.

“I wasn’t aware you had a team yet,” I interjected.

The Lieutenant smiled enigmatically.

“I’d like to make use of the deep space commandos for security, Admiral. I understand their protocols and am used to working with them,” said the Intelligence Officer not answering my question.

“Deep space commandos?” I lifted an eyebrow.

“The same unit that accompanied your wife during her boarding attempt of the Invictus Rising,” Lieutenant Steiner whispered in my ear.

My lips made a flat line, then I chopped my hand through the air to the right.

“Fine, re-task the Commandos from wherever they are currently,” I said making a mental note to have Akantha liaise with this commando group and insert some of her people into its command structure as advisers or observers or whatever. Kelly came highly recommended by Lieutenant Steiner but my Chief of Staff was a former communications technician and I didn’t know this new Intelligence Officer. Trust but verify, and make sure you to keep a very large stick nearby in case you need to beat off disloyal intelligence officers supposedly working to suppress a mutiny. I didn’t know this woman from Eve herself, so until I’d seen her in action a few times I would take precautions.

“Thank you, Sir,” the intelligence officer said gratefully.

I looked at her with narrowed eyes. Wondering if I was making a mistake.

“Then if no one else has anything I think we should break for now to let Lieutenant Kelly and her team interrogate the prisoners. In the meantime I’m going to increase security on the command deck and throughout the ship,” I ordered.

“Increasing security may tip our hand to the conspirators,” said the Intel Officer.

“That’s a chance we’re just going to have to take,” I said rubbing a thumb over my upper lip as I thought, “better yet… you know what you’re probably right. Instead we’ll have a series of war-games between the marines, the lancers and these deep space commandos you’re bringing in. We can use the arrival of this new group and the war games as a cover for the increased presence with no one being the wiser.”

“That could work,” said Kelly, “I won’t need the entire commando group for the interrogation and the enhanced security presence will have an easy explanation.”

“I’m glad you agree because even if you didn’t I wouldn’t be leaving my family exposed to these rebels,” I said my jaw working.

The Lieutenant nodded and stepped back.

“There’s a reason families generally are not allowed to accompany flag officers onto their ships, Admiral,” my chief of staff said clearing her throat with evident embarrassment.

Spalding nodded. “But they’re here lass and they’re not going anywhere,” said the ornery old engineer, “however might you not want to consider moving them over to the Station or the Clover, Sir?” he said looking at me, “at least temporarily.”

I shook my head an iron entering my heart at the thought of my little baby boys and girls being under threat because of me and these blasted mutineers.

“Whatever the long term solution for these droids are doesn’t matter at this moment. I’m not risking sending my family away only to hear how their shuttle blew up because the maintenance crew was penetrated or they were attacked on the station because a mutinous liberty party tried to storm their quarters. I want them right here where I know they’re safe. The time for reevaluation will be after we know more,” I said with finality and then stood up, “go out there and get me more information. In the meantime I’m going to have a talk with Captain Hammer and bring her up to date.”

“The more people we bring into the circle of knowledge means the more chances word will get back to the mutineers,” warned Kelly.

“If Hammer’s compromised then it doesn’t matter what we do the decks of this ship will run with blood. I’ll handle the captain you hand the interrogation. Dismissed,” I said, “and not so much as a word to anyone outside this room without authorization. No one who doesn’t already know finds out until after I give permission. Not your work mate, your buddy or your lover.”

“Aye, Sir,” said Spalding echoed by the rest of the staff.

I turned and walked out of the room. I needed more information but in the meantime it was time to take precautions of my own. Spalding’s reminder that I had a duty to my wife and kids not just the fleet was a timely one.

Chapter 45: Akantha and Jason

I stepped into our quarters with one hand in my pocket and saw Akantha sitting at a work station bouncing one of our daughters on her lap while typing away with one hand and humming some kind of Tracto-an tune under her breath. I flicked a switch, pulled my hand out to wave at her and stepped into the room.

I started to soften at the domestic sight of my wife and children but then the boot of one of her Tracto-an female life guards came into view and my smile slowly wilted. The sight of a pair of nannies and three more Life Guards taking up positions in various other place turning my otherwise spacious quarters into a cramped living space just reminded me of all the ways I’d already failed my children. From before the day they were even born they were under threat.

Crazies, loonies, Parliament and its agents, not to mention droids, pirates, Imperials and everyone else under the sun, right now even members of my own crew wanted me dead or catering to their whims like a puppet on a string.

It was time to take action.

I cleared my throat and Akantha looked up in surprise, then smiled a cautious greeting.

I took a moment to give her back a wholehearted smile of my own, and then grimaced.

She cocked her head and I made a swirling motion of my hand gesturing to the maids and bodyguards.

Akantha nodded and handed our daughter to one of the maids.

“If I could have the room please,” she said in a clear voice one that didn’t brook any disagreement.

With only minor hesitation the room cleared.

“What can I do for you Protector?” she asked as soon as we were alone.

I opened my mouth and then hesitated. I’d been hurt one too many times.

“What can you tell me about the deep space commandos?” I said instead of what I really would have liked to say or for that matter what probably should have said.

Akantha looked surprised and her brow furrowed. The name obviously not ringing a bell.

“Its supposedly the same unit that assisted you during your boarding of the Imperial Command Carrier, Invictus Rising,” I said helpfully.

Comprehension dawned on her face.

“A steady band,” she said with confidence, “an allied unit,” she warned, “but good fighters. Not the absolute very best warriors I’ve seen since leaving Tracto but they were steady in the face of danger. Respectful even though they did not consider themselves personally loyal to myself, but rather an attached force sent by their home world, Border Alliance fighters if I remember correctly,” she said with a slow nod, “they claimed to be ground fighters originally but I believe after going into battle with them that they are similar in many ways to Wainwright’s marines, having seen both forces in action by now.”

“So you think they’re reliable, excellent,” I said.

“So long as you do not cross their bottom line or their homeland does not send orders to the contrary I believe they are reliable,” she warned.

“That’s all I needed. Thanks,” I said pursing my lips.

“Was that all you needed?” she asked with surprise and to my eyes a small amount of disappointment.

I grimaced.

“No. You’re right there’s more,” I said unhappily.

“Tell me, Protector and I will listen,” Akantha said.

“Protector is it?” I frowned.

“Jason then,” she smirked.

“That’s better,” I grinned and then my smile melted away, “although after you listen to me you might want to go back to the Protector nonsense,” I sighed.

Akantha hesitated and then with a determined expression came over and grabbed my hand.

“Whatever it is you can rely on me,” she said simply.

I couldn’t help but give her a quizzical look.

“I swear it,” she said firmly, “and as you know an Argos girl always keeps her word. Especially if she’s the heir of the ruling household.”

“Well alright then just don’t forget you said that,” I snickered.

“Now you’re starting to worry me,” she said an edge entering her voice, “why don’t you stop beating around the bushes looking for small game and speak, my-Jason.”

“My Jason eh?” I chuckled and then turned serious, “well in this case I have some bad news.”

Her face instantly turned serious. The irritation and playfulness of before instantly melting away.

There was a pregnant pause as I tried to think up the best way to sugar coat it before giving up.

“There’s another mutiny afoot. At least that’s what it looks like right now,” I said grimly.

Akantha started to draw back and then stopped. The hand clenching mine tightened. Then she shot me a cold look.

“I don’t care who they are. Even if they’re my mother’s people I’ll help you kill them,” she said in a harsh voice, “if there are any that call themselves mine they’ll die slowly over several days time.”

“Whoa!” I said taken by surprise at her sudden viciousness.

“No I’ve fought too hard and too long for this things between us to let a pack of fools from my world spoil things now,” she said with icy fury.

I started to raise both hands, realized she was still holding onto one of them, and hard enough to hurt at that, and left that one down as the other started waving in the air to emphasize my points.

“Wait-wait-wait. Look as far as we know, so far,” I said making sure to stress the last two words, “no one from Tracto appears to be involved.”

“Starborn only then?” she asked with surprise, “why would they turn on you now? Haven’t you given them victory after victory and each time only come out stronger for it.”

“It looks like an anti-machine conspiracy,” I explained and then quickly gave her the same run down Spalding had given me, “and thank you for the vote of confidence but I’ve lost my share of battles. 2nd and 3rd Reclamation were both tough battles and I definitely lost our second battle, while the 3rd was only a win because we held the field after they retreated. I still don’t know why they didn’t press their advantage home.”

“They must have had their own considerations that made taking the field that day impossible or so expensive it wasn’t worth the price,” she said.

“Well it’s still a mystery to me, even today,” I said not knowing why I hadn’t died that day under enemy guns like a splinter under my skin that I just couldn’t seem to dig out.

“But none of that is what you came in here to talk about. We can re-fight yesterday’s battles another time. Did you just come to inform me or is there something you need me to do, Jason?” she asked me looking down into my eyes.

I repressed a sigh at the fact that my wife was so much taller than me and nodded.

“I mean to crush this conspiracy before it can poison the rest of the fleet with its bigoted anti-machine rhetoric, Akantha, and I could use your help doing it,” I said.

“I want you to talk to your people, have them get ready,” I said.

“Just tell me what you need me to say to them and we will crush this rebellion together,” she agreed.

Then I hesitated before reminding myself what was at stake and the iron entered my soul.

“There’s also a chance that this little conspiracy isn’t just a spontaneous uprising,” I said.

“Enemy agents work against us?” she asked eyes narrowing.

“It’s possible. Which is why I’d like two of your maids,” I said.

“My maids?” she asked with surprise.

“There’s a chance if there are agents involved that they’re after the children,” I said and her eyes turned into pools of arctic fury. I felt a chill. There’s the angry pit viper I married, I thought as she glared down at me.

“I am no stranger to palace intrigue,” she reminded me, “go on.”

“While I would never endanger one of the children, the maids are a different business,” I said.

“How can they serve in finding out these people. None of them are overly familiar with the Starborn except some of your officers,” she said.

“I would never risk the children,” I repeated and then bared my teeth in a tight smile, “but if these maids were to take two bundles that ‘looked like’ the children down in strollers to the ship’s hydroponics bay for a daily stroll at a predictable time. I’ll use several trusted members of the crew to spread the word. If and when the mutineers hear word that our children are at risk… potentially within their grasp,” I shrugged, “well then we might just see what these rebel scum are made of and just how far they’ll go.”

“How many others know of this plan?” she asked.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the old jamming device that Lisa Steiner had originally used during our first cover meeting and which I had later requested and kept on my person or locked within the safe in my quarters ever since.

“The jamming field has been active since I stepped into this room and,” this time I gave a mischievous grin as I eyed her figure up and down, “I’ve taken to activating it during certain… personal activities,” I said wiggling my eyebrows suggestively.

Akantha flushed and then glared at me.

“Good. Although you and I will have much to talk about later,” she said shortly.

“I am eager for that discussion, my lady,” I winked.

She shot me a look that wives around the galaxy have been giving their husbands since time immemorial.

I coughed.

“Well anyway just you and me,” I said salvaging the situation or rather my future plans by diverting the subject.

“This plan can work then. Although I will switch my maids with Isis and one of her cohorts,” she said after a moment, “one maid looks much like another and there’s no need to risk the trained help without cause.”

I shrugged. As far as I was concerned we had cause to risk the maids. But on the other hand they hadn’t actually signed up for assassination attempts, at least not in the form of being used as active bait, so she was right that this was certainly the more moral course and while this could definitely help unmask the conspirators. It wasn’t a certainty. And I didn’t want to become so cold and uncaring that I needlessly risked the lives of others for my own ‘potential’ gain.

“Alright,” I agreed, “we’ll do it that way. Just make sure you have the team guarding ready for trouble.”

“They will be ready and no one the wiser,” she assured me, “in truth I am eager to lay hands on anyone who thinks that children are an acceptable target of warfare.”

We shared a look of mutual understanding and then having nothing better to do I asked if she’d seen the latest holo-vid from my home world.

She hadn’t and one thing led to another and I didn’t end up leaving the room for a good two hours.

Chapter 46: The Conspirators Start Moving

“Boss I’ve got news,” Bee Bee said, stepping into the break room.

The man known to the quietly growing anti-machine conspiracy as Malcolm Sagittarius frowned and then jerked his head toward the door.

Looking back to make sure he hadn’t been followed he lead Bee Bee and his ever present shadow into a maintenance closet that was swept daily for bugs.

“What have you got, Bee Bee?” asked the leader of the anti-machine movement.

“Ernie’s the one that heard it first, Boss,” Bert Bricks, the man known as Bee Bee to his workmates nudged the smaller, more slender spacer who was currently studying for the next round of officer exams forward, “tell him Ern.”

“Yes, Mr. Seasons, what exactly have you heard that’s important enough to make me miss my lunch break?” asked Malcolm Sagittarius.

“You said to keep our ears to the ground and let you know if we heard anything about the Admiral or anyone from the command deck, Chief,” said Ernie.

Malcolm nodded.

“Well I don’t know if this is important or not, it’s just a couple of people down in the mess talking about it,” Ernie said obviously losing his confidence now that he was here before his crew chief.

“Just tell me, I’ll be the judge of whether its important or not, Mr. Seasons,” Malcolm said reassuringly.

“Right well a couple of the boys from another section were talking and they mentioned that for the past couple of days the Lady’s maids from the command deck have been coming down to take the small ones for a walk through hydroponics is all. I know it’s not important or anything but Bee Bee said you wanted us to tell you all and ‘anything’ we heard about the command deck. I told him that this isn’t what you’re interested in. I mean how can a couple of nannies taking a walk through the park have anything to do with serious business like getting rid of the droids but he insisted,” Ernie Seasons laughed.

But Malcolm Sagittarius didn’t laugh with him and he finally fell silent with a weak and sickened grin plastered on his face.

“Good work the both of you,” Malcolm made sure to include both of them and give Ernie Seasons an extra reassuring clap on the shoulder, “nannies and babies have nothing to do with getting rid of the droids of course but you followed orders exactly like you should have. Keep your ears open and report anything else you hear, even if it’s just more idle chatter about hydroponics walks you hear. One day instead of hydroponics they may actually start talking about the things we need to hear and who knows,” he flashed a grin, “maybe a walk in the equivalent of the ship’s park will actually have some value some day, who knows?” he said with a shrug, “now get back and finish your meal if you haven’t already you lubbers!” he finished with a laugh.

Bee Bee and Ernie smiled happily and hurried back out of the room back to the mess hall.

As soon as they were out of the room he locked the door and reached up to open the air vent. Pulling out a com-link with a larger scrambler attached to it he activated the link and then waited.

Several minutes later he heard a beep.

“What is it?” a terse voice asked.

“I’ll need to verify things first but I think I’ve just found our way onto the command deck,” said Sagittarius.

There was a pause.

“Good. Will you be able to carry out your mission with currently available resources,” asked the scrambled voice on the other end of the line.

“I’m going to need two women who can pass for Tracto-ans and two quads with active power armor,” Malcolm said seriously.

“Are you sure? We have to get the biological agent as close to the target as possible, preferably administered directly to the target if possible to ensure death before any kind of treatment can be administered,” said the voice.

“I’m sure,” Sagittarius said firmly.

“Remember that the command deck immediately isolates itself onboard these old Dreadnaught class Battleships immediately after sensors detect a biological agent. It has isolated systems for power, air and control of the ship in a compromised status,” warned the voice, “be advised control doesn’t want to risk premature exposure until we can be sure of reaching the target.”

“Like I said before; I’m sure. We have the potential to access a tertiary target with direct and routine contact with both the primary and secondary targets. If I can assemble the strike team we have a better than fifty percent chance of penetrating the command deck, reaching the main target and directly administering the agent,” said Malcolm Sagittarius.

There was a tense silence.

“I understand you’ve lost contact with one of your lower level teams,” the voice said after a long moment.

Malcolm nodded even though this was a voice only channel and he knew that no one would be able to see him.

“That’s correct. However no one in that group was aware of the identity of anyone in the inner circle and their mid-level contact has since been taken out of play. Ultimately he may need to be liquidated but we’ll have to see how that plays out.”

“So while forensic computer investigation may eventually be able to turn up something in mid to longer term, in the short term that situation has been contained,” he said with certainty, “but this potential exposure only indicates to me that if we have an opportunity now is the time to move on it because we may not have the chance later.”

“Very well. Determine if this lead is valid and in the meantime I will prepare the assets for the insertion,” said the voice on the com-link, “please remember the risk of exposure increases greatly.”

“I am well aware of that fact,” Malcolm Sagittarius said, “which is why I believe we need to maximize our chances of success. I intend to mobilize the rank and file.”

“That may prove difficult without a clear target,” said the voice.

“We don’t need them all, just enough to allow our team to slip in during the confusion and who knows, something may turn up in the meantime,” Sagittarius said confidently.

“Then you may proceed,” said the voice and the link was cut from the other end.

Malcolm Sagittarius nodded, deactivated his jammer and headed out of the maintenance closet. First he needed to make absolutely sure that his bolt hole was prepared and then he could prepare the series of events that would shake the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet to its core without any distractions.

Humming a little ditty under his breath, the man posing as an MSP crew chief headed back out to round up his work crew and if he had time finish the last few bites of his sandwich.

Chapter 47: Operation: Deception

Every six out of seven days for two weeks, two maids accompanied by a team of bodyguards walked around the Flagship’s hydroponics bay with two bundles of joy securely placed inside their strollers.

Occasionally, the sound of babies cooing, giggling, or crying could be heard coming from the strollers, and the maids would lean over and adjust or play with the two loud little bundles inside. However, no one except the maids and the body guards were allowed closer than eight feet to the temporary roll-down-armor-plated baby strollers.

It was during one of the times one of the ‘maids’ was fussing with the cooing little bundle in her stroller that the sound of duralloy boots on the metal walkway interrupted her actions.

The quad of Lancers protecting the strollers turned to look at the intruders.

“Halt!” instructed the first Lancer stepping forward one hand on his vibro-blade and the other hand’s palm thrust haltingly toward the new arrivals.

“We are taking part in the inter-ship war games, Corporal,” stated the leader of the new quad, which was equipped with the same style of power armor as the rest of the Lancer division on the Flagship. “Our assignment is to defend hydroponics from an attack by a mock boarding team.”

The maid in front of the stroller stilled before leaning over once again and reaching deep inside the stroller.

“This area is temporarily off-limits,” the Lancer said sternly in a heavily-accented Tracto-an voice, “leave by the authority of Warlord Montagne!”

The leader of the bodyguard quad escorting the Admiral’s strollers drew his vibro-sword and, keeping it low and pointed toward the ground alongside his leg, he glared at the other man.

“Hey, I’m just doing what they told me man,” the leader of the newly-arrived quad spoke raising his hands and taking a step back to defuse the situation, “must be a big mix-up somewhere. No need to get violent here! Honestly, it’s no skin off my nose if my quad sits this evolution out…of course,” he added, looking over the Tracto-an quad leader’s shoulder as another quad of power-armored Lancers arrived on the other side of the hydroponics bay, “you’ll need to tell that to those guys too.”

The leader of the quad assigned to ‘defend’ hydroponics looked at the Corporal of the bodyguard quad promptingly, and once again gestured toward the mock boarding group.

The leader of the bodyguard quad’s mouth twisted and he raised his vibro-weapon to eye level, pointing it at the other quad leader.

“Traitorous scum! You’re under arrest,” he snapped, “lay down your weapons, kneel down, and place your hands behind your helmets.”

“What?!” the defender quad said, looking genuinely surprised.

“Every officer involved with the combat training have been given orders not to involve the hydroponics bay in the evolutions because of potential damage to the ship’s food supply from stun-grenades damaging the equipment. Now on your knees,” the quad leader said, stepping forward to within striking range.

The new arrival’s mouth rose up in a sneer. “Time to die, droid-lover!” he shouted, swinging down his blaster rifle and leveling it at the body guard group with one smooth well practiced movement. “For all of humanity!” he roared opening fire.

The leader of the bodyguard quad sidestepped the bolts quick as lightening and lunged.

“Stop the child-slayers!” roared the bodyguard quad leader, vibro-blade cutting into a shoulder actuator, “for the Banner of our lord!”

“For humanity,” raged the anti-machinist hit-squad in the front, leveling their weapons and opening fire.

Then the anti-machinist squad positioned behind the bodyguard group tossed stun-grenades and lifted rifles to catch the bodyguard detail in a crossfire. “Death to the droids!” they shouted.

“For the children!” cried Isis, her maid outfit swirling as she stood and pulled a snub-nosed plasma pistol out of the stroller with one hand and a flash-shotgun with the other. Pivoting into a crouch, she opened fire on the quad behind them. “We protect the Hold Heirs with our dying breath—” she shouted as the stun-grenades knocked her off her feet and sent her sprawling to the ground.

Briefly lying on her side, she simultaneously shot both weapons. Plasma bolts scarred armor and the flash shotgun shorted out a knee servo, causing the enemy to train their weapons on the Tracto-an woman in the maid’s outfit.

An enemy Lancer jumped over a stack of vegetables nine rows high and trained his weapon on Isis and the carriages.

“Surrender or—” commanded a female voice from the enemy power-armor’s speaker system.

Knocking over the carriage with a swift kick, with its wheels facing the enemy, and flicking over the flexible armor siding that had been protecting the carriage’s sides, Isis levered her plasma rifle over the armored side of the impromptu defensive position.

“Don’t let them get near the carriages!” Isis instructed, grunting with effort as she pulled out a string of plasma grenades from the carriage—which was now emitting the sound of loud shrieking, enrage and terrified baby sounds.

“Kill her!” snarled the enemy in power armor, her voice filled with hate as she jumped forward and slightly to the side. Then, before Isis could take action, the armored woman tossed another stun grenade over the carriage right into Isis’s lap.

Isis kicked wildly, intending to send the grenade flying far away but the instant her foot made contact with the grenade it detonated.

White noise filled her mind and she unconsciously released her weapon as the anti-machinist powersuit snatched up the carriage to look inside.

Meanwhile, the Corporal in command of the bodyguard quad used his vibro-blade to cut off the barrel of the anti-machinist rifle in front of him and attacked with a powerful upward stroke that left a large gash in the side of his opponent’s power armor which quickly leaked blood.

“Take him out,” gurgled the leader of the initial anti-machinist quad, and the other three members of his quad opened fire on the Lancer Corporal. Aimed shots scarred the Corporal’s visor and damaged an elbow actuator before one of the three jumped forward and launched a front kick that sent the Corporal sprawling to the ground.

The bodyguard quad, with its leader on the ground, was pressed on all sides. With the pair of unarmored maids taken out of action by multiple stun grenade attacks, they grabbed their leader and moved back to defend the carriage that had been attended by Isis’s companion maid, another member of the Life Guard pressed into temporary service as a false maid.

“This carriage is empty,” cried the angry woman, holding the carriage that Isis had used as an impromptu defensive formation before casting it to the ground in one angry motion that broke it into piece, “it was just a slate running a simple program designed to sound like a baby!”

“The baby must be in the other carriage!” roared the leader of the initial quad that had tied down the attention of the bodyguards while the second squad seized the first carriage.

A storm of blaster fire focused on the quad guarding the last remaining stroller, and the Lancers started to take damage front and back. Armor joints took several hits and degraded, or locked up entirely as enemy fired poured into them.

“Time’s up, droid-lover,” sneered the anti-machinist that had stunned Isis as she leveled her blaster at the Tracto-an’s head.

“I think we’ve got everyone we’re going to with this group, Isis,” said a calm voice, speaking over her earbud as she rolled rapidly to avoid a series of blaster bolts all aimed at her head.

“Understood,” she said coldly and then cried, “Omega Four!”

Her voice code was the trigger that activated a series of well-hidden ion charges, and the world flashed white before all was blackness.

Half a minute later, an Intelligence Officer at the head of a full platoon of Cold Space Commandos stormed into the room.

“The ion charges activated as expected. All power armor units seem to have been disabled,” she reported.

“Take the enemy into custody and process them for questioning. And have an escort detail take our people up to Medical for treatment,” I instructed.

“Aye aye, Admiral,” said Lieutenant Kelly.

“In the meantime, we’ve started receiving a large number of low level alarms. Tripped CO2 sensors in Environmental, a blown main breaker that sent an entire deck into secondary power backups, and a heavy laser focusing array that exploded during a routine weapons test injuring two and taking the laser temporarily out of commission,” I explained. “It’s nothing large enough or widespread enough to make us think sabotage or enemy action normally but when combined with this attack and jamming field they were using when they attacked hydroponics to try and kidnap my children…” I trailed off realizing I was grinding my teeth.

Even though my kids had been nowhere near the hydroponics bay, replaced instead with a pair of squawking data slates, these people had been throwing around live ordnance and firing blaster bolts next to what they believed to be babies—my babies!

I took a deep breath, suppressing the flash of hot rage that surged through me now that the operation was over. It was no longer just a matter of calculation and guesses, and the realization of what could have happened set in. What if we hadn’t caught wind of the conspiracy in time? What if I hadn’t thrown up the idea of baiting the mutineers into a premature action or, worse, what if I had tossed out the bait but they didn’t bite and instead found an actual weakness to exploit? In fact, who was to say that they hadn’t already identified other actual weaknesses and even now had strike teams readying themselves for an operation designed to destroy or threaten anything important to me, in order to bend me to their will?

Innocent little babies, I thought furiously. Well, not so little anymore, I thought, cooling down slightly. My rage was no longer white hot and had been replaced by a cold anger.

It’s one thing to have a war or a battle between men, to try and murder me in cold blood or assassinate me in my sleep, but it was another thing entirely to kidnap and fire off live ordnance that endangered the lives of my children. I’d long ago made peace with my lot in life. I was born to be hated and, doing the good work that I was doing protecting Sector 25 in particular, and every Sector of the Spine I could reach in general, didn’t help that.

My family had a lot to answer for back home and, much though I might not be willing to admit it, my own actions out here in the darkness of cold space and around the stars of our neighboring worlds, necessary though they may be, had impacted more than one world and inflamed entire groups of people. Still, what I deserved and what my far-too-numerous offspring had to put up with were two entirely different things.

“And if they aren’t just yet, they blasted well will be,” I growled.

“Sir?” asked Lieutenant Kelly.

“Disregard that, Lieutenant, and carry out your assignment. Report back once you have something,” I instructed.

“Will do, Sir,” Brigit Kelly said crisply.

I snorted and cut the com-channel.

Chapter 48: Operation: Decapitation

“You’re sure he said the name ‘Sagittarius’?” I asked two hours later, after all the proverbial small fires had been quenched throughout the ship and my staff Intelligence Officer was done with her interrogation.

There had been several aborted attempts to cause trouble on the gun-deck and the in environmental, no doubt to imperil the ship’s air supply. But the war games I’d ordered between the fleet’s Lancers and Marines had made a nice cover for having groups of men in power-armor positioned nearby key systems throughout the ship.

“That’s right: Malcolm Sagittarius. Apparently he’s a crew chief on this Flagship,” Lieutenant Brigit Kelly reported.

“Then he should be easy enough to find,” I said with relish then frowned, “you’re sure he’s the leader of the rebellion?”

The Intelligence Officer suddenly had a long face. “Mutiny…and yes, sir! Unfortunately there are two problems with that plan,” she said reluctantly.

I turned a suddenly sharp gaze on her. “The first is that there is no crew chief by the name of Malcolm Sagittarius in our electronic records, nor anyone else throughout the entire fleet. Apparently there used to be a crew chief by that name but he died during the third battle for Easy Haven,” she said stiffly. “We’re still running down the records of that deceased crew chief. However, according to the electronic records, he died months ago so reconstructing everything will be difficult as even the image file for the dead crew chief has been corrupted.”

“What’s the second?” I asked, my lips tightening with disappointment.

“Apparently,” she stressed the word, “while they acknowledged that the crew chief was the quote unquote leader of the mutineers, these two quads of mutineers don’t actually take their orders from this Sagittarius but instead a mysterious controller of some kind that works with, or for, Sagittarius. Frankly we’re still running that angle down now but it sounds like pretty standard cell compartmentalization you have to deal with when encountering any half-way successful fifth column organization. There’s a charismatic leader at the top and a large number of cutouts in between him and the rest of the main action wing of the organization.”

“The fact that we have an ‘organization’ within the fleet opposed to me its nominal leader and that doesn’t appear on any table of organization is unacceptable to me, Lieutenant,” I said coldly.

“You’re not the only one, Admiral,” she assured me.

“Find them, Officer. No excuses,” I commanded.

Then she smiled. “When we captured their power armor we also acquired several of their com-links. The ion blasts that knocked out their suits also fried some of the hardware, but because of the suddenness of our attack they didn’t have time to wipe anything, Sir,” she triumphantly held up a portable computer unit. “We’ve already penetrated part of their com-system; in time we’ll hack the rest of it.”

“That’s excellent, Lieutenant,” I said with real appreciation but then I had to say, “although what’s to stop them from changing their com-channels and wiping their data trail by the time we’ve decrypted everything?”

“Well, although they’ll still leave behind some traces, nothing,” she pursed her lips, drawing the scar on her face up toward her eye as she brightened. “However, we already have actionable intelligence, Admiral. Some of the files have already been decrypted.”

“Meaning we can take action now?” I asked leaning forward like a predator sensing its chosen prey.

“Exactly,” she said. “All you need to do is give the order.”

“Then consider it given, Lieutenant,” I instructed, “roll up any part of their network you can find, discover, or flush out.”

All across the Flagship, Cold Space Commandos started taking action. Men in battlesuits stormed into quarters, hauling men and in some cases women out of their bunks in nothing but their privy clothes or nothing at all. Room were tossed in the search for weapons and actionable intelligence while in other parts of the Royal Rage officers were notified to hold members of the crew for questioning, leading in one case to said officer being stabbed.

The Commandos, led by Lieutenant Kelly, were swift, professional and effective. She only wished that they had decrypted more of the information so she could have done even more.

“Chief!” Ernie said, charging into Malcolm Sagittarius’s room in a panic.

“What is it, spacer?” he asked calmly. Or as calmly as he could since he was still waiting for word from the strike team with the biological agent to report back on the success or failure of their mission.

“They arrested Bee Bee!” he exclaimed with panic.

“What?!” the crew chief said, bolting to his feet with concern.

“They snatched him up on suspicion of mutiny! He was in a card game and when the storm troopers picked up Gustavo they said how he was a traitor, and then Bee Bee called them a bunch of machine lovers. One thing led to another and he tried to fight them off with his vibro-knife!” Ernie said, wringing his hands. “Now they’ve got him in lock-up and I don’t know what to do.”

Malcolm Sagittarius silently cursed. That overbearing idiot had managed to get himself swept up by security and as of now there was nothing he could do about it. His eyes turned to Ernest and he stared at the younger man calculating his life.

“Chief?” Ernie said looking very uneasy.

The man known as Malcolm Sagittarius gave himself a shake. Ernest was a weak reed for what was to come, but the mold was already broken. There was no benefit to taking things any further. So the leader of the anti-machine movement simply shook his head and smiled.

“A sad day for the cause, but we must persevere,” he said.

“Persevere?” asked Ernie in a rising voice. “Bee Bee’s been taken to the brig; we gotta do something, chief!”

“Just what would you have me do?” Chief Malcolm Sagittarius asked absently.

“Who knows what they’ll do to him in there?!” Ernie said irately.

“At most he’ll face the lash for attacking a Marine and be expelled from the fleet. If this were a battle or time of war that would be different, but the Patrol Fleet has been quiet for more than six months now,” said Sagittarius.

“What if they find out he’s part of your anti-machine league?” demanded Ernie hotly. “Then they’ll kill him for sure! Out the airlock he’ll go and—”

The crew chief slammed the younger smaller man up against the wall, his arm across Ernie’s throat. “My league. Mine?” he asked harshly.

“Crew Chief, I was wrong! I know my crime,” Ernie gaped and then pleaded, “it’s our league—it’s our league!”.

“Best to remember it,” Malcolm Sagittarius said with a grunt, “meanwhile, send a message to Deck Chief Remandic and tell him the time has come for Gunnery to stand tall.”

“Yes, Chief!” Ernie agreed loudly and then hurried away, looking over his shoulder twice before ducking out of sight.

As soon as the young man was gone, Malcolm Sagittarius pulled out another communicator.

“Yes?” asked the terse voice on the other side of the line.

“A member of my work crew has been snatched up. It’s only a matter of time until I’m burned,” he reported.

“What are your plans?” asked the Controller.

“The plan can still be salvaged but I’m increasingly worried by the lack of word from the snatch and grab team, so I’ve decided to proceed with the mission by myself. I’ve activated the Deck Chief and a distraction in Gunnery will be forthcoming. I would like for you to use your tech team to scramble the ship’s Distributed Intelligence and coordinate their actions with the league protest on the gun deck,” said Sagittarius.

“After we do this, we’ll have to extract,” said the Controller. “Are you sure this is the optimal course of action?”

“If we can get to Montagne, all of our sacrifices over the past year will have been worth it. But even if we can’t, as long as we can broadcast the anti-machine mutiny and hype it through the fleet it will significantly weaken the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet with internal strife,” the Crew Chief said. “It’s not ideal, but now that the Empire has been sent reeling there is no longer a risk to the home world from our actions. With Jason Montagne out of the way and no longer hanging over all of Capria like the Sword of Damocles, or with his fleet at least crippled, King James can be disposed of and Parliament finally come out of the bunker and resume its rightful place in home world politics.”

“You have permission to proceed. However, after this contact this line of communication will be burned. If you survive you will have to use backup protocols to contact us again,” said the Controller.

“Understood,” acknowledged Malcolm Sagittarius.

“Then go with the gods, Agent Sagittarius,” said the Controller.

Grim-faced, the former crew chief retrieved his go-bag and began to gear up. After that, he headed to the nearest lift and inserted the Dreadnaught class builder codes he’d been given by Parliamentary Intelligence before being sent on this mission.

“Admiral, we’re receiving reports of a demonstration taking place on the gun deck!” Lisa Steiner reported anxiously, her image appearing on the screen of my ready room work desk.

“Let me see it,” I instructed.

“Our internal sensors are down in the gun deck, Sir. I can’t seem to pull them up,” Lisa reported, rapidly inputting one code after another, “all I can get you is the data-feed that’s being transmitted fleet wide from our own systems!”

I jolted out of my chair as the sound and images of sign-wielding protesters—members of this ship’s crew—waved flags, signs and shouting slogans appeared.

“This is going fleet-wide?” I demanded and then continued without waiting for an answer. “Shut them down. Close that transmission right now!”

“I’m locked out, Sir,” she reported tensely.

“Do what you can; I’m on my way to the bridge,” I said, pulling out my com-link and dialing a number as I swept out of the ready room and onto the bridge.

“This is General Wainwright. Go,” the Marine on the other end of the line said tersely.

“Our communications have been hacked,” I said tensely, “we can’t shut them down from here. We also have a protest on the gun deck. I need Marines on the deck now and that transmitter on the hull disconnected two minutes ago!”

Wainwright nodded, “Dispatching teams now.”

I continued moving until I reached my throne on the flag deck—what used to be the Royal Rage’s auxiliary command deck.

“What have we got, Coms?” I asked as I sat down.

“We’ve been hacked. Someone got into our system and they froze us out. Well, not froze us out, there’s too much redundancy built into the system in case of droids or battle damage so we can use the system’s too. But we can’t shut them out. We’re currently working on it,” my Chief of Staff said tensely.

I interlaced my fingers, paused, and then started rubbing my thumbs together as I thought.

Was there anything more I could do? I’d already contacted the General. Intelligence was making a series of arrests, and was it any coincidence that as soon as we started rounding up the conspirators there was a march on the gun deck? I didn’t think so.

“Bring back up the feed of the gun deck,” I instructed

“What the Demon Murphy is going on in here?” roared Gun Chief Lesner, still pulling on his work jacket as he stormed into the port-side gun deck. He was proceeded by the assistant gunner who’d rousted him from his quarters with word of a disturbance.

An assistant gunner, mind, not the deck chief he’d placed in charge of Gunnery while he was off shift getting some much needed shut eye.

For a moment the group of gunners, grease monkeys, and assistant gunners—clustered into a group and blocking access to the ship’s guns, which could be deadly in case of an attack—quelled, almost falling silent before one of them shouted and they all started waving their signs again.

“No Genes! No Genocide! Destroy the Machines!” they once again started chanting.

“Get off my deck before I curb stomp the lot of you!” bellowed Chief Lesner, charging toward the men making the disturbance.

He was almost there when a hard-faced man stepped forward, pry bar held across his chest.

“Go back to sleep, Chief,” the other man, the very Deck Chief who Lesner had put in charge of the port deck while he was off shift, said flatly.

“What are you doing, Remandic?” Lesner demanded, coming to a halt and giving the Deck Chief a hard look.

“Enough’s enough, Lesner,” Deck Chief Remandic said flatly, “we held our noses long enough and we’re tired of the excuses. The Imperials are gone. The Sector’s finally at peace and the Machines have to go. It was one thing while we were fighting a war. I don’t agree with it, but I can understand a man doing whatever he had to keep even more droids out of two Sectors and those rot-gutted, blasted Imperials out of the Spine and all our Sectors even if I didn’t agree with it. But it’s done. The Admiral has to see reason and destroy the droids—like he should have done from the beginning. No more excuses. We’re having a work slowdown until our demands are met.”

“That’s ‘Chief Gunner’ to likes of you, Remandic, and this is the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet not some unionized civilian workshop,” Lesner snapped. “Frankly I don’t care what you think or you believe. Forcing the Admiral’s hand like this is mutiny, and doing it on my deck? That’s even worse—that’s a personal betrayal.”

“Man, not Machine, Chief,” Remandic said, a hard gleam in his eye, “you can either live with that like the rest of us and join the cause, or you can go back to your room because we won’t be stopped.”

“Like Hades, you won’t! I’m not some child to be sent to his room; I’m the blasted Chief Gunner of the blasted bloody flagship,” Lesner growled, clenching his hands into fists and then turned his head and roared. “I’m calling on every loyal son of the MSP to clap these men in irons and—”

He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and started to duck, but was too slow and still taken by surprise when Remandic swung.

Despite Lesner’s best efforts, the metal crowbar met his head and he crashed to the deck senselessly.

“No Genes! No Genocide! Man not Machine!” screamed Remandic. “I’m calling on every truly loyal son and daughter of the Spineward Sectors to stand tall and tell our commanding officer what we think of his ‘droids first’ policy!” he finished, standing over the twitching body of the Chief Gunner bloody crowbar in hand.

For a long moment, gun crews all through the port deck gaped and craned their heads to see what had just happened. Then a lone, deep bass voice cut through the subdued gun deck like the rumble of thunder in the sky after a lighting strike.

“Sic Gorgiamus Allos Subjectatos Nunc,” boomed a Tracto-an voice as a tall, genetically-engineered man in a gunner’s uniform jumped down from a gun mount he’d been using to see down into the mess around the protesters with a thump that echoed across the suddenly silent deck.

“Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of, you genetically-engineered superfreak,” the Deck Chief shouted, leveling his crow-bar at the Gunner. “And do it before I have to teach you a lesson that’s been a long time coming, Heirophant—a very long blasted time, machine-lover!”

“I’m going to personally upload you to the space gods, Remandic,” Heirophant rumbled, hefting an Imperial-style boarding axe and pointing it at the Deck Chief. Then he looked around and his face turned into a contemptuous sneer as he looked down at his fellow gunners. “What are you waiting for, a written invitation? Those men just boarded our deck and tried to kill our Chief Gunner. Finish him!” he roared, waving his boarding axe forward and charging.

“Tracto-an blighters should stay off the Gun Deck! You think I fear you?” Remandic screamed, rushing out from the safety of the group of protesters “I took this deck and now I’ll hold it from all comers. Man not Machine!!!”

Boarding axe met prybar, and sparks flew as the bar was half cut through and knocked low and wide.

Heirophant snapped a crisp elbow into the Deck Chief’s cheek and followed up with a knee that the other man barely blocked.

“This is your deck? Then maybe it’s time for a new Deck Chief,” Heirophant roared, blocking the bar with his axe and eating a punch to the ribs so he could get in close. Bringing an arm up, fist pointed to the ceiling, he brought his elbow right down on the Deck Chief’s head with brutal force.

Remandic staggered, falling back onto the deck. He shook his head from side to side, barely focusing on the Tracto-an gunner before Heirophant landed on him.

“Genetic dog!” Remandic cried, trying to headbutt upward with little effect.

Anything else he tried to do was arrested as the twin hammers of Heirophant’s fists began to land, one after another, as the Tracto-an assumed a mounted position.

“Messene for the MSP!” he shouted as he turned Remandic’s nose into a bloody mess and broke the Deck Chief’s jaw.

“No Genes! No Genocide! Destroy—” started an irate assistant gunner as he charged out of the ball of angry protesting spacers and threw himself at Heirophant, knocking the Tracto-an gunner to the deck with himself on top.

Heirophant grabbed the assistant gunner by the throat, silencing his words. “Down with the anti-machinist!” he roared, drawing back his free hand and punching the other man in the brow. He then tossed the other, stunned man to the side and bellowed, “Up the MSP!”

“You’re the mutineer against all of humanity!” screamed a female grease monkey, swinging an auto-wrench at his head.

Heirophant swayed his head to the side and the wrench bounced off his neck, striking his shoulder with bone cracking force.

“ROS!” Heirophant roared like an angry bull as he felt a crack and his right arm stopped worked, forcing himself to his feet he turned on the grease monkey who followed up her attack with a right fist straight to the windpipe.

“Just die! Go and die already!” she hollered as he lowered his chin and took the fist to his lower jaw, which currently shielded his windpipe, “you piece of droid loving—”

Her words were cut off by a left hook that took her in the cheek and sent her staggering back.

Blood in his eye, Heirophant gave chase with his left arm swinging back and forth, striking again and again until she went down. He promptly jumped on her and kept swinging until her extremities curled, spasmed, and finally went limp as a bag of sand.

“The gun deck!” he howled, pushing himself up in one sudden motion with one hand on the floor.

“Like to hit women, don’t you?” snarled a trio of angry protesters as they moved to surround him.

“There’s a price to being the superior sex; it’s the rulers price,” Heirophant said uncaringly.

“You ugly blighter,” snapped one of the men, activating his plasma torch. “I’m going to make you as ugly on the outside as you are on the inside!”

“You’ll try, but it doesn’t matter. In the end your rebellion will be crushed and you’ll be left polishing droids and driving grav-carts for penance—assuming you survive. That’s looking more and more in doubt,” Heirophant grinned.

“Take him!” cried the leader, and the other two closed in from behind, one on either flank.

Heirophant met them with spinning back-kick, and the battle was joined.

I watched as the minor mutiny—or, rather, pointlessly small protest movement doomed to failure before it ever began—petered out by way of a horde of angry gunners falling upon their rebellious deck-mates leaving, a pile of battered and bloody survivors behind them.

“Well it looks like that takes care of that,” I said with satisfaction.

“Not hardly!” Leonora Hammer looked angry enough to chew nails—and not the ones on her fingers. “A protest and a riot on the Admiral’s Flagship?! My ship!” she exclaimed, and I could tell which one was the most important part to the confederation officer. Not that the Royal Rage belonged to the admiral but that the Royal Rage belonged to her.

Which I supposed was understandable. That said I could honestly care less who the captain of my ship was when members of its crew were attempting to kidnap my children.

Speaking of which, I opened a channel to Brigit Kelly.

“Give me some good news, Junior Lieutenant,” I said putting on a strict demeanor. While I normally tried to control the emotions I presented, it wouldn’t do to seem unaffected by the attack on what the rebels had every reason to believe were two of my actual children instead of decoys. That was why I allowed no small part of my real feelings to bleed through.

“We’ve made definite progress, although I’m not sure just how good you’re going to view the news I have to give,” she said with a long face.

I felt a chill run down my spine. “Give me the straight download: how widespread is the rot?” I asked, unable to hide my suddenly urgent worry at yet another massive, fleet-wide mutiny. What did I have to do to inspire loyalty in my subordinates? Was the fault with me? What was I lacking…was I too calculating, not calculating enough? Maybe the fact that I put the helpless people of the Spine before the potential risk to the MSP spacers when it came time to defend the Spineward Sectors meant I was too much of a bleeding heart—which never plays well to the military crowd?

I just didn’t know what I was doing wrong, and that was perhaps the most damning indictment of my command style to date.

The she blew my every preconceived notion out of the water.

“While I’ll not deny that there is genuine anti-machine sentiment throughout the fleet, so far what we’re seeing Admiral looks a lot like a few genuine hardcore believers from the older crew members and a lot of astro-turf, to borrow the political phrases I’m told you’re quite familiar with,” she said, looking oddly relieved at the answer.

“What? Astroturf…” I said, waiting for the other shoe to drop and feeling no little disbelief, “what exactly do you mean?”

“Most of the cells we’ve been rolling up have consisted of men and women who recently joined the fleet to fill out our significant manpower requirements. More of those members among the new spacers with the strongest beliefs seem to have been actively recruited. Cherry picked or, in other words, identified using our own records for potential recruitment. I’m not sure if this anti-machinist mutiny was ever seriously considered to have a real chance of taking over the fleet,” she shrugged, “at best the organizers may have hoped to influence you to get rid of the droids.”

“Or perhaps they hoped to get me on record protecting our droid allies from anti-machine human forces so as to inspire more mutinous sentiment among the rest of the fleet,” I said sharply.

“That could be it. But at this point we don’t have any of the senior leadership in hand so it’s all just rampant speculation,” she said.

“You’re sure they’re not a real threat?” I said easing back down.

“I’m sure they’re not an immediate threat to your control of the fleet. But if they’re allowed to fester I’m just as sure that I have no idea what will happen long term,” she corrected me with a warning.

“Alright, I’ll want that information verified. But regardless of that, you said I might not consider what you had as good news and I have to say that so far the news has been about as good as I could have reasonably hoped for,” I said, one eye on my data-screen as Lancers appeared on the gun deck and started placing restraints on the now unconscious protesters and hauling them off to the brig. I nodded with satisfaction.

Her somewhat improved mood immediately fell..

“Sir, I hate to be the one to report this but it looks like the kidnappers weren’t after a simple snatch and grab of the children,” she said stiffly. “We’ve found evidence of a weaponized biological agent which has been taken down to Medical for testing. They tell me that it’s been placed in a maximum isolation setting while they attempt to determine its exact properties.”

“A weaponized biological agent,” I said dumbly before it hit me: WMD’s! “You mean they brought onto one of our warships a weapon of mass destruction?” I asked with disbelief.

“No, Sir. According to Medical while that is one possibility, what this looks like is not a weapon of mass destruction but a tailor-made tool of assassination.”

“Assassination? Against who…?” I trailed off as it became glaringly obvious that there were a limited number of potential targets on this ship worthy of anything more than personal revenge. And that small list shrunk again when you factored in using the children as a route to reach that target.

“It looks like a single agent tailor-made to attack an individual or specific bloodline,” she reported, “as such, the targets are limited to the children or—”

“Me,” I said, realizing that this was yet another attempt to get me but this time using little children—literal babes in arms, in fact. I fell back against my throne. Did the evil of an elected official know no bounds such that they would stoop at nothing to end me?

“Or your wife, Sir. It’s a definite possibility since she is also directly related to the children, and has a high level of planetary authority—assuming they were going to use the babes as potential vectors to administer the agent and not the actual targets themselves,” she said.

I stood up abruptly, suddenly filled with a sense of urgency.

“You’re sure of it. She’s at just as much risk of being the target as I am? And this mutiny was nothing but a diversion for the assassination plot?” I asked urgently.

“Well…that’s a distinct possibility, yes,” Lieutenant Kelly said and then frowned, “that said, I don’t think that you should—”

“Thanks, Lieutenant. I’ll get back to you later,” I said, cutting the channel and heading for the blast doors. “I’ll be consulting with Lady Akantha if I’m needed. In the meantime, Captain Hammer has my authority to give orders if we have another emergency or anything comes up regarding the mutineers-slash-protesters that needs dealing with while I’m away.”

“Aye aye, Sir,” I could hear Captain Hammer say, her voice coming from a hologram of her. I didn’t wait for a proper response and kept walking.

“My lord Prince, I do not believe that it is wise for you to leave the bridge at this time,” said Sean D’Argeant.

“I don’t intend to wander the ship, Armsman,” I rebuked, “I am heading directly to the children’s quarters to ensure their safety. I’ll have no problem locking them, myself, and their mother in whatever accommodations you best recommend as soon as I arrive.”

“I recommend you take a moment to think things through. It’s safer if you stay here and send word for them to come to you, your highness,” Argeant said a respectful edge to his voice.

“I have thought things through and I wouldn’t be much of a man if I hid in my ready room while there’s a potential threat to my wife and children! You heard the woman: there’s a large chance that everything up this point was simply a diversion,” I said in a rising voice.

“I’m well aware of the possibilities. That’s why I am saying in the strongest terms: let us handle your safety and that of your family. If you are that concerned then I will go personally and retrieve them,” D’Argeant said. “Meanwhile, let me order a security sweep and—”

“Order the sweep, but we’re going,” I said.

My armsman looked mutinous and, for a moment, I thought I was literally going to be dragged into my ready room where they would sit on me until this potential emergency was over. However, both he and I knew that if he did so and this threat didn’t pan out then….

D’Argeant’s nostrils flared. “Fine,” he said tensely, “but you’ll have to wear this,” he pulled out a mask and handed it to me.

“A head bag?” I said with disbelief.

“You’ll wear it—and you’ll like it,” he told me flatly as he then began to attach an emergency air tank, with accompanying plastic tubing, to my belt. “This is good for five minutes and will protect you against respiration based attacks. It still does nothing for viral agents that can affect you through skin contact however.”

Deciding that a minor concession was the better part of valor, I nodded seriously and placed my head bag on the top of my bowler style officer’s helmet. The old-style Confederation helmets designed for the Admiral and his or her Flag Staff definitely left something to be desired, aesthetically speaking. But at least they had been designed with head bag’s in mind, as there was a convenient place to hang it at the forehead, ready to be dropped down to cover my face at a moment’s notice.

With a tense smile, I started forward only to be interrupted by a hand on either shoulder impeding my action. “I thought we’d come to an agreement,” I said, my brow lowering.

“We did: you’d wear the self-sealing face mask and we’d escort you,” Sean D’Argeant said without an inch of give in his voice.

“Alright then. If there are no more delays, let’s go,” I dropped the head bag onto my face, waiting for it to seal and then hooking the oxygen hose up to the mask. “Good enough for you?” I asked sarcastically and then putting words to action headed out of the Flag Bridge. Behind me, I could hear the low urgent voices of my royal armsman team as they liaised with ship security but this time no one tried to stop me.

I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but I had every confidence that they would keep me and my family safe to the best of their abilities.

Malcolm Sagittarius frowned as he observed the heavy and obvious security presence outside what hacked security files had listed as the children’s quarters on the command deck—Vice Admiral Montagne’s children.

For a moment, the man who had been a crew chief for the better part of the last year hesitated with a slight hitch in his step all that was obvious on the outside. The Vice Admiral had to be stopped and he was the man to do it, but the idea of waging war on children, who would almost certainly fail to survive the administrations of the weapon in his hand, turned his stomach.

It was one thing for a man to say he would do anything to stop the return of the AI’s, and slay the servants of the latent machine gods that had literally helped the artificial intelligences enslave all of humanity. It was another entirely when the only path to stopping one of those men passed through the bodies of not yet one year old children.

Biological warfare was a dirty business, even when you were assured the agent you were using would only target members of a specific bloodline and leave all others unaffected.

Because of the heightened security presence, the crew chief knuckled his forehead as he passed the guards outside the children’s quarters and kept walking. He didn’t mind selling his life to reach his objective, but there was no point in throwing his life away if he wouldn’t even be able to make it through the door.

He would go to the Admiral’s quarters first and, if he was unable to find his target there, he would return here and make his final decision. At this point, walking away was still an option.

With a slight spring in his step, the crew chief whistled a jaunty tune under his breath as evidence of his immediately improved attitude. He decided that, regardless of the real situation when he returned, unless he could see his target he would later report security was too tight and he was unable to complete his mission.

The man known as Malcolm Sagittarius didn’t make war on children, he thought with conviction. It was as if a great weight had been lifted and, when he rounded the corner, it was as though the space gods themselves had decided to reward him for the rightness of his decision because right in front of him was his target.

My team had confirmed their location, and I was almost to Akantha and the children and still moving at a ground-eating pace. Our current speed was mainly to assuage both my security team’s concerns and my own. They were worried for me and I was worried for the kids. The odds that the bio-agent was targeted on Akantha I viewed as highly unlikely.

And it was just as unlikely that any of the mutineers had made it up to the level of the command deck. But that was the problem with mutineers: they were supposed to be on your side so they could be anyone and anywhere. I gave myself a shake; that way lay an almost crippling paranoia because once you were genuinely convinced that anyone could be out to get you it was a short step until you were suspecting everyone around you.

I caught sight of a crewman rounding the corner of the hallway. He looked up, meeting my gaze through the bodyguards that surrounded me. At first he looked surprised, and then he smiled and extended his hand for a handshake and stepped forward.

“Vice Admiral!” the crew man, a chief petty officer from his rank tabs, said while looking genuinely pleased. “Let me be the first to say that this is sure a surprise and a real pleasure, your Highness.”

I nodded at the man and held up a hand indicating I was busy and intended to bypass him—then my armsmen sprung into action.

“I’m reading a slight elevation on the bio-sensor,” one of the older armsman reported.

“Get down. Now!” shouted Sean, taking hold of my shoulder and shoving me to the ground while the rest of the armsmen in my personal guard immediately moved to make a wall between myself and the crewman.

There was the sound of something metallic hitting the metal grating of the floor.

“Grenade!” shouted an armsman, throwing himself towards it.

There was a muffled crump and a cloud of fog-like mist poured out of the grenade.

“There’s something in the—” the man on top of the grenade gagged, twitched violently, and then fell off the grenade slumping to the side and allowing the cloud to more rapidly fill the hall.

Blaster fire started echoing down the hall but, with my face pressed against the wall, I couldn’t see the action very well.

“Suffer not a machine to live!!” shouted the crew chief and there was another metal clang

“Plasma Grenade!” yelled an armsman, kicking forward. There was an explosion and the smoking corpse of the armsman came flying back—minus a leg—with his entire front a black, smoking ruin.

I yelped and swore as tiny blobs of plasma landed on my thigh, lower legs and forearm. I twisted and smacked at the still-burning flesh with my hands, only causing more damage—and pain.

“Pull back! Get the primary out of here,” shouted Sean, taking aim and firing into the inferno as two more pairs of hands started dragging me backward.

“Gah!” cried the crew chief as he was riddled by three separate blaster bolts yet, despite this, he still managed to backpedal and stagger around the corner of the hall.

“Faster!” said one of the two armsmen, dragging me away from the mist—which, thanks to the plasma grenade, had been reduced to half by incineration but was rapidly returning to its former size and now only feet away from me.

“Blast it, get this stuff off me!” I snapped to no avail. I was furious. I was injured because they’d restrained me at the first sign of danger and wouldn’t let me defend myself, then people had started dying, and now I was covered with still burning plasma. I don’t know if you’ve ever been burned, but I had been in the past and was again right at that moment. And until the nerves were completely burnt out, the agony never stopped.

A pair of armsmen, one of which was Sean D’Argeant, surged around the corner in pursuit of the mutinous assassin while the other two pulled me away from the scene of the attack. As soon as we passed through the first pressure door, the armsmen activated the door’s lockdown, sealing off the region of the ship behind us and hopefully isolating the aerosol bio-agent.

“We need to get you down to Medical fast, your Highness,” said one of the men, leaning down.

I opened my mouth to respond when the other man went to town with his combat knife, scraping burnt and still-burning areas clean with the blade.

“Murphy, that hurts,” I snapped, trying to hold still. I was helped in this by the knife-wielder’s partner, who held me down, “Warn me next time.”

“Your safety is our first priority, Sir,” said the first armsmen, his words sounding like agreement but his tone indicating the exact opposite. Apparently they were going to do what they thought was in my best interest, whether that involved what I wanted or not.

Which was extremely irritating. If I hadn’t needed a professional bodyguard team, I would have fired them immediately and had them replaced.

“Did we get him?” I hissed as they finished scraping clean the last of my burning wounds.

“He got through two patrols of Marines to reach you. Right now we have Lancer teams moving to intercept him and reinforce us,” the armsman reported tersely.

“What about my family—my mother?” I demanded as they helped me to my feet.

“As far as we can tell, everyone’s safe. You were the target,” he said, hurrying me toward the lift.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“We need to get you down to Medical to make sure you haven’t been infected. Remember your children share many of the same DNA markers as yourself,” reminded the armsman, “the last thing we want would be for you to infect someone with a weak immune system.”

My half-hearted notion of turning back to check on things died stillborn, and I allowed the armsmen to escort me to Medical. It wasn’t just the right move for me, but for everyone around me.

“Order a full decontamination unit up here and prepare to transfer my family to the Lucky Clover. I don’t care if they have to be rolled out of this ship in six foot tall isolation bubbles in order to ensure their safety, I want them off this ship and in a secure location until we can determine the extent of the rot inside this fleet,” I said severely.

“Sean will want to run a decontamination first, and we’ll need to go over the shuttles before using them, Highness,” said the armsman.

I frowned. Sweet Murphy, but I was tired of this.

Fortunately, it was a quick ride in the lift up to Medical, Shortly after that, I was thrust into a decontamination unit and they were drawing so much blood and taking so many scans of my body that I didn’t have any more time to brood.

Malcolm Sagittarius swore as he backtracked his original route onto the command deck. If meeting the target like that had been a gift from the gods then the full team of royal armsmen had been the punchline of a divine joke. He grimaced, looking down as he trailed blood from a blaster wound in his thigh that had torn itself open from all the strain he’d put it through. As he moved, he tried to ignore the smell of burnt flesh permeating his surroundings—his burnt flesh.

He felt a wave of dizziness sweep over him and had to reach out a hand to steady himself against the wall as the pain in his right side became almost crippling. It helped with the dizziness by almost incapacitating him, but it did help.

“I think I got him,” he muttered to himself, “I’m sure of it.”

It had been close, but he was all but certain the bio-agent had enough time to reach the Admiral. The only wrinkle was that when he was sure the Royal Armsmen were going to kill him, his training had taken over and he’d found himself throwing a plasma grenade into the mix.

He’d gotten at least two of them, which filled him with pride at overcoming one of the people’s most intractable foes: the security service that protected the Royal House during war, assassination and internal strife. However, even though he’d taken down two armsmen that still left the rest of the prince’s team and the prince himself.

“I’m sure I got him,” he gasped pushing off the wall. Now all he needed to do was make it into a lift. After that, the builder’s codes built into every single Dreadnaught-class Battleship—which had been provided to him courtesy of his ministry contact—would see him out of range of his current trouble.

After what seemed like a lifetime, he could finally see his destination. If he could just reach the lift he would cover his tracks using those same builder’s codes, go anywhere on the ship without being tracked, and get off this—

The quad of Lancers that appeared between him and the lift instantly crushed all his hopes and dreams. If he had been in better shape he could have run. If he’d been better armed and armored he might have been able to fight his way through, even as wounded as he was.

Sadly that, was not to be. Like agents before him, he’d been called by the space gods to make the ultimate sacrifice on behalf of the people. For a second, his shoulders slumped before they straightened.

If he was doomed to die then he would do it as a man, not a rat scurrying from shadow to shadow. The time for hiding in the shadows was over.

If he was going to die then he was going do it in style. Reaching down into his pockets, he grasped his last two grenades and clenched them with all the strength left in his weakened body.

“Hello, my name is Indigo Montoya; the Royal Family killed my father during the Reconstruction; prepare to die!” he shouted, pushing his body forward into a staggering run.

He only hoped to get close enough to do some damage. Maybe if these were green, half-trained recruits pressed into service due to the crippling losses the fleet had suffered over the past months, he would have a chance. That’s all he asked of the gods: was a chance.

When the first two Lancers dropped a knee and took aim while the two behind them presented their blaster rifles with smooth efficiency, he knew it was not to be. The gods have forsaken me, he thought, right when an oxen kicked him in the chest and he found himself staring up at the ceiling. It took him a dim moment to realize he’d been hit by blaster bolts.

“They giveth, and they taketh away,” he whispered, feeling blood on his lips.

He barely had the strength to pull his hands out of his pockets.

“Grenade!” shouted one of the Lancers.

He smiled, knowing he’d had a good run. As he released the triggers on both of the grenades, the world erupted into a brief flash of fire before going dark.

Chapter 49: Medical Foam and Akantha

“Sweet Crying Murphy, how did an assassin reach all the way to the command deck!” I demanded as soon as I’d received word that my family had successfully transferred on a cutter to take them over to the Lucky Clover 2.0.

“Admiral, if you could just sit still in there while we run another decontamination process, we would appreciate it,” said Dr. Presbyter.

“No, I will not sit still until I know for sure that—” my words were cut short by the liberal administration of a face-full of decontamination foam.

“There’s a good patient,” Presbyter said with satisfaction while I struggled to breathe, “we’ll just run a few more cycles while we prep you for transit back to our medical research station.”

“I’m issuing a direct order,” I said, spitting out a mouthful of foam, wiping my face clean, and using a free hand to guard my eyes from flying foam. “Get me out of here and back to a com-terminal.”

“The situation is being contained, and the Captain of this ship has things well in hand. The most important thing right now is first to make sure you do not die because of a bio-terminator, and secondly,” he said lifting a finger to cut me off when I went to speak, “to make sure that if you are infected so you do not expose anyone other than yourself. The last thing we need is a lethal pathogen sweeping the Flagship. So it looks like you’re going to be here for a while, Admiral.”

“You mean to tell me the mutineers have successfully removed this fleet’s commanding officer from his post?” I asked expressionlessly.

“The way I hear it, the Admiral of this fleet was the one who overruled his security team, placed himself in danger, and effectively removed himself from command, hmm?” Dr. Presbyter drawled, unperturbed by both what and who he was saying it to. “Might want to consider the needs of the fleet next time you find yourself in a similar situation. In the meantime we’re just going to have to follow Confederation Fleet bio-containment protocols. We’ll get you out of here as soon as possible, Sir. Don’t worry.”

I grit my teeth and sat back down. Clearly I was getting nowhere fast. At this point the only thing I could do was further degrade my esteem in the eyes of anyone in Medical who saw or heard me impotently raging.

Silently fuming I stood, turned left, turned right, circled, bent over, scrubbed and generally did whatever they told me as they ran me through the third decontamination cycle.

“Good news: you weren’t infected, Admiral,” Presbyter said as soon as I was released—seventy two hours later—before sending me a medical release file and promptly leaving the room. Clearly, he thought he had more important things to do than deal with his commanding officer.

“Now wait just a minute,” I barked at his retreating back, “what do you mean ‘I wasn’t infected?’ I went through three rounds of procedures and so much testing I was practically turned into a pincushion that I—”

A large, moving object knocked the wind out of me as I was grabbed, spun in a circle, and swept off my feet.

“You had me worried!” Akantha said as she abruptly set my struggling form down to better take a look at me.

“I had you worried?!” I exclaimed.

“Yes, you,” she said punching me in the arm.

“Ow! That hurt,” I said, swiveling my body to pull my arm away from her.

“Don’t be such a baby,” Akantha instructed.

Before I realized it, the good doctor had made good his escape and it was only at that moment that I realized how sly and underhanded Presbyter really was.

I sighed.

“I see you’re not happy to see me,” Akantha shook her head.

“I’m always pleased to see you, baby,” I said, placing a hand around her back and leaning in for a kiss.

“Stop—” her words were cut off in the most effective way possible.

“That’s better,” I said with a grin as I pulled back. And at the sight of her slightly bewildered frowning face I couldn’t help but add, “You wouldn’t deny a warrior his proper reward for risking life and limb in defense of his family, would you?”

Akantha snorted loudly. “The children have been missing you,” she informed me.

“The kids, is it?” I smiled.

“I have a shuttle prepared,” she said, gesturing toward the door and then smirked, “unless you’d like to stay here for a while longer. I can always come back.”

“No, that’s quite alright. I’m ready to go now,” I said, quickly snatching up my uniform jacket and hurrying after her. “So tell me how things have been.”

Over the trip to the shuttle and on the ride over to the Lucky Clover she regaled me with the latest hijinks of our multiple little tyrants.

“Have there been any other issues inside the fleet?” I asked at one point.

“Not as such,” Akantha assured me, “multiple arrests and then more of them after they cracked the encryption on the rebel’s com-links.”

“I’m impressed,” I said, more so with my wife’s increasing competence with terms that had been completely foreign to her as little as four years ago than with the events themselves.

Akantha quirked her lips and looked at me sidelong as we entered what turned out to be our new quarters aboard the 2.0—or at least I took them to be such as they had most or all of our old keepsakes from the Flag Quarters on the Royal Rage.

By enthusiastic mutual consent, there followed a brief but rapid interlude before our conversation continued. We were just getting back into the spirit of all things MSP when the com-panel interrupted us.

“Yes?” I asked, irked by the interruption.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Sir. But we’ve just received an FTL message from Tracto. It’s by way of courier from Sector Governor Isaak, Admiral,” said my Chief of Staff, Lisa Steiner.

I shook my head. “What does the Governor have to say to me, Lieutenant?”

“There are both text and video files if you’re interested, Admiral,” she informed me.

“I’m really not, but I suppose I should be. Is there anything critical in the message like the Governor declaring war or if there’s a fleet on the way?”

“As far as I can tell, no, Sir. But I haven’t had time to intensively review them so there could be something slipped into the fine print,” she said helplessly.

I laughed. “If they’re starting wars buried in the fine print they must be pretty desperate. Shoot me over the files and I’ll see what the esteemed Governor has to tell us,” I said seriously.

“They’re on the way, Sir,” she said, and moments later my com-link chimed.

On the screen, I watched as the smug-looking elected Governor of Sector 25 announced that, at the request of the recently liberated worlds and star system of Sector 26, he was calling for the establishment of a Provisional Grand Assembly in the Spine. He was inviting representatives from Tracto, even though it wasn’t technically a part of the Sector, along with every other world in the Border Alliance to the constitutional convention to be held at Sector Central.

After listening through the message, I paused it and sneered at the frozen the holo-vid. “It appears that as long as he’s alive, a politician never runs out of tricks,” I said coldly.

“They want to unite the Spine in some kind of alliance?” Akantha asked.

“I think they’re trying to make a new Confederation in the Spine,” I informed her.

“Interesting,” she said, looking at the image of the Governor.

I felt a chill—along with a surprisingly possessive impulse. I didn’t like the fact she was looking at another man so intensely, even if it was a murderer with ice in his veins like the former ambassador from Capria.

“Heavy emphasis on the ‘trying’ part. I honestly don’t see how they’re going to pull it off,” I hurried to add for some reason.

Akantha wrinkled her brow and glanced at me. “I wonder if there may be more benefits to an association of some sort with this new alliance, or Confederation in the Spine as you term it, than initially meets the eye,” she muttered as if speaking aloud.

My eyes widened with alarm. “The last thing we need is for Governor Isaak to legalize his position and gain some kind of claim over the MSP,” I immediately rejected. “Right now we’re the ones upholding the laws of truth, justice and the Confederated way. If suddenly there’s a new Confederation in the Spine then Isaak turns from a rebel into a law-abiding citizen and we’re stuck either acknowledging that this new organization is the rightful authority. Or we’re once again the so-called rebels, and it’s back to us against the galaxy.”

“Which you assure me won’t happen because the Governor won’t be able to give birth to a new Confederation,” Akantha said.

“Some kind of rump government that doesn’t represent anything, maybe…I mean, they can claim all day long to be Confederation of Worlds representing the Spineward Sectors but all they really have is just this Sector minus the Border Alliance, plus a few of the worlds liberated in 26,” I sniffed. But I was silently wondering if I hadn’t actually made a mistake by all but ordering the Sector Guard into 26. On the face of it, anything that helped the people of that Sector was a win but, like they say, no good deed goes unpunished. Maybe this was my punishment? “Anyway, without my support they can ask and they can cajole and issue non-binding resolutions all they want, but they can’t actually force anyone to do anything. Outside of maybe a few undefended worlds of course, but eventually their supply line would grow too long and someone would cut it.” Someone like me, perhaps? I imagined silently. “Without us…” I shook my head with a dismissive smile, “they’re going nowhere fast, as far as I can see.”

“I’ll take your word for it. Right now we have more important things to talk about other than interstellar politics,” Akantha said.

“Oh?” I asked, intrigued.

I soon found out what she was talking about.

Chapter 50: The Problem with Kong Pao

Things were starting to look up. I was out of Medical, my new Intelligence Officer had rounded up most of the anti-machine mutineers that we knew of, and I was laying on the couch in my new ready room. Amazingly enough, it looked very similar to my last ready room and almost identical to my old one…oh, wait, it was identical. I gave an internal eye roll. Spalding was so in love with his old ship he was literally taking old pieces of the Lucky Clover, especially the living spaces, quarters and equipment, and installing it in the new ship.

In other news, the series of videos seemed to be having some impact according to the latest fleet-wide polling. And, yes, I was using that most misused and abused tool of the political class: the dreaded e-poll that popped up on your screen at the end of the holo-clip and wouldn’t let you go onto your next video without either answering the poll or waiting for at least fifteen seconds. Faced with the choice of filling out the poll or cutting short their holo-watching by a whole fifteen seconds many people chose to bite the bullet and get it over with. I know because a lot less of them made the same choice when the wait time was only five seconds.

Does this make me a budding dictator. or just a man interested in how effective his propaganda campaign was…wait, I don’t want to know the answer to that.

Fortunately, the repair of the captured Battleships was starting to ramp up and another two were out on their post-yard trials starting next week and after that we’d be able to start work on another pair of large ships.

I was happily contemplating the future, and my rapidly-increasing combat power while also alternating about how I was going to recruit reliable crew to man them in light of the near mutiny cause by nascent anti-machine league supporters, when my com-link chimed.

“Yes?” I asked, activating my earpiece and adjusting the hand-woven Tracto-an pillow under my head, instead of getting up from my quite comfortable position on the couch.

“Sorry to disturb you, Admiral, but we’ve just received a decidedly non-priority FTL message,” reported my Chief of Staff.

“Alright, you have my attention,” I said stretching out and putting my hands behind my head as I closed my eyes, “what’s so important you needed to notify me in person instead of just dropping it off in my mail-box?”

“The sender is in your ‘notify if contacted’ list, and I didn’t want to risk it getting over looked ,” she said primly.

“Fine. Who is it, and have you read yet?” I asked, curious about the non-answer answer out of my Chief of Staff. It wasn’t like her to be so wishy-washy.

“It’s from Representative Kong and, yes, Sir. Sorry, I just didn’t want to take a chance it was missed by your Flag Lieutenant,” she reported.

“Hmph,” I said, the mention of my formerly wayward Ensign instantly souring my mood.

“I’m sending it to you now, Admiral,” she continued, blithely ignoring my lackluster response. Probably a signal that she considered this important enough I shouldn’t wait to read it until sometime tomorrow or next week. Well, I was never one to appoint advisers and then promptly ignore them. That was a road that went straight into a pitfall of your own making.

“Thank you,” I said, waiting until I confirmed receipt of Judge Kong Pao’s message before signing off.

Cracking a yawn, I opened the file to my slate.

It was a short, and what looked like a routine, update from the Sector Judge indicating that he’d be passing through Tracto Star System. Then it gave a date and time. I swung to my feet and then checked the time and date stamp. It looked like he’d be passing through in two weeks. That was it. Nothing more.

I could see why the former com-tech thought I might miss it because, on the face of it, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. It was short and to the point, a simple notification. So what was I missing? My inner paranoia meter went off with a dull throb.

I re-opened the com-link. “Just to make sure: this is all there is? The file seems pretty short,” I said without preamble as the petite lieutenant appeared on my screen.

“You’ve got everything we have,” she confirmed.

The only thing I could find that was suspicious was how short the message was. It read like a routine update and I didn’t like it when I was operating half a step behind everyone else. The Judge was coming to visit Tracto and…

I paused. “The Judge is passing through Tracto?” I asked, cocking my head.

“Yes, Admiral.”

“Do we have any idea where he’s going?” I asked.

“The last time I spoke with the Judge’s staffer, he indicated that the Judge had a large backlog of high-profile cases to take care of back home in Sector 23 and likely wouldn’t have time to leave the bench for at least a year or two unless things became unsettled again. Like oh another invasion or so,” she replied.

“I take it then that we can assume the judge has become unsettled,” I said dryly.

“I couldn’t say, and the Judge himself didn’t indicate why he is coming, and yet here he is again. From my conversations with his staff I doubt he would be visiting because of a trade deal. I just thought you’d like to know. I hope I didn’t overstep, Sir,” said the Lieutenant.

“No, you did the right thing. Even if it’s nothing this is the kind of sensitive approach to detail that I appreciate,” I said, silently adding, especially since this was the first one of its kind I’ve seen from my Chief of Staff.

“Is there anything else that I should know about the Judge’s intended arrival time?” I asked.

“There is supposed to be a large trade convoy passing through around that time, but that’s all I’ve got on the schedule,” she said helplessly.

“And the judge indicated he wouldn’t be back for routine trade matters,” I said.

“The Judge’s staff,” she corrected, “but yes, that was the impression I got…well, actually, that’s what I was told outright.” She shrugged helplessly.

“I wonder if I should be on hand for the arrival of this trade convoy,” I rubbed my chin.

“That’s entirely your decision, but it probably couldn’t hurt. Unless this trade convoy is something other than a trade convoy and this is the Judge’s attempt to notify us?” she asked.

I realized I was still rubbing my chin and abruptly lowered my hand. “I thought I was supposed to be the paranoid one around here,” I said wryly, “but your point is well taken. ‘Better safe than sorry,’ I always say.”

“Did you want me to query the Chief Engineer on the status of the Lucky Clover?” she asked before arching her brow and adding. “And always, Sir?”

“Hey now, I take no responsibility for occupational hazards,” I informed her. “Besides, I think I know what he’ll say so it’s best if I talk to him directly.”

Steiner saluted. “You’re the Admiral,” she said.

“At least for now, that’s true,” I said darkly. The outside threats I could deal with; external competition was just a fact of life. Someone trying to come in and take what belonged to you was one thing. It was another to have multiple attempts from inside the group you were part of.

It made me start to think I might be as good of a leader as I had thought I was, which smarted for some reasons beyond simply the obvious. The idea that I was better at giving orders than leading men stung. I mean, I was a whole head and shoulders better than when I’d first been dragged into this Admiral business through an act of last-ditch self-defense when surrender had no longer been an option.

“Was there anything else, Sir?” Steiner prompted interrupting my latest bout of self-reflection and castigation.

I gave myself a shake.

“I’m trying to decide if I want to ask for more information,” I said into the growing silence, “well, I was, and then I got distracted with the confounded mutiny that just went down.”

The Senior Lieutenant’s brow wrinkled and bridge of her nose. “I don’t really see the harm,” she said, almost certainly referring to the Judge and not the mutiny.

“If he was free to tell us more then why such a short message, unless there really is nothing to tell in which case why ask in the first place?” I said.

“Again, where is the harm, Sir?” she asked.

“The only thing I can think of is if he wasn’t supposed to tip us off, and by asking outright we’re either putting him on the spot or openly revealing our source to whoever told him to keep mum,” I replied.

“A Sector Judge taking orders from someone…is that even legal?” she asked.

“You know what? I don’t think it is,” I agreed.

“Whether it is or not, that might be something we, as in the MSP as a Confederation Fleet, would want to know,” she observed.

“I agree. However, I think there’ s no harm in playing the dullard acting as if it slipped us by and being on hand with a squadron of the wall for his arrival,” I said with narrowed eyes.

“If that’s how you want to do it,” she said with a shrug.

“I think it’s time we started flexing our muscles,” I replied confidently, “slowly and prudently, mind you, but it’s time the rest of the Sector and our neighbors took note. The MSP is here and we’re here to stay.”

“Aye aye, Admiral.”

Chapter 51: Kong Pao and the New Confederation Convention

After my conversation with the Chief Engineer, Akantha the children and I transferred to the Furious Phoenix . Thanks to a good six months of yard time the 2.0 no longer had gaping holes all up and down its length but it still needed a serious amount of internal work done. Enough that I’d pretty much decided going into the conversation that the Clover needed to be fully completed and combat ready before we unveiled her again.

I smiled grimly. If the Empire, or anyone else for that matter, had thought the 2.0 was one tough cookie before she’d been completed they’d find themselves in for the fight of their lives once she was done. Of course, to be done she needed to have all her antimatter generators in and operating—something that was currently at issue.

The gross physical construction was proceeding apace with teams of robots operated by individual engineers doing a steady job of putting the colossal whale that was the 2.0 together. But between load-balancing issues and ramping up the antimatter generation facilities to full production, the Chief Engineer had had his work cut out for him.

In the meantime, the family and I were taking a much needed vacation back in Tracto. It had been far too long since I’d taken a vacation, and it showed. I hardly knew what to do with myself but, thanks to Kong Pao’s message fragment, I’d come to Tracto and with nothing emergent for once found the time to take a load off.

The new palace in Messene was something decidedly different. The exterior was almost pure Caprian, based off early foundation models, but the interior had an almost completely Tracto-an flavor. Too bad the beach was no-go, as the whole ocean was filled with monsters of the deep, eager to snatch up lounging beach-combers to fill their angry maws.

I was chasing two of my slowly-toddling children around the interior of the palace, making what I thought were pretty impressive monster sounds to spur them on to every greater efforts at fleeing amid squeals of delight, when my data-slate chimed.

“What is it?” I grumped, looking down at the holo-screen. I grimaced; I’d set the device to notify me anytime there was a confirmed sensor hit. It was another two freighters with a pair of corvettes for escort. I wanted to know every time an FTL-capable ship jumped into any star system I was at, and the system had done just that. For the past week and a half we’d had a slow trickle of freighters jumping into the star system. but not the big convoy we’d been expecting—and the Sector Judge was two days overdue.

I tried not to put too much into it, after all I knew better than most how schedules change all the time. Especially when it came to point transfers and FTL travel. That we hadn’t received a notification as to why they were late made me feel a little ominous, but…

My slate chimed again and one more time. And then it kept chiming non-stop, one after the other, until I hit the mute button.

Seconds later, I was receiving a com-request.

“Accept,” I instructed, using the voice activated program on my slate. My Chief of Staff appeared on my screen. “Report,” I snapped.

“It’s the Sector 23 Convoy, and it’s a big one, Admiral,” she immediately said, confirming that these were the ship’s that we’d been waiting for. “Much bigger than we expected. I’m seeing over fifty freighters and and an equal number of warships, accompanied by three of the wall, two squadrons of Cruisers, and the rest are Destroyer or smaller.” She paused, “Although not all of them are from Sector 23. I’m getting Elysium and Sector 24 transponders from roughly half the ships. Plus there are a couple of ships the computer is tagging as new contacts with no known IFF signals. Wait a second…the DI just cross-referenced the archive and has tentatively identified them as from Sectors 21 and 22.”

“Sector 21 and 22?” I said with surprise and then grinned. “Well, well…it looks like the Judge has been a busy beaver.”

“Over half of the freighters indicate they either have, or are here to pick up, priority cargoes. The new Sector ships are inquiring about the possibility of purchasing trillium and the military ships are interested in—”

“That’s very interesting,” I cut in. “However, we’ll have more than enough time for all of that. Right now the main thing is to confirm their identities and to be sure of their intentions,” I said, thankful that I had a squadron of the wall, a full four Battleships, in addition to the Phoenix and another thirty lighter warships which had been doing nothing but cluttering up the place back at Gambit. The nav-wipes and stern-to-keel searches had ensured our location was not leaked to anyone outside Gambit Star System, which was precisely how I wanted it.

That, combined with the various Tracto-an SDF forces and the light warships sent here for repairs, meant we actually had a force powerful enough to repel the convoy and its potent escort force. That was a relief, but I’d have hated to be all the way over in Gambit while Tracto was literally at the mercy of anyone, our supposed allies or not.

Over the next twelve hours identities were confirmed, ships started to reach our orbital stations, and lots of trade ensued during which time I hopped a shuttle back up to the Furious Phoenix . Among other things, I foresaw a not-so-minor economic boom hitting the tax books in the not so distant future.

While I sat in my ready room on the Phoenix, keeping silent track of the trade convoy’s over-sized escort forces, I was contacted by our erstwhile contact and supposed ally.

“Kong Pao, Admiral,” Steiner reported, and as with my previous orders to put him through to my ready room anytime he called, as soon as he called, my com-link chimed.

I activated the holo-screen built into my desk and accepted the call.

“Admiral Montagne, greetings from Sector 23, my home world, and myself,” the Sector Judge said, a small smile crossing his face before he clasped his hands and made a short bow.

“Sector Judge Kong, what a pleasant surprise,” I said with a nod.

“I hope it was not surprising at all,” the Judge said seriously.

“Oh, we received your message in all its minimalism. Not your usual style at all,” I agreed readily before asking the question. “Regardless, I was wondering when you’d get around to contacting us and tell us why you’re here?”

“I am as well as a man of my circumstances may be,” the Judge said wearily.

I looked at him with concern. If anyone was threatening the Judge ,I was more than ready to help take care of the problem. “If there’s a problem I can solve for you personally, just give the word. I can’t move the entire fleet at this time, but short of that my schedule’s pretty much open at the moment,” I said, thinking that I had any number of officers and crew that could use a good hard set of drills and extended maneuvers. ‘Man not Machine,’ indeed.

“Me personally?” he shook his head. “Any troubles I have are what are called ‘life problems,’ not something caused by inimical outside forces. Wait,” he paused, “I take that back. Outside forces imperiled everything I’ve worked for and pushed us further and further from the dream that sent me into law and the judicial bench, but so far we’ve done all we can to combat those forces. Whether we’ve won or not I honestly cannot say at this point. Get back to me at a later date,” he finished wearily.

“It sounds like you’re grappling with some heavy issues,” I said, looking at him with concern and wondering just what it would take to send a consummate professional, Sector Judge, and part-time ambassador into unloading even a portion of his worries on me.

“Well enough of me,” Kong Pao said seeming to perk up, “how are you and the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet?”

“The Fleet’s well,” I said, blithely skipping over the many problems anti-machine conspiracy we’d been dealing with. “How are things with the Mutual Defense League lately?”

Judge Pao gave me a searching look. “The League is well. However, I’ll be honest…” he said with a sigh.

“Oh, I wish you would,” I said with a pleasant expression at odds with my concerns about betrayal.

“You ask what you could do for me, and I’ll be frank: you’ve done everything I could have asked. However, in the eyes of the League you’re somewhat compromised,” he said.

“Oh?” I leaned forward, my expression taking a harsher cast.

He held up a hand. “I know you did what you had to and, after they calmed down, so do most of our leaders in both the military and the civilian side of things. However, our Sector was just invaded by Droids and your turning around and making a deal with some of them, even to win the war and save all of our lives…it doesn’t sit well with many,” he said frankly. “And yet, here I see the droids you took from our Sector are not deactivated but instead alive and well—thriving even.”

“I am a man of my word,” I said, feeling a flash of fury as my dander got up, “I promised them a deal so long as they helped save your Sector and I delivered on that promise. Until they break faith, there’s little I can do.”

“You mean little you will do. You certainly have the power to do it if you had the mind,” he said dispassionately.

“I have said before: I will not break my word. Certainly not to assuage the fears of a few bigots and extremists,” I said.

“You risk more than your own life here,” he warned. “Forgetting the number of laws this breaks and legal regulations it compromises, I would ask you to follow the law and destroy them or, failing that, send them beyond the Rim. Not for the law’s sake, but for your own. You make enemies where you need not. And not just a few bigoted extremists either; history has shown the depths to which the machines will sink if they rise to power.”

“Is that a threat?” I asked coldly.

“Not from me or by my hand,” he shook his head firmly. “I asked your help, and you came and you did what was needed to save us. I am not ungrateful. I do disagree with what appears to be your decision on the matter, and I do so in the strongest terms. But it is your choice to make and I respect that. I am not your enemy, Jason Montagne.”

“You’ve been frank with your concerns about me so I will be equally frank with you: where are you and this ‘convoy’ headed?” I asked flatly.

“We are on the way to the Capitol of Sector 25,” he replied, meeting my eyes without deception.

“What, the entire League?” I smirked to hide my sudden concern. The Sector Judge was on his way to Central, and the only notification I’d had from him or anyone else up to this point was a note? Had the ‘concern’ about my dealing with the USA droids really permeated this far? If so, it didn’t bode well for the future.

“Almost,” Kong Pao admitted, “we have representatives from every major League world, as well as ambassadors and representatives from a majority of our non-league worlds, and even a few more from other Sectors of the Spine.”

I felt a flash of shock, followed by a premonition of impending doom as I violently suppressed any sign of it by releasing a non-committal sound even as my mind raced. This was no time to lose my cool. I was getting some strong signals and undercurrents, and I would be a fool to ignore them.

“From other Sectors as well,” I echoed and flashed a patented royal smile, “my, but you have been busy haven’t you, Mr. Representative Pao? And, if I may ask, pray tell what has caused you—and presumably this convoy—to decamp to Sector 25 without so much as a ‘by your leave’?”

“We’re here to try and reestablish a provisional government in the Spine, Admiral Montagne,” Kong Pao said seriously. “While it pains me greatly to think that the same government which I’ve served for so long, and a Confederation that has done much good for a great many over a long period of time, seems to have cast us aside like yesterday’s dirty linen. I have no choice.”

“You are not completely abandoned. The MSP has been there for you, Representative,” I observed.

“A contribution for which I am personally grateful, I assure you. But in my heart I would still wish to give the old Confederation another chance, and another, again and again until they wake from their error and remember us…in my head, I realize it is not possible any longer,” he finished with a deep bow.

I pursed my lips. “You realize you are saying this to a Confederation Admiral, at the head of a Confederation Fleet—one that came to you in your hour of need. No matter the legal mumbo jumbo about us being an SDF force at that time,” I warned.

“Since we are being frank with one another, let me ask you a question: when was the last time the Grand Assembly, or even one of its officers, contacted you? Sent relief or even new orders? Or forwarded routine funds for wages, or materials for fleet maintenance?” Kong Pao proceeded to speak calmly. “I know I no longer receive mail from my colleagues in the heartlands. My legal books are not updated and no one responds to my queries. Perhaps I generalize incorrectly, but is it any different for your people?”

I pursed my lips. I wasn’t about to lie and, even though by silent admission I agreed with him, my entire authority over the MSP was based upon my status as a Confederation Admiral—even if an acting and honorary one.

“You should join us,” the Sector Judge said after a moment of silence, “the Governor of your Sector is right about one thing: we can’t wait forever for the Grand Assembly to come back out and save us. It’s not happening, much as I hate to admit it.”

“I’m not sure if I can do that, or should,” I said finally, “I have to think not only of the best interests of my Fleet but of the people we protect as well.

Kong Pao looked surprised. “I strongly urge you to reconsider, young Admiral. There is no going back to what was,” the Judge said with a sudden passion, “and while I cannot speak for everyone, the people of my Sector call out for assistance. They want the Confederation—or they did until they were invaded and it did nothing for them. And now, lacking such a body’s intervention, they will eagerly accept a Kingdom, Warlord, Republic or, I believe, a ‘Confederation in the Spine’ so long as it is strong enough and well enough run to see to their interests.” He stopped and his eyes drilled into me, “No one misses the old Confederation more than I do, but they have failed us. It is past time to see to ourselves. For me, a Confederation—even if it’s not the old one—is infinitely preferable to any of the other options I can see.”

“I don’t see what any of this has to do with me,” I lied.

“I know you better than that. The seasoned professional you have shown yourself to be knows better, even if you refuse to admit it,” he said, dismissing my words of but a moment earlier, “but you asked what this has to do with you. Let me tell you: you have been a great force for good, impacting many lives on many worlds; I urge you to continue as you have begun,” he said and then seemed to settle back into himself. “Despite the legitimate concerns of my fellows, rest assured there is a place for you beside us at the convention. Like you, we do not easily forget our debts.”

“Forgive me when I say that, while I personally believe everything you say, I question exactly how welcome the MSP would be beside your delegation…all things considered.” Such as your current anti-droid stance and resulting blow back on the people who saved your sector as well as past history showing that Pao tended to over-promise and then under deliver, I silently added.

“Rest assured that, while my military presence may have proved less than expected for the purposes of civilian representations, the support of a Sector Judge is no a small thing. My post looms large in the minds of my fellow representatives, and as a symbol for the general Sector-wide population back home. For any group seeking to establish a new mega-government and Confederation, my support is critical and could lend great legitimacy to such efforts. Do not think that I am unaware of this,” he advised me.

I drummed my fingers silently on the table in front of me. “Well, you may—and note I only say ‘may’—have changed my mind on the topic,” I said, still dragging my heels. The idea of supporting anything proposed by Governor Isaak made my skin crawl while I invariably waited for the other shoe to drop, or knife to strike me in the back. But at the same time if I didn’t show at least cautious support, or supported the idea of cautious support, after the Sector Judge’s emotional plea then I risked any number of things that I needed to be sure I was willing to put to the hazard before just casting aside.

And, blast it all, even though my head and my back were in agreement my gut told me that there was something here that I dismissed out of hand at my own direct and personal peril. Just from the level of support Isaak had somehow managed to draw out of these two completely different Sectors, it was clear the people were ready for this chance, or at least their elected leaders were which was close to the same thing in this instance.

I might have to smile and eat it, which both concerned and infuriated me at the same time.

“You are a busy man, Admiral, no doubt with many otherwise routine tasks vital to the smooth running and operation of a fleet. Please allow me to stop taking up any more of your important time, even as I assure you of my unflagging support. I do not forget the great debt my people owe you for our deliverance,” Kong Pao said cupping his hands.

“Of course,” I agreed, and waited until the com-channel closed before glaring down at my desk.

When anyone in the political sphere assured you of their unwavering support, you needed to start worrying—and that went double right after they told you how you’d just riled up the voting base.

On thing was for sure and certain: however this thing eventually spun out, I was going to need to ramp up recruitment.

Also, I was going to need to consult the most seasoned political operative I could lay my hands on. And in the fleet, that pretty much meant my wife.

That particular thought made me grimace harder than I’d expected it would.

Chapter 52: Akantha Prepares a Delegation

“So what do you think of his demands?” I demanded.

“His words, as you relayed them, sound more like an offer than a demand to me,” Akantha responded with mirth.

I was offended. Not that she disagreed with me, but at the mirth she was apparently feeling.

“Do you not agree?” she asked tilting her head.

I sat there and fumed. “I was done with this Sector,” I finally burst out, “done and over with! They were rebels and I’d get around to them eventually if they didn’t straighten out their act, and now this? What am I supposed to do?”

“You sound more like a petulant youngling than a seasoned leader, Jason,” she shook her head.

I took two deep breaths and slowly let out the last one. Curse it, I hated to be outmaneuvered!

“You’re right, of course,” I said with a sigh, “maybe it’s just this mutiny that’s got me all riled up.” Weeks after the fact, was I still on edge unconsciously wondering when the axe would drop? I didn’t know.

“You didn’t honestly expect your enemies to sit still and wait for the axe to drop, did you?” she looked at me with disapproval.

“No,” I said stung. I mean I guess in some distant corner of my brain I’d hoped for something like that, but I was honestly too paranoid to believe that hope for anything but what it was. A fool’s quest. On the other hand, I had hoped that by ignoring or otherwise downplaying this new mega government idea spearheaded by my enemy, Isaak, that it would fizzle and die leaving nothing more than a bad stench in the room behind it. But sadly it looked like that was not to be.

“Do you have any ideas on how we could derail the proceedings?” I asked.

Akantha pursed her lips. “Are you sure we want to do that?” she asked.

“Why would we not?” I riposted. Right back at ya, babe, I thought coldly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said with exasperation, “entirely ignoring any merits such an alliance would bring, every day we draw things out would be another day everyone is focused on something other than us, which is another day for you to put more warships into service.” She sounded a little put out, as if speaking to a particularly slow student who she expected better from.

“Look, I agree…all right, something has to be done because the Confederation isn’t coming back anytime soon, and people and things keep trying to move into the power vacuum. I get that,” I grumped.

“Just not with our adversary Governor Isaak at the head of this new organization, yes?” she prompted.

I huffed. “Look, I’m as ready as the next man to risk life and limb for the people of the Spineward Sectors,” I said levelly, “but I want no fruit of the poisoned tree and any tree that has Isaak at its roots is already rotten to the core. It just doesn’t know it yet!”

“Again, because our adversary—” she started, but I cut her off.

“Look, if I thought it would get us anywhere I’d go all in for it. But the Governor is a backstabbing weasel. It’s time to isolate and end him, not let him recover and start plotting again,” I snapped, “the people need better than him at the top.”

“Someone like you, perhaps? Or is it that you’re just upset no one asked you?” she inquired with lifted brow.

“Me? Where’s this coming from?” I snorted. “I assure you, my ego is not pricked that no one’s asked me to take over an nascent interstellar government. I mean, we’ve seen how well it went the last time when all they were asking me to do was head the military. The first time in 23 they pulled a bait-and-switch, and then here at home they cast me aside as soon as they thought they would get more with me out of the way. So, no, they can take their government and shove it.”

I mean it’s not like I was morally opposed to a position of civilian leadership. But it needed to be something a whole lot more along the lines of them thrusting the job on me by popular demand, rather than me trying to somehow worm my way into power. I had better things I could do with my time, like continue fighting off every single threat to the Sector 25 in particular, and the Spine in general.

“If you say so,” she said.

“I do say so!” I nodded firmly, and the conversation lulled temporarily as I thought over what she’d said. “Still…you’re not completely wrong with your notion of keeping an eye on things,” I grudgingly admitted.

“It is hard to derail your enemies’ plans when you aren’t even aware what they are,” she agreed. “And sitting at the table where the deals are made also gives you more options when it comes to making plans of your own.”

“I’m not sure I like where this is going, but I can’t refute anything you’ve said on the face of it,” I said finally. “In another month or two we should have all but two of the most damaged Battleships back into service. At least of the repairable ones. Even our team can’t do much with a warship that’s been broken in half. Fortunately, Destroyers and the smaller Cruisers are more easily repaired than ships of the wall.”

“It sounds like you have fleet matters well in hand,” Akantha said with a smile.

“Thanks,” I said. It was nice to hear a little affirmation now and again.

“In the meantime, let me deal with the Governor and this notion of a new Confederation,” she said.

“What?” I asked nonplussed. “I’m not sure that’s a great idea. I mean, sure, we can send some observers but a constitutional convention isn’t really something we’re set up for. I suppose the best person to go would be me personally, but I’m really needed here at the fleet—and that totally ignores the fact I swore I would never set a foot back in Central without at least a full fleet at my back.”

“Don’t worry about it, Jason. I’ve already started assembling a delegation to represent Tracto,” she remarked.

I lifted a brow. It was time to get serious now. Until now I’d just been upset and venting with my wife, but Akantha sending a Tracto-an delegation was a horse of a completely different color.

“Now I am worried. If you are sending an actual delegation…” I trailed off, wondering if I needed to send a few ‘observers’ along to keep an eye on the goings on in Central and an eye on my wife! “Is there any particular reason you feel you need to be personally involved in this other than the obvious?”

“Among my people this is women’s work; of course I’ll be involved. Oh, I’m not going myself,” she said, leaning over and putting a kiss on my brow, “let me deal with the politics and you just focus on getting the fleet back into order. I have the perfect woman in mind for the job. You know, the more I see of your galaxy among the stars the more I realize Tracto and Messene are still far too underdeveloped compared to other worlds. Without sufficient combat power, we are nothing in their eyes. But then, that’s always the way of it. It’s just more apparent this time.”

“Women’s work,” I muttered. It was clear she intended to send a delegation to this convention whether I wanted her to or not. Short of a war, I didn’t see an easy way to stop her. And that wasn’t making me happy

Chapter 53: Akantha and Polymnia

“Greetings, Hold Mistress,” asked the older woman with a smile.

“Greetings, Hold Mistress,” the younger woman repeated the words happily.

“So how is my Daughter this day?” asked the first.

“What, not your favorite daughter, Mother?” the second smirked.

“It is a mother’s duty never to show favoritism, as you yourself will learn as your own children grow older,” she answered serenely.

“That’s not how I recall it when you were comparing my studies to my younger sisters, Polymnia” she snorted.

“The burdens of a First Daughter, who stands in line to inherit the Hold, are significant. To be held up to her younger sisters as a standard to meet or exceed is normal, Adonia Akantha Zosime. I would have thought you’d learnt that by now,” her mother said with an eye-roll.

“Be welcome in my hold Mother…I mean, Hold Mistress Polymnia Sapphira Zosime,” Akantha said formally.

“I am welcome, Hold Mistress,” her mother replied. “Now what is this all about? You said something regarding the need for me to act as an Envoy for our world in your letter. I have come prepared as best I could; tell me more.”

“A delegation from our world Tracto has been invited, along with delegations from a host of worlds in and out of this Sector, to Sector Central,” said Hold-Mistress Akantha.

“The home of your current enemy, the Governor Isaak,” Hold-Mistress Sapphira said grimly, “why have you called upon Argos for this task?”

“Our world cannot be unrepresented any longer. We are exposed. Our world has limited defenses, and our people and industry are inadequate. Right now, all our strength resides in Trillium and my Protector’s personal fleet. We need time to build. We need time to grow. We need time,” said Akantha, leaning forward, “as I cannot go myself there was only one name that sprung to mind that had the ability and trust: Argos.”

“A heavy task, but it is not unexpected for a daughter colony to rely on her mother Hold in times like these,” Sapphira muttered before looking up. “In some ways it relieves me that I can do as a parent should, acting as a shield for her child in such matters. I had feared once you left this world there would be no use for a mother such as me in your life. Oh, not in your personal life but your public life. It relieves me that I can be of assistance.”

“It is your training that made me the woman I am today. You are always of use to me,” Akantha said, impulsively reaching over and holding her mother’s hand.

“And I thank you for that,” said the Argos Hold Mistress, giving Akantha’s hand a squeeze and then letting it go. She moved back and cocked her head. “The other Mistresses might not take kindly to being left out of this,” Sapphira said with a wicked grin.

“Those old tyrants? I should hope not,” Akantha sniffed, “after the way they stood back or joined their strength to Jean Luc when our planet was invaded.”

“He was incredibly charismatic and he said he was the One,” replied Sapphira pointedly.

“In the end, there can be only One,” Akantha quoted and then glared, “and I have him. All others are pretenders to the line.”

“And now we are getting into matters of dogma and religion, not the practical arena of politics,” said Polymnia Zosime.

“Fair enough,” allowed Akantha.

“Good. Now then, let’s discuss my purpose in this diplomatic event,” urged the Hold Mistress of Argos. “Am I to bat my eyes and beg for scraps at the table, or is it time for Tracto to spread her wings and take flight by dictating to all who surround her as is her rightful place?”

Akantha grinned.

“I think we’ll try for a more moderate approach. We are strong right now and well-protected, but the slightest misstep would leave us at the mercy of our enemies,” she said.

“As is always the case in the great game of city-states, I see why you’ve called for me,” said Sapphira.

“No one is a more seasoned hand than the Hold Mistress of Argos,” Akantha said.

“I can think of a handful that are older and have been Mistress of their Holds without holding my breath,” Sapphira said with a phantom smirk.

“But none who have my trust,” said Akantha.

“Well…it’s nice to feel useful in one’s old age,” the Hold Mistress of Argos sighed.

“You, old? You are still not past your child-bearing years,” scoffed Akantha. Sapphira laughed. “So you will do it?” pressed Akantha.

“It will be interesting to see how a group comprised mostly of men handle politics in the River of Stars,” Akantha’s Mother finally agreed. “This is going to be fun.”

The two women shared a look that would have sent shivers down the spines of anyone who saw them, before sharing a laugh which was somehow ten times more chilling.

Chapter 54: The Spineward Sectors Assembly

“I see we’ve got quite the number of representatives here,” Sapphira said with a small tilt of her head, her eyes calculating and her expression serene.

Her assistant looked at the Hold Mistress with youthful eyes filled with shock.

“There’s as many representatives as there are servants in the citadel,” exclaimed the young priestess.

“Not quite that many, Aigle,” Sapphira demurred.

“This entire trip has been eye-opening,” said Aigle the young priestess and assistant to the hold-mistress.

“There appear to be many differences on how things are done between Tracto and the River of Stars,” observed Sapphira, smiling while accepting an out-thrust hand and shaking according to the local custom instead of using the traditional handclasp native to Tracto. She managed to forget for several minutes that a male offering a forearm handclasp to a Holder, let alone a Hold Mistress, would be a rudeness to the point of a potentially lethal transgression in her world.

“But we must learn to accommodate the locals and accustom ourselves to their ways while we are here,” said the Hold Mistress.

“There are so many hover-cars they literally fill the skies. To say nothing of the floating couches they use everywhere here in the Sector Palace!” Aigle enthused.

“A seemingly frivolous use of such scarce machinery,” Sapphira said with a frown while thinking about the bi-weekly shuttle run which was all that most the people of her own hold ever saw of hover-machinery that was so plentiful here at Central Palace that they literally used such technology to make floating couches for leisurely reclining.

“It’s scarce in Argos, less scarce in Messene, and clearly present in abundance here,” observed Aigle.

“We have a long way to go,” Sapphira agreed with a sigh at the thought of her planet’s relative poverty. She wasn’t sure that she would allow floating hover-couches in her Palace, let alone her Hold. But that her people, even their Hold Mistress, were too poor to afford even a tithe of what the people here took for granted grated… Not so much that she didn’t have such conspicuous luxuries, which she thought too much of would lead to weakness, but that Argos couldn’t even do so if its leaders had been so foolish as to want to.

“Someday our people will be as wealthy as the people here today,” said Aigle.

Sapphira raised an eyebrow, a habit she’d picked up from her daughter’s Protector. “Each person here is among the elite of their world, or was delegated to personally represent their home planet,” remarked the Hold Mistress, craning her head to observe a pair of figures who appeared to be holding an emotional conversation many man lengths up in the air and only a few feet from the overarching grand ceiling of the Sector Palace.

She then looked back down, taking in the many political figures gathered from around the Spine as they shook hands, forged personal connections, and tried to gather support for any one of a hundred things.

Which all by itself would have been one thing, but what might have thrown another Hold Mistress off her stride were the sometimes pale, sometimes sharp-lined-yet-see-through, sometimes almost indistinguishable, virtual ghosts that seemed almost as numerous as the politician’s they accompanied. Ranging from miniature Holo-images that sprouted from hand-held tablets and to half-sized people projected from wrist bands to full-sized individuals projected from desks or the ends of floating hover couches, these images came in all shapes and sizes and in a few cases appeared as fantastical creatures or abstract images. Mostly they were responding to a real life person, but in a few disturbing instances while the representatives were turned away the projected holo-images actually seemed to be speaking to each-other.

Just the wildly varying forms of the many people present in the room was challenging to a Tracto-an used to a generally homogenized population where everyone looked rather similar. But when you tossed in the nearly incomprehensible holo-people, too, it was all a tad overwhelming.

“Isn’t this just the most exciting environment?” asked Aigle as she gazed around the room with the fervent look of one in the midst of a high stakes shopping spree.

“It is exciting,” Sapphira said serenely. Personally she found all the strange and unusual stimuli just a little too hard to parse to ever be what she would consider comfortable, but so long as she focused it was doable. Not what she would personally consider a favorable thing but, from her aide’s response, it didn’t appear to be deliberately designed to discommode the Tracto-an delegation which was all that was really important. Understanding their opponents’ and neighbors’ political gestures and responding appropriately was key. Diplomacy, after all, was just warfare taken to a different level.

“Where has the rest of the Border Alliance delegation drifted off to?” she asked her aide.

“We’ve all been assigned seats on the side of the room near the other end,” Aigle said promptly, in showing why the currently excited young woman had been chosen for her job, “do you want us to join them?” she asked.

“Hold Mistress Messene says that in addition to the trade route to Sector 23 we have many vital trade partners throughout the Border Alliance on the edges of Sector 24 as well as the many fleet and warrior recruits of course. It would be best to join them sooner than later to remind them of our mutual support,” she replied and then sweeping up her assistant with a look she began gliding toward the Border Alliance seats.

“I wonder if we will be able to secure any of those trade partners for Argos,” Aigle said with envy, “securing even a tithe of that trade for Argos would be a coup.”

“Oh we already have contacts, Aigle,” Sapphira reprimanded, her brow creasing, “what kind of Mistress do you take me for? The problem is that, compared to Messene, Argos has little of recognized value to trade among the stars, other than our people’s lives and labor—something which I am, I hope understandably, reluctant to spend without deep thought.”

There was a small silence.

“It’s not true that we have nothing my Mistress,” Aigle said after a half minute of meandering their way to their table, “stone rhino hide if nothing else should be of great value. I am also aware of a number of wild plants and weeds, most poisonous in some manner that are sold to trade factors in Messene for trade, barter or credits. Now that I think about it, if any of that trade is going beyond Messene, we could begin quietly gathering larger quantities by harvesting it from other Holds and then going direct to Messene’s contacts among the stars.”

“Weeds, is it?” Sapphira laughed wryly shaking her head. “I never thought I would see the day that women and children gathering wild weeds in forest would be one of our Hold’s greatest assets. It certainly stands as a more favorable option than sending our warriors out as mercenaries or selling slaves.”

“We still have any number of war captives we could sell, but it is my understanding from my studies that slavery is considered quite illegal among the stars,” said Aigle.

“Oh it is. But I have received a number of reliable reports over the years. It is said that anything can be bought or sold in certain places. The word ‘Omicron’ comes to mind,” said Sapphira, “not every man who leaves his home polis forgets his former Hold Mistress. Especially those who intend to retire back home someday and hope for an introduction to a good wife,” she finished with a smile.

“We’ll have to redouble our efforts when we get back home, Mistress,” Aigle said with a sharp smile.

Sapphira smirked. “Why wait?” she asked archly “As of right now we have one of the most lucrative of things to trade.”

Aigle looked at her questioningly.

“Political influence and the power that comes with it,” Sapphira explained impatiently, “I cannot imagine that even a band of unbridled men such as we have here could change the basic calculation of such things.”

“I agree, my Mistress. After all, for all their talents they are just men after all,” Aigle said with certainty.

“Don’t underestimate men, young priestess,” Sapphira scolded coldly, “they are the most dangerous and most important task handed to womankind by the god. Remember why we rule.”

“You remind me of scripture, Hold Mistress,” the assistant said, ducking her head.

“Good,” Sapphira said as they reached their seats, “and you know the best part of all this?” Aigle looked at her, “It is that since we will have to wield the influence of our world anyway, we might as well ensure Argos in particular, as well as Tracto as a whole, benefits from this arrangement.”

“It is always a boon when duty and pleasure tie together in a neat bow,” agreed Aigle.

“Yes,” agreed Sapphira taking a seat and then turning to her neighbor and catching his attention.

“Hello?” the overly rotund man said politely.

“What world are you from, my dear?” Sapphira asked artlessly. “You see, I am just a simple woman who has never been away from her world before now and I was wondering if you could explain things to me? I know so much less than I should about things like inter-sector politics and inter-world trade.”

“Trade, you say?” the man immediately looked interested. “Well, the politics of things are easy. Perhaps after I explain the gist of it we can circle back around to inter-world trade. I know my people are always eager to open up new trade lines…what world did you say you were from again?” he asked.

“Oh, I am from a small world out on the edge of the Sector called Tracto,” said Sapphira.

The man’s eyes bulged and he quickly fell all over himself to explain things as he understood them.

It was interesting, as well as illuminating, to compare the differences in how he understood things to her daughter’s multi-page reports.

To his credit, before he was very far into explaining the benefits of trade with his own world, he recognized from her penetrating questions that the ‘simple woman’ was something very much other than simple or unsophisticated—and he adjusted his approach accordingly, which only served to heighten the matron’s awareness of just how adept these Starborn were at the very games she had spent a lifetime winning.

Governor Isaak stood at the podium that was normally used by the Speaker for the Sector Assembly and stared down at the literal horde of out-Sector representatives and local Sector assemblymen. He couldn’t help but feel a rush of power go straight to his head.

He’d done this. No one other than him, a minor nobleman from Capria, turned Ambassador, turned Representative, turned Sector Governor as of the last election. And now, with this grand gathering, the potential to be so much more had just opened up before his very eyes.

He’d pulled every lever of power available to him. Traded every favor and promised what he couldn’t possibly deliver, sent couriers and messages by the thousands and tens of thousands, all of it culminating in this, the largest gathering of Spineward Sector officials since the Imperial Withdrawal.

Today they had full quorums from three full Sectors, and representatives from at least three more with a strong contingent from the recently and only partially liberated Sector 26.

Then his attention snagged on a group that instantly soured his good mood. The Border Alliance Worlds, representing a few dozen undeveloped worlds along the edge of the Sector, along with a handful of underdeveloped ones to give the group some bite. They were an eyesore and a direct contradiction to his claim of total control over Sector 25—his Sector.

They were merely a proxy, by any other name, for the MSP. His current hope was that by including the Border Alliance in his plan, the political representation of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet could be parlayed into staving off the increasingly lethal Confederation Fleet long enough to build up a real united Spineward Sector force. A ‘Spineward Fleet’ or, better yet, a ‘Confederation Guard’ so as not to be confused in any way with the old heartland’s mostly mothballed Confederation Fleet.

“It would also be a nice shot over the bow to a certain Confederation Admiral,” Sir Isaak murmured.

“I beg your pardon, Governor?” his Policy Adviser inquired politely.

“It’s nothing; my mind wandered and I was speaking to myself regarding unrelated matters,” said the Sector Governor.

“It is not wise to lose your focus at such a pivotal event, Governor. Bad enough that you rejected my advice to delay the convention until after we got a better feel for the individual players in person. But a single misstep now could—”

“You know very well why I am forced to proceed without delay. The longer they are here, the more time my opponents in the Assembly have to make inroads among the delegations. To say nothing of the currently nascent Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet! I need to project strength and I must do it now,” Isaak said harshly, “I will not make a mistake. I am too close to all that we have worked for to allow that.”

“Just keep that in mind; you cannot afford to lose. An opportunity like this to unify the Spine won’t come a second time in this lifetime,” said his Adviser.

“I am well aware of the stakes,” Isaak said.

The Spineward Convention opened with a non-binding resolution to empanel itself and almost ran itself aground on the shoals of what to call itself.

“I call for a second of the motion to officially establish the Spineward Sectors Convention!” cried one of Governor Isaak’s paid delegates from Sector 26.

More than fifty hands immediately shot up, mainly from the sector 26 contingent but their cries of affirmation were met almost immediately by a loud counter protest by a large group of representatives from Sectors 23 and 24 who immediately shot to their feet.

“Mr. Speaker, this is not merely a Convention of worlds nor does it solely matter to those of us from our individual sectors, but to every world of the Spine,” stated an Asiatic Representatives. “It does every citizen of the Spine a disservice if we attempt to start off calling ourselves as such!”

“What would you have us do, call ourselves a Senate?” sneered Isaak’s paid stooge. He was smart enough at his job, perhaps, but if he were a top notch operator he wouldn’t be busy carrying the Governor’s water instead he’d be out there hatching schemes of his own.

“Neither a Convention nor a Senate is appropriate,” stated the member from the 23 and 24 contingent, who’d taken on the role of temporary spokesman to a rumble of approval from his fellows, “the truth is that what we attempt to forge here is nothing less than a Grand Assembly to rival the Old Grand Assembly that failed every one of us in this room…a Grand Assembly of the Spine!”

There was an immediate uproar in response.

“Who are you who to say such words…are you insane?!” cried a conservative delegate from Prometheus, standing up and shaking his fist at the Asiatic.

“Who are any of us?” agreed a representative from Sector 21. “Sure, times have been tough, but we are a hardy people in the Spine. Are we now to sever all relations with the Heartland Sectors because of a mere hiatus in trade, travel and official information? Surely it has not come to that!”

“It was not your Sectors that were invaded by angry droids intent on conquest and genocide!” shouted another proponent of a Grand Assembly in the Spine, this one from Sector 24. “It doesn’t matter how hardy you are when the Empire blows up your fixed defenses and then runs away like the cowardly schemers they proved themselves to be, leaving our Sector defenseless in the face of the Machine Menace.”

“Man, not Machine!” shouted the dual contingents of Sectors 23 and 24 that had taken up one side of the room together.

The ‘Man not Machine’ slogan was belatedly echoed by the other representatives around the room, some much more perfunctorily than others.

“I feel for your pain, good Sir,” Isaak’s paid delegate said passionately. “My Sector was also invaded, our planet conquered, and much of Sector 26 still groans under the Imperial boot heel of the PPD—otherwise known as the Provisional Provincial Directorate which, despite Governor Isaak’s heroic efforts to free us from them, is the political action wing of what might be better known to the rest of you as the Reclamation Fleet—which has overthrown legitimate governments throughout my sector and replaced them with appointed imperial governors!” the stooge said passionately, his eyes flickering back and forth as he read off a miniature holo-prompter set up so that he could see its words. “However much I agree with the sentiment,” he continued, “we can’t risk calling it a Grand Assembly at this juncture without fear of deeply offending the Confederation Grand Assembly!” the stooge finished, slapping a fist on his desk. “The simple fact is that if we anger the Grand Assembly we will be crushed!”

“Why should we care what they think? The left born children of Baal abandoned us!!!” cried the anti-machine spokesman from Sector 24. “If they couldn’t even be stirred to send out the fleet they were legally obligated to, after the Confederated Empire and the Rim Fleet blew up what little we had to defend ourselves with on their way out the Spine, then why in the name of all that’s unholy would they care about a little thing like a name?”

“Label’s disable, you fool! Names are the most important thing in the galaxy,” snapped the Delegate Prince from Prometheus.

“No, I vehemently disagree my brother representative, labels are not the most important thing in the galaxy. I put to you that people are the most important thing, my fellow delegate,” the Asiatic representative from Sector 23, who initially proposed a Grand Assembly in the Spine, said while cupping his hands and bowing deeply, “which is why I believe they deserve a name they can take pride in.”

“Who are you to propose such a name; are you insane?” demanded the Promethean Prince. “You’ll kill us all if you continue with this foolishness.”

“If we are to declare the Old Confederation has failed to live up to its ideals and protect its people, then I do not believe it insane for those of us in this room to take upon ourselves the cause of Freedom, Justice and Humanism upon which the old Confederation was founded on—and upon which it has so badly failed,” the old Asiatic Delegate said passionately. “I hope that my fellow delegates will consider this selfish request of mine and give me face,” he finished bowing low.

“I say again: who are—” the Promethean Delegate barked ponderously.

“He’s a bloody Sector Judge, you idiot,” snapped an angry looking woman, shouldering the Promethean aside as she stepped forward, “and I for one don’t give two figs for humanism, honor and the Confederation way. What I want is Justice!”

“No one in this room wants justice more than the Sons of Prometheus, and no world has suffered more!” growled the Prince, shoving her back and sending her staging two steps to the side. He then chuckled.

“The Daughters of New Pacifica disagree!” spat the woman. “The Sexists pigs who invaded our planet, oppressed our people, and attempted to indoctrinate us with their patriarchal bigotry and brute force tactics have damaged the moral fabric of our society in ways that will not recover for generations if ever,” she said stepping back over to the Prince and giving him a shove. “We don’t care if this is a conclave, a grand assembly, or the meeting place of Knuckle Draggers Incorporated. The Daughters of New Pacifica demand social justice! We demand compensation for the moral damages sustained by our people for generations to come!”

“Moral damages? Is this a joke?” mocked the Promethean Prince.

“Is social justice a joke to Prometheus?” the New Pacifican cried furiously. “The people of New Pacifica have suffered irreparable harm! Our fleet is gone. Our orbital industry first turned against us and then was all but destroyed. Our planet was occupied by beasts fueled solely by toxic masculinity. The system-wide safe space that was New Pacific utterly violated and destroyed, forced against its founding principles, and turned into yet another tool of the vile patriarchy. This was torture on a planetary scale and you ask if it was joke?! Are my people a joke to you? What greater horror could we experience as a people?” she demanded, her voice rising to a strident screech.

“Yes, yes, it’s all my fault. You killed your parents and I’m a hypocrite for not honoring you as an orphan,” scoffed the Promethean Prince.

“How dare you?!” gasped the New Pacifican, holding a hand to her chest.

“Anyone that unilaterally disarms in the face of danger deserves what they get. Especially when they blew up their own warships with the crews still aboard,” the Prince mocked and then issued a loud, braying laugh. “My people may not have done any better than yours but at least we know which way to point a weapon. Unlike New Pacifica, we know it was our job to kill the enemy, not our own SDF crews!”

“You racist, fascist, sexist pig!” shrieked the New Pacifican. “Yes, sacrificing our own crews for the greater good proved to be a terrible mistake but at least we showed the measure of our resolve to settle things peacefully! We were prepared to pay any price, but no matter what we gave them the Imperials rejected peace. Unlike the bigoted, patriarchy-based in Prometheus!”

“Yes, we are patriarchs and proud of it! You won’t find the patriarchy of Prometheus killing more of our own people than the enemy ever did on your world. In fact, we resisted until the bitter end—which, by the way, was when they blew up everything they could on the way off our planet and then fled the star system,” he said proudly. “Unlike the Matriarchs of New Pacifica, we patriarchs respect the lives of our women and would never kill them in job lots like you did with the wholesale slaughter of your own crews. A more self-hating, bigoted, and—dare I say murderous—scheme I have yet to see.”

Incensed beyond measure, the New Pacifican delegate leaped toward the Promethean War Prince her fists swinging.

The War Prince fell back in surprise when she punched him in the throat, and suffered a further handful of vicious strikes to the face while humorously backpedaling as he threw up his hands to ward off the blow.

Then, out of nowhere, a female member of the Promethean delegation jumped forward pushing the New Pacifican back and swinging an uppercut that knocked the still-raging Delegate to the floor.

Mounting her opponent, the Promethean woman rained blow after blow into the face of her New Pacifican rival before Assembly Security could arrive to break up the fight.

“And that’s how the patriarchy fights with crazy women,” sneered the Promethean Prince, holding a hand to his still bleeding nose as the two women were dragged apart.

“Why you—” the New Pacifican Delegate tried to lunge forward, ignoring the female Promethean delegate who looked more and more like an undercover body guard than an actual representative of her home world.

“Order,” snapped the Speaker from his raised dais in the room, “Order, I say. Order! I will have peace and non-violence in this Assembly room, or so help me…” he turned red in the face and gestured furiously toward the door.

“As I was saying,” Judge Kong said, standing back up, “we cannot live in fear of a Confederation too old, too tired and too hypocritical to defend its own. We must stand tall and loudly proclaim to the galaxy that a New Confederation has arisen from the ashes of the old. Are we to sit in terror, wondering if we should dare to even dream of organizing and defending ourselves from raider, pirates, droids and Imperial Invasion Fleets? To me the answer is obvious, which is why I propose a motion making this convention the body that establishes or, in my mind, reestablishes the Confederation in the Spine. Thank you,” he said, cupping his hands, bowing and then stepping back.

There was a long moment of pause, and then heads started nodding around the Sector Judge while on the other side of the room skeptical looks slowly morphed into questioning ones.

There was a stir as Governor Isaak strode forward into the center of the room, taking the small—relatively small, that is, compared to the rest of the room—open space in the middle of the floor.

A hush fell over the room.

“You all know who I am, if only by holo-image and reputation. I am the man who gathered you all here together for this convention, I am the Governor of this Sector and, until the Judge made his passionate appeal, one of the skeptics regarding the naming of this, I hope, soon to be great body,” Isaak said, his face grim.

“So you are throwing your support behind this notion of a new Confederation?” the head delegate from Aegis asked sternly.

“I am,” Isaak said with conviction, “not for the reasons many of you might think, but yes: I’m convinced. In order to survive the coming storm, the Spineward Sectors needs something more than just to make a stand. If all we are interested in is hanging together else we hang separately, I don’t think we’ll make it. So yes, what we need is something big, bold and brash that will let the rest of the galaxy know we are here—and, by all that’s within us, we are here to stay!”

“Hear hear!” a large number of member delegates from the 23rd , 24th and 25th Sectors stood and rumbled in agreement.

Intermixed within the Sector-based groupings was a sizable minority that ran the gamut from uneasy to openly dissatisfied with their counter parts.

“Then if all our questions have been answered, let’s call a vote,” said Sector Judge Kong Pao.

“Wait!” said a representative from Sector 21, one of the few such individuals present.

“Yes?” the Judge looked over at him.

“I don’t want you, Judge; my question is for the Governor of this Sector,” the delegate said abruptly.

Kong Pao took a step back and nodded.

“Yes?” Governor Isaak asked, drawing out the word.

“You said you changed your positions. Why? What was it originally that made you want to keep this convention from establishing a new Confederation?” the Delegate asked, then nodded and stepped back looking pleased with himself.

Isaak frowned. “Previously, the question was asked ‘why we should care what the Confederation thinks?’ The truth is I have just received a report today from Sector 25 Intelligence. In short the reason I felt we should care is because the Old Confederation essentially sold us to the Empire and the Empire is even now in the process of sending a war fleet to pacify the Spine.” Sir Isaak said.

If he’d dropped a plasma bomb in the center of the room, it couldn’t have been more explosive. Instant pandemonium erupted with people shouting questions, threats toward the Empire, threats towards the Confederation, threats toward the Governor for being a liar, cries for the gods and more.

And that was precisely what he had intended.

Chapter 55: The Confederation of the Spine

“And so the vote tally is 124 to 53 in favor of this Convention establishing the Confederation in the Spine, so long as at least 100 of the Delegates’ home worlds ratify the new constitution. Said constitution is to be, in principle, very similar to the Old Confederation constitution,” called out the Speaker, three days and seventeen votes later.

“Minus the amendments that were introduced fifty years ago that formed the Confederated Empire!” shouted a representative.

“Minus the specified amendments that apply to the Empire,” the Speaker agreed.

People milled around on the floor, looking surprised that the vote had actually passed. Over the course of three days the Sector Palace had seen proposals for everything from a direct democracy that would require a vote by every single member world before any legislation could be passed, to what was essentially a council of monarchs that would call itself a Confederation but would essentially rule their own unique autonomous regions by fiat.

Finally, after carefully redacted reports on the gathering Imperial fleet had been disseminated to the various representatives, and enough time had passed for people to start believing and their situation to sink in, they had fallen back on the structure everyone in the room was familiar with.

Kong Pao approached Sapphira of Argos after the vote had finally passed. “I appreciate the support of the Border Alliance voting block, Madam Hold Mistress. I believe seeing the Alliance throw its support behind the proposal was a key factor for many of the system representatives from our Sectors,” he said, referring to Sectors 23 and 24.

“Just remember our agreement and make sure it passes the convention,” Sapphira said with a stern smile.

“It is the third item on today’s agenda, and the members of the Mutual Defense League voting Block have signed a pledge that we will vote in favor of bringing Tracto into the Confederation as a provisional non-voting member,” the Judge said with a bow.

“Thank you, Sector Judge,” Sapphira replied with a regal nod.

“Even though we have agreed to support you in obtaining provisional status for your world, you must be aware that we could just as easily propose Tracto be recognized as a full voting member,” Judge Kong said seriously. “The fact that the Delegate from Aegis questioned your right to membership in the convention was shameful, and a great insult not to just you but to all of your allies here in the Provisional Assembly.”

“I am well aware that we could swallow this insult and, in return for making a few concessions, gain recognition of our full status in the convention. But at what cost? I doubt Aegis itself was the driving force behind this attack, but even if I am wrong there are only two concessions I can imagine they desire from us. One which we could not guarantee even if we wanted to, which we don’t, and the other we would not want to concede except at dire need, which this is not,” she said darkly. The maneuver was obvious: either have Tracto pressure concession from the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet in the name of the new Confederation, or gain greater access to the one natural resource Tracto had in abundance that was vital to the economic success of three Sectors. Trillium.

“If you are certain…” the Judge said helplessly.

“In many ways having a provisional status that either side is able to terminate is much preferable to being yoked to the Provisional Grand Assembly. For instance, mechanisms such as eminent domain in times of emergency, or central appropriation of critical industry or resources, do not apply in cases such as ours,” Sapphira said with a dark smile.

“I see that you’ve thought out the limits of your position fully,” Kong Pao said with a sigh.

“As surprising as it may be for some to learn, this simple barbarian woman can both listen and read,” Sapphira said tartly.

“I hope you don’t consider me so uncultured as to—” began Kong Pao.

“For a man outside the household, you are quite courteous. Very principled even,” said the Hold Mistress.

“Thank you…I think,” said the Judge.

While the Judge and Hold Mistress were busy talking, the Delegate from Aegis strutted over.

“Have you decided to see reason and change your position, woman? Or are you determined for Tracto’s…ambiguous status to continue into the future?” the sharp-eyed and physically fit Delegate inquired solicitously.

“See reason?” Sapphira repeated with mock confusion, causing the Aegis Delegate to frown at her. “Why, I believe I have. I’m afraid that it’s exactly as you had said earlier: we simple folk of Tracto are no better than vote-less drags upon the body politic you accused us of being,” she said sadly. “Provisional status is the best we could hope for and, as you well know, we simple women of Tracto wouldn’t dream of contradicting the judgment of a man when it comes to politics. Especially not one of your stature and importance.”

The Aegis Delegate’s face turned stiff but his eyes glared up at her. “With a few minor concessions I’m sure the Provisional Grand Assembly could come to an…accommodation with your world,” he said.

“No,” she declared, “we are quite contented with what little we have. But I thank the Delegate from Aegis for his kind consideration of our better interests, and promise to take his considered opinion as to our place in the grand scheme of things to heart.”

“One day you’ll regret this,” the Delegate said and then muttering something derisive under his breath as he turned away about ‘tall women.’

Sapphira just smiled serenely at his back, but in her eyes was a darkness not obvious unless one was looking closely for it.

“Did the barbarian woman see reason?” Sir Isaak asked the moment the member from Aegis entered his temporary office.

“The primitive is even more difficult to reason with than the dumbest secondary school dropout,” bit out the Delegate.

“So, in other words, she refused to play ball,” Isaak said, his gaze turning cold.

“Refused to play ball? It was almost as if she wanted to be sanctioned—welcomed it even,” the Delegate snapped.

“Welcomed it, you say?” Isaak said sharply, but the Aegis politician wasn’t paying attention.

“First the Tyrant robs us, and now the primitives he uses for shock troops think they are too good for us?” snapped the Delegate.

“Now now, Agamemnon, let’s not over react here,” said Isaak.

“And they speak a perverted dialect of the old tongue, to boot. You know what? I’m done carrying your water, Isaak. From now on you can deal with the primitives yourself!” he declared, turning and stomping out of the room.

“Let’s not be hasty,” the Governor called after him, his face turning dark, but the Aegis Delegate merely made a rude gesture on his way out the door. Isaak stared coldly at the door as it automatically slid shut. “You can refuse to cooperate but you can’t mock me, Agamemnon,” he said coldly.

Then the pleasant and open mask of a successful Sector Governor once again slid onto his face like a well worn glove.

“If they want to be stubborn then they will see the wages of their intractability,” he said standing up and straightening his formal clothing before striding back out on to the floor of the Provisional Grand Assembly, which was the old Sector Assembly floor temporarily re-purposed.

Chapter 56: MDL Support

“How is the voting going?” asked High Captain Manning as he sat down next to the Sector Judge.

“It’s not nearly as closely run or exciting as the Battle for Elysium, but there have been a few close calls,” said Kong Pao.

“There’s that much opposition?” the High Captain asked with surprise.

“More along the lines of too much wavering inside our own Sectors,” Kong Pao said with a sigh.

“The non-MDL worlds have always been restless. The fact that if they didn’t join the Mutual Defense League, or send us fleet strength for the common defense, then we wouldn’t go out of our way to take action if they were attacked by the Droids has always been a bone of contention,” the High Captain shrugged.

“While you’ve been wining and dining, delegates from other Sectors and the Sector 25 Core-world Block have been making deals with the fringes of our own Sectors,” the Sector Judge said with a stiff face.

“I won’t apologize. We’ve been laying down the foundations for future alliances and cooperation with the other Sectors,” Manning said flatly, “but you’re right that we need to keep our own houses in order if we’re to keep our voting block strong.”

“That’s a decision for the Steering Committee,” the Sector Judge rebutted.

“That is the decision of the Steering Committee, or at least the special sub-committee members that were sent on this mission,” retorted Manning.

The Sector Judge’s eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t even aware the committee had issued a direction. I was under the impression our actions on the floor was vital,” he said neutrally.

High Captain Manning clapped him on the shoulder. “It is vital, and your prestige as a Sector Judge—whose office predates the Imperial Withdrawal—is key to our interests. The MDL doesn’t want you to believe anything otherwise. You are an important piece of not only our efforts, but of reestablishing the Confederation as a whole,” Manning said passionately.

“It was just viewed as more important for the rest of the committee to work on the long game while I held down the floor,” Judge Kong said irritably, cupping his hands in mock deference.

“Don’t be like that,” Manning shook his head, “non-voting members like you and I are not always called upon by the committee while they deliberate, or even when they vote.”

“Of course. And, truthfully, who knows how long the committee will be needed after we fully merge our Sectors together into a true Confederation in the Spine a few years in the future?” asked the Judge.

Manning rolled his eyes. “Friend, in my experience once you have a bureaucracy it’s incredibly hard to get rid of it. Holding onto the notion that the committee will voluntarily give up power and fade away doesn’t seem likely to me,” the High Captain said seriously. “The job title might change, and the organization they work for might change as well, but the power in their hands will have to be wrested away first before they’ll relinquish their claim upon it.”

“That is my own experience, as well,” Judge Pao said with a stiff face.

“But one can always hope…yes?” asked Manning with a tight smile.

“Please note that you said that, not I,” said the Sector Judge.

“I guess I should have expected nothing more from a Sector level official such as yourself,” said the High Captain.

“You can expect nothing less from me than what you offer in return,” said Kong Pao.

The High Captain gave him a hard look, one which the Judge easily returned with interest. “Message received. You’re not the pushover the rest of…well, that some on the committee seem to think you are,” said the High Captain.

“I have done, and will continue to do, whatever is necessary to keep our people from being enslaved by machines and our worlds destroyed. Be it by machines, Imperials, or home-grown criminals and terrorist groups,” Kong Pao said flatly. “If that mean I have to be low-key and eat some grief while others think less of me, that is their concern. We have a saying back on my home world: ‘exposed rafters rot first’ or, in other words, ‘the nail that stands out will be hammered down.’ Today, my fate is to be a low-standing nail.”

“I can respect that,” said Manning.

There was an extended pause as politicians on the floor mixed into groups, broke apart, and then reformed into different groups.

“So what’s the next big proposal to hit the floor?” asked the High Captain, leaning over to pick up a glass of water and take a drink.

“Soon the Provisional Grand Assembly will be debating whether the top slot in our military should be a Grand Marshal, a Grand Admiral, or Confederation Commandant. After that we will proceed with nominations for the top military slot in our new Confederation in the Spine,” he said.

High Captain Manning sprayed water out his nose and immediately gagged. “What?!” he gasped, taking several moments to recover. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I have been sending routine updates every fifteen minutes, as well as a live-stream of my computer feed, to the committee as well as to my own records for posterity. I assumed you knew,” Kong said, affecting a puzzled look. “Why? Do you think I should change my reports to every five minutes or every half hour?”

“No, that’s fine,” Manning said thumping his chest and clearing his throat.

Two minutes passed in silence as Manning used a handkerchief to clean his face and then pulled up a file on his side of the touch activated desk.

“Who are the most likely candidates?” he finally asked. “I can’t seem to find them anywhere in the system.”

“There is a list of over two hundred entrants expected to be proposed, out of a sense of System, SDF or planetary loyalty if nothing else,” the Sector Judge said smoothly. “However, right now the two top candidates appear to be yourself and an as-yet undisclosed candidate from the Sector 25 side. A member of their Sector Guard, I believe.”

“Who do you think has the best chance of winning?” Manning asked, immediately perking up.

“On the face of it, our candidate, representing the support of the Mutual Defense League and two entire Sectors should have the most votes,” said Kong Pao.

“Meaning me…but?” asked Manning. “I’m sensing a catch hidden in here somewhere.”

“We represent two Sectors to 25’s one, however as I mentioned before the Mutual Defense League’s detractors are passionate in their rejection of anything proposed by our voting block,” said Kong Pao.

“Yes, but not all of non-MDL systems were able to join the trade convoy…pity, that,” said Manning.

“Yes, a great pity,” Kong Pao said seriously, “because realizing the schism within our ranks as well as the size of our delegation the other sectors united alongside the non-MDL worlds and granted their petition for a number of proxy votes they claim were given to them by those worlds which were unable to attend. And as you know not all of the non-MDL Delegates are amenable to sweet reason.”

The High Captain swore. “I assume you already notified the committee?” he asked rhetorically. “Of course you did,” he said at the Judge’s nod, “we really need to speak with the Co-Chair.”

“We live but to serve,” said the Sector Judge, a chill light flashing across his normally impassive face before disappearing entirely.

“So all of those votes have consolidated into a few hands,” said the High Captain.

“Hands that we have been ignoring,” Kong Pao said pointedly.

“That’s plasma in our wake; no sense fussing over missed opportunities. We may have faced a short-term setback, but at the cost of potentially forging long-term alliances. Ones which have the capacity to grow exponentially in the future,” said the High Captain.

“In the meantime we potentially lose the position of most powerful military commandant in the entire Spine,” Kong Pao said clinically.

“Potentially a strategic blunder,” the High Captain sighed after a long minute of silence, to which the Sector Judge nodded. “What do you think is going to happen?” asked the High Captain.

“It is too soon to tell. At this point anything could happen. We have to be ready to adapt to events as they occur,” said Judge Pao.

Chapter 57: Voting—and a New Candidate

“Voting has ended for the provisional ballet. High Captain Manning proceeds to the next ballet with 82 votes alongside Central’s very own SDF High Commissioner, Fleet Admiral Harper, with 78 votes,” reported the temporary Speaker for the Provisional Grand Assembly, “currently neither candidate rises above the 50 percent threshold.”

Curses roundly met the Speaker’s declaration.

“This is the third ballet with just those two on the nominating list, and still we can’t push the High Captain over the top,” swore the Co-Chair of the MDL’s Steering Committee.

“Fifty percent only matters if the following vote to cut off debate proceeds without issue,” Manning said glumly. “Otherwise it takes 60% to proceed without a cloture vote and move forward by mutual acclaim.”

“Unacceptable!” the Co-Chair bellowed, slamming an open hand on the table.

“I see that my counterpart in the MDL voting block is un-resigned to the situation of his chosen candidate,” Governor Isaak said, his smooth voice cutting through the confusion as he crossed the floor to stand opposite the Co-Chair.

“At least High Captain Manning is still trending higher than your Harper, Governor. So much for the Spineward Heartland Party,” the Co-Chair said scathingly.

“Your lead keeps narrowing. Soon ‘Fleet Admiral’ Harper will be ‘Grand Admiral’ Harper,” Isaak said seriously. “We both know it’s just a matter of time.”

“It doesn’t matter; Harper will never have the votes to proceed by mutual acclaim and you know it,” snorted the Co-Chair.

“Regardless, during the next vote several of your voting block will defect and swing their vote for Harper. They’ve only held on this long out of solidarity with the MDL, but the trade concessions I’m offering their worlds are just too juicy to pass up,” the Governor said seriously, while the Co-Chair gritted his teeth and glared at him. “Personally, I say let’s put aside our squabbling and move forward with unity.”

“What’s your offer?” the Co-Chair asked coldly.

“Accept Harper as the new Grand Marshal,” the Governor said promptly, “if you do then, with the same ballot that elevates him to the top spot in the new Confederation, we’ll vote to make your candidate High Captain Manning his vice-commandant. He can be the Grand Admiral in charge of the Fleet under the Grand Marshal, or whatever title you’d prefer. Consider it carefully because it’s my best offer.”

“If you’re so interested in unity then why don’t you consider my proposal in return: flip it around, give Manning the top spot and your Harper can be vice-commandant. Whatever the future, every ballot up to this time has had Manning at the top. We’ll even agree to post additional squadrons of Battleships and other units of the wall to Sector 25 and stipulate that Harper will be given overall command of the defense of your sector.”

Isaak stiffened. “We both know you’ll be sending those units anyway,” he retorted.

“That’s your opinion; consider my offer,” sniffed the Co-Chair.

“If you don’t acquiesce, your own worlds will turn on you. Far better to fight the Imperials in my Sector than in your own war-torn backyard,” Isaak said coldly. “Furthermore, we both know that trying to put anyone other than a native of Sector 25 in command of our defense would cause a revolt and be enough to break our new Confederation apart.”

“Which was why I offered to make Harper the on-scene commander,” the Co-Chair said stiffly.

“Everyone recognizes that the close alliance between your two Sectors makes you the biggest group in the room. But no one wants to accept domination by any one power. Every time you oppose me, you drive every delegate from Sector 21, 22 and 26 even further into the arms of my Sector,” said Isaak with a sigh. “Agree to make Harper the Commandant and I’ll make you the First Speaker of the new Grand Assembly.”

“Just so I can be a target and the sign of MDL suppression so that everyone else continues to fall into the Heartland Block like dominoes? I don’t think so!” the Co-Chair said, harshly despite the sudden hunger in his eyes.

“Consider the offer, as it’s an expiring resource,” Governor Isaak said over his shoulder as he walked away.

“At the risk of sounding completely power hungry and solely focused on myself, why didn’t you take his offer?” asked the High Captain after Isaak was out of earshot.

The Co-Chair snorted. “I might be the First Speaker of the New Confederation, but I’d also be the shortest lived one in its history for years to come,” sneered the Co-Chair. “Don’t get me wrong: I’d take the job in a heartbeat if I thought I could hold it. But I recognize a predator when I see one, and that Governor is at the apex of this particular food chain. Within a year, if not weeks, he’d be after my job. And then what? He’s right. Despite the fact that Sector 25 is hosting the event, we’re viewed as potentially having the power to form our own block and dominate the early days of the New Confederation,” he said with a sigh. “We can’t fall into that trap.”

“Then perhaps we should propose a compromise candidate?” suggest Kong Pao.

“Judge Pao,” the Co-Chair said condescendingly, “you may be a brilliant man when it comes to the law—no, strike that, you are one of the most brilliant legal minds of this or any other time, but please leave politics to the experts. It would be wonderful if you could propose a compromise candidate but you just heard the man: there’s no one the Governor, and especially his Sector, would accept that comes from our Sectors—and I, for one, can’t imagine anyone other than Manning or another one of our own that the MDL would accept when we returned back home. We don’t have to win but we can’t go home with a loss, especially when it comes to the military. Other areas, yes, but not the military.”

“What if underneath this compromise candidate we placed both Harper and Manning as co-Vice-Commandants?” prodded Pao.

“Fine, since I don’t seem to be able to dissuade you,” the Co-Chair rolled his eyes condescendingly, “if you can find a compromise candidate, one that the MDL can accept and secure Manning a Vice-Commandant position, then go for it.”

“I appreciate the Committee’s support,” the Sector Judge said with a bow and then turned away.

“Lawyers are bad enough but Judges are ten times worse,” the Co-Chair complained as soon as the Judge had moved away, “they think that just because they know the law they are geniuses waiting to burst onto the scene when it comes to politics. I just hope our Sector Judge doesn’t embarrass himself too much. We still need his prestige for the duration of the convention.”

“I think you underestimate Judge Kong,” Captain Manning warned.

“Sweet Murphy, I hope so. His reputation has worked wonders but his bungling nearly cost us dearly,” said the Co-Chair pursing his lips.

The High Captain looked as if he wanted to say something but then settled back in his chair with a shake of the head, obviously thinking better and deciding to keep whatever he was thinking private for the moment.

The Temporary Speaker, who was right now simply a delegate randomly assigned by the computer on a rotating basis, straightened up in her chair with a look of surprise on her face.

“A new candidate has been proposed and his sponsor, Sector Judge Kong Pao, would like to address the floor. Without objection, the Delegate will speak,” she said, the surprise fading as no one objected.

Kong Pao stepped down to the podium at the base of the chamber and when no one stood up to object started to speak.

“My fellow delegates, some have argued that, while a noted strategist and master of logistics, Admiral Harper lacks practical experience in large formation fleet battles. Others contend that High Captain Manning, despite his combat experience and many victories in battle, could be considered too closely aligned with the home sectors of the Mutual Defense League by some,” the Sector Judge paused to sweep the assembled politicians with a steely gaze. “That is why I would like to take this moment to propose a compromise candidate. The man I am thinking of is a tactician whose exploits speak for themselves. Experienced in both fleet and individual ship-to-ship actions across the Spine, he not only has a powerful fleet already at his command but he is no stranger to working with coalition fleets and disparate units drawn from SDF’s across multiple sectors. I call him a compromise candidate because, not only does this candidate not hail from the Mutual Defense League, he is a native born son of this glorious sector, Sector 25,” Judge Pao said, cupping his hands and bowing. “An ally of all who fight against human oppression, he has traveled across the Spine smiting Bugs, Droids, pirates, and Imperials. I personally can think of no greater person for this job of Confederation Commandant than Vice Admiral Jason Montagne, of the Spineward Sectors’ own Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet!”

For a long moment there was a stunned and angry silence—then the chamber erupted into a storm of confusion and furious recrimination and debate.

“Well, that tears it,” snapped Pluto VonIkeman.

“We can still head this off if we work at it,” Isaak’s policy adviser said less than enthusiastically, sounding more like someone who felt obligated to speak than a person who genuinely believed in what he was saying.

“I thought you said you’d already quashed this,” Governor Isaak said in a light voice.

Pluto VonIkeman colored. “I said that I’d handled the Border Alliance minus whatever that woman from Tracto might chose to do. I mean, technically she’s family and you can’t always get a good handle on what family will do in any given situation. Besides, I did,” Pluto said defensively. “The MDL Alliance voting block never showed any indication that they wanted to promote anyone but Manning. We even tapped their private internal communications! And no one else has any reason to promote the Tyrant to anything except a jail cell.”

“It’s true that it didn’t come from the Border Alliance,” Isaak said after a moment’s consideration. “Curse it, we could have handled anyone from the Border Alliance, including that witch of a mother-in-law he’s sent to represent Tracto, by crying favoritism and acting with alarm. But this…a Sector Judge throwing his weight behind the man we’ve labeled the greatest criminal of our time?”

“He could essentially be a rogue operator from within their ranks, this Sector Judge,” Policy said after a moment.

“What’s the read on this…Sector Judge Kong Pao?” asked Isaak.

“He’s the man that initially recruited the MSP, in the form of the Tracto SDF, to come join the fight against the Droids under the Command of High Captain Manning. Though there’s some indication that he pulled some kind of double cross over on the Tyrant, who when he initially arrived appeared expecting to lead the defense and ended up subordinated to Manning,” said Policy with a frown. “That said, we’ve put out a few feelers through the Justice Ministry and he’s been oddly resistant to the idea of prosecuting the Admiral Montagne for piracy. There’s probably a lot more to the story than we currently know.”

“I expect there’s a great deal to the story that we haven’t heard,” Isaak glowered then grunted. “But ultimately that’s spilt milk and sour grapes. At a certain level we always knew that this was a possibility. We may have ruined his reputation in the heart of this Sector, but Jason Montagne’s proven himself too wily or too much of a crusader or both to stay put and take fire. His willingness to go out into other Sectors, where our media can’t reach or is secondhand and extremely limited, makes dealing with our own base if he actually gets elected highly problematic.”

“We could have Demon-cursed riots across the Sector if they find out the first act of their New Confederation’s was to make the Tyrant our preeminent military commander,” said Policy.

“You overstate things,” Isaak said dismissively, “we handled the media when we placed him in command of the Sector Defense. We can handle this as well.”

“Originally we overstated his forces and all but told the people we’d swindled one warlord into fighting another so that the Sector Guard could later sweep in and pick up the pieces. At this point, unless we’re willing to pardon him for his heroic defense of this Sector and completely rehabilitate his image, I don’t see how this is going to work out for us in the long run,” warned the Adviser.

“Having the people skeptical of our new Confederation isn’t the end of the world,” Pluto VonIkeman interjected eagerly, “it makes pulling back out again later a stronger option.”

“Try not to be more of a fool than necessary,” warned Isaak.

“I don’t think—” said Pluto VonIkeman.

“That’s the problem: you didn’t think,” Isaak rebuked him, “and now we have to fix a problem you were supposed to make sure never happened in the first place!”

“What can I do?” asked Pluto after a taut silence.

The Governor grimaced. “Not much,” he admitted.

“Surely you don’t intend to let his nomination pass unopposed?” asked Policy his voice dark.

The Governor’s grimace turned into a scowl. “The Judge’s voice carries weight, and even if a lot of our Sector is against him there are some who would rather see a Sector 25 man in charge than someone from the MDL. On top of that, it looks magnanimous and it would be hard to explain why we rejected one of our own as well as their High Captain, to the short contingents from 22 and 23,” he said.

“It won’t go well for us if the Tyrant of Cold Space takes command of the Confederation Military,” Policy warned grimly. “You should know this better than me.”

“We don’t want to appear obstructionist,” Isaak said, a calculating expression appearing on his face, “that’s the last thing we need at this juncture. We might have to take the win and move on.”

“Take the win?!” the men around him looked appalled.

Isaak grinned nastily. “That’s what it’ll look like on the outside. At least it will until we make a big deal about agreeing to the MDL’s demands and that, even though Montagne is currently a wanted criminal for several cases of interstellar piracy, we’re willing to let bygones be bygones…in the spirit of inter-sector unity of course,” he said sardonically.

“Thus back-footing them,” nodded Policy slowly, “but I don’t see how that helps us.”

“Not short-term,” agreed Isaak, “but after we make it clear to the smaller voting blocks that we’re compromising with the MDL’s choice for the good of the Confederation…in the slightly longer term, if properly couched, it will help make the inevitable happen just that much quicker.”

“The inevitable, your Excellency?” asked his Sector Military Attache, speaking up for the first time.

“Why, my reluctant ascension to the position of Grand Assembly Speaker, of course,” Isaak said coolly.

“That’s one way to play it. It could backfire though,” warned his adviser.

“Everything has the potential to backfire. At this point everything’s a risk. Simply nominating Montagne to the post could cause him to attack us,” shrugged Isaak, “we have to take chances if we’re going to get the prize.”

“Why would the Tyrant turn down the most powerful military post in the Spineward Sectors?” the Military Attache asked with disbelief.

“Don’t be an idiot,” scorned the Policy Adviser, “if he wanted the post at all his people would have already nominated him for it, or at least been maneuvering behind the scene trying to gain support. That Border Alliance of theirs leaks like a sieve. We would have heard something by now.”

“They don’t seem to care that everyone else knows what they want, which is the usual sweetheart deals for their individual worlds, and how much they dislike the rest of us in this Sector,” Pluto VonIkeman nodded his head.

“Dislike? I’d almost say ‘hate’ is a more appropriate term,” disagreed Policy.

Pluto looked at him in surprise.

“What, you’re the only one with contacts in the convention?” he sneered. VonIkeman stiffened. “What’s a name like ‘VonIkeman’ anyway?” sniffed the Adviser.

“It’s German-Nipponese extraction, my great grandparents emigrated from Imperial space,” the fixer explained.

There was a lull in the conversation.

“So we’re just going to let them vote the Tyrant in,” Policy finally said with evident disappointment.

“Let? No we’re not, just going to ‘let’ them do anything. We’re going to get out there and actively push for it. Instruct everyone in our pocket inside the Heartland Block to vote for Admiral Montagne,” Isaak said, his mouth twisting as he said the last two words, “we want the vote count to be overwhelmingly in his favor.”

“There’ll be more than a few waverers,” warned the other man.

“If they balk, remind them that the esteemed Admiral is just as likely to refuse the office as he is to accept, and that if he rejects it then he’ll be nothing more than the common criminal and warlord he’s been accused of,” said the Governor.

The military attaché winced. “How likely is a power-mad criminal like the Tyrant to give up power once its handed to him?” he wondered aloud.

“The ‘Tyrant’ likes to claim he’s a steadfast servant of the Confederation—in fact, his entire claim to power lies in his supposedly loyal service to the ‘Confederation’,” the Governor said with relish. “So either he accepts our office and overtly or technically renounces the old Confederation, becoming the supposedly loyal servant of the Spineward Confederation and thereby placing himself within our power, or he remains loyal to a Confederation that sold the Spine to the Empire. If he does, not only will he become the enemy of the new Confederation, including most of his former allies, but he’ll also have to explain himself to the population. Either way, by not just welcoming him, not just inviting his people and his alliance into our convention and eventually Confederation, but by actively voting him into a powerful post totally in-keeping with his myth and supposed ethos to this point, he’ll be trapped.”

“And we’ll have him right where we want him,” said Policy, looking less than entirely convinced but willing to go along with it.

“Either he alienates himself from the people of the Spine or he fights the Empire for us at the head of our combined fleet. And if he accepts, then those warships he stole?” Isaak said with a smirk. “They’ll be on the front lines fighting the Imperials.”

“He could always hide?” said the Military Adviser. “That’s generally what criminals do.”

“This Montagne is far too invested in the screaming adoration of the common masses to simply stand by and do nothing,” the Governor said sardonically, “so don’t fear: he’ll act one way or the other. Maybe after our fleet is crushed and he can try to claim everything for himself, I’ll admit, but he’ll certainly act. We just have to hope he’s dumb enough to accept the post and then sacrifice his fleet on the Alter of our new Confederation in the Spine.”

“No criminal would be dumb enough to do that,” his Military Adviser said certainly.

“Don’t be so certain. After all, he’s done the very same thing before,” said the Governor.

The military adviser looked surprised, then contemplative, and finally concerned. He shot a searching look at the people around him before apparently resigning himself to this new plan.

“The Delegate from Blackwood, how do you say?” asked the Rotating Speaker of the Grand Assembly.

“The Delegation from Blackwood votes aye!” thundered the jet-black-skinned man from Blackwood.

“Remember: we’ll give it one good push on the vote for the Vice Admiral’s confirmation before caving to pressure and withdrawing the nomination,” instructed the Co-Chair of the MDL steering committee.

“But we’re still allowing those worlds that need to abstain or vote against the nomination on the first vote to do so, right?” prompted the third Committee Member.

“That’s the plan. So long as we get more than 80% of the Block to vote in favor, we won’t take things as far as a second vote unless the vote is very close. Depending on how things play out, a third vote is entirely out of the question unless something cataclysmic happens. We need to show our support for the Sector Judge and his candidate Vice Admiral Montagne and all that, and we’ll keep voting until we get above the 80% threshold if necessary. But once we’ve gone that far, if we don’t have a win in hand—and honestly who thinks that’s going to happen—then at that point we’ll have no choice but to reluctantly withdraw the nomination and move forward with the serious business of cutting a deal. We’ve got to get our candidate, preferably Manning, in a position of power and influence in the new fleet structure,” said the Co-Chair.

“The Delegate from Aegis, how do you say?” asked the rotary Speaker.

“Despite our strong misgivings, Aegis is willing to set aside its deep concern in order to stand in solidarity with our MDL brothers in Sector 23 and 24. In the interests of inter-sector harmony, Aegis reluctantly votes aye,” grumbled the Delegate.

“I didn’t expect that one. Doesn’t it seem like Admiral Montagne is getting a surprising number of crossover votes from the Heartland Block?” the MDL Committee Member asked with surprise.

“Now that you mention it…” the Co-Chair said, looking up at the vote tally with surprise.

“The Delegation from Prometheus, how do you say?” the temporary Speaker asked enthusiastically.

“Prometheus votes aye! When it comes to military leadership, ‘any Prince is better than no Prince,’ we always say,” cried the Promethean High Prince, who was the head of their delegation.

The faces of the two MDL Block leaders changed.

“The Heartland Block couldn’t possibly be throwing their vote behind Montagne, could they? He’s a wanted criminal in their own Sector. He was even convicted of Planetary Piracy!!” cried the Co-Chair.

“Actually, he was only censured by the Sector Assembly and thrown into prison, in an orbital dungeon ship, while the Security Council investigated. He was roundly condemned in CNN, the Assembly and the court of public opinion, but the Planetary Piracy charges never went to trial. The judicial branch refused to prosecute given the evidence. No, the current warrant for his arrest are plain old piracy charges,” explained the Committee Member. “He’s accused of taking the lion’s share of the captured Battleships without governmental approval—this despite the fact that technically as Sector Commandant he had the power to empanel a prize court to award the Battleships and claims he did so. The paperwork however seems to be…fuzzy. Meanwhile, the Assembly is contesting the filing, claiming it was after he was relieved of command, as well as contesting the entire legitimacy of his decision.”

“Even if the prize court awarded him the ships, the government can claim a significant percentage,” observed the Co-Chair.

“That essentially seems to be their argument. That the prize courts issuing the Sector Government and the other parties only 10% of the total value of each and every ship is a farce and it should be higher and that they want their fair percentage of the ships. Meanwhile, apparently the MSP Legal team working with the prize courts state that since the majority share of each ship belongs to the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet, according to the prize court that they’ll just pay out the 10% owed for each ship now and, if the prize courts are found to be in error, they’ll simply compensate the government for whatever higher percentage is lacking after its been adjudicated, which has the Sector Government literally frothing at the mouth,” he replied.

“That has to be an incredible amount of money. How could they even pay—oh…” he grunted.

“Right: they’re offering to pay in trillium. After the Sector Assembly addresses its illegal invasion of Confederation Territory, the Governor’s defiance of legally appointed Confederation Fleet authority and his technical claims of rebellion against the Confederation at large,” said the Committee Member.

The Co-Chair shook his head and then chuckled. “Sounds like a real mare’s nest. It’s a good thing it looks like Sector 25 is leaving the old Confederation and hosting the formation of a new one, otherwise they might have been tied of up for years in legal court battles,” he snorted.

“Yes, very fortunate,” the Committee Member said seriously, “one might almost say someone planned it out.”

“Really? You think Governor Isaak decided to form an entire new mega-government, a Confederation in the Spine, just to stymie one Admiral of one minor Fleet?” the Co-Chair retorted. “An Admiral that, even now, half of his own voting block are voting for!”

“The High Captain estimates that if Montagne can put just half of the ‘prize’ Battleships back into service he’ll have as many hulls as most Sector fleets. To say nothing of the fact that he’s used his authority as a Confederation Admiral to declare Governor Isaak in rebellion against the Confederation,” the Committee Member said darkly. “And judging from the current vote count, unless we message the Block to immediately start voting against our own candidate it looks like Vice Admiral Montagne might have a real chance of clinching the nomination. Funny how the Governor’s voting block has, at our urging, just maneuvered his biggest military rival into either accepting a post that will technically place that same rival under the thumb of a Government he in no small part helped create, or risk turning our new Confederation against Montagne and the MSP.”

“Sweet Murphy, he’s good,” the Co-Chair said, suddenly worried, “I didn’t expect that the local Governor would give us so much trouble. If only we didn’t need the trade and their production capacity to help rebuild our own worlds so desperately,” he added glumly.

“If only we didn’t also need all that trillium that Vice Admiral Montagne’s very powerful and recently expanded Confederation Fleet is sitting right on top of to keep our carrying trade moving. We need the ships moving in order to get access to all the other trade that’s available out there—and which won’t be available forever,” said the Block Member.

The Co-Chair’s face changed again. “That Isaak had better not put us between a rock and a hard place. If he tries to cut off our lifeline…” he muttered thunderously.

“So do you want to try to stop the Vice Admiral’s nomination? I have to assume that Montagne won’t be thanking us if we bring matters to a head,” observed the Member.

The Co-Chair hesitated and then shook his head decisively. “We may be going for a ride, but this is one horse we can’t afford to fall off of. If that means we need to cross one Jason Montagne then that’s just what we’ll do,” he said grimly before adding, “hopefully it won’t come to that. We are offering him the most powerful military posting in the new Confederation,” he pointed out, “right now, we’re offering him a victory toast. But if he rejects our good efforts and refuses to drink…” he laughed darkly. “Tell them to vote for the Admiral. Either way Montagne turns, we’re going to salvage something out of this mess for the Mutual Defense League. One way or the other.”

“One way or the other,” echoed the Committee member with a frown.

Chapter 58: Bad News from the Provisional Assembly

“So…” I drew the word out, “what’s so important that you had do it face to face instead of with a routine courier vid or mail dump?” I asked, rising from behind my desk while suspecting I wasn’t going to be entirely pleased with whatever I learned.

Several hours previously, a fast courier carrying people instead of just the usual mail and electronic updates had arrived in the Tracto Star System.

“Is this any way to treat the person who has worked night and day in your interests Protector Montagne?” asked Sapphira, while behind her Akantha glared at me.

“My apologies, Mother-in-Law,” I said, forcing a pleasant smile. “I was expecting bad news or a report of tries against our joint interests and, in the process, seem to have lost my manners somewhere. How have you been? Was your trip very trying? I hope the Convention wasn’t the nasty snake pit as I feared.”

“Once you have attended a gathering of Hold Mistresses, there are very few things in this life that can scare you. I lose at least five pounds every time. Your Convention was interesting, to say the least, but at least the food was safe even if it largely consisted of prepackaged ration bars. Sealed ration packs are one of the great joys of your civilization,” Sapphira said dismissively. “As for my trip, it was barely worth mentioning. A week and a half surrounded by four metal walls. It was quite liberating, in a way, to have nothing to do and no one with a demand on my attention. I haven’t had so little to do and nothing better to pass the time with than study since I was a little girl.”

“I am pleased to hear you seem to have had an uneventful return voyage,” I said with a courteous nod. “How was the convention?”

“It went well enough,” Sapphira said dryly, “with varying degrees of success.”

I gestured for her to continue. “I assume we didn’t get mired down in any wars, or calls to nationalize Tracto’s trillium mining operation?” I said, half certain and half hopeful that what I was saying would actually turn out to be true. I mean, you’d think the courier the Tracto-an delegation arrived in would have transmitted an emergency warning if there was a fleet hot on its heels. Still, technically the Trillium mines didn’t belong to me; I might have some say in the matter but ultimately if Akantha—and the other Hold Mistresses, like her mother, but mainly Akantha—decided to effectively sell, barter or give away the vital hyper drive substance there was little I could do about it.

Oh, I could fight for the Belters’ rights to be paid an honest wage for an honest day’s work and all that, as well as a continued fuel supply plus enough for wages and maintenance for my fleet. But beyond that if push came to shove unless I was willing to try and conquer the system, or at least everything outside the orbitals of planet Tracto—which I wasn’t—it would be ‘rock and a hard place’ time with my fleet in the middle.

“They tried,” Sapphira said with a glint in her eye, “suggesting that if ignorant Tracto-an barbarians like us did not toe the line, make trade concessions and hand over our trillium, Tracto’s voting status in the new Grand Assembly would not be ratified.”

I lifted a brow.

“I immediately agreed and told them that they were exactly right: primitives such as us did not deserve full voting rights, and that a provisional status would work just as well for us as anything else, and by the way how wonderful it was that they suggested such a fitting status for us. As we most certainly did not want to step outside of our ‘proper place’ and bring chaos and disorder to the new galactic scene,” Sapphira said serenely.

I snorted as she proceeded to hit the highlights of her time in the Convention, its results and more importantly how they affected us.

“That’s a comprehensive report,” I said after she finished, “however, there was one point I would like to clarify.”

“Please elaborate,” she said.

“Surely you realized that this idea of a new Confederation was hardly in our best interest, why then did you vote in favor of it?” I asked.

“There was no stopping it and the Border Alliance decided to vote in favor. Therefore it seemed prudent to ostensibly join forces with them, rather than alienate the rest of representatives and their worlds,” she said simply. “Besides, I am unconvinced that the formation of this Confederation is necessarily a bad thing for us.”

My brows furrowed but I held my tongue. Maybe it was or maybe it wasn’t a bad thing for Tracto, it was possible the women in this room had some kind of plan or vision of the future I was excluded from or just unable to see, but as far as I was concerned it was a barely mitigated disaster.

I silently clenched my hands into fists. I’d just managed to get Sir Isaak right where I wanted him. On the run, in disgrace, or at least hunkered down in Central hiding while I built up my forces for a decapitating blow and now this.

“What do they expect?” I asked harshly. “That because they voted to make a new Confederation they can suddenly give orders to our fleets and take our natural resources whenever they like?”

“Consider setting aside your personal feud with Governor Isaak,” Sapphira said after a pause, “and ask yourself: can you afford to continue with this feud, Protector-of-my-Daughter?”

I froze.

“With the Governor?” I asked in a deceptively mild voice. “The same man who has tried to destroy this fleet on much more than one occasion…that Sector Governor.”

Sapphira looked at me reprovingly. “You are allowing personal feelings to affect your judgment,” she said, eyeing me while Akantha’s brow furrowed as she looked at me.

“You’re right, I am allowing personal feelings to affect my judgment because, after taking a dispassionate look at it, I decided I wouldn’t do anything different if I were,” I retorted. “Everything Isaak has done to this point in time that hasn’t been a direct or indirect attempt to destroy us. He has been desperately trying to save his own skin and hoping to use ours to do it,” I finished bluntly.

She sighed and looked away. Beside her, Akantha’s glower was starting to turn thunderous.

I gave my beloved Sword Bearer a penetrating look, one which she held for several long seconds.

“Jason,” she said, biting out the word, “you are of course free to decide military policy for your fleet—”

“Thank you,” I cut in with a smile.

“But,” she started to continue until her mother placed a restraining hand on her arm.

“Such language, my daughter,” Sapphira said reprovingly.

Akantha looked at her in surprise.

“We are having an intimate conversation among close family, Mother,” she argued.

“An intimate conversation regarding external policies that impact both your Protector’s position as Protector and Warlord. As such, the use of proper titles rather than personal names is the norm,” Sapphira immediately rejected.

I watched the back and forth byplay with amusement, or as close to it as I was able with my currently darkened mood.

“Very well, Mother,” Akantha bit out and then turned to me with a falsely sweet expression. “I misspoke, Protector,” she said.

“Think nothing of it,” I said happily. It wasn’t every day I got to hear my wife admit in public, or even in private, that she was wrong. Even if she didn’t really feel that way, as evidenced by her current expression, as a husband I had to take every win that was handed to me with grace and dignity. A grin appeared on my face as I processed those particular thoughts.

“Protector,” she repeated with an edge to her voice, “as I was trying to say: your own personal forces are one thing, but your activities impact more than just your fleet,” her mother cleared her throat and Akantha gritted her teeth. “As always, I trust your decisions. I just hope that you make the best decisions possible for our people. I am more than willing to help you dismember the Governor while he screams his final breaths, but for now—”

This time, when her mom cleared her throat, it wasn’t the polite sound she’d been making previously—this one clearly had an edge of censure to it.

“Please pardon my daughter,” Sapphira said to me.

“I don’t see why he would need to!” Akantha snapped, rounding on her mom. “I am a Hold Mistress and a woman grown. There is no reason that I should fear to tell any man my opinion, least of all my own Protector!”

Sapphira stiffened. “You may have been born without any tact but I know that your tutors beat it into your brain with a cane while you were under my roof,” the Hold Mistress of Argos said drawing herself up.

Akantha’s face instantly soured.

I quietly pushed my chair back from the desk to put some distance between me and what appeared to be a growing domestic dispute between mother and daughter.

“Don’t start in on that old song again, Mother!” Akantha said in a rising voice.

“Then have the decency to not make me,” Sapphira said firmly.

“I don’t have to put up with this,” Akantha declared, making a sweeping gesture to emphasize her point.

I cleared my throat. “As fascinating as this little family get together is becoming,” I said, taking a deep breath as I tread where dragons feared to walk, “is there anything more to your report other than that the Governor has once again attempted to back us—more specifically me—into a corner?”

“I have a message from Sector Judge Kong Pao explaining the situation and resulting appointment as he sees it,” said Sapphira, sliding over a data crystal.

“Appointment?” I asked.

“It is all explained on the crystal,” said the Hold Mistress of Argos and my mother-in-law, “if you have any questions after perusing its contents, I will be available. In the meantime, if you will excuse me, there is some women’s business that I need to discuss with my daughter.”

I opened my mouth to object, but before I could get a word in edgewise Akantha’s mother had placed a hand on her upper arm and began leading her out of my ready room.

I realized I was halfway out of my chair as the door leading out of my office slid open, and then I plopped back down with a thump. Dissatisfied that the meeting I’d called was over without any input on my end, I grunted and slid the data-crystal into data-port and activated my desk holo-system.

The image of the Asiatic Sector Judge appeared on my screen and after an almost full second gave a half bow in my direction.

“Greetings, Admiral Montagne,” said the Sector Judge, “if you are seeing this then my message safely arrived. And for that, I am grateful.”

While I pursed my lips and watched, the Sector Judge cupped his hands and continued.

“For more almost two years now I have struggled with the memory of a promise I was unable to keep. I was sent to this sector by the MDL High Command to offer you the post of Fleet Admiral in command of our entire defensive effort against the Droids, but no sooner had we arrived then the promises I made to you were broken,” at this the Judge looked stone faced. “That is why I hope that this small effort on your behalf, along with the warships I was able to help bring in support of your fight against the Reclamation fleet, can help to, in some small way, make up for that failure.”

My hackles began to rise of their own accord.

“As a Judge and a man, I am not used to speaking untruths, even unknowingly. For that, I once again apologize,” he continued, “which is why when I discovered that the Empire is even now preparing to re-conquer the Spine at the behest of the Confederation Grand Assembly—a morally corrupted body of the worst sort, which has essentially just sold a third of their own nation, the Spineward Sectors Region, to the Empire—I knew something had to be done. When I saw the Convention beginning to split apart over the question of who should lead our forces against this new invasion, I could think of only one man so far who had proven he was up to the task—and that person is you.”

On the screen, a legal notice began scrolling which stated that the Provisional Grand Assembly in the Spine had elected me, Vice Admiral Jason Montagne, as the Spineward Region’s new acting Grand Marshal. The post’s first official task: leading the defense of the Spineward Sectors against the Imperial Fleet when it arrived.

I read the particulars of the Provisional Grand Assembly’s brief, where they essentially try to recruit me by telling me I’d been elected—or rather appointed to the top post in their new Confederation.

A Confederation, I silently noted, which doesn’t even represent a majority of the Worlds or even Sectors in the Spine as of right now.

I mean, what did they expect of me, to step up to the plate, reactivate my fleet, and ride out to do battle with the entire bloody Empire? All the while hoping that once word got out that volunteers and volunteer warships should flood into this new coalition, or rather Spineward Confederation Fleet, fast enough to actually make a difference?

“I did what I did because I honestly believe that you are the best hope for our people. At the same time I hope that, even if you for some reason do not decide to accept this call to duty, this in some small way begins to make up for my failure to deliver on the promises I gave to you as instructed by the League,” Kong Pao once again cupped his hands. “No matter your decision, I remain yours together in solidarity for the good of Spine, Sector Judge and Representative Kong Pao.”

The holo-chip cut off with the judge mid-bow.

As I tossed a stylus I’d been toying with in my hands onto the desk with a clatter.

“Well isn’t this another fine kettle of fish?” I asked sarcastically and immediately began to pull up the attached files on the disk which purported to be the new Confederation’s best and latest intel reports on the assembling Imperial Fleet of Conquest.

As I expected, it consisted of third hand reports, guesses, and a whole barge-load of rampant speculation. There was very little in the way of substance, except for a file which was supposedly the Confederation resolution calling for the Empire to bring peace back to the Spine.

Which, if true, meant we were all about to be in a world of hurt very soon. But other than the strong possibility that the Easy Haven Star System was in the path of one of the projected invasion routes, I didn’t see why it necessarily had to be my problem. At least not until after someone else had heroically thrown him or herself on the alter of the ‘good of the Spine’ and its new would-be government.

As I was reading, my eye snagged on the name of an individual Sector Intelligence thought most likely to lead the effort to bring us back into the loving arms of galactic civilization: the old nemesis of my home world, Senator Charles Cornwallis. Formerly Admiral Cornwallis, the same man that ordered the orbital bombardment of Capria, destroyed the Summer Palace and all within her, and put in power the very Parliament that later made my life a misery.

“Senator Cornwallis,” I growled, touching a tab that brought up an image of the steely eyed Imperial Politician. My eyes locked on the man who was not only responsible for so much death and destruction on Capria, but who had in all likelihood been behind the rogue actions of his former Flag Captain.

First Janeski, and now Cornwallis.

It defied rational thought to believe that there was no connection between the two men, when no sooner had Arnold Janeski been defeated in his attempt to conquer the Spine than his former Admiral, Senator Cornwallis, was asked to invade us in the name of truth, justice, and the Confederation way.

There was a lot of bad blood between my House and the Senator. And I didn’t much care for the man, either. While I was open to having my mind changed, as far as I was concerned the only good Cornwallis was a dead Cornwallis.

Maybe it was time to take out the trash.

Chapter 59: The Promotion Ceremony

“We stand on the door step of a new millennium. Another great day has dawned upon the Spineward Sectors. A day of reward, a day of trial, a day of tribulation,” I said, speaking both to the row of men and women lined up before me as well as to the holo-pickup that was recording and broadcasting my words and image to the entire fleet. “As guardians of humanity, men and women who stand between the darkness beyond the border and the light of civilization, it is our job to defend those who cannot or will not defend themselves. It is a thankless job. One where the cries of the discount ring are, at times, loud enough to drown out all other voices. However, there is nothing more rewarding.”

I paused to clear my throat, suddenly realizing that I may have let a little too much of my own personal convictions through into my speech as I mentally shrugged it off. It could be edited for posterity if necessary.

“And so it is in recognition of their outstanding abilities, and the blood, sweat and tears each of the officers in front of me has shed for the people of the Spine and all humanity, that I hereby call this award ceremony to order,” I said sternly and then called out, “Captain Laurent step forward!”

“Sir!” the Captain said, marching forward stiffly.

“In recognition of your steadfast service, courage in the face of the enemy and unwavering loyalty, as well as time in grade, I, Vice Admiral Jason Montagne, on this day do hereby promote you to the rank of Commodore in the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet,” I said, stepping forward and, with two deft movements, removed his Captain’s insignia and replaced them on his collar with Commodore rank tabs and then stepped back.

Laurent braced to attention and snapped off a salute.

“Thank you, Admiral,” he said professionally.

“Commander Quentin ‘Rampage’ Jackson, step forward,” I said formally.

“Admiral,” the former Captain of the now defunct Metal Titan stepped forward, bracing to attention and saluting.

“For bravery in the face of the enemy. and actions above and beyond the call to duty—including ramming the Metal Titan into an Imperial Command Carrier—you are here by promoted two grades and promoted to the rank of Commodore in the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet. Prepare to receive your rank insignia,” I said, stepping forward.

“Sir, it wasn’t me. It was only possible because of my crew. I don’t deserve this, Admiral,” Captain ‘Rampage’ said, stiffening even further.

“Did anyone think I deserved my rank when I was made an Admiral and thrust into command of a fleet?” I asked rhetorically, even as I deftly unpinned his rank insignia and switched them out for a commodore’s rockets. “You don’t have to answer that,” I said dryly in response to a few chuckles from the crowd, “men like us aren’t called to duty: we have it thrust upon us, Commodore. Just make sure you don’t betray the trust handed to you by your commanding officer—that’s me—or, more importantly, the trust of the men and women who serve under your command.” I drew myself up and returned his salute before letting it go.

“I won’t, Sir,” the newly minted Commodore said with a gleam in his eye that looked suspiciously like a growing tear, before releasing his salute and then almost belatedly adding, “I’ll die first,” before stepping back.

“Commander Leonora Hammer, step forward and be recognized by your peers,” I ordered.

With visible reluctance, the Captain of my Flagship stepped out and braced to attention.

“Commander Hammer, for time in grade, courage in combat, and bravery in the face of the enemy—” I started.

“Admiral, I’m afraid I can’t accept a promotion from you at this time, Sir,” the Captain of my Flagship said, looking like she was biting a bullet and wishing she was anywhere but here.

“You can’t accept a promotion?” I asked, genuinely puzzled, wondering what she meant by the ‘from me’ part of it.

“No, Sir. It’s okay for the other officers because they are transfer officers and members of the Tracto-an SDF, whose ranks transfer over to the MSP. But as an original Confederation officer not seconded from an SDF, any promotions above the rank of Commander have to come from a duly-empaneled promotions board. Which is why you can’t give me a genuine promotion above the rank of Commander; I can’t accept, Sir,” she said.

“I’m surprised you didn’t mention this earlier, Commander,” I said, well aware of the fancy footwork she was doing as well as the stress that the idea of this new Confederation in the Spine was causing for my Flag Captain and the other Confederation fleet members rescued from the droids in sector 24 and released from their cryo-stasis prisons.

I once again silently cursed Governor Isaak and all nine generations of his family for the trouble he continued to cause me.

“My apologies, Admiral. You’d mentioned a promotion ceremony, but I assumed you knew that I couldn’t possibly be a part of it as anything other than an observer,” she replied with concern.

“Rest assured, I understand your qualms, Commander. However, rest assured everything about this promotions ceremony has been properly gone over by Fleet Legal and is in line with Confederation law,” I informed her.

“Sir…” she said with reluctance, obviously prepared to once again speak up.

“Your promotion to the rank of full Commander is going to be recognized at this ceremony, Commander Hammer. And on top of that, so is your battlefield promotion to temporary Commodore,” I informed her. “Unless of course you don’t feel yourself capable and are choosing to turn down the rank?”

“Battlefield promotion, Sir?” Hammer said uneasily. “As far as I’m aware, we aren’t currently at war or in a battle.”

“The Droids are still active in the Rim and parts of Sector 23, Hammer,” I informed her sardonically, “as are pirates, warlords—as we’ve so recently found out—and any number of other invaders determined to conquer the various worlds of the Spine for their own benefit. Not only that, we are still as of this moment several years out of contact with Confederation Fleet Authority. As such, I think it’s clear that this is still a time of emergency—and my emergency powers as commander of this fleet still apply,” I said, deliberately dancing around the elephant in the room: the Imperial Invasion fleet, ostensibly, according to intelligence reports, sent by none other than the Grand Assembly of the old Confederation.

That was a can of worms I had little interest in opening at this point in time.

Leonora Hammer gave me a complicated look. There was no disputing what I had said, it was what I hadn’t said that had a big storm brewing under the surface. Still, my aim was to promote her—and unless she was ready to resign in protest that was exactly what I planned to do.

Whatever tomorrow might bring, I didn’t want to hear how it was partially justified because of my failure to keep faith, rampant favoritism, or failure to recognize talent. In other words: I aimed to make any breach between us as painful as possible. Not that I was aiming for that outcome; quite the opposite.

Blast that Isaak. I’d get him one day, that was for certain.

After that particular hiccup, the ceremony proceeded smoothly and Leonora Hammer was ‘officially’ promoted to full Commander and then frocked to Acting Commodore status.

After that, it was various lower level promotions starting with former First Officer and now Battleship Commander Eastwood, promoted to Junior Captain, and various other officers elevated to Commanders and Lieutenant Commanders. On the whole, the pomp and circumstance trotted out was ostensibly in recognition of all the trials and tribulations we’d faced the last few years. But it had mainly been to ensure my officers had their seniority recognized just in case we were ‘rolled into’ the new Confederation Fleet—a concern that seemed to take on a life of its own, to the point I almost had to wonder why I hadn’t done a promotion ceremony of this kind before

The event even went well enough that I had it sent out time-delayed to the rest of the fleet.

Yes, we would definitely have to do this again.

Chapter 60: Post-Promotion Meetings

Later, in my cabin with my senior officers, we were seated at the table for a four course meal.

“This poached fish is superb, Sir,” complimented now Commodore Laurent.

“Thank you, I’ll be sure to pass your compliments onto the Chef,” I smiled.

“Not that I’m not enjoying the food,” Acting Commodore Hammer said after the third course, a variety of cheeses on whole wheat and rye bread, “but was there a reason you gathered us here or was it just to socialize?”

“Why can’t it be both?” I asked easily and then gestured with a languid hand for the servants to take away the dishes.

Around the table the eyes of the four commodores, Laurent, Rampage, Hammer and Druid, sharpened.

“While the food has been excellent, I’m sure I speak for all of us when I say that we are all interested to hear what you have to say,” Commodore Druid said slowly.

“Not that I’m eager to throw myself back in the crucible, but it has been a tad quiet lately,” agreed Rampage.

“I agree,” Laurent nodded. “Besides I’m sure you didn’t promote so many people to commodore for no purpose.”

“I’m sure by now you have all heard the word of the Confederation in the Spine,” I said.

Laurent snorted. “Tell us something we don’t know. Word of that leaked before the high value passengers disembarked the courier ship,” he scoffed.

“I’m pleased to see the rumor mill works as efficiently as always,” I drawled, “what else does the grapevine have to say?”

“That you’re considering accepting this new Confederation’s offer of a top slot in the new fleet they’re building,” Laurent said bluntly.

Around the table, every eye was focused on me like a laser beam. “Is that true?” Hammer asked with an edge to her voice, her face conflicted.

“That I’m considering it? Reports are there’s going to be an invasion and, if that’s true, then someone needs to stop it,” I replied.

“That’s not an answer,” the Acting Commodore grunted.

“It is an answer, just not a definitive one because I’m still looking at things,” I replied.

“What’s there to look at?” asked Rampage.

“Let’s not get stuck in the weeds,” Laurent demurred, “just off the top of my head, there are issues starting with legality and continuing on through the fact that the Governor of this Sector, who is very likely to become a high mucky-muck in this new Confederation, has been gunning for this fleet and her commander since day one.”

“Our loyalty to the Confederation cannot be something that is bought and paid for,” Hammer snapped.

“Hey now, I didn’t say anything like that…” Laurent raised his hands.

“Which Confederation?” Commodore Rampage asked, sounding genuinely curious. “The one that let everything fall in the crapper and then launched an invasion fleet against its own territory, or the one that’s trying to protect this region of space from the Empire?”

Hammer turned red in the face.

“No quick answer full of outraged condemnation this time, Acting Commodore?” Laurent asked with an edge to his voice.

Shame and outrage battled on her face before settling into an angry stony mask. “My people swore an oath. If it comes down to it, I’m not sure if I can keep them in line if this goes too far,” she said finally.

“Your people?” I asked head rearing back with disappointment. “Don’t you mean our people; the spacers and officers of this fleet rescued by the MSP from cryo-prison, decades after everyone else stopped looking for them? Our fellow crew members, those people?”

Hammer sighed and she seemed to droop as some of the anger and outrage left her. “The Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet has done great things out here, Admiral,” she said, finally looking up and squaring her shoulders, “however, fighting against Bugs, Droids, pirates and tin pot warlords is one thing. It’s another thing to ask them—to ask us—to turn against the Confederation.”

“Because you swore an oath,” I said flatly.

“Yes,” she said, meeting and holding my gaze, “to defend and uphold the Confederation.”

“And to protect the people of that Confederation,” I reminded her.

Hammer’s gaze turned bleak. “Are they still part of the Confederation if they vote to leave it?” she asked, her tone making the question sound like a demand more than anything else.

“You are aware that less than half the Sectors of the Spine had anything close to a majority of their worlds represented at the convention?” I asked pointedly. “Even if you and the other old Confederation, former Droid prisoners, won’t fight to protect Confederation citizens whose leaders have voted to make a new confederation to defend themselves where the old Confederation wouldn’t, remember that they haven’t yet had time to hold a referendum. What about those people and worlds where neither leaders nor people have voted to leave the old Confederation?” I asked.

Her fists clenched. “I don’t have an answer for you. We’re grateful for everything you’ve done. But it’s one thing to fight machines and warlords in defense of the helpless. It’s another to fight a fleet sent by the Confederation, even if that fleet is the Imperial Navy,” she said heavily. “Where does this end? With the MSP fighting against the Confederation Fleet directly?” she shook her head. “Where each individual decides to draw their personal line, I cannot guess. But I can say with certainty that you’re going to lose some officers if you join this new Confederation and you’re going to lose more if you go up against a fleet sent by the old Confederation.”

“Even if the old Confederation has basically sold us to the Empire, in return for bribes, backroom power deals, and thirty pieces of silver?” Laurent shot back.

“I wouldn’t expect a provincial officer like you to understand,” Hammer said angrily.

“Oh, so now I’m no longer a fellow officer and just another deluded provincial,” Commodore Laurent glared. “That’s a very Core World attitude, of you Acting Commodore!”

“You know what I meant! You’re volunteers, not regular fleet,” Hammer sounded like she was holding onto her patience with both hands.

Once again I cursed Governor Isaak and rued the day I’d had him under my guns and let him live. Without firing a single shot, he was tearing my fleet apart from the inside.

“I think we’re getting a little bit far afield,” I said sternly.

“You’re right. Most of this could be settled by a simple statement from you,” Hammer said.

I lifted a brow at her. “You want a statement? Fine. While I am currently undecided, I will say that if I join the new Confederation it won’t be because I left the old one but rather because the old Confederation has left me,” I said flatly. “Is that statement clear enough for you?”

“If the MSP leaves the old Confederation Fleet for this new Confederation, then a number of the officers and crew won’t be going with you,” Hammer replied. “Is that a clear enough response?”

“Well, since I very much didn’t ask for a response, I could play dumb or pretend to get offended but considering the gravity of the issue I think I’ll just cut through the drama and let that slide,” I replied harshly. “As for your ‘concerned officers,’ if anyone is more concerned with their careers or too wrapped up in moral dilemmas to protect the very people they swore to defend from all enemies—foreign and domestic—make sure to tell them to let me know and I’ll put them on the first ship back to the Old Confederation heartland they seem to love so much than us mere provincials. With Murphy as my witness, I’ll even build or refurbish a ship to put them on so they can’t claim I’m wasting their time.”

“I’ve never called anyone a mere provincial nor do I think such a thing. Frankly, many of our old Confederation crew are from the fringe regions,” Hammer defended herself and her fellow Old Confederation transplants.

“Then where do you stand on this issue, Acting Commodore?” I demanded.

Hammer stopped. “I’m undecided,” she said finally.

“Well, glory glory, hallelujah; you’re in the exact same boat as me. So maybe tone down the rhetoric and help the rest of us figure out this mess we find ourselves in rather than throwing around wild accusations, hard limits and trigger warnings, yeah?” I growled before regaining my composure. “Now, next on the agenda is the disposition of our newly-expanded fleet,” I said pulling up an image on the holo-projector. “Part of the reason for having the promotion ceremony at this time, besides the fact that all of you were deserving of the honor and responsibility, is that we’ve been expanding almost non-stop lately and, in light of the new potential threat on the horizon, it’s time to add some organizational structure to this hot mess.”

I pulled up a pre-sorted set of ship schematics, starting with a familiar hull which had come to the MSP courtesy of the younger Cornwallis.

“To start off, Commodore Laurent will be temporarily retaining the Furious Phoenix as his command ship and taking charge of our Cruiser divisions…” I explained as I detailed the assignment.

We could ill afford to lose some our most experienced personnel, which at this point consisted of our Lucky Clover and Furious Phoenix veterans who were safe on one side and our Confederation Fleet transplants who were wavering. In the end I could make all the speeches and appeals I wanted, but I wasn’t a prison guard; they were still going to do what they were going to do. At the same time, though, this fleet badly needed a reorganization. While there was only so much I could do about the first problem, this second one was something I could land on with both feet.

“Next, while Commodore Kling is still in the tank re-growing the lower half of his body, Commodore Jackson will be taking over his duties. With the former commander of the Rapid Ranger as your new Flag Captain, I hope you can whip the Destroyer and Corvette forces into shape,” I said, turning to him.

“I like a challenge,” Rampage said steadily.

“Finally the Battleships,” I said, turning to my two most experienced Battleship captains—and my two biggest pains in the rear, “I’m going to split them between the two of you.”

“Next…” I said, continuing with the breakdown of which warships and squadrons went to whom.

Chapter 61: Cornwallis’ Fleet Assembles

“It’s quite a sight isn’t it, Senator?” asked his Aide.

Charles Cornwallis turned a cold eye upon the Aide. “I ask the questions around here, not the other way around,” he said coldly.

“My apologies, Senator,” the Aide said, paling. “I was overcome by the unspeakable majesty of—”

“Leave,” said the Senator.

“At once, Sir,” the other man said, his face white as he hurried out of the room.

“Yet another useless parasite foisted off on me by the Senate,” Cornwallis sneered as yet another aide without the backbone possessed by a street dog turned and fled.

Charles Cornwallis turned back to the clear-paned mono-locsium porthole with the built-in image-enhancing system and looked at the hundreds of warships and merchant relief ships assembled on the border of the Overton Expanse.

The Glorious Fleet of Liberation—a terrible name if ever he’d heard one—and Reserve Flotilla Three had been assembled at an old Confederation Star Base provided by the Grand Assembly, and then reactivated and manned in advance by Imperial spacers personally loyal to the Senator’s house. Thankfully the Empire was providing the lion’s share of the warships and fighting personnel, and the Confederation Volunteers consisted of the rest. The Confederation Government had also shown a relatively open hand when it came to providing supplies and materials and, in the case of the Star Base and over twenty courier ships, a continued line of communication and support for his fleet after they crossed the Expanse.

While the former Admiral would have vastly preferred the Imperial Fleet Star Base positioned not half a Sector away and used by his former command back when he was still attached to Rim Fleet and responsible for patrolling the Spine in the name of the Confederated Empire, the Wolf-7 Star base in the Empty Rock Star System would do for now.

An icon on the porthole’s screen began flashing.

“Praetor. You asked to be notified of any hyper-transitions the moment they were detected,” reported the gravelly-voiced ship’s communication officer. A veteran reserve officer reactivated to help man the Flotilla, he wasn’t part of the Admiral’s staff but instead a regular member of the Senator’s temporary Flagship’s crew.

“Report,” Cornwallis said flatly.

“It’s a Command Carrier, Sir, and it’s accompanied by what look to be four troop transports, two light carriers, and a defensive screen of lighter warships. However, both sensors and communications are waiting for further confirmation to arrive,” reported the veteran.

“Excellent news, Senior Lieutenant. Please extend my compliments to your commander, and inform the Captain that I will be transferring my flag to the Command Carrier, Mighty Punisher, as soon as she arrives at the Star Base and has ceased her maneuvers,” said the Senator, pleased that the last of the ships he’d been waiting impatiently for had finally arrived.

“I’ll relay the message at once, Praetor Cornwallis,” said the Communications Officer.

“Good. Inform the Fleet: we depart in two weeks to conquer the Spine in the name of the Empire, Cornwallis out,” said the Senator, cutting the transmission.

The Senator took one last look at the Imperial Flotilla lined up in neat and tidy lines, the jumbled hodgepodge of aged Confederation warships, SDF dregs and the various freighters representing the many business interests, relief organizations and hospital ships attached to his fleet, and he sneered.

It was an untidy mess, but it was what he had to work with—and it would be more than enough to deal with a bunch of angry frontier rustics armed with two and three generation old technology and equipment.

That Arnold Janeski had made a hash of things and managed to get himself killed in the process indicated that the enemy had at least a basic level of competence. But whatever surprises the enemy had in store for him, the Senator was quite certain that they had never tangled with a true scion of the Empire.

It had been far too long since he’d left the halls of power; this would make for a nice change of pace and return to his roots. When one uses the knife for too long, one could forget that the true power of the Empire lay not in its knives but in the sword of the Empire that was its Navy.

The Spineward Sectors was his path to true power. With a lure like that, nothing could stop the fourth rail of Imperial politics—not when the Triumvirate, and thus the whole Empire, was just within his grasp.

Epilogue: The Cryo Ship

“Captain Stravinsky, thank you for taking the time to visit my office,” said Synthia McCruise.

“When the Commodore asks if you have the time for a meeting, you drop everything else and make time. I came here as soon as I could, Sir,”’ said the former First Officer of Easy Haven’s now destroyed flagship. A flash of reluctance flitted across her face before disappearing behind a once again professional mask.

“‘Acting Commodore;’ there’s no need to pretend to butter me up my ego doesn’t need stroking, and I know you’re not exactly pleased with me or the direction of the Reserve Squadron these last few months,” said Commodore McCruise.

“I believe I have never been anything less than professional, Sir,” Stravinsky said coldly.

“Yet you question my decisions,” said McCruise.

“Any officer or crew member who says I have done so is a liar, and I’ll refer them to fleet legal for conduct unbecoming,” the former First Officer replied harshly.

“I’m not referring to public statements, although I’m gratified to hear it. What I meant was private remarks and positions,” said the Acting Commodore.

Stravinsky raised both eyebrows but failed to say anything.

“This is not some kind of trap. You are to speak freely, especially since I have a very special mission I think you alone are uniquely qualified to handle,” said McCruise.

“What, captaining an ore barge?” the former First Officer scoffed. “I have eyes; I can see what you’re doing.” Synthia McCruise sighed. “Fine I’ll bite,” Stravinsky said after an extended silence, “what’s the mission.”

“No not a barge, that’s for certain,” Acting Commodore Synthia McCruise said, her expression turning serious. “One ship, one crew. The CSS Hot Potato. It’s an old hull that was sitting in the yard, half-disassembled and originally intended as a Q-Ship as far as I can tell from the records, that survived the destruction of Wolf-9. She’s been rebuilt from the keel up on my orders, and if you accept she’s all yours.”

Stravinsky was offended.

“So it’s not a warship. That’s about what I expected,” she said, crossing her arms.

“Let’s be clear: you’ll never support me like you did LeGodat,” McCruise raised hand, “and that’s fine. But I can’t have you here muddying up the chain of command,” then she paused as if seriously contemplating it before waving it off and focusing back on the present. “Well, I could, we’re both professionals after all and I’m sure we could come up with some kind of arrangement. But thankfully this job is more important than all of that.”

Stravinsky bristled. “What could you possibly say that would make me agree to leave at a time like this?” she demanded.

“Word is the Confederation has sold the Spine to the Empire,” the Acting Commodore said, dropping a proverbial bombshell into the tense conversation.

“That’s confirmed?” Stravinsky fell into her chair, the wind knocked out of her sails.

“Say instead that it’s a not insignificant part of the reason you’re being offered this mission. I’m sending you to report in and send back word. When LeGodat was in command we tried a couple times to get word back but never were successful. With the Potato and you—one of our best ship commander candidates at the helm—I think this can work,” said McCruise.

“What makes you think I can succeed where the others have failed—and why the CSS Hot Potato?” asked Stravinsky genuinely curious.

“As you can guess, I’m sending you back with Hot Potato for news, to apprise Fleet Command of our status and tell them that we’re still alive out here and, yes, to hopefully get new orders and clarification. I’ll admit I’m not the same as LeGodat. I’m not as sold on the legitimacy of Montagne as a real functional Confederation Admiral with command authority like he was,” McCruise said and then lifted a hand. “Still, LeGodat, by virtue of seniority among original ship commanders, was the senior officer in command of the system at the time a lot of tough decisions had to be made. So I want to be clear: I’m not so much contesting his decisions or his right to make them, as seeking direction from higher authority. While I might have made different decisions if I had been in command, that’s largely irrelevant since no two captains do everything identically. The same goes double for anything thrust into system command. Right now my concern is for the future.”

“Then why? Why now and why me?” Stravinsky asked, her lips a tight line.

“Because LeGodat survived the battle and has been placed in cryo. Your job is to get him to the Confederation and get him the best medical care possible,” Synthia McCruise said coolly.

“What?!” the First Officer shot out of her chair.

“Sit back down,” McCruise’s voice cracked like a whip.

“He’s alive!?” Stravinsky blurted angrily. “Why am I only hearing about this now? Everyone thinks he’s dead!”

“You’re only hearing about it now because you were in rehab for three months and he was so badly injured that there is little hope of surviving upon being removed from cryo. Because of that, I didn’t want any mix-ups in the chain of command once I took over, or questions about my legitimacy. We needed a smooth transition,” McCruise said coolly.

“You should have sent him away with the Fleet to Gambit,” Stravinsky said furiously, “they have one of the top medical facilities in the Sector. Blast it, I don’t care about whose technically in command. You can’t play games with his life like this!”

“You mean the MSP? His spine was almost pulverized in several places, he had major organ losses, and he sustained significant cranial damage prior to being retrieved and frozen,” McCruise said coldly. “Our best physicians looked at his case and said the only hope Colin LeGodat has of survival isn’t to be found in this Sector. Gambit Medical, while good, just doesn’t have the skill he needs in our best opinion. He needs to go home. Only in the Core Worlds—the real Core Worlds, preferably the Capital of the Confederation—do they have the medical skills and equipment to ensure he makes a full recovery.”

“Sweet Murphy take you for a manipulative witch,” Stravinsky swore.

“No, tell me what you really think,” her hatchet-faced commander scoffed.

“I’ll be blunt: I don’t like you, your methods, or the direction you’re taking us. A lot of good people died to get where we are and here you are playing power games to shore up your position. As far as I can see, you’d be just as happy to throw it all away as stay. But fine. For the sake of the Commodore, I’m in,” she said bitterly, “you’ll have a free rein to do whatever you want.”

“To be honest, I don’t really care what you think about me. LeGodat pampered your ego and let you get away with more than he should have, in my opinion. And as for your assessment, it couldn’t be farther off. Maybe you’ll understand once the weight of command settles on you a bit more. Regardless, this is a onetime offer and offending me isn’t helping your chances,” said the Acting Commodore.

“If you had someone else I’m sure you would have given them the mission,” Stravinsky grit her teeth, “I can’t believe you left him in cold storage for more than six months.”

“You were in Medical having your body rebuilt and undergoing physical therapy and Hot Potato was in the yard. No one needed the distraction,” said McCruise, “so I take it you want the assignment?”

“I already said ‘yes.’ I’ll go back to the Confederation and get the Commodore the medical treatment he needs,” Stravinsky said flatly.

“Here’s your orders, and a crew list you can select from for your new command,” Synthia McCruise said, sliding a data storage device across the table. When Stravinsky reached across to take it, she kept a middle finger on it and held it in place for a long second, “Needless to say, you are not to inform anyone outside of this room, including your crew, the exact details of your special passenger in cryo until after you’re already out of this Sector and back inside the Confederation proper.”

“You want me to lie to them?” Stravinsky asked rebelliously.

“Tell anyone who asks the truth: we are attempting to regain contact with Fleet Central Command so as to clarify our position. As for the special cryo-equipment in the hull of your ship, LeGodat won’t be the only frozen medical passenger you’ll be taking. Once again, the truth is that we have cases that even MSP Gambit Medical can’t handle and can more easily be treated at a proper Confederation facility. Just don’t mention any names and you’ll have nothing to worry about.”

“You’re really something,” Stravinsky said acidly.

“Is that you refusing the mission?” asked the Acting Commodore. “Because if you can’t keep your mouth shut I can find someone else who will.”

“No, Sir. Sorry, Sir. I’m the woman for this job,” Stravinsky said.

“Then take your orders and get out of my office,” snapped McCruise. “I’ve got a star system to run.”

The End – Until Part Two, Of Course!