I studied the holo-screen in LeGodat’s office at the Wolf-9 Star Base—the office he’d loaned out to me temporarily until I got back on my feet—and raised my eyebrows.

“We’ve got an assembly line able to produce…” I scrolled back down through the information, “just under one new fusion generator a month, a shipyard now capable of repairing vessels as large as the Dreadnaught class—up to and including full-blown refit jobs. And to cap it all off, thanks to Akantha we’ve got a new Dreadnaught class Battleship in the yard right this moment, back on Gambit,” I finished, completely blown away.

“About ten fusion reactors a year, Sir,” Spalding corrected, looking insufferably pleased with himself. Even the Lucky Clover only had the capacity to carry five fusion reactors, and a ship like a Corvette or Destroyer, just one or two. “But don’t forget the Duralloy II smelter. Had to ram that project down the Space Committee’s throats, I did,” he capped it off with a derisive snort, to express his true feelings about space committees or just plain committees in general.

“Yes, that,” I replied agreeably, still out to sea a bit. I wasn’t fully up on the differences between Duralloy II and the regular old Mark I material, but Spalding looked fit to burst with pride at mentioning the super-strong material—and frankly, everyone else was looking at him in pure, abject awe over the stuff—so I figured our more than slightly insane Chief Engineer had done it again. “Another miracle of engineering, Mr. Spalding; you are to be commended. Well done!”

“Thank you, Sir,” Spalding smiled, and I had to suppress a wince at the way his right eye auto-adjusted for focus, first pushing the lens forward with a whining sound and then back again. Cameras were meant to move like that to achieve focus, but not something stuck inside a person’s eye socket!

“All we need, Admiral, are a few more trained personnel to run things—that, and the time to set up a dedicated Factory complex. Then the Constructer’ll be mobile again,” Spalding continued, returning to the exact same subject he had been harping on for the entire duration of our trip from Central back to Easy Haven.

“I understand, Chief Engineer,” I sighed, shaking my head from side to side.

“No, I don’t think ye do, Sir,” Spalding said sternly, and then held up a thumb and forefinger, holding them less than a centimeter apart, “we’re the width of a witch’s secret hair away from a fully-functional, self-supporting, top-of-the-line shipyard! By the time we have those ships the Lady Akantha delivered in working order, the only thing holding us back will be a tragic dearth of warm bodies!!!”

I was already shaking my head in negation. “We don’t have the men…I don’t have the men to give you,” I said sharply, “have you looked around here, I mean…at all? LeGodat’s running everything in Easy Haven at half-staff, and that’s just with the warships and critical systems they’ve brought back online. Anything non-essential’s lucky if it has a handful of watch standers. Where am I supposed to get these men for you?” I demanded hotly, more than a bit tired of this particular argument.

“That’s not the kind of can-do attitude I expected from you, Admiral,” Spalding scowled, the weight of his look causing me to want to sink deep into my seat or run away and leave this Admiraling job to the professionals.

“What do you want me to do,” I snapped, “wave my magic wand and make trained engineers appear out of thin air? There’s no one to send, Lieutenant Spalding!” I finished, breathing hot and heavily. I was glad to have finally got that off my chest. Up until now, I’d been humoring the old man because of his previous sacrifices, but it was time for a dose of hard reality.

“There are ways and then there are ‘other’ ways, Sir,” Spalding retorted, an almost maniacal look stealing over his face.

“What are you talking about?” I demanded wearily, leaning back in my chair. The way he was looking, I almost wasn’t sure if we were still on the subject of personnel. “There’s no magic wand to fix a lack of manpower,” my eyes widened as I once again took in his almost cyborg like appearance.

Clearing my throat, I continued, “Besides, cloning has been illegal for a century and a half, and it takes entirely too long to raise and train one for such a thing to be practical, even if I was willing to countenance such an option. Which I wouldn’t,” I finished in a hard tone, desperately hoping my old Chief Engineer wasn’t about to propose we create some kind of Engineering Droid. I might have to send him in for psychological counseling and not only would that be a blow to morale, but I’d lose one of my most trained officers all in one fell swoop.

“Oh no, Sir, nothing like that kind of malarkey ever crossed my mind. Why, I wouldn’t trust a sick dog to the care of that medical staff,” he sneered, and the tension in my shoulders instantly lessened.

“I’m glad we have that cleared up, Lieutenant,” I said pointedly, before glancing over at the holo-screen again.

Spalding looked completely disgusted by this response. “For a high and mighty Admiral, you can be thick as a board sometimes,” he shook his head and then belatedly added, “no disrespect intended, Sir.”

“None taken, Junior Lieutenant,” I lied, but let it slip given the circumstances. This man—more than any other—had been responsible for actually busting me out of prison, mere hours before I was scheduled to be executed. I was willing to let a few jabs slip by. Then, deciding to extend an olive branch, I sighed, “I take it you have a few thoughts on the subject?”

“Yer blasted well right I do!” he exclaimed, looking as excited as only an old, half mechanical engineer—who was none too stable ‘before’ he walked into an active power core—could be, “You said it yerself!”

“And just what, pray tell, did I already say that will shed light on how to fix our current personnel shortages?” I grunted. “Central and the Core Worlds have poisoned the well. As far as every single one of their citizens is concerned, I’m not Jason Montagne, Confederation Vice Admiral. Instead, I’m the dreaded Tyrant of Cold Space.” I knew I should have been filled with a righteous anger after saying this, the way they’d trailed my good name through the mud—Sir Isaac, in particular. But all I could manage was a kind of hollow despair. I knew that I was never the fire-eating, genius, hot-headed Admiral my men seemed to believe in…and truthfully, I was even starting to wonder if I’d somehow lost my nerve.

“Those Core Worlders are a bunch of namby-pamby bilge mice,” Spalding scoffed, “you said it yerself: the Border Alliance is the only place to get the kind of tough as nails recruits we’re going to need.”

I blinked, as I replayed what he said in my mind. “I’m afraid you don’t understand, Chief,” I replied evenly, “as I already mentioned, the Border Worlds Alliance is nothing more than a myth—a creation of the moment, and one I used to good effect,” I added proudly, “but its existence is nothing more than rumor I created. There is zero substance to it,” I finished glumly. More’s the pity, I thought. If there had been even a shred of truth to it, I wouldn’t be sitting here taking up LeGodat’s desk and trying to figure out my—our, next step. I had to periodically remind myself that I was an Admiral again. I had come to learn that a couple of months under the executioners axe will do strange things to a person’s attitude.

“All’s the better!” Spalding exploded with such force I was left gaping, “So long as there’s no actual Alliance to be undermined, it’s impossible for Central to destroy it before we can begin recruiting!”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, closing my previously gaping mouth.

Spalding got a sly look on his face. “The Core Worlds may have been convinced that Admiral Montagne is really the burgeoning, ineffectual ‘Tyrant of Cold Space,’ but remember this,” he said, and his right eye began to glow with an unholy light, “there’s no Com-Stat network left for them to listen to.”

My brow furrowed as I tried to figure out his point. Like a dog suddenly catching a whiff of a scent, I knew something real was lurking out there in the bushes, but I just couldn’t see it yet.

Stamping a foot loud enough to cause metal to clang—and the floor underneath him to vibrate slightly—the ornery old Engineer shook his head sadly. Clearly, to his engineering mind, I was too dumb to wait on any further.

“Meaning, Sir,” he said the last word with a snort, “that a slow civilian freighter, carrying any record of your hearing—and the accusations of the politicians, pundits and talking heads of Central that you failed to stop those pirates—is going to arrive right on the heels of word that your forces took the Omicron and handed the pirates a defeat such as this Sector hasn’t seen in two generations. In some cases, our version of events will have already have been playing on their local planetary networks for weeks!”

My eyes widened. “How the blazes would they know anything about…” I trailed off at the sight of the Chief Engineer’s smug grin. “You didn’t,” I breathed.

“When the blighters took our Clover,” the old Engineers face darkened thunderously, “I knew it was time to get out the word of all our good deeds. The court o’ public opinion’s a fickle beast, and I figured it could help us maul our enemies. I was aiming more at the politicians of Capria and the Assembly, but me arrow struck home in the Border Worlds instead…” a dire smile crossed his face and an insanely murderous look glinted in his eye, “you can still use it, Sir.”

“Interesting,” I muttered as my mind raced with the implications.

“Who cares if we can’t recruit in the Core,” Spalding growled stomping from one end of the room to the other before throwing up his hands. He leveled a finger at me, the tip of which popped off and a plasma torch ignited, “forget them bloomin’ idjits! As Murphy is my witness, we’ll sort them out later. After we’ve run a recruiting drive all the way from one end of the border to the other, and filled both my shipyard and every ship in this fleet with hard-hitting, Core World-despising, Fleet Recruits—wily old veterans like we got off those settlement ships at AZT, as well as greenhorns like as we’ve trained before—we’ll keep sending out ships until this organization’s practically bursting at the seams with warm bodies!”

My eyebrows climbed for the rafters. When he put it like that, it almost sounded like a recruiting drive might actually work. “But when the news finally does get out there…” I muttered, deep in thought.

“Outrun the news,” Spalding said flatly, “get us the boys and girls, first and foremost. We can set ‘em straight on Central’s lies,” he finished, clearly indicating himself and the other ‘veteran’ hands in the fleet when he mentioned setting them straight.

“Still,” I said, starting to feel my wishy-washy lethargy slipping away, as excitement began rising to replace it. However, along with my excitement came a darker, harder feeling—one I wasn’t very familiar with: a cold-blooded desire for revenge. Revenge on Jean Luc, first and foremost; the man who shot me down in my own ready room had to die. Period. End of discussion. Then I would see to all those lying, soon-to-be-blasted politicians at Central, and anyone who had knowingly supported their lies over the truth.

“Sweet Cryin’ Murphy, boy,” Spalding urged, “I see you’re feeling a mite gun shy.”

I looked at him and nodded tightly, expecting some kind of ‘it’s not your fault’ pep speech.

“Look, you got a lot of good boys killed on your watch, and that’s on you,” he said sternly. Not being at all what I had expected, I simultaneously felt the urge to deny the charge and curl up into a ball so I could hide in the corner, “but everyone who made it out the other side—including me—are expecting you to get out front and lead. And you can’t do that sitting in this office, worryin’ about what’ll go wrong.”

“But what if I get everyone else killed?” I asked, the words almost jerked from my lips.

“Then we’re all going to die, and it may be a slow death for the less lucky amongst us,” Spalding replied grimly, “however, it’s time to buckle up, bear down, and stop the slacking; it’s time to lead, boy!”

“What if I become like my Uncle?” I demanded, voicing one of my greatest fears. “What if the only way to win is to become like him? I won’t be a bloodthirsty, treasonous murderer!”

“Not going to happen, lad,” he assured me with a roll of his single eye.

“How can you know for sure?” I snapped.

“Don’t you worry your little head about that, Admiral,” he assured me in a conciliatory tone, “if’n the boys and me see you stray, we’ll put you down before you can do too much damage.”

Flabbergasted, I stared blankly at my wily old Engineer. The man had basically put me in charge of my own ship—the ship I’d lost more than two months ago—the Lucky Clover. For his part, he met my eyes with a grim determination.

My fear-filled inner self, the one who had been worried about becoming like an old style Montagne of old, seemed to reach across the aisle to grab hands with the more than slightly suicidal part of me that had survived the Dungeon ship. The latter part desired one thing, and one thing only: revenge. Feeling as if they suddenly shook hands, it was as though a weight I hadn’t even known I had been carrying sloughed off, and I came to a decision.

Win or lose, at least I could now be sure I wouldn’t become the very thing I had fought against for so long. The old reputation of my family as corrupt, bloodthirsty killers would not become my legacy. Spalding, a man who had walked into a reactor core to save our ship, who had worked more than one miracle to keep us going—and almost literally came back from the dead to help us in our hour of need, not to mention save me from the hangman’s noose—had just personally assured me he wouldn’t let it happen.

I bowed my head, and I was glad that I was looking down at the desk in that moment, for I could feel the barely-suppressed rage burning in my eyes. I thirsted for revenge with every fiber of my being. Shooting me down, I might have been able to forgive; taking my ship was more difficult, but I could probably have swallowed that also.

But what I could never stomach was the way those mutineers started killing my loyal crew in cold blood—that was what sent me over the edge. I could never forget, nor would I ever forgive being forced to watch, as a man my Uncle could have stopped with a wave of his hand, tortured and killed innocent people—my people; boys and girls who had placed their trust in me—on video.

“Alright,” I said, when I felt like I’d finally mastered my emotions, “I don’t know how successful it’ll be,” I continued, raising a hand to cut off any protestations, “but we’ll do it your way. I’ll get with LeGodat, and together we’ll send out a recruiting drive. I’m not sure what ships we’ll use, but we’ll be sure to arrange for an escort,” I finished, my rage at my rapid series of near death experiences at the hands of my pirate uncle and Sir Isaac the Ambassador, slowly tempering from a raging furnace of emotion, into a hardened resolve.

“Gambit Station’s a right sight to see, and that’s a fact,” Spalding said, practically dancing up and down with enthusiasm, now that I had essentially agreed to his plan. “Give her the men and women she needs to keep growing, and she won’t let you down, Sir.”

“I hope not, Chief,” I said evenly, “right now, we need every ship we’ve got if we’re going to get back the Lucky Clover and pay my Uncle back for his treason.”

I could see him fight the urge to vent his bile at my traitorous Montagne Uncle, but instead all he did was snort and declare instead, “Give Gambit six months and a full crew to train in on their jobs, Admiral, and fifty credits says she’ll surprise you. I gauran-blasted-tee that within six months the last of those pirate clunkers Lady Akantha brought will be out in Confederation service, or waitin’ for crew. More, if ye let me have my head with her—after we finish getting back the Clover, o’ course. Then, with Murphy as my Witness, I promise that she’ll be ready to start producing ships of the line!”

“Real warships?” I inquired, leaning back in my chair at this new information.

“May the evil gods of cold space strike me down if I lie,” Spalding snapped irritably.

“I almost can’t believe it,” I muttered under my breath.

“To the tune of one to two a year, if we don’t just keep expanding,” Spalding said triumphantly, “put a proper Engineer in charge of a project—and not some blasted space committee—and we can work wonders.”

I silently started to factor this new information into my calculations. According to the information Spalding had brought with him, they still had a pair of Dreadnaught Class, Caprian-built Battleships out at Gambit station. The rest of the small fry had either come out here to rescue me, or gone with Akantha to Capria.

At the thought of Akantha going to Capria I wanted to cringe, or be dismayed, or feel some kind of negative emotional reaction, because that’s what the old me would have felt. As it was, all I felt was a faint, nagging concern for the well-being of my wife. That and a feeling of thwarted satisfaction that it was going to be her, and not me, that got to put a bit of a scare into them. I didn’t think one Imperial Cruiser—no matter how hot, either under the collar or technologically—was going to be able to deal with a full squadron of the Wall and its supporting elements.

So all they were likely to get was a big surprise and shock to their system. But then again, I’d been wrong about a lot of things in the past, not the least of which was my beloved wife. Let them deal with the pit viper for a while; it would probably do them—and her—a world of good.

In the meantime…I had some revenge to plan, and as they say: the best revenge is always served cold. It’s very cold in space, I reminded myself with a savage grin.

When Spalding and I had outlined our future recruiting drive, and finished going through the updates on Gambit’s current and future building capacity, I leaned back in my chair.

“It’s probably best I get back on deck, and make sure the repairs are running smoothly,” Spalding said, with a look of relief at the meeting’s end. I didn’t kid myself that he was uncomfortable with either me or the material we were covering; the man just seemed to have a natural aversion to meetings of any kind. He would much rather be working.

“Dismissed,” I said, with a two fingered salute.

Turning around and eyeing me for a moment, the old engineer slowly brought up his arm and gave me a Confederation-style salute.

Blinking in surprise at the sudden seriousness of the moment, I gave him back a passable imitation of a proper salute—the same one I’d been practicing in the mirror ever since I was put in prison. There had literally been nothing else to do with my time, so I had practiced until if felt like my arm was about to fall off, but at least I no longer needed to be worried about looking like a fool in this particular regard.

“Oh, and on your way out, I’d be most appreciative if you’d let the Commodore in,” I said with a grim smile.

“LeGodat’s waiting outside?” Spalding scowled. “You should have told me, and we could have cut this little get together short.”

“LeGodat’s not the only Commodore on Wolf-9,” I said pointedly with a shark-like grin.

Spalding’s face set into a mask of poorly disguised distaste. “I’ll let the Guardsman know you’re waiting,” he said flatly, before clumping out the door, his servos giving off a low pitched whining with every step.

“Blast these infernal things. They’re not factory spec; they’re factory defective, is what they are!” the old engineer said thunderously into the waiting area, as the door closed behind him.

Chapter 2: It’s Time to Move On

“Admiral,” the Sector Guard Officer acknowledged, stepping into the room and saluting before taking off his cap and placing it under his arm. The way he looked at the wall straight over my head would have been more intimidating if I hadn’t just spent the better part of a year in the belly of a military organization and going head to head with some of the worst criminals and galactic threats in the galaxy.

“Commodore Druid,” I replied, giving him an official nod and then waving the other man to a chair, “please have a seat.”

“Thank you, Admiral,” he replied, stepping around the chair and lowering himself stiffly into the chair opposite my own.

I looked at him for a long moment, but when all he did in response to this was to shift his gaze from the wall to my face, I figured I was going to have to be the one to move the conversation forward.

“Before we start, I’d just like to say one thing,” I began, leaning back in my chair with a pleasant expression on my face. Despite my courtly trained mask, my eyes were like those of a hawk—monitoring the man for any indication of what he was thinking. I thought I could trust the man enough to have a private meeting without fear that he would leap on me from over the table, but that was just it: trust. It was something I wasn’t feeling too particularly full of after what one might call ‘a harrowing experience’ in the Dungeon Ship of Captain Synthia McCruise.

“Sir?” Druid asked, his stony face gaining a perplexed appearance, and that’s when I realized my inner ruminations had caused me to time out.

I suppressed a growl; this sort of thing would never have happened before my incarceration. With deliberate effort, I maintained my current pleasant expression and, if anything, leaned even further back in my chair.

“I’m sure you have some concerns,” I started, feeling a vindictive surge of delight at the fear that must be shooting through him at these words. I was actually more than a little dismayed with myself for a moment, and as a result, I refrained from toying with him as I once might have, “that’s why I’ve summoned you here: to reassure you.”

“Thank you, Admiral,” Commodore Druid, said his shoulders relaxing fractionally.

When he didn’t continue, I shrugged my shoulders and decided to just take the plunge. The worst thing that could happen was I came off as a fool.

“You’ve kept your side of the bargain and dealt fairly with me from the get go and, unlike some of your superiors, you’ve acted honorably and kept your word,” I finished darkly and then gave my head a shake, “regardless of Rear Admiral Yagar and the rest, you and I came to an understanding back in Central. Did we not?”

“Yes, Admiral Montagne, we did,” he bit off those last two words, his shoulders tightening once again, “or at least, I thought so.”

“But now, being summoned back here, you’re feeling doubtful once again,” I said with a nod of understanding, “well, ease your mind.”

“I would feel much more grateful if you could tell me the exact purpose of my summons here,” Druid said tightly.

My eyebrows lifted, and I realized that despite my best efforts and intention to get right to the point and not beat about the bush, I had started to drag this thing out.

“Right,” I said flatly, and I could see the Commodore’s shoulders tightening even further, even though his face continued to be an impassive professional mask. “Well, anyway, you’re free to go,” I said, tossing a data wafer on the desk.

Druid’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared, as almost despite himself, he seemed to stare down at the wafer in front of him with suspicion. “That’s it?” he asked incredulously. “We’re free to go? You throw me a data storage device, and that wraps it all up?!”

“I know what it’s like to be a prisoner, and I wouldn’t wish that fate on any person for longer than is absolutely necessary,” I said flatly, and when my stare met his, I could tell he saw the absolute, dead level truth in them. Then I leaned back and my courtly mask of smooth pleasantry reasserted itself.

“I-I don’t know what to say,” Druid stumbled at first, but quickly regained his poise.

“Then say nothing,” I suggested with a twist of my wrist and then sighed, “I pressed your men into service for the duration of the emergency.”

Druid snorted at this and I quirked a smile in return.

“Well, the emergency is now over and I am returned safely into the arms of Confederation service,” I said, throwing my arms wide to indicate all the recently re-commissioned levels above and below us, as well as the run down corridors he had taken to arrive at my office, “as such, I’m declaring the emergency over.”

“You’re really just cutting us loose…this isn’t some kind of deep trick?” the Sector Guard Commodore asked suspiciously.

“Really, and truly,” I said gamely, “it’s not that I want you to leave. Far from it; I could use an officer like you in my organization, and those six corvettes…well, let’s just say they could save lives.”

There was a lengthy pause. “I don’t know what to say,” Druid said finally, clearly floored by my words, “you have to realize that under Rear Admiral Yagar, this squadron is just as likely to turn right around and come back here to Easy Haven, as it is to do anything more productive.”

I leaned forward in my chair. “I don’t need—nor do I want—unwilling men inside my organization. I tried that in the past, the whole ‘keep your friends close, and your enemies closer’ technique and, well…you know just how that worked out for me.” I frowned before continuing. “I don’t want to end up fighting you, and while I do know that the most expedient thing would be to take your ships and imprison your men so I don’t have to fight them again at a later date, I gave you my word.”

For the first time in the conversation, the Commodore looked troubled. “I hope my own Superiors feel the same way.”

“They don’t,” I said flatly, and Druid looked up at me in surprise and then winced.

“I will pray that you’re wrong,” he said finally.

“Look, Commodore,” I said evenly, “the last thing I desire is to waste resources fighting amongst ourselves when there are real, legitimate threats out on the border of this Sector.”

Druid looked at me skeptically, and I could feel myself start to turn red. Instead of suppressing it, I just stared at him and let the color tint my face.

“I don’t deny that both your government and my Uncle have earned a special place in my consideration,” I said as truthfully as I could, “however, the pirates are killing and enslaving civilian populations along the border, while all your government has done is attack myself and my crew. As such, the pirates and any other external threats have to come first for my forces.”

Druid didn’t wince or show any sign of remorse—or disagreement with my accusations regarding his people’s attacks on me or my men—and I could feel my heart harden. Taking a deep breath in through my mouth and letting it out through my nose, I pursed my lips before deciding to move on. However, Druid beat me to the punch.

“At least until Central moves on you again, I’m sure, Admiral,” the Sector Guard Officer said with a scowl.

“We’ve done nothing wrong,” I said flatly, as I let a smirk cross my lips, “except perhaps make them feel guilty at how much good work we’ve been doing out here. They, on the other hand, have preferred to stay at home playing politics while entire worlds burn. As such, we have every right to defend ourselves against all enemies who would attack us, be they foreign…or domestic.”

“You would fire on your own government, Admiral Montagne?” Druid demanded stiffly.

“I’ll fire on anyone who fires on me first,” I flared angrily, “in the meantime I have more important things to deal with than ‘your’ government, ‘your’ Guard, or their unifying lack of concern for the Border Worlds.”

“Not all of us are happy at the need to consolidate the Core of the Sector before moving outward to the colonies and outposts,” Druid said tightly.

“Well, whoever it is that thinks that way has been doing a real sweet job of showing it,” I replied damningly, “because, from where I sit, I can’t see that they’ve done a single thing to make a difference.”

“The Sector Guard—” he started but I cut him off at the pass.

“Central lied, people died,” I growled mockingly, “they may have claimed their Guard was mobilized for the purpose of helping everyone, not just the Core Worlds. As far as I can tell, all they’ve been doing is trying to blockade Easy Haven so that Commodore LeGodat can’t send out anti-piracy patrols of his own. Of course, that was before they attacked me with an eye toward a pay-per-view execution.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Druid said flatly.

“A Central politician told me,” I slammed my fist into the desk, “he flat out TOLD ME, in person, that he hired my Uncle to stop me! The timing of the attack was deliberate, and with Central’s blessing it went down right in the middle of a battle against an overwhelming pirate force!” I roared, the words pouring out of me like molten lava. “If that isn’t trying to stop anyone from dealing with the pirates until the Border is too weak to do anything but acquiesce to Core World demands, then I’ll be a grease monkey’s uncle!”

Commodore Druid opened his mouth, but this time I beat him to the punch.

“My wife almost died when she was abandoned on a pirate station, outnumbered something on the order of fifty to one!” I shouted, my hands reaching out into the air and clenching. “Thousands of my crew died because I dared to show the politicians up. Well blast them, and blast you, and blast anyone who tries to stop me when people are dying; no one else in the entire Sector is lifting a finger to help them!” I felt a familiar vein begin to bulge in my forehead, and I suspected that my blood pressure was nearing critical.

“I’m sorry,” Druid said into the growing silence, meanwhile I took a series of short shallow breaths as I tried to calm down.

“Your ‘sorry’ can get specked,” I could feel my teeth grate as I spoke the words, “and so can the Rump Assembly. We’re no longer looking for their good regard; we have rightly earned all the legitimacy we need through our deeds, and any future attacks will be taken as an act of war against the Confederation—and be dealt with appropriately.”

“And what about what’s already in the past?” Druid demanded.

I leaned back in my chair, because I could feel my vision tunneling, and all I desired to do was lunge over the desk and strangle him.

“Get out of here, Commodore. Return to your masters,” I said flatly, “you can tell them that anyone guilty of War Crimes will be spaced, but that the rest of you yahoo’s can sleep safe at night; I’ve got bigger fish to fry.”

Those were fish that I had every intention of frying, and much more quickly than anyone expected. After which, we’d see what could be done about politicians who thought they could hire pirates to do their dirty work for them. However, I didn’t say that; all I did was smile wolfishly and grab the chair to keep from leaping on the most honorable member of the Sector Guard I had encountered to date.

It was hard, but by no means the hardest thing I had been forced to do over the course of the past two months. That no one was forcing me to do it was probably why it felt so much harder than I was expecting.

“I joined the Guard to protect not just my world, but every world in this Sector,” Druid said, leaning forward in his chair as if to chase me across the desk.

It was all I could do to hold my tongue as I held onto my temper with both hands. The focus of my revenge is Jean Luc first, and then Sir Isaac, not this guy, I reminded myself fiercely. “How’s that working out for you? We’ve driven the pirates off from at least four worlds, saved another planet from a genocidal bug attack, destroyed two separate pirate forces in detail, and then went on to take the largest pirate station in the sector as a prize.” I pointedly did not go on to ask what exactly his organization had done while we’d been away doing all this.

The Commodore looked down, and following his gaze I could see he’d clenched his hands together so hard that all of his fingers had turned white. Apparently, the truth was painful for some.

When he looked up his eyes burned, and it was only due to a year of constant battles and action that I could hold his gaze with one of my own and give back just as much as—if not more than—he gave me.

“We did all of that, placing our lives in jeopardy, because it was the right thing to do,” I said grimly. “I’ll sign whatever papers absolving you and your lot of guilt for surrendering. If necessary, we’ll tie you up and ship you back on your own vessels in nothing but your skivvies,” I shrugged to show how little I cared about whatever needed doing. “Alternately, we could swap your six Corvettes for one smashed up Hydra Medium Cruiser and say you fought your way free. It would look good for the cameras back in your homes, and I honestly don’t want to see your sailors and marines penalized for doing the right thing in the face of an overpoweringly superior force.”

I could hear knuckles popping as Druid stared down at his still clenched fists. Then he looked up at me, and I saw something I truly did not expect. “All right you smug, sanctimonious, self-righteous bastard,” he bit out through gritted teeth, “where do I sign up?”

I blinked. “Come again?” I asked after a momentary silence, my mouth on autopilot.

Chapter 3: Signing Up

“Just tell me what I have to do before I change my mind,” Druid growled.

I was back footed, and for the first time in this conversation, completely and utterly flabbergasted.

“You mean to say, you actually want to join this Confederation lash-up we have going on here?” I asked, trying and unable to regain my composure. “This isn’t some kind of trick?”

“Just give me the papers,” Druid sighed, his shoulders slumping. “You’re right; I joined the Guard to help people, and all we’ve done is run photo ops and attack you lot. That’s not what I signed up for.”

“You can leave now, and I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you aren’t punished by your government. Limited as my pull may be,” I said clearly. I was determined to make sure there was no coercion involved here. And besides, I really didn’t want him in my armed forces. The last time I’d kept a former enemy close, I was all but certain he had been the one to stab me in the back—I was, of course, thinking of my erstwhile former First Officer slash Chief of Staff.

“If you don’t want us, then just say it now,” Druid said angrily, clearly using emotion to cover for anything else he might be feeling, “otherwise, I meant what I said. Just put me on the border where the action is, and let me use that shiny new Corvette for something other than political photo ops.”

“Us?” I inquired, while my mind was scrambling. Was this all just another trick to swoop in and plant another knife between the ribs while my back was turned?

“I think I can convince a couple of the other captains, and enough crew, that there’d be more than just my one ship,” he said evenly.

Despite myself, I leaned back in the chair as my mind started calculating all the angles. “If you agree to do this, then you need to get one thing positively straight,” I said, feeling my face harden at the memory of waking up in the Brig to find I’d almost been killed and a mutiny had taken the ship—my ship.

“I’m ready, Admiral,” Druid said flatly, “just let me at them, and for the sake of the people…I’m your man.”

“If you go out there on my orders and then turn your coat, there won’t be a dark enough hole, or enough warships in the wide world, to keep me from tearing you apart,” I promised with a cold glint in my eye, one I knew hadn’t been there before prison and time on death row. “Leave or stay—with my blessing either way—but treachery and betrayal…” I trailed off, deliberately letting the silence be filled with unspoken threats. Let his mind come up with whatever horrible things he thought I was capable of.

Druid took a shaky breath, and then held out his hand.

Eying him, I slowly reached out my own hand. Instead of taking his hand, I clasped him on the forearm and elbow like a Tracto-an warrior.

“What are my orders, Sir?” he asked when I finally stopped staring him in the eyes and let go of his arm.

A smile slowly grew across my face as I realized I had just come up with the perfect job for this man. It was time to change tacks and see about keeping my friends close and my enemies—or, potential enemies, I thought as I gave him a pointed look—as far away from me as humanly possible.

“I need your ships to escort the Dungeon Ship, and as many merchant freighters as we can beg, borrow, or hire on a tour of the Border,” I replied.

“A tour, Admiral?” Druid asked, looking more than slightly put out.

“We’ll send any of your people that don’t want to be here back to Central. Meanwhile, the rest of you will be on a combined Roving Patrol and Recruiting Drive,” I explained with growing satisfaction. This way he could patrol the border like he claimed was all he wanted—and he stayed as physically far away as it was possible from my command while occupying the same Sector.

“As you order, Admiral Montagne,” Druid replied, inclining his head.

“Oh, and Druid, as this is an at will organization,”’ I said mildly, “you can keep on the Sector Guard uniforms.” In my own mind, I figured having the Sector Guard show up alongside and in support of my Confederation recruiting drive would not only poke a big fat finger in the eye of Sir Isaac, Rear Admiral Yagar and all the politicians at Central; it would also make it more difficult for the more restive Governors and Magistrates of the Border worlds—those same individuals who hated my guts—to refuse to let their people vote with their feet by joining up.

From the look in his eyes, and the disquieted expression on his face, I could tell that Commodore Druid was following a significant portion of my thoughts—and he didn’t seem to like them very much.

“As you wish, Sir,” he said finally.

“Exactly,” I replied, leaning back and steepling my fingers. “Exactly.”

Chapter 4: Laying down The Law, Taking Stock

“Officer Laurent, so good of you to meet me here,” I said with a nod. I dared not reveal the depths of my concern over this meeting; the Warrant Officer deserved nothing less than my complete confidence. Even if logic dictated that the former Caprian officer wouldn’t be out of line to hold deep reservations about serving with and under the same man who lost his last ship, I couldn’t let those concerns be revealed. The very fact that I didn’t appear to have confidence in him could in turn lead to a lack of confidence in me. Such might be the case even if he was one hundred percent behind my reinstallment and, as I had just thought earlier, whatever he felt towards my person would be more than justified.

“Admiral,” Laurent returned my nod and then glanced around at the dilapidated duralloy walls and freezing cold airlock before turning his look back on me, “a strange place for a meeting, Sir,” he said, cocking his head at me.

“I felt the need to stretch my legs,” I dissembled with the kind of grin that said while this was true in and of itself, it wasn’t nearly the whole truth.

The Warrant Officer gave a knowing lift of a corner of his mouth.

“What are we really here to talk about, Sir?” he asked with a faint smile. “I assume it’s not just about an old mothballed freighter in Wolf-9’s bone yard or else we’d be having this conversation in the System Commodore’s nicely appointed office.”

“Much as I cherish the Commodore’s good opinion and continued safe harbor for both myself and our forces in his good regard continues to be critical, there are a few matters…strictly internal to the MSP,” I parsed before adding hastily, “that are best done away from the sight of prying eyes.”

“I think it’s safe to say that just about anyone who cared to inform themselves is aware that the Admiral is meeting with his former Tactical Officer in an old, long abandoned, freighter,” Laurent said with a smirk.

I could have suppressed the grimace I was feeling but decided not to do so. Instead I allowed it to flow across my face. For what I was about to ask I needed frank talk, not a guarded discussion that danced around the issues. The last thing I wanted to do was spend the next ten minutes ‘feeling out’ how this officer felt about all issues Montagne, or the setbacks experienced by our little Confederation Fleet.

“I’ll be frank, Officer,” I flashed a smile, “it’s not that I care who knows I’m meeting with you. It’s more that the walls have ears in our temporary home that is the Wolf-9 Star Base.”

“Temporary,” Laurent said sucking in a deep breath, “I see, Sir.” He frowned down at the floor in deep contemplation, before lifting his eyes back up to bestow me with a deep and penetrating gaze, “You are sure and certain this isn’t a conversation that should involve the Commodore and his System Officers, Admiral?”

I could tell from the tone of his voice that he was deeply disturbed at the thought that I might harbor reservations about the leaders and leadership of the Easy Haven contingent.

“I have every confidence in the professionalism and honor of Commodore LeGodat and, as long as he’s in power, his System Officer as well,” I said firmly, hoping to downplay my concerns. “However, the needs of Wolf-9 are not necessarily the needs of the MSP and as such we must all plan accordingly.”

“This smacks too much of the kind of sneaking around and backroom deals that have riven our native Caprian service and ridden its SDF into the ground,” Officer Laurent said more than a trifle stiffly, he continued in a professional military voice, his posture stiffening as he stared at the wall behind my shoulder. “Let me ask again for the record, Sir: are you sure that the Commodore and his men should not to be involved in this discussion?”

I stopped and stared at him, feeling stumped. “I had hoped to keep the nature of this initial get-together informal,” I said after a moment. This wasn’t going quite the way I had hoped.

“We are all Confederation Officers, Sir,” Laurent said firmly.

I was something at a loss over how to proceed and then it came to me in a flash—I knew exactly what to do.

“I need my Officers to feel they are able to have frank discussions with me, especially when we’re alone,” I said nodding approvingly, and then pulled out a finger length audio recording device and handed it to him, “as you can see for yourself, that device had not been activated.”

Laurent his brows wrinkling, relaxed slightly from his ridged military stance and looked down at the recorder, adjusting it in his hands. After a moment he looked back up and gave me a nod.

“It is, Sir,” he said sounding perplexed for the first time this meeting.

“I need to be able to have private discussions with my officers, whenever and wherever I feel the need. However,” I continued, raising a hand to cut him off when he opened his mouth to interrupt, “in this specific and unique instance, if you feel the need share the entire contents of this conversation with the Commodore, I will not stop you.”

The Warrant Officer hesitated and then closed his eyes. Opening them he nodded firmly and, holding the recorder in front of him where I could see it, he activated the device before slipping it into his pocket.

“Has the Easy Haven contingent of the Confederation Fleet, or their Commanding Officer or Officers, done anything to earn your concern and thus a desire for a private meeting in this mothballed freighter, Admiral?” Laurent asked evenly.

“The most difficult question first, I see,” I said, scowling at the Lucky Clover’s former Tactical Officer. “Very well then,” I answered just, matching my own tone and posture to the other man’s stiff affect, “as a man in whom I have confidence, I will share to you again, in confidence,” I said, ignoring the fact that he was live taping my answer—I also ignored the way his mouth tightened with anger at my deliberate choice of words, “the fact that I do have such concerns about the Confederation Forces in Easy Haven.”

Laurent’s mouth fell open and he jerked as if stung.

“What do you mean, Admiral?” he said looking like a man who’d just swallowed something foul tasting. “Surely you can’t doubt the Loyalty of the very men and women who broke you free from captivity and freed you!”

He didn’t say it, but I could tell that he was wondering if the reputed Montagne paranoia regarding our enemies had attacked and taken over my brain.

This time it was my mouth that tightened in response, and again I allowed the emotion to show instead of trying to hide it behind some courtier’s mask. I knew that if I was to carry the day in this conversation and regain the trust of this particular officer nothing less would suffice in this, very much private, conversation.

“Their loyalty…no,” I said reluctantly. If I did question their loyalty, this whole thing would have been much easier on some levels—although infinitely harder on others. “Not to the Confederation. However, their solidarity and unity of purpose with us, their brothers and sisters in the MSP? I fear that is exactly where I have my…doubts.”

“How can you say that?” Laurent demanded.

“Let’s look at the facts,” I said smoothly, and I could tell from the other officer’s reaction that I’d been perhaps a bit too smooth in my delivery. I gave a mental shrug, knowing that you win some and you lose some.

“Yes, let’s do,” Laurent said in a low voice, “they broke us out of that cursed dungeon ship, stood by us in the face of Druid’s squadron, and then escorted us to safety here. Where exactly is it that their loyalty to us has come into question?”

“Let’s look at the facts,” I repeated, growing concerned that I’d made a mistake when I decided to broach this subject with Laurent.

“You already said that!” Laurent remarked.

“Alright then,” I said fighting for control of my voice, “I was onboard that Dungeon ship for several months,” Laurent all but rolled his eyes at me so with my next word my voice cracked like a whip, “were you?”

“Of course, Sir,” Laurent said, stiffening to attention.

“In all that time, did Captain McCruise contact you? Because I can assure you that despite being a prisoner onboard her ship no one—not one person,” I said hotly,” came to speak with me about a possible breakout even once, Warrant Officer Laurent!”’

“Operational security, Sir,” Laurent bit out the words, “I’m sure you’ve come across the term by now.”

Holding onto temper with both hands I stared at him until he started to squirm. “That’s not an answer to my question, Warrant Officer,” I said in a low, dangerous voice.

“In that case, no, Sir; no one came to speak with me,” Laurent said with stiff professionalism, “not prior to the ship’s crew coming to break me and the other boys out,” he said with emphasis.

“Which only happened after our own men from the MSP under the Chief Engineer came and personally busted me out of my cell,” I countered, matching him glare for glare.

“I don’t see your point, Sir,” Laurent ground out.

“If you’ve looked up the operational profile and reports from the Easy Haven Task Force—like I have,” I bit out through lightly gritted teeth,” then you are aware that irrespective of the Dungeon ship’s particular and understandably constrained circumstances, that Commodore LeGodat and his warships had been in the Praxis System for literally weeks prior to the arrival of Commander Spalding and his small fleet of light vessels,” I replied.

Laurent blinked, and I finally felt like I had turned the tide on the man’s professional indignation. “I wasn’t aware of that particular datum,” he said hesitantly and then his face hardened, “still, Operational Security would dictate—”

I cut him off. “Yet over the course of all that time, LeGodat and his professional command team remained in silent running at the edge of the Praxis System with no plan in place for a run in-system to secure our release,” I said evenly.

“We can’t know that for sure, even if it’s not in the records available to us—” I made a chopping gesture with my hand, cutting him off midsentence.

“Not only should any Confederation Fleet records pertaining to this matter be available for my perusal, members of LeGodat’s own command team were observed arguing about the risk of moving deeper in-system to save us,” I said sharply.

“A spirited debate among the command team…” Laurent began weakly, but visibly ran out of steam as I stared at him incredulously.

“Commander Spalding had no trouble coming up with a plan the same day as his point transfer in-system. After making only critically necessary repairs, he set course for a charge all the way across Praxis System,” I paused for emphasis, “in the teeth of the Praxis SDF and Central’s very own 25th Sector Guard!”

Laurent colored and then muttered something under his breath about the Chief Engineer.

“In fact,” I continued, ignoring the naysaying and probable aspersions on Lieutenant Spalding in favor of driving my point home with force, “had the Chief Engineer arrived any later, I am forced to wonder if the Easy Haven contingent out of Wolf-9 would have moved to free us at all!”

“There’s no reason to assume they weren’t just waiting for the right opportunity,” Laurent said, avoiding my gaze.

“If they’d waited any longer I would have been executed,” I said, feeling my nails bite into my palms.

The Warrant Officer looked up at me sharply. “Is that what this is all about: the fact that you could have died, Sir?!” he said with clear censure, his face hardening as he spoke.

Taken aback I hesitated and quickly rechecked my thought processes. Was I simply feeling betrayed that to all appearances the Easy Haven forces were prepared to sit around dithering until after I was dead? I had to pull myself up hard and push down my temper until I was sure I was looking at things objectively.

After a moment I nodded slowly. While I was grateful they’d acted to save us once we were near the edge of the system, there was a thread of me that felt personally betrayed by their hesitation.

“No,” I said with a suddenly renewed certainty, and I was more than a little gratified to see Officer Laurent blink in surprise, “while I don’t deny that some part of me feels…shall we say, ‘offended,’ my personal feelings are, and should always be, the last consideration in such matters as this.”

“Forgive me if I find that difficult to understand,” the Officer said after a moment, “Admiral,” he added belatedly.

“It’s really quite simple,” I replied with a shrug, “if McCruise, LeGodat and the rest of the ships from Wolf-9 weren’t ready to come up against Central and risk those ships of theirs in order to rescue me—a Confederation Admiral and their nominal and only superior in this Sector—then why in all the wide galaxy would they risk that same destruction at a later date to save the rest of you, my loyal crew?”

Laurent’s eyes widened and then narrowed as he processed this.

“Helping others so long as you yourself do not risk destruction against superior forces might be—oh fine, by Murphy’s beard, it is the act of an ally,” I said, throwing my hands in the air as my determination to try and be impartial turned around and bit me in the proverbial rear. “It is that very hesitation to risk defeat in order to come save you and the rest of our imprisoned crew, not the failure to try and rescue me,” I scoffed at the notion, “why we have to have meetings like this one here.”

“I’m not sure I’ve known many men who wouldn’t be intimidated by a short division of the wall backed up with heavy cruisers and a flotilla of lesser ships,” the Warrant Officer finally said, and I could see that he was striving to be fair. That’s the moment I knew I had him; the hook was in his mouth and now all I had to do was gently reel him in.

“Intimidated, yes, I can see that,” I said with a nod in the other man’s direction as I agreed with his point, “but hesitation to the point of preparing to watch an execution instead?”

“Even still, the risks were extreme to the point of the unmanageable,” Laurent said, still in denial.

I shook my head firmly in violent negation. “I refuse to believe it,” I declared slamming an open hand against a nearby duralloy wall, “tell Commander Spalding the risks were unmanageable—or tell the Herring Captains in their hastily repaired pirate ships. You talk to Spalding and the temporary commanders of our own ships and if he, they, all, or even most of them agree with you, then come back to me and I’ll moderate my own position.”

“Sir!” he protested as if I were still being unreasonable.

“Months to get word and prepare, weeks in system gathering data and watching—a veritable Trojan horse with all our people gathered together inside that Dungeon ship—and the best the Easy Haven crew could do was sit back and watch as Spalding made a death ride across the system?” I scornfully blew a raspberry.

The Warrant Officer looked torn. “I understand your point, but I think you’re being too hard on them, Admiral,” he sighed.

“Easy Haven had more than twice the tonnage Spalding brought to Praxis and unlike his, theirs were recently refurbished ships!” I said hotly, more than a little furious that he was still arguing with me. I suddenly wondered if he would have gone this far disagreeing with me if I hadn’t lost the Lucky Clover?

“I think I see where you’re coming from now, Sir,” Laurent said finally nodding his head with me, “in fairness though, I feel I still have to point out that in the end it took all of our forces—MSP. Easy Haven and,” he quirked his lips, “even the Border World ‘Volunteers’ to extract us. I don’t think the issue is as clear cut as you’re making it out, certainly not to the point of distrusting or suspecting Easy Haven, our allies!”

I ran a hand over my face and then shrugged. “Okay,” I said neutrally.

Laurent opened his mouth to continue arguing and then paused. “What?” he asked with disbelief.

“I said ‘okay,’” I clarified, splaying my hands to signal my acceptance.

“I expected…” he trailed off and then stared at me in continued surprise.

“More disagreement? That fearsome Montagne paranoia you were so afraid had run rampant?” I grinned at him, “Perhaps even the refusal to admit that I might not be right about this?”

The Warrant Officer winced. “It sounds worse when you say it out loud like that,” he muttered and then gave me a penetrating look, “you’re not trying to shine me on now are you, Sir?”

I actually felt offended. “Prison has made you suspicious, Warrant Officer,” I growled and then took a breath, “look, I called you out here because you have my confidence. I trust you and needed your advice, not only as a trained naval officer,” I said then allowed my voice to harden as I clarified, “but as my long-standing Tactical Officer and a member of my trusted inner circle—” Realizing I might have flubbed the point by using a civilian term like ‘inner circle,’ I added, “Or rather, my military command team, such as it is. If you think I’m being too hard on the Easy Haven boys, then I would be a fool to ignore your advice—even if I happen to disagree with it. I am no fool.” At least I hope I’m not, I silently added.

I watched as the Officer silently chewed on this information. “I’m sorry for doubting you, Admiral,” the Warrant Officer said with serious expression on his face, “perhaps you’re right and imprisonment has made me untrusting.”

“It would take a better man than I am to avoid entertaining doubts about the man who lost his ship and got a lot of good men—including his friends and co-workers—killed, Officer Laurent,” I said bleakly.

There was a moment of embarrassed silence and then the Tactical Officer cleared his throat. “Was there anything else you wanted to go over, other than general suspicions about the Commodore and his Officers?” Laurent asked, attempting to change the subject to which I was more than amenable. “Not that I don’t understand how you feel, but in this case I’m not sure…”

“Let’s move on as you suggest,” I said agreeably.

“Right, very good, Sir,” He said hazarding a quick hint of a smile, to gauge my mood. I suppressed a sigh and allowed him to see a wry expression on my face to show I wasn’t holding any hard feelings. Whether or not I actually possessed such feelings was a consideration for another time. I hoped I didn’t, but everything had become so messed up and thrown topsy-turvy that, at times, I hesitated to trust even myself!

Firmly taking myself to task, since at that moment I desperately needed to pick my Tactical Officers brain, I smoothed out my expression and stiffened my spine. Posture and facial control was everything when it came to controlling one’s self and projecting that control onto the environment.

“In point of fact there is, Tactical Officer Laurent,” I agreed and then pondered the best way to ask the question. With a sigh I once again realized that I was going to have to expose my lack of military background. It was nothing I hadn’t expected coming in, but admitting to a lack of knowledge smacked too much of weakness—something I could ill afford right now. If my men lost faith in me, then we had nothing and my Uncle’s attack on our ship would go unavenged and all the damage he was doing would go unstopped.

“Sir?” Laurent prompted dragging me out from my contemplative state with a jerk.

“Sorry, I was woolgathering,” I admitted with a sheepish look. “Okay, here are my thoughts: the last communiqué we received on the Com-Stat network seemed to indicate that the self-styled Pirate King who took our ship is—or was—headed to Tracto.”

Laurent sucked in a breath. “You want to go after it…of course,” he said and while the Tactical Officer didn’t sound exactly encouraging, he also didn’t appear opposed—quite the opposite actually, if I read him correctly.

“Exactly,” I said with a shark-like smile, “and to do that we’re going to need more ships. I was thinking this might double as a combined strategy brainstorming meeting.”

“We’ll need a lot more tonnage than is available here if we’re to take on your Uncle and two Dreadnaught class Battleships,” Laurent said direly.

“I was thinking we could start with figuring out how get our hands on a certain Heavy Cruiser, the one they call the Little Gift,” I said, clenching my fist with satisfaction. He’d said ‘We’ll need,’ meaning he was consciously or unconsciously already assuming he would be part of the team that went after my blood-soaked relative.

“We’ll need a lot more than a single Heavy Cruiser and a Destroyer or two,” Laurent said looking and sounding unhappy, “and that’s assuming you can get your hands on it. The Commodore’s not going to be too likely to just hand over the most powerful ships in his task force, after all.”

“I might need some help at the appropriate time and place,” I allowed, and at Laurent’s suddenly skeptical look I suppressed a surge of rage. Why did everyone assume I was out to start some kind of revolutionary coup?! “I mean in a key meeting or strategy session,” I growled at him.

“Sorry, Sir,” he at least had the grace to look shame-faced in response to my rebuke.

“Besides, correct me if I’m wrong because while I know that the Clover and the Vineyard are bigger and tougher than the Gift,” I said raising a finger pointedly, “the Dreadnaught class is only a hundred meters bigger than the Commodore’s pirate conversion, and it’s been refitted and upgraded. I understand if we can’t take them in a stand up fight but with the right strategy and some luck…” I trailed off at the Tactical Officer’s now glum look.

“You have to remember that the Clover and Vineyard have been upgraded as well; while we were rotting away in durance vile they were getting new fusion generators and a face-lift,” Laurent said sourly.

“Even still,” I protested.

“Sorry, Admiral,” Laurent said adamantly, looking genuinely upset. That look did more to crush my hopes of a speedy ‘straight down their throats’ death ride to set everything right again. I silently placed my hands behind my back, digging the fingernails of my right hand deep enough into my left to draw blood. “I’m afraid that the ‘length’ alone isn’t enough of a measurement. T cruiser’s beam is smaller as well and when you factor in that despite its refit, the Cruiser is a hundred year old ship built on to an even older design plan and the Clover was built only about sixty years ago…”

“Alright, Officer, you’ve made your point and made it well,” I grumbled with a frown at the floor, “just give it to me straight: what are our chances?”

Laurent paused and then looked me in the eye, “Not good, Admiral. To have any chance of defeating a single Battleship like the Clover I’d say we’d need a minimum of two Cruisers like The Gift and then I’d say the odds were only moderately stacked against us. To be assured of winning it would take three or more,” he said with damning certainty.

“And of course we’re not dealing with only one Battleship, right, Mr. Laurent?” I said with a sinking sensation in my middle. “Are you sure our light units can’t somehow make up the shortfall? As I recall, the first time we faced Yagar and his Guard you seemed to think his two squadrons had a chance.”

“Two squadrons of light warships, fast and maneuverable, equipped with longer ranged weaponry than we were carrying had a substantial chance of knocking out our engines and winning a fairly painless victory against our lone Battleship,” Laurent agreed.

“But they have two such ships to cover each other and possibly longer ranged, upgraded weaponry as well,” I groaned as I realized where he was going next.

“Not to mention your Uncle was,” he saw the hard look I instantly shot him, “or rather, is still a pirate at heart. Even if he no longer has access to his old pirate fleet—a force according to our former prisoner Glue that had numerous light warships—it’s highly likely that the Pirate Prince will have captured or otherwise gotten his hands on one or more such lighter vessels to help address this very problem.”

“He is a pirate,” I mused, “and has delusions of grandeur; it would almost be noteworthy if he didn’t try to add ships to his fleet. Blast! I’d hoped for better news or at least projections than this, Tactical Officer,” I glared at the bearer of this bad news. “I hate to say it, Laurent, but you’re not really helping here.”

Laurent raised his brows and just looked at me skeptically.

I colored in response; my reply had clearly contained a bit too much of a ‘shoot the messenger’ tone.

“Well, we can’t do anything without more firepower than we currently possess,” I said splaying my hands and then making a fist where Laurent could see it, “so I’m still going to expect your help with getting us those vessels. We need warships with tonnage now that those yard dogs have down-checked our Hydra, and Easy Haven just so happens to have some vessels available to us.”

“It won’t be enough,” the other man shook his head as his eyes snapped back and forth contemplatively. “Even if you stripped the Star Base of everything here and abandoned Easy Haven…or rather, I suppose it just might if you could also manage to take each of Jean Luc’s ships one at a time and defeat them in detail,” Laurent warned.

“I get it,” I said irritably, “a straight-up fight won’t work without more ships. You just help me get my hands on what’s here that can be pried loose, and let me worry about the rest.”

Laurent frowned severely. “Even if we miraculously got our hands on more and bigger ships, we just don’t have the crew,” the Warrant Officer explained direly.

“Commander Spalding and I have a few irons in that fire,” I said coolly, not liking the way my Tactical Officer was instructing me on the realities of warfare—or the fact that I actually needed that instruction.

“Which part,” Laurent asked more skeptically than I was prepared to put up with, “the men or the warships?”

“Yes,” I snapped.

The Tactical Officer’s eyebrows climbed. “Interesting,” he said and I could see the gleam that was starting to enter his eyes.

“Help me keep the crew—our crew—onboard,” I said with a significant look. I was talking about our months ago-transferred to Easy Haven, or formerly imprisoned Lucky Clover men and women, “and I can take care of the rest. LeGodat will come around…he won’t have a choice.”

“Backing a man like the Commodore into a corner by ‘stealing’ his ships could have some unexpected results,” Laurent warned.

I cocked a single eyebrow at the other man, “How so?” I wasn’t fully aware he was warning me about another possible mutiny. Him, the very man who had just taken me to task for a lack of trust to our Easy Haven rescuers! The irony was nearly overwhelming but all I did was tighten my mouth. “Always keeping in mind that I am a Confederation Admiral and he is merely a Commodore—a rank he only holds because I field promoted him to it.”

“Well…you’re the Admiral, Sir,” Laurent said neutrally.

“Yes,” I agreed, “yes I am. Can I assume from your answer that I have your support?”

“Of course, Sir,” he sighed in response. Then he brightened, “It’ll be good to get back in the saddle again, Sir.” Then something seemed to occur to him, “Although, Sir, did I just hear you refer to the Chief Engineer by the rank of Commander?” he asked curiously.

“Indeed you did, Lieutenant Commander Laurent,” I said with a tight expression.

“I’m just a Warrant Officer, Admiral,” the Tactical Officer said, almost reflexively raising his hands between us like a wall.

“It’s come to my attention that I’ve been remiss in providing the appropriate promotions and rank to those crew and officers who have served the Confederation with distinction under my tenure,” I explained, forcing a smile as I did so. I didn’t add that what had brought it to my attention was the realization that almost all of ‘Commodore LeGodat’s’ men outranked mine, since he had been issuing field promotions since his assumption of command. I, on the other hand, had been all but oblivious to the entire issue until it had been literally rubbed in my face.

“Even still, it’s hardly necessary in my case,” Laurent reiterated, “or particularly wanted, truth be told.”

“The paperwork’s already on my desk having been signed, sealed and delivered to the hall of records,” I said, waving away his objections like they were buzzing flies, “we’ve lost too many men along the way and some fine good officers. It’s time for all of us to start stepping up to our new duties and responsibilities.”

“If you say so,” Laurent looked temporarily uneasy and then seemed to resign himself to this new state of affairs and put it behind him.

“I do,” I said simply with a curt nod.

Chapter 5: Pried from Reluctant Fingers

“Was there a particular reason you called this joint meeting Admiral?” Commodore LeGodat asked, looking at me sharply.

“Yes,” I said easily.

The Nordic-looking Officer standing behind the System Commander did a poor job of suppressing a snort at my response.

LeGodat’s face tightened as he turned to cast a quelling look at his Chief of Staff before once again turning back to face me.

“If the Admiral would care to share?” he asked with a professional smile. As always, the man looked like the epitome of a real Fleet Officer and if I hadn’t been so well-trained in courtly politics, I would have felt the urge to squirm under his gaze.

Fortunately, I was able to honestly remind myself that I was a battle-hardened warrior—one who didn’t quail in the face of disapproving auras.

“Certainly,” I said lightly, “having had the chance to rest and regroup after our harrowing experiences on Captain McCruise’s Dungeon Ship, I think it’s time to begin the next phase of our planning.”

“What phase would that be, Admiral?” LeGodat asked levelly, locking eyes with me.

“I’m surprised you even have to ask,” I said coolly. “Confederation warships, officers and crew have been attacked and illegally detained; it’s time to we stop reacting and start taking the fight to the enemy.”

“You want to attack the Sector Capital!” blurted the Commodore’s chief of staff. “Are you insane,” she asked and then gave a belated, “Admiral?” When LeGodat swiveled around to stare at her with eyes hot and angry with disapproval, she visibly withdrew.

For my part I gave her a hard look. I wasn’t the happy-go-lucky Admiral of yester months. The Admiral Montagne who had been almost killed and sent to prison had been a far nicer person than the hardened survivor that had emerged from that dungeon ship, and only the fact that I was about to take the lion’s share of the mobile assets in the Commodore’s line of battle made it possible for me to sit silent while some woman I didn’t even know insulted me publicly.

“Sorry, Sir,” the female officer said ducking her head at the Commodore and deliberately ignoring me.

“An apology, Lieutenant Commander Stravinsky,” LeGodat said his voice cracking like a whip, “now.”

“My apologies, Commodore LeGodat,” the Lieutenant Commander said stiffly.

“Not to me; to the Admiral,” the Acting System Commander’s voice grated.

“Apologies, Honorary Vice Admiral,” Stravinsky said her eyes burning when she turned to me, “I’m sure I must have misheard when you said you were planning to attack Central.”

The Commodore’s breath hissed out at this insult, but I lifted a finger before he could upbraid his officer further and watched as the Commodore’s mouth became a rigid line. For a moment I thought he was going to ignore my silent instruction, but after a brief pause he begrudgingly leaned back in his chair and gestured his acceptance.

Placing a meaningless court smile on my face I leaned forward and steepled my fingers. My shift in posture was rewarded when the female Officer assumed a position of attention under my gaze.

“Not only did you mishear, Lieutenant Commander,” I said evenly, “but even the manner in which you did so was insulting in the extreme.”

“I’m sorry if I damaged your feelings, Honorary Vice Admiral,” Stravinsky bit out. “However, attacking Central with the forces at our disposal would not only be perilously hazardous in the extreme to attempt, but morally ambiguous at beast!”

“Lieutenant Commander, you continue to harp on a conclusion I’ve already assured you is completely erroneous—desist at once,” I said flatly. “I was not talking about the Sector Government and their crimes against me, my crew or humanity but instead the Pirate Plague threatening this sector. As you might be aware, one of their leaders is currently in possession of my missing Flagship.”

“With respect, Sir, now you’re trying to say that instead of attacking a System protected by a squadron of The Wall in Praxis, you want to take on a pair of fully equipped Battleships?” Stravinsky pressed. Her posture was still stiff and at attention, but her voice dripped with disbelief and more than a touch of scorn. Clearly she thought either avenue more akin to suicide than strategy.

“That’s it; you’re relieved, Lieutenant Commander,” LeGodat barked. “Leave this conference room and consider yourself confined to quarters for the duration!”

“No-no,” I said making a chopping gesture with my hands, “let your Chief of Staff continue.”

“Thank you, Honorary—” the Lieutenant Commander’s mouth twisted slightly as she once again started to emphasize my somewhat irregular Flag Rank, but I decided it was time to cut her off.

“Are you aware that you’re voice becomes shriller than a fishmonger’s wife when you’re harping, Miss Stravinsky?” I observed clinically.

The Lieutenant Commander huffed with outrage. “As if you’ve ever met a fishmonger, let alone his wife!” snarled the Lieutenant Commander. “What gives you the right to speak for such people? Who do you think are you, Sir, the Tyrant of Cold Space?!”

“No, Miss Stravinsky,” I said mildly, “I merely think of myself as your Commanding Officer.”

“I am not an officer in your organization, Honorary Vice Admiral, nor am I planning to volunteer to serve under you,” stated Stravinsky. “I’m an activated reservist on Wolf-9 and not a member of your,” her mouth twisted rudely, “Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet. Or wait, you don’t have a Flagship anymore, you lost that one. Do you still even have a fleet, Sir? Of course, that might be remedied if you intend to take ours!”

“But I am!” Commodore LeGodat shouted. “And as your Commanding Officer I’m ordering you to back down Stravinsky before you find yourself at a Court Martial!”

“A Superior Officer then,” I said with a grave nod and completely ignoring the Commodore, my eyes locked solely with those of the Lieutenant Commander, “and as such, deserving of vastly more respect than you’ve been showing to me.”

“Respect has to be earned first, Sir,” Stravinsky said stiffly.

“Before the Imperials left us, Lieutenant Commander, I was a man with an empty title who was part of bankrupt royalty and had a meaningless job to do. I stood in front of the cameras and smiled—not too terribly unlike the duties of that reserve light squadron of yours,” I said with just a touch of venom. “In short, I lived and died by the empty words of myself and others,” I said my voice turning hard.

“You have my condolences, Honorary Vice Admiral; I’m sure it’s been a hard life,” she retorted her tone making it clear she felt the opposite of her words.

“I may not demand the actual feelings of respect you alluded to, Miss Stravinsky,” I said with dire promise, my courtly mask firmly in place, “but the words…those I ‘WILL’ have, Senior Lieutenant.”

“You may not be entirely familiar with our military ranks but it’s Lieutenant Commander, Honorary Vice Admiral, Sir,” Stravinsky said, arching an eyebrow as she stressed her rank.

“Not anymore,” I said with a pleasant smile, “at this point it’s either a voluntary reduction in rank, or the brig.”

“This is highly irregular, Admiral,” LeGodat said, his mouth dropping open. “I must protest,” he declared, his mouth snapping shut into a steel trap of disapproval for all present.

“At this point I have no choice but to exercise my right to legal counsel,” Stravinsky said stiffly, her eyes shooting hot and angry sparks my direction, “even if this goes before a Court Martial, you won’t get away with this, Honorary Vice Admiral Montagne. A panel of officers from this star base won’t allow it.”

“Allow?” I said in a low, dangerous voice. Shooting a glance over at LeGodat I saw that his eyebrows were climbing for the ceiling, and I leaned back in my chair and deliberately placed a highly satisfied smile on my face, knowing I still had one or two arrows in my quiver. “An interesting choice of words, Miss Stravinsky, however I think you are forgetting that any judicial panel of ‘Confederation’,” I stressed the word, “Officers would consist of an equal number of Wolf-9 and the MSP—to ensure an unbiased result, of course.”

“Easy Haven will not sit still for this!” Stravinsky shouted.

“Mutiny?” I asked mildly, “as you may be aware I have some measure of familiarity dealing with such.”

“We’ve all seen how well you’ve dealt with—” Stravinsky sneered before she was cut off.

“Enough!” roared the Commodore, “both of you!” He slammed a fist onto the conference table, activating the communication system.

“Lieutenant Drecker,” replied the desk promptly.

“Send a quad of marines into the conference room on the double,” LeGodat ordered, glaring at the two of us while Laurent continued to remain silent in the corner.

I kept my face impassive while I waited. I had thousands of crew who would probably take my orders over the Commodore’s, but only a single company of lancers. Most of those Lancers were busy guarding the Sector Guard and their Corvettes until Druid finalized which Captains, ships and crew were staying. Such was a far cry from the overwhelming firepower I’d enjoyed during my last stays here. Unfortunately my best play was probably to be a responder at this point. If I was perceived as the one to initiate hostilities….the potential consequences of that thought didn’t bear considering. I was walking a razor thin line, after all…but what else was new?

“And when they ask what their assignment is?” Lieutenant Drecker asked with sudden tension in his voice.

“They’ll be briefed on the situation when they get here,” LeGodat snapped, and his finger stabbed down to cut the connection.

“Sir, if I may,” the Lieutenant Commander turned to LeGodat.

“No, you may not, Stravinsky; you’ve done quite enough already,” Commodore LeGodat snapped and then rounded on me. “As have you, Admiral,” he glared.

“Oh?” I said evenly.

“I could quote the exact rules and regulations, but I’m going to keep this simple and put it in a way you cannot possibly misunderstand, Sir,” he said with icy precision.

I leaned back in my chair and folded my hands together.

“This is my House,” he scowled his voice like iron, “and you are my guest. As long as you are such, you will not issue orders to my people or my staff under my roof. Any and all orders will pass down the chain of command—meaning, for clarity’s sake, through me. Do I make myself clear, Admiral Montagne?”

“Quite, Commodore LeGodat,” I said inclining my head as would one noble to another on Capria, “and I apologize if I have imposed.”

“Just so long as we understand one another, Sir,” he said, his eyes boring into mine.

“Have no fear, Commodore, I think we have reached a new meeting of the minds,” I drawled, flipping a languid wrist as if brushing off a minor matter. “Your house means your rules. I am firmly reminded that this visit as I come in reduced circumstances, and as such I am perhaps imposing on your hospitality? If I should infringe on your generosity a second time, just say the word and I…” this time I paused to give extra ironic weight to my next words, “along with all of my retainers shall depart post haste, to trouble you and yours no longer.”

“Damn you,” Stravinsky breathed, clearly not liking the thought of my men in all their thousands departing form Easy Haven, “you bastard! You would take all your men and leave us defenseless?! I knew you couldn’t be trusted the first time I laid eyes on you.”

“There’s no need for such displays of your clearly volatile temper, Miss,” I rebuked her as gently as I was able. “I see no reason that we cannot still be friends or, if we must part, that it can’t be done as amicably as possible,” I said giving the Commodore a nod. “But I must insist that either we are all in this together and I will have the respect due my station, or we are not and you are all free to speak to me however you choose.”

LeGodat’s face had turned a deep shade of fiery red as his Chief of Staff and I continued to spar.

The door to the conference room swept open before he had to say something and a quad of power-armored Confederation Marines stepped into the room.

“3rd Quad reporting as ordered, Commodore,” a Marine Sergeant stepped forward and drew himself up to attention.

The Commodore locked gazes with me and if he was going to violently dissolve our relationship, this would be the perfect time. I was weak and discredited, so if he was going to strike he wasn’t going to get a better chance. Who knows, with me out of the way and the right spin put on these events, my discrediting among the former men of the Clover both former prisoners and transferees—begun when I lost the old Battleship—could be complete.

However, I was well-trained in the art of not being seen to sweat, and my time in prison had forced me to face some of my deepest fears. Good or ill, I was no longer the man I had been before suffering in durance vile.

I met his glaring eyes coolly, refusing to back down. Compromise had failed me in the past and gotten a lot of good men killed. While the old Jason Montagne might have felt compelled to issue second chances and attempt to sweep everything under some kind of an all-encompassing rug, the New Me was determined not to give an inch. Inches became miles, insults and discontent became outright rebellion, and then ships were lost and men died. These people were supposed to be my allies! Next to the people of Tracto, I had done more for LeGodat and those under his command than anyone. If that wasn’t good enough and they now wanted me to leave, I would take my ball and go home.

LeGodat’s mouth twisted, and I cocked my head pointedly, making it perfectly clear that the choice was his.

Head creaking like it was a stone sphinx, the Commodore turned to the Sergeant.

“Take Stravinsky to her quarters, disable her communication links and see that she stays there. You are to use any level of force necessary to ensure she complies,” Colin LeGodat said baring his teeth.

“Aye aye, Sir,” the Marine said bracing to attention before turning to the Lieutenant Commander, “come along, you.”

Head high and chin up, the woman marched out of the room under her own power.

The System Commander waited until the door had closed before turning to me with burning eyes.

“You may have just cost me my Chief of Staff and one of my best officers,” he snapped.

“Let me be blunt,” I replied my eyes narrowing, “you can muzzle your dog or let her bite, but at this point anything that threatens to attack me is going to get savaged. I’m in no mood to be pressed.”

“I think you’re forgetting something,” LeGodat glared, taking a step forward to loom over me.

“I have already extended the hand of friendship to Wolf-9, so either we’re in this together until the bitter end and I will have more respect than that Officer was prepared to give me, or we’re not and it’s every man for himself,” I said coolly, rising to my feet and matching his glare with a dispassionate stare of my own. “The decision is yours, Colin; my position remains unchanged.”

“Blast it, Admiral,” Commodore LeGodat swore, thumping a fist on the conference table before slumping back into his chair, “of course we’re still on the same side! But I desperately need every trained officer I can lay my hands on. Besides, by all the angry space gods, this was a reserve formation, not regular duty Confederated Imperial Navy. I’m not excusing what she said,” he raised a hand to pound the table for emphasis, “but if you’re going to actively stop me from heading these sorts of things off at the pass, then I can’t be responsible for the results! Of all the blighted things I might have expected from this meeting, losing my Chief of Staff was not among of them!”

“Perhaps I could have sat back and allowed you to deal with your officer,” I said, working to sound agreeable and conciliatory, even though on the inside I figured something like this was inevitable. The men and women of this Fleet needed to see that I was back on top, and if that meant laying down the law on one of their own officers then so be it. The last thing I needed was an Officer like Stravinsky running around bad-mouthing me and spreading rumors and discontent behind my back. I was determined to nip that kind of thing in the bud.

“Please, Admiral, I’m not saying to let discipline fall by the wayside here. But at least allow me to handle my own people in the future,” Colin LeGodat said urgently.

“No blood oaths on this,” I said with a nod, “but I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

“Morale is high right now,” he replied with more than a touch of frustration, “and so soon after a successful rescue operation that’s not hard to understand, but we’re not in a position of strength and every single person here knows it. Central holds nearly every advantage now and they poisoned the well for us when they thrashed your image in the court of public opinion. It’s going to be difficult enough as is; there’s no need to help tear ourselves apart, Sir.”

“Central doesn’t hold all the cards,” I said sharply.

“Be that as it may—” LeGodat started.

“No, Commodore,” I cut him off.

The other man took a long breath, visibly struggling with his temper before once again assuming his usual professional demeanor. “Please go on, Admiral,” he finally replied, and if I didn’t know of his recent high emotion, I might not have recognized the slight tension in his voice.

“I still have a few aces up my sleeve, Commodore,” I said confidently and then gave him a sly smile, “besides, let me assure you the ‘Core Worlds’ and their misguided opinions are not everything.”

“This fictitious Border Alliance we all heard about, Admiral?” LeGodat said expressionlessly. “It was my understanding from reading the reports and talking with your bridge crew at the time that it was all a bluff.”

I suppressed a frown, realizing he had been interviewing my bridge crew? I quickly produced what I hoped was a nice enigmatic smile.

“Not everything is as fictitious as the ‘task group’ that helped rescue us at Praxis,” I said.

“An interesting deception,” LeGodat mused, “although I’d hate to be on the planetary systems of the supposed alliance when Central gets around to sending an expeditionary force.”

“All the more reason to support the Confederation and seek its protection,” I shrugged.

“That seems harsh and overly Machiavellian,” LeGodat frowned a touch of hardness entering his voice, “I hope that bringing Central retribution down on the heads of innocent star systems wasn’t a deliberate result of your ploy.”

“Of course not,” I retorted, “it was a creation of the moment, conceived only after seeing the threat plot on my main board.”

That in a moment of time during the escape I had made the snap decision to shift the blame onto those Systems with the worst, most insulting and obstructionist governors on the border, I thought it better not to bring up.

“I’ll have to remember that for the future,” LeGodat said thoughtfully.

I raised an eyebrow quizzically.

“Exactly how quick you can come up with one of your schemes, when put on the spot,” LeGodat clarified with a faint smile.

My mouth tightened, as I knew that the last thing I needed was to become predictable—to anyone, even my closest allies. To hide the concern these words left me with, I leaned back in my chair with a pleasant, meaningless expression on my face and sat there waiting for his next move.

The Commodore sighed, “What did you call this meeting for, Admiral? I’m pretty sure it wasn’t for the purpose of sounding out my officers, and I hope it wasn’t for having my Chief of Staff confined to her quarters.”

I released a pent up breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding and gestured to the former Warrant Officer. Disaster thankfully seemed to have been averted…for the moment.

“I’ll have the Lieutenant Commander begin the presentation,” I said with a nod to Officer Laurent, who had been standing quietly—and more than a little wide-eyed—in the corner of the conference room to that point. I was going to have to remember that the man knew when to keep silent and let the leaders hash things out.

“Admiral, you clearly want something so let’s save us all some time and cut to the chase. What exactly are you after here?” LeGodat said, starting to rise irritably. I stared at him for a moment and then motioned for Laurent to hold.

“The Heavy Cruiser and two of your three Destroyers,” I said in a flat, no-nonsense voice. In this moment I wanted to make it clear that I was the Admiral, and I was issuing my instructions—or, rather, my commands.

The Commodore sat back in his chair with a thump, and I knew that if there was going to be breach between us this was going to be the moment. The drama with his Chief of Staff was a peripheral issue; this was the critical juncture.

Trying not to appear as if I was watching every move and gesture the other man was making, I reached over for the tea pot I’d requested be available before the meeting. “I also want McCruise’s dungeon ship and a pair of merchant freighters taken out of mothballs and refurbished on a priority basis for my recruiting drive.”

Carefully I poured the tea into two cups and set one of them before the System Commander.

“Sweet crying Murphy, but you don’t ask much do you, Admiral? You just want my entire order of battle!” the Commodore said sardonically.

Flashing a smile to show I had acknowledged the hit I quickly schooled my face back into pleasant impassivity and cocked my head. Now it was time for the olive branch.

“You haven’t heard what I’m offering by way of recompense yet, Commodore,” I said mildly.

LeGodat picked up his cup and threw back the entire cup of tea in one shot. “This’ll be good,” he said leaning back in his chair.

“In return for your three biggest ships, I’m willing to give you one of Druid’s corvettes and the Hydra,” I said, to which LeGodat snorted a tiny spray of tea out through his nostrils. “Besides,” I grinned, “you’ll still have all your current corvettes, plus one, and the Light Destroyer on top of that.”

“You want The Gift, two of my Destroyers and the dungeon ship, in exchange for a Corvette and a wreck of a Medium Cruiser destined for the breakers!” LeGodat choked out the words, even as he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped around his nose, face and hands.

“Yes,” I replied simply. LeGodat carefully placed the handkerchief down beside his tea cup, careful to wipe the tips of his fingers first.

“I think—” he visibly hesitated before continuing, “That is, I’m definitely going to need the long version on this one, Sir,” he said, picking up the tea service and carefully pouring himself another cup with unsteady hands. “Just tell me this first: what do you intend to do with them? I mean, my entire current mobile forces combined couldn’t take on two fully functional Battleships, let alone the Central or the entire Praxis SDF! We’d need our fixed defenses—which cannot be moved, Sir.”

“I have a plan and no, it doesn’t involve dealing with the Praxis SDF,” I said simply, and then silently added, for now. Turning with a genuine smile, I gestured for the Lieutenant Commander to begin his presentation.

Colin LeGodat leaned back and tried to look skeptical, but as Laurent got further and further into his presentation the Commodore started to lean forward and ask a series of pointed, technical questions and his excitement started to visibly rise before he caught himself.

Clenching my fists under the table I could tell from the Commodore’s reaction that I had all but won. Oh, he might kick and scream for a while and drag his feet, but the initial plan was sound. Now all I had to do was start readying the ships.

Unfortunately for the Commodore’s future piece of mind, I was holding back a few minor details so as not to upset him. After all, and as the former Warrant Officer himself had just pointedly informed me several times, Operational Security and a need to know meant even Commodores—or Admirals—might be left in the dark at times.

In my considered opinion, the Commodore definitely didn’t need to know—at least, not everything.

So that’s why I leaned back in my chair and smiled as the Lieutenant Commander went through the operational plan I’d had him draw up for me and felt a wave of relief wash over me that we had managed to, at least in principle, gain control over enough material assets to have a shot at pulling this off.

As far as I was concerned, it was all over but the fighting.

Chapter 6: It’s a Spalding

He was the very model of a recently upgraded space engineer.

“You wanted to see me, Sir?” asked a pleasant sounding, female voice

“What?” Spalding jerked and his head slammed against the junction box near the entrance to the crawl space. His droid legs whined angrily in response and his precarious position half in and half out of the tube was lost. Gravity made itself known with a clang as he landed feet first on the deck and promptly over balanced.

“Erk! Let me help,” exclaimed woman and he felt a pair of hands on his arm. Placing his weight on her shoulder proved a mistake and over they went to land in a heap on the floor.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that,” Spalding said pushing himself off the floor and levering himself back up to his feet using the wall. It was only when he was back on his feet that he then started noticing that she was a petite-looking crewwoman—one definitely on the small, puny-ish side, if he was any judge—and definitely in a Confederation uniform. She was also wearing Com Tech patches on her uniform, his experienced old eyes noted, “what is the meaning of this ambush, crewwoman?!” he barked.

“Sorry, Commander Spalding, no ambush intended, Sir!” the crewwoman drew herself up to attention and then saluted.

“Oh, at ease, at ease,” he scowled thunderously and opened his mouth to castigate her properly for sneaking up on an old man like that when something she said caught him up short, “Commander? What kind of brown-nosing poppycock is this? I’ve never made it past Lieutenant.”

“Sir?” the crewwoman asked hesitantly.

“Brown-nosing a superior is perilously close to the black art of slacking, my young Technician,” he warned, wagging a finger at her. “Be mindful you avoid it at all costs whenever we are serving onboard the same ship.”

The crewwoman blinked rapidly for several seconds.

“But we’re not on a ship, we’re on a station, Comma—I mean, Chief Engineer Spalding,” she said hesitantly.

Spalding could feel his ears getting hot.

“Besides,” she added pulling out a data slate and quickly scrolling through it, “I’m sure I saw your new rank listed on the new Table of Organization updates.”

“What?! Give me that,” Spalding ordered snatching the slate from her hands and staring down at the screen. “Why, I’ll be…a Commander at last.” He looked down at her and confided, “You know, I always figured the only way I’d make Lieutenant Commander was post-humorously.”

When the little tech stared up at him in confusion he added. “You know, after I died,” he explained gruffly, then seeing the light of understanding illuminate her small head he smiled and looked back down at his slate, “I’ll be, I made Commander.”

He was still shaking his head in wonder when the Tech sounded off. “Then allow me to be the first to compliment you on your promotion, ‘Commander’ Spalding,” she grinned up at him.

“Why, thank you, lass,” he said happily and then caught himself. He quickly frowned at her, “What did you say your name was again?”

“Oh right,” she said quickly drawing herself back up to attention and giving him a snappy salute, “Lisa Steiner, at your service, Sir!”

“Steiner, where have I heard that name before,” he frowned searching his old memory banks before snapping his fingers in realization. “Ah yes, now I remember; you’re that half pint Com-Tech what tried to bust out the Little Admiral all on your lonesome! Good job, lass…now, that’s the kind of spirit we need more of in this here Confederation outfit we have going on,” he said chucking her on the shoulder in approval.

When she staggered out of her ‘at attention’ posture and brushed up against the wall, he realized he’d once again over done it.

“Sorry there, Lass,” he said with real concern, “those quacks gave me back my strength, and I fear I’m still not used to it yet.”

“No problem, Sir,” Steiner muttered, rubbing her arm and then massaging it, “I guess I should have braced myself properly.”

“No-no,” Spalding disagreed irritably, “the problem’s with the old curmudgeon—me. I’ve got to remember my strength is back like before I got old. Please accept the apology of an old, quack-bitten engineer.”

“Of course, Commander,” she said with a last wince as she finished rubbing her arm, then releasing it she straightened. “Anyway sir, here I am and reporting for duty!” she finished flashing him a smile.

Even though she looked pretty frail to him and there wasn’t enough meat on her bones to make up half a real woman like his fair Glenda, Spalding couldn’t help himself responding to her pluck and ‘can do’ attitude.

“That’s the spirit, lass,” he said with a grin, “and welcome to the Admiral’s recruiting drive.”

“Recruiting drive, Chief Engineer?” Steiner asked curiously.

“Aye, the Admiral’s finally got it through his thick skull that we need to start recruiting full steam.” This time he gave her a wink, and tapped his own head for emphasis, “Took him long enough to figure and he needed a small push along the way, o’course, but he’s got the right idea now.”

“I see,” the Com Tech sounded perplexed and looking very much like she didn’t quite see at all.

“Now,” he continued, “the Admiral wanted me to directly oversee the drive, but of course he’s not looking at the big picture yet. Oh don’t you worry yerself; I’ll set him straight on that soon enough,” Spalding assured her. “Now, at the same time he’s recommended you to me as being a great communicator.”

The Com-Tech looked uneasy. “I know to work the communication equipment and how to make sure the messages go out and come back, but knowing how to send information is pretty different from being a ‘communicator’, Sir,” Steiner said warily.

“Nonsense,” Spalding retorted bluntly, “I’ve read the reports and talked to your fellow co-conspirators after the mutiny, after the Admiral recommended you to me. I think you’ll make a fine Officer.”

“An Officer! Commander Spalding, I’m just a Technician!” Lisa Steiner spluttered. “I don’t have that kind of training.”

“Oh, never fear, lass; we’ll give you time to get your face wet before throwing you off the deep end,” Spalding hastened to assure her.

“Being an Officer’s like swimming lessons?” she asked incredulously. “In that case, I fear I’d drown. Please find someone more qualified, Sir.”

“That’s why we’ll start ye out as a simple Warrant Officer,” Spalding continued, pointedly speaking over the top of her.

“I’m really not sure if I’m even qualified for such a promotion,” the little Com-Tech said looking worried, “it’s not like I’ve done anything to really deserve this.”

“Nonsense,” Spalding scolded her with a severe look, “you’ll do just fine. Both the Admiral and myself have looked at your file, and we—not to mention the entire MPF—are counting on you!”

The little tech had the grace to duck her head shame-faced. “I appreciate your faith in me, Sir. You and the Admiral both, but are you really certain there’s not someone else that’s better suited for whatever job this is exactly?”

“You don’t even know what the job is and already you’re trying to say how you’re not qualified,” Spalding glared at her. Thoughts of would-be slacking twirling through his brain, he hooked his thumbs through his tool belt. Unconsciously his hands seemed to reach for the plasma torch fastened there of their own accord.

“What is the job?” she asked in a small voice.

“The Admiral wants that Tracto-an gunner of yours to spear head the recruiting drive,” Spalding explained.

“Us?” Steiner blanched with dismay. “I mean, I’m sure Hierophant makes a great gunner and there’s no one I’d trust more in any kind of a pinch but…us?” she trailed off to finish staring at him wide eyed.

“Despite what the Admiral wants to think, I’m going to be far too busy with other things—like repairing the warships we’re going to need in order to reclaim the Clover! To hold hands on a simple recruiting drive….well I’m an engineer, not a recruiter,” he said shaking his head. “Anyway, that’s why the Tracto-an’s going to pose for the recruiting posters and holo-vid advertisement skits, and you’ll be there to talk to officials and convince the people they need to sign up for Confederation service,” Spalding explained.

The lass started to open her mouth to protest yet again, he was sure. So he gave her a hard look, causing her to snap her mouth shut in an instant.

“I can count on you, can’t I, Warrant Steiner?” Spalding seemed to say rather than ask, placing a hand on her shoulder and giving her a searching look, “The Admiral need us, girl.”

“It’s for the, Admiral, is it?” she muttered under her breath, looking down at the decking.

“Yes, Ms. Steiner, ye’ve been called to duty,” he said gravely, “will you serve?”

Steiner stopped staring at the floor and looked up to meet his gaze with a new determined glint in her eye.

“You can count on me, Sir,” Lisa Steiner said heavily before stiffening her spine slightly. “You and the Admiral can both count on us,” she added much more firmly than before, “I know I speak for Hierophant when I say that.”

“Good lass,” Spalding said remembering at the last minute to reduce his power when thumping her on the shoulder much more gently than before, “you’ve just made an old engineer very proud.”

“I’m glad you believe we can do this, Commander Spalding, because I have to admit that I’m more than a little worried myself. I mean, we’ve never actually done anything like this before…unless Hierophant was some kind of recruiter back on his home world and just never mentioned it to me,” Lisa added, worrying her lower lip between her teeth.

“I wouldn’t send you out with the Dungeon Ship if’n I didn’t think you could handle it,” Spalding assured her in a soothing voice, “you’ve proven you have the right kind of can-do attitude that will get things done!” he said, clenching his fist and raising it in the air at the memory of others who had been unable to get things done and lost his precious Clover.

“You’re sending us out on a recruiting drive…in a Dungeon ship,” the new little Warrant Officer looked appalled, “the same one we were held prisoner on along with the Admiral?”

“The one and the same,” Spalding agreed, “we’re refurbishing a couple extremely old freighters, but that’ll take a while. So in the meantime we’re just going to have to make do with what we have on hand. That means the dungeon ship.”

“Sir, I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just going to put it out there: if you want to send me back to the Com-section later I’ll understand,” Steiner said taking a deep breath, “putting recruits onboard a dungeon ship is a terrible idea. Heck, just showing up in a star system with a dungeon ship as our transport will turn off people who might otherwise be interested in serving. No one wants to sign up for a prison ship!”

“You have a good point,” Spalding said agreeably, “that’s why it’s going to be your job to reclassify the ship as a recruit transport, and change all the transponders and communications protocols accordingly.”

“Sir,” Warrant Steiner protested, “changing the electronic signature won’t be enough; anyone with a working sensor cluster will know from its profile exactly what kind of ship it is. Then it’ll be all over the planetary news networks in hours about how we tried to disguise the ship!”

“We can tack-weld a few plates and antennas to the outside of the ship,” Spalding said waving the issue away, “we’ve got plenty of material floating around in mothballs just waiting to be used. I’ll assign you an engineering party to take care of the details.”

“What if someone recognizes it anyway and asks why we’re trying to hide it?” Lisa asked sounding less the intrepid Officer and more the budding slacker.

“Why then just tell them the truth, lass!” Spalding exclaimed irritably. “Say that the ship’s been modified inside and out to make it a more effective recruit transport ship, and try to minimize the PR damage. Sweet Crying Murphy, do I have to do everything myself? We have to have recruits to man our ships, and that ship is the lone transport we have available as of today and it’s our job—well, mostly now your job—to make this thing work.”

“I understand, Commander Spalding, and we’ll do our best,” Steiner replied with less enthusiasm than he had hoped for, but more than he had feared to find. “We’ll get you those recruits.”

“Good,” he growled and then with a last final glance at the malfunctioning control box inside the crawlspace, he shook his head bitterly. “Alright then, follow me so that we can get you up to speed as quickly as possible and I can hand off responsibility for the Drive to you.”

“Sir, something just occurred to me,” Steiner said timidly, “what are we supposed to do if someone attacks us? You know, like pirates or the Sector Guard?”

“Word is Druid and a number of his bunch have signed up,” Spalding replied, rubbing his chin as he conveyed this, “in his wisdom, the Admiral’s decided not to include them in the main fleet, but instead to send them out alongside your dungeon ship as an escort force.”

“I see,” Lisa said faintly.

“Don’t worry; you’ll have a Captain to run the ship, and the Commodore to handle the escort and protection duties. All you’ll have to worry about is packing the new ‘recruit transport’ full of blokes ready, willing and eager to join the outfit,” he hastened to assure her. “You and that Hierophant will only just have to focus on recruitment. First with the Dungeon ship, and then later on with those freighters,” he added, slamming a fist into his other, open hand.

“Oh, and that reminds me,” Spalding said thoughtfully, “I’ll need to check in over there and make sure those constructor engineering lads remember to install sufficient life support to handle filling those two freighters up with crewmen and women. You can’t trust ‘em—civilians, I mean,” he explained as they strolled over and then into the nearest lift cube. “I had to deal with a number of them over at Gambit, and let me tell you: some of them even tried to form a space committee that would tell us what we could and couldn’t do!”

“Yes, Sir,” Warrant Steiner said dutifully.

“Of course, I put a stop to that,” Spalding declared placing his hands on his hips and scowling in remembrance. Stomping out of the lift toward the Station’s engineering section, the whine of his droid legs brought back the memory of the first time he’d had to beard that Demon-cursed abortion of a space committee. The only good thing about that whole affair had been seeing Glenda. Ah, sweet Glenda…

“Something that just occurred to me, Commander Spalding,” Steiner said respectfully, breaking his train of thought.

“What, Warrant?” he asked gruffly, to cover for his recent bout of woolgathering. What was he, some young swain lost to duty in a haze-like trance over the beauty of his would-be inamorata?

“I was thinking that most recruiters at least mention earning power when recruiting new crew,” Steiner said biting her lip and looking worried. “I was wondering about offering a bonus to help increase recruitment numbers, but then I realized something…” she trailed off before straightening her features and womanfully continuing, “I’m owed several months back pay, and so are a lot of other people. Just how can we assure to pay them an honest yearly wage when our own pay is already in arrears? I realize that half our pay is put in a Caprian account for our return and the rest is paid out of the ship’s treasury, but if we’ve already run out of ship funds…”

“Money worries is it, eh?” Spalding said pursing his lips in realization and then a light went off and he smiled down at her, “Never fear lass; Papa Spalding’s got the fix. I’ll need to have a word with the purser…” he paused as he mulled over the best way to deal with it.

“I don’t think the purser is holding back, Commander,” Steiner said uneasily, “I know Easy Haven had some funds and has paid for the crew we transferred over so far, but word is they have to be running low on credits too. What with being an old, barely active base, rumor is they’ve been using funds intended for the Light Squadron’s repair budget to make wages.”

“Don’t worry,” Spalding said brushing off the issue, “all will be straightened out as soon as I’ve spoken with the purser. Your back wages will be taken care of, stand on me, lass.”

“But, Sir! Even if we cover up the back wages how will I be able to offer sign on bonuses for specialists and trained officers?” Steiner all but yelped.

Spalding came a stop in the middle of the corridor and looked down at her with narrowed eyes. The way she ducked her head had him shaking his head.

“No need to be timid, lass; you’ve brought up some good points. Although you’re lack of faith in your Chief Engineer leaves something to be desired,” he finished severely, and then started ticking off points on his fingers.

“I suppose you’ll need a war chest of your own to do the signing payouts,” he said.

“Yes, Sir, but that’s what I’m trying to tell you,” the new Warrant explained in an overly patient voice, “I don’t think we have the money. Where are we supposed to get the funds? I suppose we could try to collect taxes owed to the Confederation, since it’s about time for the yearly collections but even so…we’re the military. Do we even have that right, Sir?”

“Hmm, interesting point and something we’ll have to look into down the road—maybe even have the Ship’s Legal Officer take a look, he seemed to do well enough for the Admiral in that Trial of his,” Spalding said reaching up to twirl a bit of hair only to have his finger clang off the metallic portion of his skull, causing him to scowl at the loss of his once-magnificent mane.

“But that’s all beside the point, Warrant,” he barked. “I said Papa Spalding would take care of all your worries, and that’s what I meant!”

“Sorry, Chief Engineer,” Steiner said backing away, “I’ll just be going to see about Hierophant and begin the organizing.”

“Now wait just a blasted minute Warrant!” Spalding declared, stepping forward and landing a heavy hand on her shoulder, he ignored the grunt she gave as he leaned part of his weight on her arm. “I said I’d take care of your monetary woes and that’s exactly what I meant,” he growled, “so we’re off to see the purser right now!”

“But, Sir, I believe the purser is broke!” Steiner yelped as he dragged her along.

“I heard you the first time, lass,” Spalding snapped, and the young woman wisely decided to remain silent but it was too late for that, she’d doubted his abilities. “What is it with the younger generation these days? They seem to think that everyone they meet is deaf,” he raged, going off on one of his newest pet peeves. “Didn’t her Chief Engineer just tell her that he would solve all her woes? But do they believe a man when he says he’ll set it right? Oh no,” he snapped, “they doubt him, they remind him, and silently they mock him and wonder if, after those quacks got done with him, if he’s really just a tin-headed, space-crazed old coot what never made past Lieutenant JG on account of his eccentricities! Don’t help none them Tracto-an types constantly referrin’ to him as a ‘wizard,’ I suppose,” he admitted introspectively in the midst of his tirade.

“Sir, I never!” the female Warrant said in an elevated voice sounding increasingly concerned as he frog marched her back to the lift. “Please let me go, Commander!”

“Well, we don’t need no magician to wave his hands and produce the needed credits,” Spalding declared, ignoring the little woman’s protestations.

“What do you mean, Sir?” Lisa Steiner asked, hurrying along to keep up with the Chief Engineer’s long strides.

Realizing his overly long droid legs were once again proving their inferior design, the old Engineer reluctantly slowed his pace.

“We’ll head back over to the Medium Cruiser right away and get this all sorted out right,” he declared.

“We will?” Lisa Steiner asked despairingly. “How will that solve any of our problems, Chief?”

“It’s simple,” Spalding said throwing his hands wide and consequently releasing his hold on her shoulder, “why, any fool could see it, if they just looked at it for half a second.”

“Yes, Sir,” the Warrant said looking at him with a look he was too familiar with lately.

“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?” he growled at her angrily. “Well, when I’m done showing you the pirate treasure we’ve got locked up in her holds, you and all the rest of the doubting Janes will be eating crow!”

“Pirate Treasure?” Steiner gaped. “You mean you have…treasure on the old ship?!” she said her eyes lighting up like Christmas lights.

“Well, of course we have treasure in holds—and a whole pile of credits in the Captain’s strongbox, to boot,” Spalding explained in a slow, condescending tone. “Why, the Admiral’s Lady took the Omicron,” he said looking at her like she was stupid, “a larger pirate stronghold you’ll not find within three sectors, and of course that tough ol’ nut had treasure inside of her. The Lady knew the Admiral would probably need some for later on…” he paused in reflection, while the little Warrant’s mouth dropped open. “Of course, she was mostly talking about a ransom and how we should pay to get him back with the needful if we could. But of course I had a better plan than trusting to the word of crooked politicians,” he said knowingly, “based on rock-solid engineering principles and—”

Near to the point of bursting, the little Warrant started hopping from foot to foot in her excitement. As it was clear she wanted to say something, the old Engineer came to a verbal halt and stared down at her with a gimlet eye.

“What do ye have to say, lass,” he sighed, disappointed at the way she was breaking up a good story in such a fashion.

“Treasure and credits—you mean we actually have spoils of war taken from the pirates!” Steiner clapped her hands with excitement. The out and out giggler looked more like she was a groupie for some kind of boy-band than a professional crewwoman and recently promoted Warrant Officer.

“That’s what I was just tellin’ ye…up until I was so rudely interrupted,” Spalding grunted and then muttered under his breath, ‘idjits’.

“Hurray!” Steiner said pumping her fist in the air. “We’re saved; the Lady’s done it!”

“Oh, stuff and nonsense,” Spalding groaned at her antics, “and try to keep that girlish nonsense under control until after we’ve transferred the loot!”

“Of course, Commander Spalding,” Steiner said hastily and then quickly schooled her face.

Muttering under his breath, the old Engineer peered around the next corner before hurrying her along. He knew that money always attracted jackals, and the thought occurred that maybe he should call for a couple of Lancers to escort them over and back…just in case.

“O’course, the most valuable liquid wealth we have is a little something I got my hands on back at Gambit,” Spalding couldn’t help but brag, “a compilation of tech manuals—Imperial tech manuals,” he added when the former Com-Tech didn’t seem to immediately understand.

“Imperial…” she trailed off, looking confused.

“Advanced technology and design schematics well beyond anything they’ve got access to in the Border Worlds,” Spalding grinned slyly, “now those will sell for a pretty penny…wouldn’t you say?”

Steiner nodded her head rapidly, her eyes going wide at the implications of his words. When he saw her starting to look at him with growing awe, he knew that his work here was done.

Just as he had done countless times before, it seemed that Papa Spalding would have to pull these greenhorns through the fire with nothing but his bare hands and the application of solid, fundamentally sound engineering principles.

Chapter 7: Dealing with Brence

“So you want me to go out to Gambit Station with you?” Brence asked eagerly.

“Sorry, lad, I don’t think I was entirely clear,” Spalding harrumphed as he slid back out from under the junction box in the crawlspace—the very same one he’d been interrupted from before. This time he was careful to not bump his head as he exited, though. “Look, we’ll be travelling out together for part of the way, but completely on different ships. I’ll be in a fast courier vessel, you see, while you’re going to be heading out in one of those destroyers the Admiral broke loose from the Commodore. It’s the only thing large enough to hold the repair team you’ll need when you stop on over at the Omicron.”

“The Omicron? I thought you needed me to help you back over on Gambit,” Brence looked crestfallen but then he perked up. “What’s this I hear about treasure and getting our back wages paid?”

“Pull it back, lad,” Spalding growled, furious at the idea that treasure was more important than a badly-needed repair job—a job just like the half disassembled junction box he was still working on! The other man’s expression quickly evened out and his shoulders straightened in a proper semblance of military attention. “Listen up,” Spalding barked, “this is a mission-critical task I’m assigning you. We don’t have time to stand around jawing about money and credits, not when the Admiral’s going to need every hull he can get his hands on for more important things. So here’s what I’m going to need: you and your team have to be ready to liaise with the Omicron natives—those ‘Sundered’ people. Just make sure to get your hands on any of those ships that have space-worthy hulls. Be ready to drag them over to Gambit for a full refit…assuming the repair facilities over there aren’t up to snuff, as I suspect.”

“I understand, Chief,” the former slacker said starting to perk up, “you can count on me, Sir. We won’t let you down!”

“See that you don’t,” Spalding grunted.

“But, Chief…is it true about the treasure?” Brence wheedled.

“What did I just say about wasting time, you blue-faced blighter?” Spalding growled as his face started to purple.

“Sorry, Sir! Apologies, Commander Spalding,” Brence said backing away and speaking quickly, “congratulations on the promotion!”

“That’s it,” Spalding snapped, “you’re going to start sharing my pain!” he advanced on the former rating with hands raised into the air.

“I’ll stay focused on the ships,” Brence tried to assure him in a strangled voice as he kept scrambling to back away from the angry engineer.

“I’m regularizing your rank to a Chief Petty Officer’s and immediately frocking you to Warrant,” Spalding roared, “let’s see how you like trying to hand a repair job and juggle dealing with slacking work parties and treasure-seeking crew bosses!”

Brence gaped at him and then immediately snapped to attention. “Th-Thank you, Sir! I won’t let you down,” the former slacker stammered, his eyes lighting up with joyful surprise, “this is a great honor, Chief!” The stupid lad then went so far as to stick out his hand and grab Spalding’s before the old engineer could think to pull it back. Pumping it up and down, the younger man shook his hand with a vigor known only to the young and ignorant until Commander Spalding couldn’t stand it anymore.

“Get off me, lad,” said the crusty old space engineer, forcibly removing his hand from the younger man’s grip. “Besides, this promotion is nothing more than you deserve.” Brence had done a good enough job ramrodding the Hydra into shape as its officially unofficial First Officer, but that was a cushy bridge officer position. It was time to punish the man properly, and Spalding knew just the job to do it. It was past time to see what Brence was really made of and the only way to do that was by giving him a real man’s job.

Putting the former slacker in charge of an Engineering away team to the Omicron with the orders to salvage anything he could lay his hands on, ought to be more than enough to teach the new Warrant to think twice! Unless, of course, the younger man was simply a glutton for punishment, Spalding added silently as his thoughts wandered. Then he remembered the man’s former whiskey-seeking ways and he shrugged. This job would be the one to make or break him.

Gants used to be his prodigy but that was before the lad got seduced by the sound of combat and jumped ship for the Armory. The old Engineer wasn’t getting any younger, and someone needed to carry the torch when Spalding finally got too old to properly swing a wrench.

He stared at Brence with wayward eyes. “Uh, Sir?” the younger man asked nervously.

“Are you worthy, my lad?” the old engineer asked suspiciously.

“Sir?” asked Brence sounding concerned.

“Of my trust,” Spalding clarified, glowering at the former rating and new Warrant through narrowed eyes.

“Aye, aye, Sir,” Brence said quickly, bouncing back to attention and snapping off another salute.

By this time thoroughly disgusted by the happy expression and eager demeanor of the younger man, Spalding had to suppress the urge to activate the mini-plasma torches in his hands.

“Well, go on then—git,” he growled before turning back to the tight little crawlspace. He had a junction box on his hands that wasn’t going to repair itself.

Spinning on his heels and with a newfound bounce in his step, the young engineer hurried away.

“Parkiny would have known better than to be happy at the sound of a promotion,” Spalding mourned aloud, wondering why he had been stuck with Brence of all people as his newest understudy. Then he remembered that Parkiny had refused several promotions to a rank higher than command of a work party, which was part of why that man had been assigned to the Clover, and Spalding felt himself scowl. He didn’t have time to mentor men who shirked higher responsibility every chance they got.

It looked like he was stuck with Brence…for now. At least the other man believed him about the Captain Moonlight missions. That was something at least.

With a long-suffering sigh, the old engineer quickly started stripping wires and replacing leads. He could only pray to Saint Murphy and hope that no one else came to disrupt him before the repair job was completed.

Whistling tunelessly under his breath, he discovered a burned-out regulator with damaged ends to its connecting cables. Happily stripping them off and splicing in new wire, he set about getting his current section of the station back on the grid.

He would much rather be out there working on a ship, but the Hydra was too damaged for anything less than a full service repair job in a ship yard. It was probably better to scrap her, if he was being honest with himself, and he was loath to put an old warhorse like that one out to pasture before her time. So since he was stuck on the station anyway, Spalding figured he might as well do some work—as he had told his men often enough: idle hands were the Demon’s playground.

Chapter 8: Druid Sets Out

“Saint Murphy avert; and may the Space Gods speed your journey, Commodore,” I said, speaking into the holo-projector with a genuine smile on my face.

“Of course, Admiral,” Druid said, I noticed the slightest flicker to his expression. Having had more time to know the man, I took his expression for barely disguised impatience, “we’ll be back before you know it. I just wish that pair of old mothballed freighters were ready to go out with us.”

My mouth twisted sourly, “There were more reasons those particular two ships were put into space storage than just the extensive list on the manifests,” I said, forcing my expression back under control. “Main life support from the one with the working hyper drive has been stripped completely out, and the other has a life support system we can easily upgrade to carrying passengers but it only has one of its strange particle generators; the others are completely missing, and I’m told the one generator that’s still there is nothing but space junk. I’m afraid we’ll have to ‘rob Michael to pay Merton’, and even then we’ll only get one functioning ship out of the deal.”

“Well,” Commodore Druid replied after a moment and speaking carefully, “now that Wolf 9’s about scheduled to have another space factory completed, you should have the tools and manpower to fix them up quickly,” he said diplomatically.

“It’s not a question of capability so much as manpower,” I frowned. “Commodore LeGodat already has a medium space dock and the fully fledged, large capacity shipyard up and running after forty years of being shut down. That’s more than enough for these kinds of repair jobs, especially when you factor in the other two refurbished space factories are ready to go and just waiting for workers. Having a third, newly built yard doesn’t help without having the crew to man it!” I said, fighting the urge to throw my hands in the air.

“Something we’re trying to alleviate,” Druid’s mouth quirked, “but which we can’t do without the ships we need.”

“At least you have the Dungeon ship,” I said, shaking my head at the obvious conundrum, or paradox, or whatever it was called.

“Don’t worry, Sir,” the Corvette Squadron Commander said seriously, “me and my ‘three’ ships,” he said emphasizing the fact that he only had three ships instead of four, “will make blasted well sure that anyone who signs up for the outfit gets back here to where they can do some good!” He was clearly still smarting from the fact that I had I traded one of the corvettes for the dungeon ship. At least the former prison transport would be able to carry large quantities of new recruits within it, to the tune of fifteen hundred souls.

“Your confidence is reassuring, Commodore,” I tilted my head toward him slightly and then decided to change the subject, “I presume the new command team is up and running over on the Dungeon ship?”

“My ship’s third officer, who was also doubling as my Fla…or rather, I suppose, my ‘Pennant’ Lieutenant,” Druid smiled, “was eager for the opportunity. Other than three-fourths of the crew being new to the ship…”

“Couldn’t be helped,” I said dismissively, “Captain McCruise wanted to bring as many of the people she’d been working with this past year as she reasonably could over to her new command.”

“As the Admiral says,” Druid sighed.

“Always,” I agreed.

Druid shook his head minutely at this expression of mine but I let it pass. “With the Admiral’s permission, I’d like to check on the Guard Squadron and get ready for the Point Transfer,” the Commodore said respectfully.

“Of course,” I replied courteously, “if it’s not too much of a bother, could you please have your communication’s officer patch me over to the,” my lips quirked at the renamed ship, “Recruiter’s Dream? I’d like to speak with our Recruitment Officer.”

Druid nodded and, with a gesture to what I assumed was his Communication’s Officer, my screen went blank. Two seconds later I was patched over to the RD.

“Admiral Montagne,” the cute-as-a-button little brown girl on my screen said as she literally jumped to her feet and saluted.

“Your new uniform suits you, Warrant Officer Lisa Steiner,” I said, grinning at the little former communications technician and making a point to recognize her new rank.

“Thank you, Admiral,” Steiner replied, looking more than a little wide-eyed and daunted by her new responsibilities, “I’ll try not to let you down.”

“You have my every confidence,” I hastened to assure her.

“Sir,” the little com-tech said speaking quickly, “are you sure you don’t want to change your mind? I’m sure there are dozens of officers who could do this job better than I can. I wasn’t looking for more rank, and would be more than willing to give it back if someone else could make better use of it!”

“I’m sure you would, and of course there are Officers more prepared for this than you are,” I said soothingly, “but don’t worry, you’ll do just fine.” I did my best to assure her with a smile. It was funny, in a good way, to be on the other side of a massive promotion to real responsibility. I could almost feel myself back on the Flag Bridge the very first time I realized that I had been made responsible for the whole ship. I suppressed a shudder at the thought, since those were actually nothing short of terrible times—exciting and more than a little stimulating, I’d grant, but terrible nonetheless.

“Why, Sir?” the little Warrant burst out, no longer able to contain herself. “I mean, if you know there are others…real officers who are better for the job, then why pick me?”

I paused and steepled my fingers while looking at her appraisingly. She must not have liked the full weight of my serious regard, because she looked slightly alarmed and leaned back.

“Do you want the truth?” I asked seriously.

The little tech hesitated and then her face hardened slightly, “Yes sir!” she said with military eagerness, “I do.”

“Very well,” I said gravely. It was important in these situations to remember that to have confidence in an officer or crewmember wasn’t enough—you also had to make them believe they actually were in your confidence. Doing so actually helped bind them closer to you when they emerged victorious of their first tasks. “I believe you are the right woman for the job. That’s not meant to imply anything against those other officers, as each of them is desperately needed in their current postings. Fortunately we have a sufficient number of Com-Techs at the moment and thus can spare you for this job.” I very carefully didn’t add the most important part of this equation: I had read the reports, and I’d spoken with the survivors. This little com-tech had endured captivity and torture like I had, and no sooner had she broken out than she had wrested control of her little insurgent band away from Tremblay. Then, without wavering whatsoever, she had immediately started plotting to free me from my own captivity. Someone like her, with that kind of loyalty, had to be rewarded.

While I’d been thinking, the little Warrant had visibly drooped on the screen.

“Remember though,” I said hastily, kicking myself for not paying attention like I should have, “while I may have selected you for Recruitment and heartily agreed with the recommendation, it was the Chief Engineer that spotted you out as potential Warrant material.”

“Yes, Admiral,” Steiner said, still looking more like a woman who needed a stiff drink than a hardened insurgent who’d hidden aboard the Clover for weeks before sneaking off it on a daring rescue mission.

“Buck up, Warrant,” I said, putting the faintest edge of steel into my voice, “if I, or the Chief Engineer, didn’t think you could do this then you wouldn’t be in the top slot as Lead Recruitment Officer.”

Warrant Lisa Steiner quickly stiffened to attention, “Of course, Admiral. You can count on us, Sir!” she said, snapping off a proper salute.

For a second I was stumped, until I saw the faintest bit of movement in the background behind the newly minted Warrant Officer.

“Is that Hierophant?” I asked quizzically, as I hazarded the guess.

Steiner’s brow wrinkled and she glanced over her shoulder, then she turned back and her face cleared.

“No, Sir, that’s one of the yeomen,” she said with the first genuine smile I had seen on her during our conversation. “Hierophant is over here beside me,” after saying this she adjusted the holo-pick-up until the oversized Tracto-an came into view.

“Hierophant Bogart,” I said, cocking my head to the side to make sure I recalled it right, “I see you’ve decided to stick it out with the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet’s newest Warrant.”

“You signed the transfer orders, Admiral,” Steiner said, as if to remind me.

I had to suppress the urge to raise my eyebrows, since I didn’t remember signing anything of the sort…not that I wouldn’t have signed them, mind you—an Admiral signs a whole lot of things without reading them over in their entirety. I felt a short sigh escape under my breath.

“In truth, Warlord,” the Tracto-an said with a sharp nod, “however, if you have need of me…” he trailed off stoically.

“I need you right where you’re at,” I replied calmly. It didn’t matter if I had unknowingly signed the transfer order or simply forgotten that I’d done so; there was no point in breaking them up. Especially at the eleventh hour right before a point transfer like this for too many reasons to count—not the least of which being that to do so would most definitely smack of amateur hour. “Take care of our new Recruitment Officer and make sure she comes back to us safe and sound.”

“You can count on me, Warlord Montagne,” Hierophant said with a grim smile, and with the mood I’d been in since my prison break it was exactly the kind of smile I was most comfortable with. So I gave him a hard nod in return before turning to look at Steiner’s ear—the one part of her that was still showing on the screen since she had adjusted the image pickup.

“Steiner,”’ I said sharply and the little tech quickly reappeared on my screen, “we need more crew, so get me those warm bodies. We’re counting on you—I’m counting on you.”

“Yes, Sir!” she said snappily, excitement rising in her eyes.

“Another thing,” I added, my eyes boring into hers, “don’t let anyone tell you this is some kind of ‘make work’ assignment. This is a more important job than most realize,” I paused and hesitated before coming to a snap decision. “I’m going to forward over a signed copy of a new order,” I said as my fingers flew over my virtual keyboard.

“We’ll take care of it whatever it is, Admiral,” the little brown-skinned girl said snappily.

“The gist of it is that, if need be, you have my personal authority to requisition anything you need in order to get your mission’s done…within reason,” I added pointedly with a growing smile. “I’m not placing this authority with Druid or the Captain of your ship, but with you, Miss Steiner. That’s a lot of responsibility to take on, but I know I can rely on you.” I switched my gaze over to the side where Hierophant had disappeared to again, “make sure nothing happens to her while you’re out there, yes?”

“With my life,” the Tracto-an, would-be gunner said, thumping his fist to his chest.

“Oh, and if he hasn’t already,” I said causally, this time speaking solely to the former Lancer, “tell the Captain of that ship to give you some time on that ship’s gun deck—assuming you’re still interested in striking for gunner, that is—on the Admiral’s orders.”

“Thank you, Admiral Montagne,” Hierophant said with real enthusiasm in his voice for the first time in the conversation.

“Excellent,” I said, preparing to sign off, “keep me apprised of any developments, and have a safe voyage.”

“Of course, Sir,” echoed from my screen right before I cut the connection.

“Somebody deserves to have a safe voyage, considering what I’ve got planned for the rest of us,” I muttered under my breath as a dark, predatory grin slowly spread across my face.

Chapter 9: The Commodore’s Riposte

“Commodore LeGodat, what a pleasant surprise,” I said with a neutral expression—this was most definitely not a pleasant surprise. “I didn’t expect to see you in here so close to the next big sendoff.”

“Who could miss saying goodbye to the inestimable Commander Terrance Spalding,” LeGodat said, flashing a quick, professional smile, “Chief Engineer extraordinaire.”

“What can I do for you, System Commander?” I said, forcing one of my patented royal smiles.

“I wanted to talk, Admiral,” the Commodore said evenly.

“Alright,” I agreed, “just as soon as we’ve made the rounds…you are aware that this is a pre-launch sendoff; he’s not scheduled to depart until tomorrow.”

“Yes, in that old courier vessel he’s pulled out of mothballs,” it was LeGodat’s turn to sound neutral, “I have been made aware he’s strapped…something onto the hull.”

I started to suppress a chortle and then decided not to.

“Yes,” I laughed with an airy wave of my hand, “some kind of top secret project he’s planning to ‘tow’ through hyperspace.”

LeGodat’s mouth pinched disapprovingly. “A hyperspace tow,” he reiterated, definitely sounding nonplussed, “we call it hyperspace envelopment and tend to utilize dedicated repair ships for such a task—ships actually designed for the task of encompassing another ship within a single hyper bubble.”

“Yes, well, the Chief Engineer’s been pioneering the hyper-tow using non-dedicated ships,” I replied easily.

If anything, the Commodore’s features tightened even further, in clear disagreement with these unprofessional terms I was using. But honestly, I didn’t care; I just wanted this conversation done and over with.

“We were hoping to transfer one of those Light Destroyers over to the MSP and have it accompany Spalding and his Courier part of the way, but…” I trailed off. I left it unsaid that while LeGodat had actively facilitated the movement of my remaining command teams from the now-lost Lucky Clover over to the Heavy Cruiser, Little Gift, and been willing to transfer Captain Synthia McCruise over to take command of the Heavy Destroyer, he’d been dragging his heels on the transfer of that second destroyer over to my command.

“Wonderful fruit punch they’ve come up with for this party,” the Commodore said, swirling the liquid around in his cup before taking a sip. His avoidance of my leading question was anything but lost on me.

“Quite flavorful,” I agreed, holding back a grimace. The man wanted something; I could feel it in my bones. The only question was if it was something I would to be willing to surrender.

“I understand the personnel transfers to the Little Gift have been proceeding apace, and that your officers and crew have been ‘settled in’,” LeGodat remarked as a few of the other engineers forced Spalding up on the karaoke stand in the middle of the mess hall.

“It’s been going quite well,” I said lightly. I suppressed a wince as the newly-minted Engineering Commander started singing the words to ‘I’ll take you home, Kathleen’ in a very off-key tone, but when he slipped up halfway through the third repeat switching the titular character’s name of ‘Kathleen’ for ‘Glenda,’ I covered my face with a hand.

“I see someone spiked the punch with rocket fuel,” Colin LeGodat said, covering his mouth to hide a smile.

I shook my head and had to turn slightly away as a commotion started up near the singing platform. An outraged Glenda Baldwin was shouting and shaking a space wrench at the old engineer, who then blew her a kiss before pulling the mike too close to his mouth and belting out the chorus one—more—time!

“Oh, please, not again,” I muttered under my breath. This time, at least, he used the correct ‘Kathleen’ lyrics, although I couldn’t help but wince when he started singing off-key ‘about the place they went before’ and tried to bribe her to forgive him with an offer of ice cream.

“Quite the colorful personality,” the Commodore grinned.

“You don’t know the half of it,” I said fervently. He didn’t want to know the half of it. I wondered what would have happened if it had been the Commodore, instead of myself, who had come across the old engineer sprawled out naked in the middle of a main corridor during an enviro-failure drill?

At the sight of a plasma torch activate in the middle of the crowd, my eyes popped open in alarm. Fortunately, before either I or the Commodore had to get involved, the old Engineer was being dragged off stage and hustled toward an exit by an overly-protective engineering crew—as well as another group of men who were holding Mrs. Baldwin back from him. Cries of ‘Come back here, you old space goat!’ still echoed across the mess hall as he egressed the room decidedly not under his own power.

“Well, all’s well that ends well, I guess,” I said a little uneasily, but fortunately things settled down quickly after that. Then, in a deliberate ploy to change the subject back to what I was mainly interested in—more ships—I casually mentioned, “Integration of the old crew and the new crew of the Gift have been going smoother than I expected.”

“That’s not surprising, Sir,” the Commodore remarked without batting an eyelash, “as most of the men assigned to the ship are your own former crewmates. I know they were eager to serve under you again.”

I turned sideways and produced a faint smile. Glancing at him out of the corner of my eye, I wondered if that was it. When I had asked for the Heavy Cruiser, he’d had no real way to refuse, what with all my former men onboard. But with the two Destroyers he thought he had more of a bargaining position?

“What are they drinking down there?” I asked a little incredulously, as the party started to get into full swing. “Normally my Chief Engineer is death on the hard stuff; I would have guessed he’d be the last one to allow it at his going away party.”

The Commodore leaned forward with a crook to his finger, and a man with a pair of glasses on a platter hurried up the stairs and presented the drinks to us.

“I’m told that our beverage selection matches your Chief Engineer’s exacting requirements in this particular instance,” LeGodat remarked, picking up his glass and taking a sip. He sighed with real pleasure, “have a taste,” he offered.

Not really wanting to drink, but seeing no way out of it, I eyed the glass suspiciously but then decided that if I couldn’t trust my allies not to poison me, I was probably sunk anyways.

Drinking just enough to wet my lips and give my tongue a taste, I was more than a little surprised at the explosion of cherries and lime that went off in my mouth.

“Wow,” I said with real appreciation, “this drink is pretty amazing. What is this stuff?”

“Your Chief Engineer was pretty adamant about only allowing two kinds of liquors at his shindig,” LeGodat said with a smirk, “the simple meads were easy enough, but the ale was a bit harder to come by.”

I nodded absently, since meads and ales didn’t sound too hard to come up with. But if this was mead, I wondered why I’d never tasted any of it before. I didn’t think it could be ale, since I thought that was supposed to be a lot more like beer.

“It was a bit of a pinch to come up with his other allowed beverage of choice,” he continued, and I nodded with understanding. Our Chief Engineer was more than a little eccentric at times, so I saw no reason why his alcoholic choices wouldn’t be just as difficult to understand.

“That’s why,” LeGodat said, as I took a larger mouthful and swirled it around in my mouth, the explosions on my tongue feeling simply incredible, “I was so pleased when our own Chief Engineering Officer, a Captain Swarvick, managed to scrounge up three full cases of first quality Gorgon Iced Ale.”

I choked with horror, and Gorgon Iced Ale went down the wrong tube, my lungs spasming and alcohol came out my nose. Gasping and spitting for all I was worth, I staggered away from the Commodore as I tried to catch my breath.

The Commodore looked shocked and hurried over to pound me on the back.

“Are you okay, Admiral,” he asked sounding worried.

I waved him off and grabbed the railing to hold myself upright while I regained control over my body.

“Fine,” I wheezed making a fist and pounding my chest to help get rid of the Gorgon Iced Ale that had gone down the wrong pipe.

“Is something wrong, or was it something I said?” the Commodore asked.

“I’m allergic to Gorgon Iced Ales,” I finally managed to get out.

LeGodat’s eyes widened. “Maybe I’d better contact station medical,” he said reaching for his communicator.

“I can manage,” I said waving him away, “it was just one mouthful.”

“Even still,” he replied firmly, then contacted his Chief Medical Doctor and muttered a quick communication before looking back up to me. “I’m terribly sorry, Admiral,” the Commodore said looking more than a little red faced and drawing himself up to attention, “I wasn’t aware.”

“Oh in the fie, Commodore, let it go,” I said, waving a hand around in the air as if to wave away something odiferous, “it’s not your fault. The medical records must have been lost when we transferred to the dungeon ship.”

We stood there waiting until the Medical staff arrived to take a blood sample and inject me with a giant syringe attached a microscopically small needle. Its bark was definitely worse than its bite—a relief for once, since my most recent interactions with needles had been, shall we say, less than agreeable.

“Now that all that’s taken care of,” the Commodore said, clearing his throat.

“Yes?” I drawled cocking an eyebrow at him. Here it was. Whatever it was that he was really after, then seeing the man hesitate I said, “I hope it’s not another specialty drink.”

“No.” Said LeGodat shaking his head, “although, speaking of specialty items…”

Here it came.

“I’ve been hearing updates through the grapevine that,” he paused and I realized I was scowling. At the first mention of ‘vines,’ my mind had instantly gone to Jean Luc and his nonexistent Vineyard—which had actually been the name he had given to his pirate flagship, The Vineyard.

“Sorry,” I muttered, “bad memories. Please continue.” I paused and when he didn’t continue added, “you said you’d heard something?”

“Yes,” LeGodat allowed gravely, “tech manuals.”

I blinked. “What?” I asked feeling confused.

“The Constructor is leaving Easy Haven soon, and word is their home system has come to some kind of cease fire and is set to resume normal interstellar trade,” LeGodat explained.

“Okay…” I said, feeling like I was missing something.

“We’ve managed to hire away a small portion of their crews for our burgeoning shipyard and factories,” he continued, “but it’s not nearly enough to run everything we’ve already pulled out of mothballs, let alone allow room for expansion.”

“How many shipyard personnel are we talking about here…that you’ve hired away from them, I mean?” I asked curiously.

“Only about twenty five hundred,” he said, and I almost choked.

“That’s a lot of men,” I finally said.

“A drop in the bucket,” LeGodat said dismissively, “that number could run half a factory and one of the shipyards, or just the repair functions and the newest factory, as it’s less labor intensive, but not both with that few trained engineers and technicians.”

“I’m not sure how I can help more than I am,” I said slowly, “I’ve already sent out a recruiting drive for personnel.”

“That’s where those new tech manuals and specifications come in,” the Commodore said, and if I didn’t know better I’d say he sounded like a hunter about to corner his prey. As I wasn’t really aware of any new technology or tech manuals or what have you, so I was at something of a loss, but from the careful way the Commodore was broaching the subject he at least seemed to think we had them. Of course, if any man had access to new technology and hadn’t made his relatively clueless Admiral aware of this, it had to be our Chief Engineer. Who knew what all he had been up to over Gambit Station?

“How exactly will a bunch of tech manuals help you with your manpower shortage?” I asked, genuinely curious as to the answer.

“As the Admiral will recall, he took both of the advanced, near-Imperial tech, Constructors,” the Commodore said pointedly.

“Yes, but you’ve got a brand new Factory Complex just about completed and two recently refurbished ones out of mothballs,” I retorted, deliberately avoiding his point. I was however starting to get an inkling of what the Acting System Commander was angling in on.

“Yes, we’ve upgraded our hundred year old, mothballed Confederation military technology with the current sector-wide ‘civilian’ tech available to the three Constructors, you initially left behind—of which only one now remains,” the older Officer said pointedly. “And while this is a big step, what it really means is that we’re still behind the curve of most of the big, local SDF’s.”

“And you want my technology,” I said the light bulb going off and burning a hole in my head as I started calculating the angles. Maybe I could finally break free that second Destroyer?

“I just want access to the same upgrades and tech readouts that are available to the rest of the ‘Confederation forces’ in this sector,” Colin LeGodat said, stressing the point that we were all one big, happy fleet.

“I’ll talk to Commander Spalding before he departs and see if he has time to squeeze it in before he leaves,” I drawled and then let my eyes flash, as if something had just occurred to me, “Speaking of leaving, when do you think your officers and crew will be ready to complete the handover of that Light Destroyer to the MSP so that we can hurry our Omicron engineering away team along their way?”

“A full handover could take quite a while,” LeGodat said with a wrinkle in his brow, “however, if it will help then I’m more than willing to leave that ship under Easy Haven control and offer your team a ride over to the Omicron. Patrol duties, as you might remember, are part of our mandate over here.”

I looked at him silently, and after half a minute the Commodore took a deep breath. “I can give you back the Heavy Cruiser and loan you McCruise and that Heavy Destroyer for this mission, but this Star Base needs the upgrades and cutting our mobile forces down to only two destroyers is bad enough. There’s no way I can justify one Destroyer and only three Corvettes,” he finally said, speaking with an honesty I found surprising. I’d expected more in the way of subtle intrigue and maneuvering, and his putting his thoughts out on the table like this was as unexpected as it was refreshing—not that I was going to let him know that.

“I need that second Destroyer,” I said flatly.

“A Cruiser and one Destroyer, or a Cruiser and two Destroyers,” LeGodat said with an exasperated shrug, “either way, that’s not enough ships to take on even a single Battleship, let along two at the same time. We need those ships here, so I have to refuse.”

“I’m leaving you the Medium Cruiser and a top of the line Corvette,” I riposted irritably.

“That Hydra’s scrap; her forward internal structure is fractured,” LeGodat said in a hard voice, “the way I see it, I’m getting one Corvette and a piece of junk that I can ‘maybe’ reprocess to make a new ship six months from now, while you’re getting a refurbished Heavy Cruiser, a Heavy Destroyer and a Dungeon ship.”

“That Dungeon ship’s out there getting more officers and crew for your Star Base,” I countered coolly.

“Forget the Transport then,” LeGodat said evenly, “my point remains. You’re still coming out a great deal ahead on the ship transfers. Listen, Admiral, I respect what you’ve done for us but there’s only so far I can bend on this as long as we have such a limited number of working hulls and a Sector Authority with knives pointed at our backs, just waiting for an opening. As it is, I’m giving you far more than I’m comfortable with.”

My mouth making a flat line, I considered whether it was time to dissolve out current relationship but I reluctantly set the idea aside. It hadn’t passed my notice that the Commodore had ‘given’ me a Heavy Cruiser he probably could never have held if I went around him and his officers and started issuing orders to my old crew currently manning her. By making it clear the Heavy Destroyer was a loan, and securing his hold over the ship by placing McCruise as its captain and leavening the Destroyer with the same crew she’d been working with for over a year (the men and women transferring over from the Dungeon ship), the Commodore was showing that he had a firm grip on that ship. It was more than likely that if I pushed too hard, all I’d do was alienate the man and his entire Easy Haven organization.

So I smiled and played along. It was never wise to make too many demands from a position of relative weakness.

“I understand,” I said as agreeably as I could, “and in case I haven’t said it before, I can’t thank you and your people enough for what they did in Praxis, riding to the rescue and helping to secure our line of escape like that. Your actions won’t be forgotten.”

“Thank you, Sir,” LeGodat said after a pregnant pause.

“It’s the least I can do,” I said with a nod. The Commodore was making it clear that while we were both on the same side, that didn’t mean we didn’t have separate and slightly divergent points of interests, which I had to admit was understandable. The essence of politics and diplomacy was the art of the compromise…at least until you could crush your enemies and then deal with your friends from a position of strength. This dealing from weakness business left a sour taste in my mouth and reminded me too much of how I’d felt before taking command of the Lucky Clover.

“Anyway,” I said forcing a smile, “like I said, I’ll check with the Commander and instruct him to turn over whatever he has that will help promote the common good.”

“My Engineering team estimates that between the factory upgrades and the design for those Constructor-based robots that we could cut our personnel requirements by somewhere between half and three quarters,” LeGodat said, his eyes narrowing eagerly. “That would free us up enough to run the shipyard and one of the factories full-out.”

“I see,” I said, not entirely unwilling to see Wolf-9’s manpower requirements greatly reduced. Even as a somewhat reluctant ally, the benefits to me personally could be immense.

“And if we could get both working at the same time, instead of switching personnel back and forth like I’d been planning for when our Constructor leaves,” LeGodat drawled, “we could probably move beyond simply repairing your ships to laying down a new hull or three for the MSP.”

Ah, the sweet smell of a bribe, I thought with more than a flash of satisfaction as my eyes lit up. Sure, I already had Gambit, but that was far away and still not fully operational (and a place I’d never actually seen yet, mind you) while Easy Haven and the Wolf-9 Star Base were right here.

“We’ve no time to let policy disagreements devolve into turf wars that do nothing but slow us down,” I said agreeably, “instruct your command team onboard the Light Destroyer to ready the ship. I’ll agree to let the warship stay under Wolf-9 auspices as a part of your Light Squadron, and instruct my Chief Engineer to give your people the straight download on anything he’s got on him with an eye to bringing whatever else is missing back when he visits Gambit Station again….” I couldn’t help but add a slight requirement, “Assuming of course that your Light Destroyer can be ready to fire up its drive and escort the Commander’s courier vessel when it leaves.”

“I’ll issue the orders now, but that shouldn’t be a problem, Admiral,” LeGodat agreed, pulling out a com-link and turning to the side to issue the appropriate orders.

I grimaced, since it was one thing to know that the personnel transfer that was supposed to put my people in control of that ship had been deliberately delayed. It was another thing entirely to have my nose rubbed in that fact. Deliberately straightening my back to an appropriate, royal posture, I smoothed my face by the time the Commodore turned back.

“It’ll be a tighter timetable than I’d like and we’ll need to make a few last minute shuttle runs to put everything in order, but Captain Slader should be ready in time to escort the Commander’s vessel when he leaves,” LeGodat reported, not batting an eye as he relayed this.

“Sounds excellent, Colin,” I said politely, sliding my eyes away from the Commodore before they drilled a hole through his forehead. I was getting most of what I was asking for, I told myself, and as such I ought to be unreasonably happy. The old Jason Montagne before prison certainly would have been. Why, I figured he’d probably have been absolutely ecstatic, literally hop-skipping down the corridor in glee.

The New Me, on the other hand, had to forcibly throttle back the urge to do something permanent about the less than tractable response I’d been getting lately. Saint Murphy as my witness, I had never wanted to be an Admiral. But if I had to be then by all the evil space gods, I was going to start being treated like one!

Leaving the Commodore to his Ice Ale, I went down to mingle with the masses down in the main mess hall of the station. It was important to see and to be seen while I pressed the flesh and made myself accessible, since at that moment my only strength lay in the shaken loyalty of my people. If the officers and crew who’d been with me through thick and thin and survived everything right alongside of me lost their faith in my leadership…let’s just say it might as well be back to prison time, since I would be well and truly finished.

With a smile and a wave, I turned my back on the Commodore and went down there to answer the hard questions. The honeymoon was now officially over, and by tomorrow the last of these little sideline plots and diversions I’d come up with—or been talked into—would be over with or officially out of the way.

Which meant it was time to begin the most dangerous maneuver I’d come up with to date. Let the Commodore doubt and hold back a hull or two for a rainy day or two, if that’s what was needed to make a smooth exit from Easy Haven without burning any bridges I wasn’t ready to burn. I had a scheme that would show them all the danger of messing with a Montagne—and I was going to start with my beloved, piratical Uncle.

Never go up against a Montagne when death was on the line, I mused silently, and it was a saying I was more than ready to forcibly shove down Jean Luc’s throat. Let’s see how my Uncle likes it when the diabolical scheming is on the other foot and aimed his way.

Because after I’d survived to make that particular statement, I’d was coming back to the Core to see just how many of my enemies—and even the more reluctant of my ‘allies’—thought it was such sweet idea to continue to mess with one Jason Montagne.

Because, for the first time in my life, I was ready to do what was needed, and not just what was convenient. I was willing to cross the threshold, just as my Chief Engineer had done in the raging inferno of an active reactor core—an act which had cost him most of his body and saved everyone aboard the Lucky Clover.

It was a strangely satisfying comfort knowing that I, too, was about to start a similar fire…

…and to let it burn.

Chapter 10: Leaving the Friendly Confines

“Where is my Science Officer?” I asked, feeling myself go into locked-down, battle stations, full-on paranoia mode the closer we got to a point transfer. The last thing I needed was someone throwing a monkey wrench in the works this close to leaving Easy Haven. A part of me felt like things had been just too easy of late, and that made me start looking for enemies. The intractable Science Officer was the closest thing I still had to an open adversary, and as such I wanted him firmly locked down—and where I could see him.

There was a tense silence on our new bridge, and then Laurent stepped forward and cleared his throat.

“Yes, Captain?” I asked with forced mildness, my voice making it quite clear that I was ready, willing, and able to turn it into a razor-sharp weapon and wield it on anyone who wasted my time. I was in no mood for delays and obfuscation.

The former Warrant Officer grimaced slightly; he was still a little sore over the way I’d sprung the whole Captaincy on him. Which was water off a duck’s back, as far as I was concerned.

“I still wish you’d picked another Captain,” he muttered.

“Officer Tremblay taught me the perils of running the ship with only a First Officer, so I plan to avoid going through that again if at all possible,” I said, my tight smile not reaching my eyes. “Besides, a Captain is a more traditional adjunct and as my former Tactical Officer, I know for a fact that you can fight the ship—but none of that answers my question about the Science Officer.”

“As you say,” acknowledged the former Warrant Officer, current Lieutenant Commander, and courtesy Captain of the Little Gift—my recently refurbished old Heavy Cruiser—before he stiffened. “Officer Jones transferred to Spalding’s Courier ship for the trip to Gambit, Admiral.”

“Ah,” I said, feeling grim and wondering what kind of mischief the Science Officer—a man who’d tried to jump ship on multiple occasions—could get up to at my secret Confederation base, “and no one thought to inform me of this?” asked mildly.

“I thought you were already aware, Sir,” Captain Laurent said, looking surprised.

“Of course you did,” I muttered under my breath, “well, there’s nothing to be done for it now,” I said, trying to shake it off. I didn’t need to be distracted; right now my focus needed to be tracking down the Lucky Clover. They obviously hadn’t come to Easy Haven, and I’d kept the coordinates to Gambit completely isolated from my old ship’s systems. That left me with the choice of running after Akantha for a joyous, marital reunion as I consolidated all our ships back under one happy banner, or running back to Tracto first to make sure what was essentially our least guarded target was still protected. I figured that Jean Luc would show up there sooner or later—as would Akantha, following the urge to return to her home world to check up on her subjects. Besides, she’d sent Spalding to come rescue me rather than take care of busting me out herself, so she was probably pretty busy with whatever it was she had gone after.

“I do know for a fact, Sir, that Commander Spalding was aware of and approved the Science Officer’s transfer to Gambit Station,” Captain Laurent added, breaking up my chain of thought. It took me a moment to break out of my brooding and focus back on the officer.

“Do you happen to have any idea why Officer Jones chose the trip to Gambit?” I paused as a thought occurred to me, causing a smile to creep across my face, “Maybe he was ‘convinced’ by our beloved Engineer for some unknowable purpose?” This was a particularly pleasant consideration, and one I held onto for a few moments as I considered that particular interaction going down.

“The Chief Engineer said something about a practical application of Jones’ thesis work?” Laurent said with a furrowed brow, sounding more than a little uncertain.

My own brow wrinkled and then my eyes widened as I recalled what exactly his original reason for joining the Lucky Clover had been all about. I smiled.

“Well,” I said trying to look as disappointed as I’d been feeling earlier, “it’s too bad the Science Officer won’t be with us this trip.”

The ship’s new Captain wasn’t the only one to look at me funnily after I said this, but I was determined to appear blissfully unconcerned and then change the subject.

“How long until we reach the point of no return?” I inquired, feeling more upbeat than usual of late.

“Another half hour, Admiral,” Captain Laurent replied, sounding more professional than usual. Perhaps it was the weight of his new responsibility, but whatever it was I was certain that Laurent was the right man for the right job.

“Excellent work, Cedric,” I said giving the new Captain a confident nod.

The Captain braced to attention before striding over to the helm, where our Helmsman DuPont and Navigator Shepherd were double checking their figures and running last minute checks.

Maybe it was the thought of getting back out in space and being my own master again, but more likely it was the thought of my revenge. Whatever it was caused a feeling of deep satisfaction to well up through me. Easy Haven was almost behind us, and soon Jean Luc was going to find out exactly what it felt like to experience an Admiral’s revenge…Montagne style.

Space Gods have mercy on his Murphy-cursed, piratical soul, because I wasn’t going to have any. This wasn’t just about business or survival; this was personal. No one took my ship, shot me down, left my wife for dead, tortured my crew, and then got away with it. If we hadn’t been a part of the exact same family, I would have seriously considered declaring a blood feud. Go after me and then try to blow up my wife, would he?

I looked down at the data slate in my lap, taking comfort in what I saw:

X1 Heavy Cruiser

X1 Heavy Destroyer

X3 Corvettes

X5 Cutters

Might not be quite enough to take out two Dreadnaught class Battleships all on their own, but it was more hulls under my command than ever before, and by Saint Murphy’s Wretched Wrench Jean Luc was going to feel us before we were done with him!

Chapter 11: To Tracto!

“Point Emergence!” barked Navigator Shepherd from his console on our combat bridge—which was noticeably smaller than the Flag Bridge aboard the Lucky Clover.

“Extending baffling beyond transfer area and firing main engine,” the Helmsman reported, sounding subdued, “for awhile I never thought I’d be doing this again.”

“I know what you mean,” Shepherd said with feeling, “it’s good to be back.”

“Can the Chatter,” said The Gift’s new first officer a transfer from Easy Haven. I think is name was Eastwood, and his rank tabs said he was a senior lieutenant.

“Point Resistance?” Captain Laurent asked mildly. To listen to him you wouldn’t have thought this was his first time commanding a warship. Thank Murphy we’d had time to shake out on the cruise to the Tracto System.

“Engine at 15% of maximum,” said the Helmsman as the ship hummed and vibrated around us. “We still have a lock on the ship.”

“Shield modulated for breakout,” the Ensign in command of the shields’ section said crisply, and I suppressed a grimace. I didn’t like having two new officers on my command deck at the same time, but when it came to both shields and First Officers we hadn’t exactly done a bang-up job, so I had accepted the two officers with as much grace as I could muster when LeGodat offered them back at Wolf-9. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t watching them with the gimlet eyes of a paranoid Montagne.

“Thank you, Mister Longbottom,” First Officer Eastwood said professionally.

“Yes, Sir,” acknowledged the Ensign.

“Main Engine now at 35% and…we’re still locked,” DuPont reported, his fingers flying over his console quickly, “engaging both secondaries now.”

“Contact!” screamed a hysterical sounding sensor operator, throwing her hand in the air and promptly jumping out of her seat.

“Double check your readings and stay in your seat when reporting! We jumped a full three days travel outside of the Tracto hyper-limit,” the new First Officer snapped, a hand falling to the data slate on his belt as he turned toward the Sensor pit in what I recognized as a shooter’s stance. Although, what he was planning to shoot with that slate was beyond me, “re-verify those readings and—”

“Throwing the image up on the screen, just a second,” reported one of my best former sensor operators. I say ‘former’ because he had been promoted to Warrant Officer and placed in command of the sensor pit—a practice I’d seen first in the Wolf-9 Star Base’s command section, and decided to duplicate in the MSP.

The ship suddenly shuddered and a red alarm light was instantly accompanied by a claxon started screaming its ‘whoop-whoop-whoop’ sound into our ears.

“Shields down to 80%,” yelled the Ensign at the shield station, “we’re taking fire!”

An image suddenly appeared on our small and cramped looking forward view screen.

“Oh, Space Gods!” shrieked the sensor operator who had first jumped out of her seat, staggering backwards and tripping over her own chair as the ship shuddered again, “Bugs!”

“Tactical, lock on target and fire as she bears,” roared Captain Laurent leaping out of his chair and thrusting his finger at the view screen, “and break the sump—with alacrity, if you please, Mister DuPont!”

“Supercharge the main shield generator for combat operations, Longbottom,” shouted the new First Officer, pulling out his data slate and leveling it at the Sensor pit. I wondered if it was some kind of secret concealed, holdout blaster pistol I knew nothing about.

“All engines to 80% of maximum,” our Helmsman cried.

“Main Shield generator—” started the Ensign at shields only to be cut off as ship lurched beneath us as the grav-plates struggled to keep up with the sudden strain.

“Increasing to 90%,” DuPont called out right before the ship suddenly felt like it was slewing to the side, “and we’re free!” he cried with a touch more relief than I had hoped for from one of my longtime crewmembers.

“Keep the speed up and initiate evasive maneuvers, Helmsman,” Ordered the Captain.

“Shields at 60%,” the Ensign said in an elevated voice, his words still clipped and professional, “the strain on the main generator was too sudden and intense; it’s in danger of overheating at condition yellow. I say again, condition yellow. I am load balancing with the two secondary generators to reduce the strain now!”

“They’re right on top of us!” shouted another sensor operator, jerking around in his chair before settling down.

“There’s more than one of them?” Laurent demanded, rounding on the operator with obvious surprise.

Simultaneously, the crewwoman from sensors who had first identified the ship and then tripped over her chair, began rocking back and forth on the floor and screaming.

“Someone get that woman off the Bridge; she’s in battle shock,” I barked, forcing the irritation I felt at this ear-rending behavior to the side and grabbing a nearby yeoman by the elbow before pushing him towards the still screaming woman.

“Gunnery is requesting to know if we want them to concentrate on one particular target,” reported the new Tactical Officer.

Both the First Officer and the Captain’s heads shot around to stare at our new Tactical Officer with disbelief.

“What part of ‘fire as she bears’ don’t you understand?” Laurent growled with angry disbelief.

“Do your blighted job, Warrant,” snapped the First Officer in agreement while the Warrant at Tactical still stood flat-footed.

“Blast it, man—” raged Laurent, advancing on the Tactical area.

I stood up to interject myself into the growing chaos. “Captain, back to your seat and focus on the battle,” I barked, my voice cracked like a whip causing Laurent to pull himself up short and round on me with disbelief and rising fury in his face. “First Officer, take command of Tactical for the duration,” I then turned to the Warrant Officer who was still gaping like a fish, as obviously the pressure of running his section was too much for the man. It was too bad, really; he’d been one of Laurent’s up and comers, “As for you, you’re fired. Get off the bridge and confine yourself to quarters,” I said coldly.

The First Officer’s head snapped around and he hesitated, looking to Laurent first. I pulled out my holdout blaster pistol and held it down at my side.

“Now, Mister Eastwood,” I said with ringing authority, my knuckles whitening on the grip of my weapon as the First Officer glanced at me before looking back at Laurent as if my weapon was immaterial.

“Do it before you get shot,” barked the Captain, and just like that the First Officer snapped into motion as he headed for the Tactical section without giving me a second look.

“This is my ship, Admiral,” Laurent growled as the ship shook around us, “I’m the Captain—I fight the ship. You’re the Admiral—you fight the Fleet.”

“Shields down to 45% and dropping from multiple hits on all multiple facings,” the Ensign said crisply, and no hint of the earlier unsteadiness in his voice remained. I was surprised; the young man seemed to be settling down much faster than I would have thought possible.

Then, realizing the Captain was still glaring at me I rounded on him with a glare of my own.

“Then fight your ship, Captain,” I said coldly, “or I’ll find someone who can.”

“Just so we’re clear,” Laurent said evenly, “I’m no Tremblay; I’m the Captain, not some First Officer to bend with every breeze. Don’t relieve another one of my officers without my consent again—that’s my purview.”

“I’ll just shoot the next malingering blighter who hesitates to the point of cowardice in the face of the enemy,” I snapped, re-holstering my holdout pistol back in its fore arm sheath for emphasis. “I’ll leave the counseling to you and the Bugs—fight your ship, Captain!” I’d broken bigger men than Laurent, and I was going to be dipped in batter and deep fried for some alien stew pot before I let him—or anyone, other than myself—endanger the lives of our crew…not to mention my chance for revenge.

Laurent made a sound of pure frustration and turned back to the main-screen, on which I could see half a dozen images of Bug ships and not a single, other Confederation vessel. As I watched, DuPont heeled the ship over, exposing our right broadside to one of the two largest Bug ships.

“Target the Large Harvester nearest our position and hold your thunder, Gunners,” Eastwood’s voice cut through the chatter on the bridge like a hot knife through butter and every head including mine snapped around. At some signal only he could see on his screen, I saw the First Officer lift the microphone in his hand up to his lips. “All mounts are to fire on my mark…fire!” His voice thundered into the microphone and he jerked back as he did so hard enough to pull the cord free from its connection in the desk—it didn’t look like that particular cord was meant to come out, a supposition that was soon confirmed when the First Officer tossed the microphone to the ground and called for a new one.

“Prepare to roll the ship, Helmsman,” barked Laurent.

“Yes, Captain,” cried DuPont.

“View screen fully populated,” called out the Warrant in the Sensor Section, “readout shows we’re facing four Scout ships and a pair of Large Harvester class Bug warships!”

“How many of our ships have point transferred in yet?” I asked levelly.

The ship shook underneath my feet and the view on the main-screen flickered before steadying.

“Shields down to 25%!” cried the Ensign, his professionalism starting to crack along with his shields.

“We arrived scattered all over cold space—this was well beyond the expected dispersal rate!” exclaimed the new Sensor Officer sounding concerned. “The nearest MSP sister warship is at least a half hour away at best speed.”

“How did the System affect us this far out?” I growled, cursing those trillium deposits as I pounded on my command chair for emphasis. Thirty minutes…that was too long to expect to survive the Bugs without things being decided one way or the other.

“Sir?” Laurent asked cocking an eyebrow.

“The trillium, Captain,” I said shaking my head in disgust, “I thought arriving this far out would not only render us undetectable and avoid any potential enemies, but that we would avoid the jump distorting effects of Tracto’s rich trillium deposits. It looks like I was wrong on both accounts.” I couldn’t believe our poor luck. Not only did we arrived jump-scattered, but our particular ship showed right in the middle of a squadron sized Bug Harvester group.

“Roll the ship,” Laurent commanded in a loud, steadying voice which broke my train of thought. Seeing the way the bridge-staff was looking at the two of us with quick glances over their shoulders, I suppressed a jerk and self-consciously stiffened my spine as I smoothed out my features. It was important that I appear every inch the confident Admiral at this particular juncture. At least appearing confident in the middle of battle was something I’d had a fair bit of practice lately…well, before I was tossed in a prison cell, that is.

“Communications,” I said in a loud carrying voice, “contact the nearest warship and instruct them to relay the message: the Fleet is to converge on our position.” I hesitated for a second before continuing and did my best to project an unthinking confidence in our chances, “But while they are to proceed at full speed, I don’t want anyone to blow out their engines getting here to help us. We can deal with anything the Bugs choose to throw at us. A Harvester Squadron is nothing the Flagship can’t handle by herself.”

I could tell the very instant the combination of Laurent fighting the ship and my confident words regarding our success began to penetrate. Back stiffened and men and women turned back to their consoles with renewed focus as they began to overcome the chaos and uncertainty of showing up right smack in the middle of bunch of Bug warships. The Sensor picture of our immediate arrival was still less than clear.

Of course, that was the exact moment the next Bug barrage pounded into our newly-presented, fresh side of hull.

“Shield strength at 3% and falling, all power rerouted from the secondary generators; tell Engineering I need more power!” shouted the Shield Officer.

“No,” countermanded the First Officer, “full power to the broadside. We’re just starting to punch through!”

“Hit the Bugs as hard as you can, XO,” Laurent ordered firmly, making it clear to everyone that the priority was the Bugs, not self-defense.

“Ensign Longbottom,” I drawled as loudly as one can get away with it and still qualify as drawl, “divert whatever remaining shield power you have over to the engines; you can’t cover the rest of the ship and the last thing we need is to lose our ability to maneuver.”

Laurent looked at me in surprise and then gave me a short nod.

“Rerouting, Admiral,” the Shield Officer replied quickly, clearly glad to have a confirmed order to carry out during the chaos; I knew from long experience that having something, anything, to do in the middle of a crisis was infinitely better than just sitting still and doing nothing. How could I not? After all, that was what comprised the majority of this Admiraling business: sitting up here looking confident while other people fought the ship. Their actions, as they fought the ship, decided whether or I would live or die. It was nerve-wracking at first, but eventually I just learned to accept it.

From the way our new Captain was shifting from foot to foot, he was clearly a little too eager to ‘get his hands dirty’ down in the pits. I pulled myself up short, remembering that our new bridge didn’t actually have any pits; its layout was quite different from our beloved Clover. Still, while his face was impassive, his body betrayed his eagerness.

“Eagerness is fine,” I muttered to the new Captain, “just remember you can’t let them see you sweat, ever.”

Laurent glanced at me in surprise, asking, “What?”

“You’re squirming,” I chided him in a low voice with a confident near smile plastered on my face as I sat there doing my best to appear unflappable.

Laurent immediately stilled, and glancing down at his hands and feet colored slightly. He immediately placed his hands behind his back and stopped shuffling his feet as he had been.

“I didn’t notice…thanks,” the Captain muttered.

I started to bob my head in acknowledgement when a cheer broke out in the Tactical section. On the screen, one of the small Scouts that had been skimming around behind us broke into pieces, while another Scout had gone dead-ballistic as it experienced fatal decompression through the holes our turbo-lasers had ripped through its hull.

“Yes!” said Officer Eastwood triumphantly. “Relay my compliments to the starboard gunnery crew.”

“Mister First Officer,” Captain Laurent called out, causing Eastwood to look up at him in surprise, “an extra ration of mead for Starboard Gunnery at the next meal for good shooting.”

“I’ll pass it on, Sir,” Senior Lieutenant Eastwood smiled.

While they were slapping one another on the proverbial backs, I was staring at the main holo-screen. I was dismayed to see that, unlike most of the Bug ships I’d encountered in the past, the Large Harvester was only misfiring off randomly into space about once every minute or so.

“The Bugs seem to have improved their gunnery since our last encounter,” I said tightly, not liking this new development in the least.

Laurent looked over at me in surprise and then glanced at the screen. His face hardened. “According to the historical records, the larger Bug ships always have a better gunnery hit ratio than the smaller ones,” he explained tightly. “A few have even had some semi-inspired tactical maneuvers.”

“Semi-inspired,” I echoed, completely surprised and more than a little incredulous.

“Well, they are Bugs,” Laurent smirked right before another hail of Bug fire landed home. This time it lanced through our nonexistent shield over the port side of the ship (as those shields had been rerouted to cover only the Engineering section) and bored straight into the duralloy hull.

The lights flickered and then failed temporarily as something crashed inside the ship. The darkness lasted only a split second, but the crew weren’t the only ones that gasped or called out and I quickly looked around to make sure no one had noticed their Admiral’s unthinking cry of concern. I was just about to open my mouth when the gravity failed.

“Roll the ship, Mr. DuPont,” Laurent roared, “on the hop!”

“We can’t take much more of this,” I said fatalistically. If only we hadn’t arrived unsupported in the midst of a Bug task group!

“We only have to hold out another minute or two, Sir,” Laurent said,

I looked over at him in shock. “But they’re all around us, we’re surrounded!” I countered, rejecting his false comfort.

“No, really—” he started, only to be cut off by another cheer from the Tactical section.

“Pour it on, Gunnery,” Eastwood snarled into his new solid metal microphone down to the gun deck, “don’t stop until your barrels melt and your crystals shatter!”

Unable to hope for the best, my disbelieving eyes watched as the nearest Harvester jerked and shifted, firing its engines to try and present a facing to us that wasn’t pierced with turbo and heavy laser fire, or leaking atmosphere and fluids out the rents.

A sudden flurry of aimless shots fired all around us and a swarm of missiles erupted from every side and facing of the Large Harvester before it suddenly broke apart amidships, spewing Bugs, air, and other unidentifiable biomass from the large rent in the underside of the vessel which ran from one side to the other.

“Good call, Captain,” I grinned, punching the other Caprian man in the arm.

Not even bothering to look away from the screen, he gave a short negative shake of his head, “Not what I was talking about,” he said, clenching his fists as the last of the fight went out of the still-decompressing Large Harvester and a final glut burst out the middle of the Bug ship before its weapons stopped firing.

“Switch all weapons to point defense only, if you would, First Officer,” Laurent ordered, cutting through the commotion.

The First Officer did a double take and then glanced back at the main screen before giving a sharp nod, “Of course, Sir,” he said, snatching up his microphone. “All available weapons are to reorient for anti-missile duty. Priority power to point defense,” he ordered through the microphone.

“What about those other ships?” I demanded pointing to the main screen, but my finger was slowly wilting and going limp as I saw the remaining bug ships slide past our position with disbelief.

“They’ll be back on us in a few minutes, but inertia was against them,” Laurent explained his fingers digging into each other behind his back even as he leaned forward, “even though Bugs go fairly slow to conserve on mass and fuel for their long journeys between the stars, they still had too much forward momentum to just stop when we appeared right in front of them,” he said with satisfaction as the Bug engines went to full burn to come about and reengage us.

“We’ve got breathing room,” I sighed as the last of the Bug ships—that Large Harvester—slid around to the side and went out of easy attack range.

“They’ll be back on us soon enough, like white on rice,” Laurent demurred, “but it should give us some time to rebuild our shields; a few minutes at least.”

Time slid by with frantic activity as ‘a few minutes’ turned into five, and then almost ten before the Bugs were estimated to come roaring back by our Navigator.

“What kind of shield power can you regenerate in that time?” the new Captain barked at the Ensign in charge of the shield section.

“Without the drain from the weapon banks, maybe twenty percent, Captain Laurent, sir,” the Ensign reported with sweat breaking out on his forehead, which he dabbed at quickly with a white handkerchief to keep it from falling into his eyes.

“Not good enough,” Laurent said sternly, “do better.”

The Ensign opened his mouth but must have seen the same steely glint in the former Tactical Officer’s eye because his mouth snapped back shut, “Aye, aye, Sir,” he said faintly and then whirled back to his section to castigate his pair of techs and encourage them and himself to greater effort. “We have to get better at load balancing our two secondary generators with our lone primary, people,” the Ensign instructed, overly loudly if I was to be any judge in this smaller bridge we found ourselves stuck with, “we need more power and we need to not waste time shifting energy between shield nodes!”

“Possibly we could increase the recharge if we routed more power through the backup lines running into the secondaries,” hazarded one of the timorous Shield Techs I knew from the Clover.

“Good, let’s check with damage control,” said the Ensign, leaning forward and putting his head together with his techs, and their noise level soon lowered to the point I couldn’t hear them anymore.

Meanwhile, there were other sections calling out for attention. “Captain, we’re down a pair of turbo-lasers and a quad of heavies,” reported the First Officer.

“Bug fire was that good, Clinton?” Laurent inquired with a frown.

The First Officer grimaced and then shook his head, “We lost part of the Quad to counter fire but the heavies overloaded their focusing arrays. They’re still trying to get them out,” he said grimly.

“I assume the emergency release system failed to eject the arrays?” Laurent pursed his lips.

“The gunners on those turbo-lasers overrode the safety cutoffs,” Eastwood said sourly, “the crystals expanded when they cracked, and now they won’t come out.”

“Blast,” Laurent cursed, “get me their names.”

“In fairness, Captain, they overrode the safety lockouts so they could help finish off that Harvester,” the First Officer said mildly.

“I’ll still want those names,” Laurent said shaking his head.

“Captain,” Officer Eastwood protested.

“Our Chief Gunner’s as green as a cucumber and we’ve just lost 20% of our combat punch,” Laurent said in a hard voice and then allowed his tone to gentle, “but you can give them to me after the post-battle review.”

Possibly to decide whether to punish or reward those men, I wondered idly. Either way, it didn’t sound like something the Admiral either needed to—or even should—involve himself in. Especially since the Admiral in question didn’t know any of the men involved. I suppressed a grimace as I realized that, like most everything else on this ship, that particular circumstance was very much unlike it had been on the Clover.

My heart twisted. Oh, I didn’t feel for our old ship the same way our eccentric—some might say ‘crazed’—Chief Engineer did, but all the same I missed her…and the camaraderie that we’d been building, which was now shattered to pieces. The only question was whether I would be able to put enough of them back together to keep going on.

I was banking on the fact that I could.

“Any other problems I need to know about?” Laurent demanded of the bridge staff.

“Well…” the watch stander at Damage Control slowly raised his arm.

“Yes, go on,” Laurent said irritably.

“Well, the Hydroponics section took a couple hits and we lost two of our three bays when they vented to space,” the Damage Control technician said diffidently, “one of them might be recoverable, but the other’s thrashed and—”

The Captain cut him off irritation flashing across his face, “We’re about to go back into combat and you’re bothering me with the loss of our green, leafy vegetables?” he said with rising disbelief, his hands clenching at his side as he stared at the watch stander who seemed to shrink inside himself.

“Well, the ship’s long-term survival has just been cut in—” the Damage Control tech said in a small voice.

“Captain,” I said sharply, cutting Laurent off before he could say something someone would regret.

“Yes, Admiral,” the former Tactical Officer said, his head snapping around to face me. I could see the hint of red around the corner of his eyes.

“Since I seem to be short a fleet to direct at the moment, I’ll deal with this,” I said mildly, “you can focus on what you do best: our weaponry and tactical situation.”

“Right,” Laurent said after a moment and then paused again, “right.” He gave the watch stander a shake of his head before heading over to confer with our navigator and helmsman.

The stander looked at me with equal parts hope and dread.

“Has our life support system been damaged to the point we’re going to need to evacuate the ship either before, or even a few hours after, the next battle?” I asked, arching a brow at the engineer.

“No, Sir, I mean Admiral Montagne, Sir,” the Engineer stumbled over himself, “the air scrubbers should be able to keep up, but if we can’t get that second hydroponics bay back up and running we cut down on our ability to recycle our food. Less greens and less output from the algae tanks will not only decrease meal satisfaction, but we’ll have to get into our hard rations sooner and…”

I cut him off with an upraised hand. “I see,” I said, suppressing the urge to indulge in an eye roll. We could be dead in the next couple minutes, and I was stuck dealing with an engineer possessing the soul of a bean counter, “Is there anything else,” I paused, “other than the damaged hydroponics sections?”

“Uh, we lost one of our two secondary power relay systems that were installed in the ship in case the primary grid was damaged,” the Engineering Technician said, his eyes shifting left and right as he visibly tried to remember, “but the primary’s okay and we still have one back up, while with the hydroponics…as you already know, they’re down to just the one functional bay,” he finished with a hopeful expression.

“I see,” I repeated, and I did. This was a man who was so mono-focused on a lack of redundancy that he couldn’t see the flowers from the weeds. If it didn’t matter to our surviving the upcoming battle, then it should have waited. Instead, however, he’d gone on and on about something that could cause us trouble months down the road and neglected to mention a compromise to one of the ship’s more critical systems.

“What should I do, Sir?” the man asked, clearly waiting for orders.

“I believe it’s imperative that you personally inspect the compromised hydroponics section that might be salvageable and prepare to lead a team in its repair as soon as the battle’s over,” I said with a grave nod. This man had to go—preferably before the next battle started.

“But what about my damage control station,” the Watch Stander said rearing back in surprise, “I can’t leave it unattended.”

I paused as if considering the situation. “Summon your replacement,” I said with a serious expression, “I’m afraid that this is a situation that can’t wait.” I made sure to glance at his name tag.

“Aye, aye, Sir!” the Engineering Technician acknowledged, turning back to his station and speaking rapidly into his com-link.

With the slightest shake of my head, I pulled out my data slate and made a note. It was imperative that that man stayed as far away from the bridge as possible, for the safety of all concerned.

Half a minute later the Engineering Tech was striding for the lift system and his replacement exited the doors of the very same lift, striding purposefully toward the Damage Control station.

When I saw the new tech had arrived and was looking for someone to report to, I made sure to catch her eye. With a relieved expression, the Tech quickly approached.

“Engineering Technician Arienne Blythe reporting for duty, Admiral,” said the stern-faced woman in an engineering department uniform complete with tool belt, jacket, and head bag clipped to the back of her belt.

“Are you ready to handle damage control on the bridge, Technician Arienne?” I asked gravely.

“I’m fully trained in damage control operations and a certified watch stander,” the crewwoman said with a no nonsense voice. Unlike the last man, she both looked and sounded professional. I briefly wondered why we’d been stuck with the other guy and then shrugged, since it didn’t matter. We’d soon find out if she was up to snuff.

I shook her hand. “I expect great things,” I said with a patented, royal smile.

“Thank you, Sir,” she said with a questioning look before turning away when I dismissed her with a nod.

“Back to your post then, Damage Control,” I said evenly.

“Aye, aye, Sir,” she said with a frown and as she turned away I could see her shrug. In moments she was over at damage control, the encounter with her ultimate superior already forgotten as she began communicating with the rest of the ship.

“Never send a man to do a woman’s job, eh?” I mused appreciatively. I sure hoped that was the case, as in this particular instance man, woman or genetically engineered uplift, I couldn’t have cared less. The last thing we needed was to be hearing about the damage to our future fresh food supply while dealing with Bugs. Heck, I might have even preferred a droid with the right personality over that other gu—well, okay, maybe I shouldn’t go that far.

A sudden thought caught me and I glanced sharply at the Tactical Station. I remembered seeing a lot of missiles spew out of the dying Harvester, and the First Officer had reconfigured our priority to missile defense. Then I remembered that the last Bugs I’d encountered had used a sort of fire and forget missile and from the lack of excitement over in the tactical area, I had to assume we’d taken care of them all by now.

Chapter 12: Round Two, Harvester Style

I sat clutching the flimsy-feeling armrests of my command chair as the reconsolidated Bug force, now grouped tightly with the sole remaining Large Harvester at its core, overcame enough of its forward momentum to come back toward us.

“Tactical, Sensors,” Laurent’s voice carried across the smaller bridge easily, “run another sensor sweep and give me a double check on the remaining enemy numbers.”

“A Harvester and a couple of Scouts,” the First Officer said after moment.

Then the Sensor Officer jumped up from a console he’d been sitting at, “I’m reading a pair of Bug Scouts, one to either side of the Harvester, Sir,” the man said excitedly.

“Yes, Warrant, that’s what Tactical already relayed,” the new Captain remarked evenly.

“Aye, aye, Sir,” the new Warrant in command of the sensor section said eagerly, “but I’m getting some strange readings from what looks like a large, circular cargo bay toward the ventral stern of the Bug ship, as seen from this orientation,” he finished, pointing at the screen.

“What is that?” I asked, staring as the cargo bay oscillated open and a large, white, almost egg-like object started to push its way out of the bay.

The Sensor Officer looked back at me and bared his teeth with the triumph of discovering something no one else had, “From the sensor readings, I think that Harvester is releasing another scout ship from its hanger,” the new-minted Warrant said into a now stunned silence. “I think maybe it was taking on more fuel?” the former sensor technician hazarded a guess.

Everyone around me was staring at the white coating around what was looking more and more like a Scout ship as it flaked away, and the Scout slowly emerged from the Harvester.

“You know what that looks like, don’t you?” one of the female technicians in the communication section said sounding thoroughly grossed out.

“Well, what are we all sitting or standing around staring at it for,” I said clapping my hands with the snap of authority, “those Bugs are getting closer every second! Lock lasers on target and erase that Scout before it gets out the back end of that other ship as soon as she’s within range!”

As if some disgusting, yet strangely compelling, magical spell had been broken, the bridge crew suddenly lurched back into action.

“Targeting the Scout, Admiral,” reported First Officer Eastwood who then shook his head, “I mean, Captain,” he said looking back at Laurent. “Preliminary target acquired pending authorization.”

Laurent waved his hand in the air irritably, “An order from the Admiral is an order from me. Besides, the Admiral’s right; we need to crush this baby bug before it has the chance to fully emerge from its…hanger. Any shots that miss it are just as likely to hit its mother…ship,” he muttered, shaking his head in disgust. Under his breath I could hear him mutter, “Blighted bugs,” in a disgusted voice.

Then we were back within range of our weapons, and fortunately our turbo-lasers had longer range, as well as more power, than anything those Murphy-benighted Demon Bugs could hope to come up with. By all the angry Imps, if only those big Bug ships didn’t have such better fire control than their smaller brethren, this battle would be a foregone conclusion.

“A hit,” the First Officer crowed as a pair of our shots rammed home, bursting the little Scout ship with an explosion of atmo and unidentifiable fluids and other biomass, “we’ll be taking these Bugs out behind the woodshed anytime now, y’all!”

“The woodshed?” I repeated, wondering what in the world he was talking about.

Laurent broke into a fit of chuckling that he tried to hide behind a cough. “I think he means for a good whooping,” and then at my still uncomprehending look, “to spank them, or paddle the tar out of them with a stick?”

“You mean ‘a beating’,” I slapped the palm of my hand up against my forehead and groaned. That had to be just about the stupidest, hokiest line I’d ever heard.

And then there was no more time for jokes and levity, as the Bugs found their own firing range and our ship lurched as the oncoming vessels fired in unison.

“Shields down to 10%…5%…” the Ensign reported in a ringing voice, “and the shields are gone!” The ship lurched and bucked beneath us, and again the power dimmed before returning full strength.

“Damage to the primary trunk lines for the power distribution system,” Damage Control reported in steady voice, “rerouting through secondary systems temporarily. It looks like a breaker overload from a power spike in a critical node; Engineering should have it back under control within the minute.”

Clenching my fist, I hoped they got the power sorted out as quickly as possible. The rock-steady voice of the new Damage Control Technician told me that replacing the other guy with her was already paying dividends. Even if all she had was a steadying voice and an empty brainpan, then we were already ahead by a voice. The bridge could use all the steadying influences it could get, and I was beginning to suspect that this Tech wasn’t just a better speaker than the mono-focused guy she’d replaced.

“Roll to present our starboard facing and give the portside gun deck a break,” Laurent ordered.

“The starboard hull is already damaged, Captain,” Officer Eastwood observed loudly before turning back to notify his Gunners of the maneuver.

“We roll or our guns will overheat, and pretty soon the port side will look just as bad as the starboard does right now,” Laurent said evenly, even as DuPont was rolling the ship as ordered.

The urge to put my oar in was like an itch I simply couldn’t scratch, and it was all I could do to keep from squirming in my seat and issuing a series of orders. It didn’t matter what those orders were—anything at all would work, I just needed to have something to do!

As I watched on the screen, the Harvester and its two accompanying Scouts bore down on us. The Large Harvester focused every weapon that could be brought to bear on us and fired continuously as it drew closer. The Scouts, on the other hand, were firing every beam mount they had except the ones that pointed at their sister ships. Other than that, however, they were following the same strategy of the previous Bug ships we’d previously encountered. Clearly, the Bugs performed markedly better, the larger their ship class was.

“Maneuvering for effect, Admiral,” DuPont reported crisply. My eyebrows rose in surprise, since it was Laurent who had actually issued the order and I had to suppress a smile.

“Just keep us broadside on, Mister DuPont,” I said soothingly, “Tactical and our First Officer will hammer it home.”

The Captain glanced at me out of the corner of his eye as his lips thinned. I met his gaze coolly and cocked an eyebrow at him. This ‘having a Captain’ business was taking some getting used to, and maybe if I’d had an actual fleet—meaning ships in addition to just this one—at my command I’d be taking a more hands-off approach to things. As it was, the former Tactical officer needed to understand that I didn’t just plan to stand by and do nothing.

I wasn’t unwilling to step back and let him stretch his wings. He could take the lead most of the time, but that was because I knew he was competent to handle the job, not because I was suddenly going to change my command style. I needed to keep my hand in the mix—both for appearances and ‘other’ reasons.

Laurent grunted unhappily before giving me the faintest of nods and turning back to stare at the main-screen with a hungry expression.

“All starboard weapons are to volley fire on my mark,” the Officer, Eastwood, said in carrying voice, slapping the head of his new microphone against his console for emphasis. He paused a second as the fire died off, “Mark!” he cried.

Turbo and heavy laser fire smashed into the Harvester, causing her to reel slightly.

“Shield power at 2%,” the Ensign at the shield console reported crisply, and his lack of negative emotions were starting to make me wonder about him when suddenly his voice tensed, “shield cascade failure; primary generator is overloading!”

“Shut it down,” barked Laurent, his head snapping around.

“I’m trying,” the Ensign said smashing his fingers on the buttons of his console, “electronic lockout’s not responding, Captain.”

“Mark!” Eastwood cried from the tactical pit and the broadside lashed out, its lasers gouging into the hide of the Bug ship.

I looked at the Ensign in surprise, since on the Clover we’d never had this particular problem. Are we going to lose our shield generators, I wondered, my hands clenching in concern.

“Secondary generator temperatures spiking,” the Ensign reported, now hunched over his console with both of his assistant shield operators working furiously beside him.

“Mark!” Eastwood thundered, his voice cutting through the sounds of the bridge, and another concentrated barrage lashed out, causing the Large Harvester to writhe on the screen and release a host of missiles in our direction

“Blast it, shut them down, Ensign!” Laurent ordered then rounded on DuPont, “evasive maneuvers, Helmsman; get us out of the path of those missiles!”

“I’m trying, Sir,” cried the Ensign.

“Yes, Sir,” DuPont said tensely—right before a hail of fire from the Harvester lashed into our side.

The ship shuddered around us and the gravity plates flickered, causing my stomach to roll.

“We’re venting atmosphere on three decks,” Damage Control reported calmly, “dispatching damage control teams and ordering personnel caught on those levels to seek cover in the nearest airtight compartments.” I could faintly hear a klaxon sound and a decompression warning come over the speaker as she spoke.

Seeing the Ensign pounding on his console in frustration with both fists, I snapped my head over to the damage control operator.

“Do something about the shield generators before they explode, or worse,” I ordered angrily, projecting authority into my voice. The last thing I needed was an argument while our defenses were destroyed, “We’re going to need them later.”

“Admiral,” the Engineering Tech acknowledged the order, then turned and tapped a series of buttons on her console and spoke rapidly into her com-link just as the lights flickered.

“Mark!” Eastwood ordered and nothing happened. At least, nothing happened from my perspective. The Bugs, on the other hand, lashed us with a renewed barrage and the ship shuddered again.

“Cascade has been averted,” the Ensign reported with obvious relief, “complete power loss reported.”

“What happened to my guns,” roared the First Officer, “gunnery reports they have no power!”

“Rerouting power now,” Damage Control responded.

“We have missiles on close approach,” Eastwood raged, “fix it now or heads will roll, Damage Control!”

“Starboard secondary engine damaged,” cried DuPont, “she’s lost for at least the rest of this battle; upping main engine to 110% to compensate!”

“Go to point defense, rapid fire at will,” snapped Laurent, “and get me back my shields.”

“Point defense, aye,” responded Officer Eastwood.

“We can’t, Sir,” the Ensign said in a high voice, “it looks like we fried the main breakers for the Primary Generator and shorted out the load balancer.”

“Do a system reboot, and make it fast,” Laurent ground out with frustration, “and don’t make me tell you how to do your job again—you won’t like the results.”

“I don’t mean the computer program’s damaged, Sir,” the Ensign reported, “we’ve either lost the main junction relay box to a Bug strike, or else the hard lines leading into it physically melted during the near-cascade.”

“Murphy’s Imps,” cursed Laurent, “just do the best you can and don’t bother me until they’re back up.”

“ETA: half hour,” replied the Shield Ensign.

“What part of ‘don’t bother me’ did I fail to make clear?” Lauren barked before turning back to the main screen, where a host of missiles was about to hit the ship. I found myself unconsciously holding my breath when the ship’s deck started to shiver.

“Rolling the ship,” DuPont shouted.

“No, stay on course,” Laurent yelled.

“With only two engines—each at 110%—I’m losing control of the ship,” snapped the Helmsman, and then the ship jumped out from under me and I started to rise out of my chair before slamming back down onto its thin, unforgiving padding.

Cries of dismay came throughout the bridge as people slammed down into, or in some cases, fell out of their chairs.

Shaking my head and forcing down my gorge as the grav-plates struggled to compensate, I grimly held onto my command chair with both hands.

“Yes!” Laurent said from where he was holding onto a grab rail with both hands, and my eyes snapped up to the holo. On the main screen—and flashing past our ship’s position—was a swarm of missiles.

“Good work, Helmsman,” I said.

“Yes,” Laurent agreed, shaking his fist at the screen as the majority narrowly blew past our ship, while most of the remaining projectiles were taken out by our point defense.

As I watched, the Harvester and both Scouts fired through the area of space we had just vacated; it was a narrow miss, but a miss all the same.

“That was close,” I said with feeling.

“This is our chance; port side, fire at will,” our First Officer yelled into his microphone, and then pounded its base on the desk in excitement as our boys and girls down on the gun deck communicated in their own way with the enemy. Only a little over half the broadside lanced out than had before our surprise jump, but unlike when we first started firing, each shot that landed was now causing major damage.

“I’m reading multiple penetrations through their hull,” the Sensor Officer reported eagerly, “the Bugs are venting atmo and crew-bugs out the rents in its armor.”

“Pour it on, Gunnery,” roared Eastwood, “and we’ll blow these Bugs to kingdom come!”’

I was watching the screen as the Harvester twisted and slewed around in space, before turning its engines toward us.

“They’re trying to get away,” yodeled Eastwood, “we’ve got’em on the run.”

Then I saw a larger amount of debris than usual venting from the Bug ship and my eyes widened.

“Steady on, Clinton,” Captain Laurent instructed the First Officer.

“Sensors, enhance the picture of that debris,” I said jumping out of my seat, “and throw it up on the main screen.”

“Sir?” the Sensor Officer asked, turning around to look at me questioningly.

“Use every one of your sensors if you have to, just get me that picture,” I said flatly.

“We need some of those sensors for fire control,” Laurent protested with surprise as he swiveled around to look at me with concern.

“Do it, Officer,” I snapped ignoring the Captain, “or I’ll find someone who will!”

“Yes, Sir, Admiral,” the Sensor Officer exclaimed, spinning around to give the order which his sensor operators were already carrying out.

The first of the images came up on the screen and my stomach clenched. “Too many,” I whispered, pounding a single fist into the padding of my chair arm.

“Admiral?” Laurent said urgently.

“Not now, Captain,” I said, my eyes flashing back and forth between the new images coming up.

“We need some of those sensors for Tactical, Sir!” Laurent all but shouted.

“Fine,” I said irritably, “Warrant Officer, return sensors to whatever they were doing before.”

“Yes, Sir!” the Sensor Officer said.

“Murphy save us from Flag Officers,” Officer Eastwood muttered loud enough for me to hear, which meant that since I could hear him, it had to be deliberate.

Fortunately for the First Officer, I had more important things to worry about than him.

“It’s just some Bugs vented from when we pierced their hulls,” Laurent leaned towards me and explained in an overly patient voice, “please, sir, let me fight this ship. We’ll take down the Bugs in short order.” He then turned toward the Helmsman, “Mister DuPont, maneuver to avoid those Bug engines; I don’t want a collision, or encounter of any kind with their exhaust. As the Admiral’s shown, hitting something with your engine flare can be hazardous to a ship’s health!”

A number of the bridge crew laughed, and I realized that after politely rebuking me for stealing his sensors, the Captain was trying to smooth it over by paying me a compliment—but I didn’t have time for that.

“Comm., get me the Lancer and Armory Leaders,” I said flatly, “and somebody get me some tea!” The communications operator wasn’t the only one to look at me with concern over this latest outburst, but fortunately for the Operator’s health he got the two men on the line.

“I have them, Admiral,” the Communications Operator said eagerly, “linking them to your slate…now.”

“Lieutenant Priam at your command, Warlord,” reported a blond Tracto-an with an impossibly noble nose. If he hadn’t been looking at me with such eagerness and devotion, I would have taken an instant disliking to him. I was about to say something when my screen split and another person appeared on my screen.

“This is the Armsmaster,” another man, also sturdily built and with pale, white skin said irritably before recognizing me. I absently observed that not only had his nose been broken multiple times—which endeared him to me slightly—but he was most definitely neither a Caprian or a Tracto-an, “I mean, Senior Chief Eugene Hardy Atkins, reporting as ordered Admiral,” he corrected himself quickly, “what can the Armory do for you, Sir?”

“Atkins, Priam,” I said nodding gravely, “we don’t have a lot of time, so let’s not waste any more here; prepare to repel borders.”

The two of them stared at me for half a second, then I had the pleasure of observing two almost diametrically opposed reactions: instant alarm on the part of the Armsmaster, and a rising eagerness from my sworn Tracto-an.

“Yes, Sir,” the Armsmaster said his face hardening, “we won’t let you down.”

“We’ll crush our enemies in your name, Warlord Montagne,” Lieutenant Priam said joyfully, “I go now to prepare!” His image then winked out.

“If you could have a battle-suit brought up to the Captain’s ready room by a yeoman, that would be greatly appreciated,” I informed the Armsmaster before he also cut the connection.

“Admiral!” an orderly gasped, sounding out of breath as he ran up to me.

“What is it?” I glared irritably as I turned to the other man.

The other man thrust something into my hand and I stared down at it with growing disbelief. “What is this?” I said in a deceptively mild voice

“Your tea, Sir!” the Yeoman said triumphantly.

Shaking my head at the gall of interrupting me right after an important conference call, I put the small, porcelain rim of the cup to my lips. Savoring the smell for half a second, I then tossed back the whole cup in one swallow.

“An excellent blend,” I said absently, thrusting the cup back into his hands.

Chapter 13: Expecting Guests?

“Boarders, Sir?” Laurent said with a hint of uncertainty in his voice as soon as the yeoman took off at the run, for wherever it was that yeomen ran off to.

“There are too many Bugs ‘venting’ into space,” I said with a decisive nod, “we needs must prepare to squash them upon their arrival on our lovely hull.”

Laurent’s brow furrowed before smoothing itself out into an unreadable demeanor, but I could detect the hint of doubt quickly hidden by the other man.

So I turned to the new Captain. “When was the last time we encountered Bugs and it didn’t come down to a hand-to-hand fight?” I asked with a deliberate smirk, to let everyone watching around the bridge see my confidence. After all, what was the worst that could happen? That the by-now all-too-obviously-fallible Admiral Montagne was thought to be jumping at shadow?

Laurent continued to look at me impassively for a long moment, and then his face took on a determined look. He gave me a short nod and turned back to the bridge at large.

On the main screen, the Harvester was leaking a strange, bluish substance out its underside—right about where its launching bay and the Scout ship we’d destroyed had been.

“Gunners are to target these coordinates,” Eastwood shouted into his microphone, and I could tell he was getting excited by the new dents he was putting into his tactical console with the microphone.

There was a renewed flurry of fire from the gun deck, and seconds later the hind end of the Bug ship exploded.

Yes!” the First Officer yelled, breaking off the head of his new microphone in his rising excitement, “we must have lit off their normal space fuel source!” On the screen, the massive Bug broke into three unequal parts. The front half was now moving at a tangent to our position, while the back half had broken and quickly collided with the still-flaming engines attached to the blackened section where the Scout launch bay used to be located.

“Instruct our gunners to target the remaining Scout ships,” Laurent said, unnecessarily as it turned out, because even before he started speaking the previously simultaneous volley fire of the broadsides broke into a stream of individual fire as it looked like every gun on the ship that could be brought to bear on the little Scouts unloaded as fast as they could service their targets.

Cheers broke out all over the bridge, and even I couldn’t help pumping my fist in the air at the sight. Then the Captain’s voice cut through the sound of victory.

“Helm, prepare this ship for a new course and heading,” Laurent said.

“Yes, Captain?” our Helmsman asked swiveling around in his chair.

Behind me, the smaller blast doors of this ship cycled open and a yeoman came in followed by a grav-cart laden with the requested battle-suit came into the room.

“You are to advance at flank speed on a trajectory more or less five degrees behind the current location of the Bug Harvester,” Laurent said with a fearsome smile.

“Captain?” DuPont said questioningly, although he didn’t wait for a reply before swiveling his chair around and making the course adjustment.

“With alacrity, Mister DuPont,” Laurent said flatly, “please move this ship as if our very lives depended on it.”

Around us I could hear the sounds of celebration die down into a hushed silence and it took me a moment to figure out what the Captain was up to. When I did, I couldn’t resist a small smile.

“Trouble, Sir?” the First Officer asked, advancing on the command chair with his brows furrowed.

“Advise point defense to prepare to target a wave of Warrior Bugs determined to force a boarding action,” Laurent said evenly.

The First Officer’s eyes bulged and his hand dropped back to his data slate once again like it was a blaster pistol before realizing what he’d just done. Lifting his ‘gun hand’ and running it through his hair, the Easy Haven transfer glanced over at me with surprise and dawning comprehension.

“If you’re sure and certain, Sir,” he said switching back to look at the Captain, “there’s a lot of debris out there, and we’re running a risk of crashing into it.”

I started to open my mouth, but our new Captain beat me to it.

“You have your orders, XO,” Laurent said pointedly, his face hardening.

“Of course, Sir,” the First Officer replied, shooting me a more calculating look before shrugging and turning away.

“Clinton,” Laurent called after the new First Officer when I would have probably just let him stew in his own juices.

“Sir?” the XO replied questioningly.

“In my experience the Admiral is rarely wrong about these things,” Laurent said in a low voice, intended not to carry across the bridge.

“Orders received, Captain,” Officer Eastwood said professionally, “you can count on Tactical; it’s always better safe than sorry.”

I wondered if this was some subtle dig against the choice to move at ramming speed right down the throat of the Bug boarding force I’d spotted and the First Officer didn’t yet seem to believe in.

“You can never be too cautious, Eastwood; something you’ll learn if you serve with the Admiral here for any length of time,” Laurent replied. He then gave his first officer a pasty looking smile, “Besides, when the Admiral’s been wrong it’s generally because he underestimated a threat that no one else even spotted at all.”

“Oh?” I said, lifting a single eyebrow and giving the Captain a penetrating look. “Hardly a ringing endorsement, ‘Captain’ Laurent.”

“Too much truth to power, Sir?” Laurent asked with a sly wink and in an overly solicitous voice.

I huffed with outrage, and then remembered I’d possessed a very same sentiment when dealing with Sir Isaac as a prisoner of Central, and for a moment I almost felt like my normal self. I opened my mouth to crack a sideways joke and at both of our expense, but mostly his, when I suddenly recalled myself. I reminded myself that I was a hardened agent of death on a mission of vengeance. My mood instantly soured and I turned away with a frown.

The destruction of the two remaining Scout ships was almost anti-climactic, each lanced through by turbo-laser fire and then bursting like an overripe fruit, with Bug guts and other unidentified, living ship parts spewing out into space as their ships decompressed…

“Now that the Bug ships have been dealt with, I need an update,” Captain Laurent growled, “what’s the status on our Shields, Mister Longbottom?”

There was a brief pause as the Shields Officer consulted his console screen first. “Another twenty minutes at least, Captain, before we can begin shield initiation,” the Ensign reported in a professional sounding tenor. “Damage Control can give you a better update, but Engineering already has a team working on the junction relay.”

“Thank you, Ensign,” Laurent said in dismissal.

“Yes, Sir,” Officer Longbottom replied faintly.

“Approaching debris field, Sir,” the Sensor Warrant reported briskly.

“Should I slow down, Sir?” asked Helmsman DuPont.

I leaned forward to make sure we didn’t slow down too much. I was ready to override anyone who thought it was going to be a sweet idea to slow down too much in a field of Marine Bugs.

“Steady as she goes, Helm,” the Captain said evenly and then turned back to the Sensor Officer. “Warrant, keep forwarding your latest figures over to the Navigator; Mr. Shepherd, please help Mister DuPont avoid the larger fragments…if possible.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” the pair at Helm and Nav coursed together.

“Contact,” shrilled a Sensor Technician jumping out of her chair.

“Multiple contacts, Sir,” the Sensor Officer reported.

“Size and number,” I snapped, jumping out of my chair to take a closer look at the screen.

“Admiral—” Laurent started, but I cut him off.

“How many of them are there?” I demanded.

“It’s hard to say, Admiral,” the Sensor Officer said after several seconds, “we have several thousand contacts.”

“Several thousand!” I spluttered unable to believe what I was hearing.

“Aye, Admiral,” the Officer replied, “however, we think most of them are ship fragments or decompressed Bugs.”

“Bugs don’t tend to decompress, Sensors—at least not nearly as easily as us humans do,” I said in a quelling tone.

Men and women around the bridge visibly gulped.

“Steady on, bridge,” I said confidently, “the Captain and I have a plan to deal with the majority of them.” I then leaned back in my chair and languidly crossed my legs.

“’We’ do, do we,” my former Tactical Officer said in a low voice, with a smile on his face for the crew.

“Of course,” I said easily in a matching tone, “we’re charging right through them. I expect a large number of Bugs to go ‘splat’ on our hull.”

“Splat?” Laurent said, rearing back incredulously before he chortled.

“Well, what would you call it then?” I inquired irritably.

“I was thinking more along the lines of ramming and getting through them quick, but your way works too, Admiral,” the Captain said shaking his head.

Seconds later, the ship shuddered faintly.

“What was that, bridge?” Captain Laurent demanded in a no nonsense voice, and although he sounded quite serious he lacked the sort of tension one would expect if he were direly concerned for the ship.

“We’re passing through the debris field now, Captain,” DuPont reported loudly. I could see the Sensor Officer who had just started to stand up to issue a report slowly sit down his mouth tensing with irritation, “I’m modifying our course as much as possible to avoid the worst of it while maintaining flank speed.”

Laurent nodded in understanding, but with his head turned to face his console I knew DuPont would never see him do so.

“Good work. Carry on, Helm,” I interjected firmly. It was important to keep my finger on the pulse of the crew, but equally important to reward good work with the appropriate praise.

The Ship shuddered ever so slightly once again.

“Hit another one, Helm?” I said with a patented, royal drawl to show my lack of concern. Not that I was really unconcerned, it was just important that no one thought I was. “Make sure we don’t hit anything too big, now.”

“No, Sir,” the Sensor Officer cut in with a sharp glance at the Helmsman, before turning fully toward me and lifting his chin, “sensors show we’re taking multiple hits to the bow. We’re only feeling the larger ones; our nose is pretty tough.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” I muttered to Laurent in a short aside before lifting my voice to carry across the bridge when I observed several of the crew muttering unhappily to one another at this little bit of data, “a timely report, Sensors. Keep up the good work.”

Suppressing the urge to roll my eyes when the new Warrant Officer in charge of the Sensor section started swelling with pride, I deliberately turned to Captain Laurent. I was determined to present my well-practiced, ‘unconcerned-because-I-was-totally-in-control’ façade that seemed to fool my bridge crew so well in the past.

“Drive flares!” yelped a Sensor Operator.

“What?! Where?” I demanded, my head snapping around to the main screen looking for new enemy warships.

“There all right in front of us, Admiral,” the new Warrant in charge of Sensor Section said after a quick conference with his team, “they’re too small to be Scout ships, Sir,” he paused, “Sir! I think they’re some of those oversized borer/penetrator Bugs like the ones we had to deal with before. You remember when they tried to dig into our hull, Sir!”

For a moment I stared at him blankly, and then I remembered the last time I’d had to encounter a Bug boarding party—the time I got knocked off the hull!

“Tactical, clear my skies,” Laurent ordered, pounding a fist on the rail in front of him.

“Communications,” I snarled, “inform Lieutenant Priam and Armsman Atkins they are about to receive some guests.”

“Gunnery is to continue with point defense plan, rapid fire!” shouted Officer Eastwood, whipping his data slate out and pointing it his Tactical team before jumping back to his console.’

“Yeoman, with me,” I said jumping to my feet,

“Sir!?” replied the nearest orderly.

“Help me into my battle-suit,” I said, trotting over to the Captain’s Ready Room with an eager expression and slapping my hand on the ancient, touch-sensitive palm scanner.

“Sir?” she replied uncertainly, but I had no time for sluggish yeomen. Either she would follow me and help or I’d put a note in her file.

Pushing through the doors as soon as they cycled open far enough, I stopped for a few seconds to stare at my latest set of power armor. The Armsmaster had sent me one of the old, Confederation pattern suits like the Light Squadron came equipped with. But this one however didn’t look lovingly restored; it looked factory new!

For half a second I had a feeling of trepidation. Should I really be going into combat in an entirely new—at least, new to me—model of power armor. Then the desire to get out there and squash some boarders ran through me and the hesitation passed like a bad case of gas.

It was time to blow away some Bugs.

Chapter 14: Upgrades Can Be Annoying

The Yeoman eventually overcame her hesitation and came in to assist me into the power suit, but by the time I reached the outside of the ship it looked like there as a small war taking place on the hull.

Since most of the action seemed to be taking place toward the prow, I activated my magnetic boots and hurried forward as best I could.

Something thumped beside me hard enough to cause my legs to vibrate. Wondering what could do that to a pair of power-armored legs, I looked left and slightly to the rear to see what it was. It took my eyes a moment to register what I was seeing; instead of some kind of giant, beetle-shaped Bug borer like I’d expected, all I could see was a bluish-purplish splatter. Then I saw a bit of carapace floating away from hull at speed, and I realized I was looking at Bug splatter.

With no shields to protect our hull and shrug off high speed attackers on the bounce, those Bugs that reached our ship but were going too fast to slow down and stop in time to land on us were instead splattering all over the outside of our ship, just like their smaller cousins on the windshield of a hover-bus.

I cracked a smile. At least none of them could claim they’d been thrown under the bus. Laughing at a joke even I could recognize as pathetic, I almost jumped off the hull when another Bug streaked in like a meteor to impact ten feet from me. Bug fluids, organs and unidentifiable body parts rained over me hard enough to wobble my footing, and it was only a quick grab at a protruding antenna kept me attached to the hull. The antenna didn’t look so good afterwards, bent at an angle as it was, but I could always get it fixed later.

Wondering if I, as an Admiral, should really be out here where one single Bug strike could kill me without the chance to retaliate—or at the very least knock me off the hull again, which wasn’t an experience I cared to have again—I hesitated. Then my face hardened; I wasn’t running for safety, and I certainly wasn’t hiding! If all I wanted was safety I might as well move my quarters down into a nice, secure cell in the brig. There was no such thing as safety anymore, and while I could run, I certainly couldn’t hide. My enemies had made it perfectly clear that they would keep coming for me. The only thing I could do was run as fast as possible, and then pound the living daylights out of them in a surprise maneuver when they caught up with me.

Static Crackled on my helmet’s com-link.

“Watch the bug strike, Armory; Sensors say we’re passing through a big patch of them and the lateral, starboard bow’s about to get pummeled,” came a calm commanding voice.

Then another signal overrode it in a heavily accented voice.

“I need another war-band; we’ve got a quad of Borer Bugs with accompanying Warrior Bugs digging into the hull. Sergeant Demiphone…out,” said the Lancer Sergeant.

I rolled my eyes, “If only I could lock onto that signal of yours, I’m sure I could—” I started to drawl over the com-network before my suit cut me off.

“Signal locked on,” my suit said in a mechanical voice in my ear, and then my HUD showed a pair of flashing lights. One was my suit, and the other was the location of transmission.

“Belay my last. I’m on the way,” I said with surprise. It seemed there were features to these suits I had never known about.

“Cut the chatter,” growled a voice over the network, “this is the command channel, so whoever this is needs to shut up or keep it relevant.”

My face colored and I couldn’t really say he was wrong—whoever he was—but pride trammeled up my tongue.

“This is the Admiral,” I said coolly, “I’m advancing on the Sergeant’s position.”

There was a moment of shocked silence on the link. “Are you sure—” started the voice, which I was coming to recognize as belonging to Armsmen Atkins when his transmission was cut off by an overwhelming roar of approval.

Surprised, I stood flat footed while my Lancers started chanting,“Warlord-Warlord-Warlord,” over a sub-channel.

Clenching the fist not holding a blaster rifle, I felt a surge of something I hadn’t felt in a long time: pride. I was proud of myself for the first time in months, and not because I was some kind of great Admiral or leader of men, but because I’d somehow been lucky enough and done enough to earn the loyalty of these warrior men.

Most of all though I was proud of the men fighting off these Bugs, and with my chest swelling with an emotion that I’d become unused lately, I bared my teeth in a savage smile and charged forward as fast as my mag-boots would take me.

“Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet,” I shouted over the com-link’s command channel, “and our Lancers and Armory teams!”

“Forward to Victo—” I started to yell again as I rounded a heavy laser mount sticking out of the hull, when I ran full tilt into a huge Warrior Bug and literally bounced off it.

Slamming backward into the laser mount, I lost my magnetic lock on the hull and had to scramble for a new purchase.

“Activating hull reacquisition system,” the mechanical voice came over my helmet speakers, and all of a sudden I lost contact with the laser mount as thrusters I hadn’t even been aware were built into this new model suit of mine activated and I felt myself spinning around. Flailing my arms for something, anything, to keep me attached the hull I gave a strangled cry of startled outrage.

My boots hit the ground a half second later. “Whoa,” I said flailing my arms.

“Hull reacquired,” reported the mechanical voice right before something grabbed me around the middle and lifted me up into the air—well, obviously not ‘into the air’ because we were in the cold vacuum of space. My wandering thoughts didn’t get any further before I was picked up like some sort of oversized club and slammed torso-first into the side of the heavy laser protruding from the ship.

“Hull reacquisition system activating,” my suit computer started to inform me.

“Belay that, computer; deactivate the reacquisition system,” I gasped as the oversized Bug pincer arms started to squeeze around the middle like a vice, right before slamming my battle-suit up against the laser mount once again.

“Reacquisition system halted, standing by for new orders…” the power armor computer kept blathering on about something or other, but I didn’t have time to deal with it like it deserved. So instead of screaming with outrage and trying to rip its electronic guts out, I pointed my blaster rifle towards my feet and rapidly pulled the trigger.

“Die, Bug thing,” I screamed, firing my blaster rifle as fast as the weapon would cycle. I’d deal with this infernal new computer system later.

The Bug slammed me again, only this time against the hull and I was wishing with all my might for my old Dark Sword of Power, or even just a sturdy vibro-blade—anything I could hold in my hands and chop this bug up into small little parts like it deserved!

My breath whooshed out of me and everything hurt from the toes of my feet all the way up to the hair on my head.

Catching a glimpse of a veritable field of multi-faceted eyes, I switched my flailing aim and unloaded on its head.

The Bug writhed and I could see its mouth open in a silent shriek before it threw me away from the ship.

Seeing the ship passing rapidly under me, I aimed my blaster rifle between my feet and fired.

“Computer,” I screamed as I kept moving away from the ship at speed, “reactivate hull acquisition mode!”

“Executing,” reported the dry, mechanical voice of my new suit’s computer.

“Hurry,” I yelled as I rapid-fired my blaster rifle, sending my suit into a spin.

“Executing,” the Computer assured me in the same dry, mechanical voice. I was looking for a sense of urgency here, something to match my own feeling of impending doom, and all I was getting here was a computer synthesized voice. As soon as I got back inside the ship I was going to string up the Armsmaster and whoever else thought it was such a sweet idea to give me this defective pile of power armo—

I trailed off as the suit thrusters engaged, stabilizing my uncontrolled spin and then going turbo-powered to send me hurtling to the hull at a speed so fast it felt like I was falling off a giant building and about to splatter—just like a Bug strike, I thought lamentingly—on the hull of the ship! Instinctively I raised my arm to break my fall, even though I knew on an intellectual level that I was going too fast for my arm to really help out one way or the other.

“Stupid, factory-defective spawn of the Demon Murphy,” I raged, holding both arms up in front of my head when the suit thrusters activated with punishing force, “I’m going to use your guts for garters, I’ll melt you down for spare parts. I’ll—” My arms were still up over my head when I felt my feet reattach themselves to the hull.

“What?” I yelled, tearing my arms back down to my sides instinctively. I was back on the ship! I stood there staring around in disbelief for a moment as the brief surge of primal fury began to leave me.

Then the flash of blaster and plasma fire caught my attention. Turning toward those flashes, I saw a pair of giant Bugs tearing into the hull, and they were surrounded by number of the oversized Marine/Warrior Bugs like the one I’d just encountered.

Marine Bugs went hand to hand with my Lancers in their old style power armor suits, or they would pause for several seconds and fire a burning, green ball out of a large, conical piece of material that looked like the living hull of their ships. One of those balls hit a Lancer and he fell to the hull, jerking and twisting in what looked like sheer agony.

“Computer, target that Bug and get me there—quick,” I ordered in a no-nonsense voice.

“Acquiring target,” the computer said, cycling a yellow halo over several of the Bugs on my HUD. The second time it highlighted a giant, boring, beetle-type Bug, I realized it was waiting for me to confirm.

“That’s the one,” I said impatiently, not really caring which one it was just so long as I got into that fight as quickly as possible.

The suit’s thrusters activated and shot me toward the conflict like a rocket. I was over the Bug position and just starting to hover for a controlled landing on the surface of the giant Bug when a Lancer with a vibro-blade jumped up on the thing’s back and started carving into it with his melee weapon.

The Bug reared up, its mouth opening into a silent scream as it tried to toss of the Lancer. Looking at the situation, I didn’t think the Lancer was going to be around for very long, at least not if he was determined to stay on the back of that Bug, but as far as I was concerned this was a win; that particular Bug was no longer digging through the armor of my ship!

Aiming my blaster rifle into the Bug’s massive, gaping maw, I opened my mouth and screamed. Pulling the trigger, I unloaded into the borer’s face, and my blaster bolts ricocheted off the heavily armored interior of it mouth. Ignoring my attacks, the Bug gave a full body shudder that started at its head and worked its way all the way back to its now-wiggling hind end.

This blaster clearly wasn’t working on a Bug this gargantuan, and once again I was more than a little frustrated that I was stuck with a relatively puny blaster rifle instead of a plasma rifle—or even a vibro-sword!

Then I noticed that while the Lancer was no longer riding the Bug’s back, his vibro blade was still sticking out of the thing’s gargantuan, armored back! “Alright,” I said with determination, “suit: land me on that Bug’s back as fast as possible.”

“Confirm,” the Computer said with a chime.

“Confirmed already,” I shouted in frustration. This kind of time lag between giving orders and having them carried out was criminal to the point of being lethal; there had to be a better way!

“Executing,” the Computer acknowledged, and no sooner had the words came of its mechanical voice than I slammed feet-first into the back of the Borer Bug.

Staggering for a foothold, I clambered up the Bug using my scrambling feet and duralloy-gauntleted fingers for purchase. Reaching the sword a few seconds later, I grasped the still-active weapon’s hilt.

Drawing the blade out was more than a little difficult, as it felt like it had been encased in into stone, at least at first. Then, with a giant heave, the blade came free and I raised it high.

That was when I spotted a glowing, green projectile shooting towards me and I instinctively ducked. The green fireball missed me, but hit the sword on the blade right above the hilt and my armor felt like it was starting to lock up.

“Em-m-m-m-mergency c-c-c-ountermeasures,” the suit said in a stuttering, mechanical voice and my fingers flew open against my will, releasing the sword. As my body stopped jerking with uncontrollable movements, I realized I was now weaponless. I also realized something else I hadn’t been the one to open my hand: this blasted suit had overridden my manual control!

“Computer, I’m going to give you a full-on frontal lobotomy, the first chance I get,” I snarled with outrage at finding myself completely disarmed.

“Ionic attack disabled,” the Computer reported in what I was growing more and more certain was a secretly smug voice—the blasted thing was just hiding its true nature under a mechanical synthesizer!

“You’ll rue the day you crossed Jason Montagne,” I promised, leaning down on the Bug and straightening the fingers of my hand into what my unarmed instructors called a blade, and I prepared to dig my way into the guts of this beast with nothing by my hands, if necessary.

Something went snick, and my right arm suddenly sprouted a three foot long, duralloy blade. I stared at it with a shock that slowly turned into a hard-edged smile, “I don’t know how I got this arm-blade, computer, but this Bug is going down!” I said savagely.

“Arm blade was activated by manual release,” the Computer said in its emotionless, dry voice, but I was wise to its tricks now.

I stiffened my other hand into the same finger-blade as my right and this suit’s left blade activated. “Likely story,” I sneered, “I’m not fooled; you’re just trying to get on my good side.” Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I really thought that my suit was intelligent…well, I was 95% sure it wasn’t, anyway. I was too paranoid to dismiss any possibilities at this point. Either way, I and whoever handed me this suit without the instruction manual were going to have an extended talk—if and when I survived this mess.

Moving with renewed purpose, I stabbed down into the Bug’s thick, armored hide using these nifty new arm blades I’d just discovered. If I couldn’t use a vibro-blade, these things would just have to do.

Cutting, digging and rending the Bug’s hide with all the force of my power assisted battle-suit, I soon had a hold dug down into the monster’s abdomen. Of course, this caused the Bug to immediately rear up and do its whole ‘shiver/shake/rattle’ thing to try and throw me off, but with a hole to hold onto it couldn’t do much.

Sadly, other than mangling whatever internal organs I could reach by sinking my arm into its body up to my shoulder and shredding whatever I could reach, I wasn’t having much success, either. That’s when I remembered I wasn’t the only one out here fighting these creatures.

“Anyone have a spare plasma grenade?” I demanded, activating my com-link to local channel only; I didn’t need to be asking for help from someone on the other side of the hull. I was more than a little surprised at how harsh my voice sounded in my own ears, “I’ve got a hole dug in this Bug’s back that’s just begging for a super-heated plasma.”

There was a moment of silence.

“It’s the Warlord,” a Lancer said in his Tracto accented voice.

“I’ve got one, Protector,” another man said.

“Where is he?” demanded yet a third, “I can’t see him!”

“I’m up here riding this thing’s back,” I growled, holding on for all I was worth as the Bug reared up and tried to shake me off once again.

“The Warlord is in an Armory suit!” said the first Tracto-accented voice.

“Coming now, Warlord,” the Lancer that said he had a plasma grenade reported, and I saw a man in one of the Clover’s old battle-suits jump from the hull.

A renewed flurry of plasma and blaster fire shot from the squad of Lancers surrounding the pair of Borer bugs and their Warrior Bug defensive force.

I was certain the Warrior with the grenade was going to actually make his impossible leap, when a green ball shot up from a Bug Marine/Warrior and exploded full-force the warrior’s arm, sending him into a spin. Seeing one of my loyal warriors jerking and writhing in what I was now pretty sure was some kind of modified ion attack, I couldn’t stand by and do nothing. Even if it wasn’t the smart play, I had to go help him.

Before I could think about it any further, my legs had bunched underneath me and now I was the one leaping into the void beyond the ship. Seconds later, another green fireball shot just in front of me and I experienced a rare moment of clarity—or maybe it should be called an ‘epiphany.’

Jean Luc Montagne would never risk his life for some man he’d probably never even met but I, Jason Montagne, had just done so without a second thought and would do so again in a heartbeat. Jean Luc wouldn’t, not unless he saw some great personal benefit to himself. Establishing crew loyalty, for example; a debt he could cash in on in the future, some angle.

In that moment, I recognized a critical difference between myself and my traitorous, pirate Uncle. While I might have many of those same calculation spinning through my mind at any given time, regardless of however much the universe might have hardened me I was still willing to put the needs of others ahead of my own. I doubted in the extreme that Jean Luc put the needs of anyone ahead of his own.

I mean, sure, I had that sly, calculating, Montagne devil riding on my proverbial shoulder and whispering in my ear, just like I figured my Uncle did. In all reality it was almost certainly because I hadn’t listened closely enough to that paranoid, self-centered devil that I’d almost lost everything. But I figured that so long as I had that other voice—the still, small one that liked to whisper in the opposite ear and occasionally urged me to jump without thinking out into cold space to save some guy I didn’t even know—I would know that I wasn’t one of those evil, bloodthirsty, blood-feuding Montagne.

Even if I didn’t listen to that little voice all the time, I could still be a positive force for good; and there was no way I would abandon the people who depended on me.

Slamming into the twitching man with the plasma grenade, I grappled reflexively, trying to get a hold on him but the spin he’d been thrown into was making that difficult in the extreme. Finally, I clamped onto a foot and its attached leg and the ensuing ‘nails-on-chalkboard’ screeching of duralloy on duralloy that I literally felt rather than heard, reminded me that I still had my blade extensions out. One small mistake, I thought bitterly.

Wiggling my hands around rapidly, I was unable to figure out on my own how to retract the fighting blades built into this suit’s arms.

“Computer,” I growled, “how do I get rid of these three foot, duralloy blades? Never mind,” I said, shaking my head irritably; it would be just my luck that this stupid computer would either engage me in a twisted series of questions and answers while I was getting shot at, or alternately eject the blades from my arms somehow without asking me. “Just pull them back in if you can, and execute a fast maneuver to put us back on the back of that Bug!”

“Processing,” said the Computer and I rolled my eyes as I secured a tighter grip on the man’s armor. After several seconds the atonal voice returned, “Executing.” The blades fell back with a snick as the suit thrusters activated. For a pair of seconds, the gee forces felt absolutely incredible, and the next thing I knew I was crashing into the back of the Bug with the Lancer I was holding crashing into it first. My head crashed into his torso as, thanks to my computer, I did a pile driver right into his belly.

Sensing movement, I groped around blindly until my hands came across a grenade hanging off the Lancer’s belt. Not checking to see if it was the plasma grenade I was looking for or one of the puny, sonic variety, I activated it without looking and tossed it into the hole I’d dug into the back of the Bug.

Grabbing a firm hold of the no longer twitching Lancer, I manhandled him over onto my shoulder and jumped with all the power in my battle-suited legs. “Activate thrusters,” I ordered.

“Please designate a destination,” the Computer voice said back mechanically.

“Just activate the thrusters and go,” I said wildly, as we floated through a hail of crisscrossing blaster and green, attack ball fire.

“Please designate a destination, or activate the manual controls,” the Computer repeated, bringing up a series of possible images on it screen.

“Anywhere, just go—drive,” I screamed, right before plowing into a green attack ball.

A jolt of what felt like lightning crashed through my body, and I vaguely saw a green, crackling lighting shooting over the body of the Lancer I’d rescued. I must have caught the ball using him as an impromptu shield, I thought before every muscle in my body clenched up.

“I’ll disassemble you, you piece of space junk! I’ll get my reveng-” my words cut out as another massive jolt surged through me, locking my jaw again. In the distance, I thought I heard a dry mechanical voice speaking and then everything faded to grey and swirled into darkness.

Something jabbed my arm, it felt like I’d just been shanked in the shoulder with an icepick.

“Aargh!” I hollered as I returned to consciousness.

“Computer intelligence engrams down to 78% effectiveness: damage to right hand joint actuators; damage to biological systems; life support temporarily offline. Initiating stage two of recovery mode,” said the voice of my computer.

“I’m awake, you blasted toaster,” I gasped right before another icepick jammed itself into my other arm.

As it did, this time I felt a rush of unnatural clarity and my heart started racing in my chest. I’d just been given drugs! Some kind of stimulant, I knew with a certainty I rarely felt.

“What did you do that for you, blighted piece of—,” I cut myself off mid-curse, as what it had said right before initiating stage to of torturing me back to life, “What do you mean ‘life support is offline’?!”

“Ionic damage has deactivated onboard oxygen recycling—system is currently offline,” reported the Computer, as if hadn’t just handed me a death sentence.

“Well, get it back online,” I screamed, thrashing my head from side to side as I regained control of my body. It felt like ice had been injected into me from shoulder level, and was slowly trickling down my body but wherever it touched I no longer felt the irresistible urge to twitch uncontrollably, and the sensation had already spread down to my stomach.

“Unable to comply—full system reboot required,” the computer said in an uncaring voice.

“This is all your fault for not activating those thrusters,” I said angrily, “don’t think I’ve forgotten that little factoid just because you stabbed me in the blasted arms!”

“Mild irritation is an expected side effect from rapid revival/recovery protocol,” the computer reported uncaringly, “This protocol has been activated following user/operator death or incapacitation,” it added.

“Take us back down to the hull,” I ordered after a moment. Surprisingly, I had no interest in discovering if I’d been dead—yet again—or simply incapacitated by the Bug attack, “and remind me to see about better ion shielding in my next suit,” I said cuttingly.

“Notation made,” the Computer reported, “however, unable to comply with previous command; this unit is currently in contact with hull, following standard recovery program.” I was feeling suddenly hot, and not just about the stupid computer in my battle-suit I realized with widening eyes.

“Is it getting hot in here, or is it just me?” I asked, forcing down the panic I was starting to feel with brutal, ruthless determination. I didn’t have time to panic; I could do that when I got back to my quarters on the ship, and not one nano-second before.

“Thermal regulation system offline,” the Computer said pedantically.

“Just give me the straight download and tell me how long I’ve got to live,” I scoffed at it, and then a thought occurred to me. “Belay that last order, computer; just take me and that Lancer I saved to the nearest airlock quickly—activate your thrusters.” I didn’t know how long I had before passing out from lack of oxygen and I didn’t want to know. Some things are better left a mystery.

“Unable to comply,” the Computer reported in its mechanical voice.

“What! Whyever not?” I demanded.

“As part of standard rescue/recovery protocol, this unit returned to the nearest airlock, and a rescue beacon was activated. Currently awaiting confirmation of emergency signal receipt from Medical personnel,” the Computer reported.

“Forget that nonsense,” I said scornfully, “and activate me a light; my internal vision enhancement systems seem to be on the fritz and I can’t see a thing in this darkness,” I realized that this was true as soon as I tried to look around.

“External optical systems offline; unable to comply,” the Computer reported.

“Then just direct my hand to the nearest set of manual controls,” I said, my breath starting to come in short gasps as I began to labor for breath and my lungs began to burn. I didn’t know if it was psychosomatic or if it really was getting hot in the suit…I mean, I‘d never been particularly claustrophobic before, but…

Under the mechanical guidance of the suit’s computer system, I managed to fumble my way into the airlock and with a great deal more fumbling, seal it back up again and activate the re-pressurization cycle.

The cool air was just starting to fill the vacuum of the airlock when everything started to go black. I had time to pop the manual release on my helmet just before hitting the floor. I didn’t feel like passing out this time, but those first few seconds before there was enough air to really breathe with, I sure wished I had.

When the team of orderlies arrived, I was taken back to medical on gravity stretcher for ionic shock to my nervous system, as well as probable lung damage. I wasn’t able to tell if the Lancer I ‘rescued’ was still alive or not, though, but I knew there was nothing more I could do for him now.

Chapter 15: Brence reaches Omicron

“Well that was sixteen hours of my life wasted,” Brence said with a sigh.

The Captain of the ship swiveled in his chair until he was facing the Engineering Warrant Officer. If the Captain had been anywhere other than in his ready room for a private meeting just between the two of them, Brence would have expected to have his head torn off. As it was, he was on the receiving end of nothing more than a powerful scowl.

“That’s ‘sixteen hours of my life wasted, Captain’,” said Captain Lighter. “I’d like to think you MSP boys would be able to remember small things like military courtesy, even if we are in a private meeting.”

“I’m sorry, Sir,” Brence said, bracing to attention but even though he was a reformed crewman—or rather, a Warrant Officer now—the man who reformed him was Chief Engineer Spalding, and the Chief was a man who took nonsense from no one. So neither the man he had been—the ‘thumb your nose at pig authority and its stupid rules’ man—or the man he’d become had any use for the Captain and his little tirade…which is probably why he said what he said next.

“You’re absolutely right, Captain Lighter, my apologies,” Brence said with an unrepentant smile. “I guess in all the flurry we ‘MSP’ boys let military courtesy drift a bit in favor of courage in the face of the enemy and following orders, Sir,” Orders like how we were supposed to proceed directly to the Omicron without passing go or stopping to collect five hundred credits along the way, he thought sourly.

The Captain stiffened in his seat with outrage. “I don’t like your tone, Warrant Officer,” the Captain barked.

“And I don’t like waiting around in cold space, sitting dead for no apparent purpose when there are no new ships hanging around Omicron Station and we’ve got all the correct handshakes and call-signs, especially when I’m on a time critical mission,” Brence paused deliberately before adding, “Captain.”

“It’s not too late to throw you in the brig, Warrant Officer,” the Captain said tightly, the twist of the mouth at the end of his statement making his use of Brence’s rank into something other than a courtesy.

“That is your right,” Brence admitted, inclining his head but refusing to back down an inch. He didn’t have time for this man and his tin pot dictatorial attempt to micromanage Brence and his engineering work crews. Yes, they were all in the same service, and yes, he was willing to help out on this ship, but they were passengers, by Murphy and his blessed Wrench. Not only that, but they were on an independent mission not part of this man’s regular crew, and Brence was fed up with the bureaucratic nonsense, “And if you intend to forget a ‘small thing’ like our orders to move with all haste to drop me and my men off at the Omicron, then that threat might even have some teeth to it, Captain,” Brence said leaning back in his chair.

“As Saint Murphy is my witness, I’m the Captain of this ship and I will have your blasted respect, Warrant Officer. Either that, or I’ll have you up before a Captain’s Mast so quick you won’t have time to blink!” Captain Lighter said, slamming the open palm of each hand on his desk and levering himself up to his feet.

“I think I’d rather decline a Captain’s Mast in preference to an Administrative Review back at headquarters,” Brence, said suppressing the urge to gulp, “we can let them decide which of us needs an official reprimand placed in his file.”

Lighter glared at him. “You’ve got some set of balls on you, especially with a record jacket like yours, Warrant,” the man snapped, “watch your words or I’ll have the marines in here before you can say another barracks-lawyering word edgewise.”

“I think neither Commander Spalding, my immediate superior, nor the Admiral himself, will look kindly on a Captain who prefers to halt his ship in favor of punishing the leader of an Engineering away party he’s supposed to be transporting,” Brence said carefully.

“By the space gods, neither of those men are here now, are they?” the Captain said, straightening his back and sitting down in his chair. “Besides even if your Admiral was here right now, I’m the Captain of this ship,” he continued coldly, “and in cold space, I’m the master of this ship, under Murphy and after the Space Gods.”

“Then it’s safe to say that you want me and my men off this ship as much as we want to oblige,” Brence said keeping his face blank of emotion.

The Captain stared at him for a long several seconds. “Get out of my ready room and report to your quarters until it’s time to assemble your men in our cargo bay for transfer to the Omicron,” he said dismissively.

Brence opened his mouth to ask if they were really heading to dock with the former pirate station this time, but then thought twice about it and instead stood to attention and saluted before marching out of the room.

He noted that for all the Captain’s apparent indifference as he marched out, that the young engineer was in fact escorted out by a pair of marines.

Arriving on the run-down deck of the Omicron was more than a little bit of a letdown. Brence took a long, deep breath of the greasy, slightly acrid air of the station and for a moment he felt more at home than he had during the entire ride over. Engineering compartments smelled more like the Omicron than the fresh, constantly recycled air of the crew quarters does, and Brence was an Engineer through and through.“It looks like we’re going to have our work cut out for us if this is the best they can do with an airlock and greeting bay for visitors,” one of Brence’s three Senior Petty Officers said, shaking his head.

“Not our job,” Brence said with a shake of his own head, “note that the locks make it impossible to get out there and review, repair, or refit any of those pirate hulks.”

“Hello, Warrant Officer,” said an imposing Marine Colonel in new-style Caprian power armor as he clomped over to Brence’s party, “it’s good to see we haven’t been completely forgotten out here on the winging hind end of cold space.”

“Colonel Wainwright, Sir,” Brence said, giving the other man a salute before proffering the data chip with his hard copy orders, “the Admiral sent us to see what we can do about getting a few more of the warships around here up and running.”

The Colonel gave a short, hacking laugh, and Brence felt like wilting when he heard it. The Colonel wasn’t sounding too encouraging.

“I need more Marines…or, Lancers, rather,” the Marine Officer said, running a hand through his salt and pepper hair, “and the Admiral sends me Engineers for support?” He shook his head in disgust.

“I hope there’s no confusion starting here, Colonel,” Brence said carefully. Unlike the Captain of the Light Destroyer, the Marine Colonel could cause him a lot more trouble, which would last for as long as he was here on the Omicron, “we’re here to check over any hulks that weren’t able to be hauled over to Gambit and see if there’s anything we can do to either get them back into service here, or repaired enough to make it over to Gambit for a full overhaul.”

“I understand your orders, son, fat lot of good it’s going to do you but by all means, look around,” Wainwright growled and shook his head again.

“Sir?” Brence asked cautiously.

“The Sundered are pretty crack engineers…force of necessity I suppose,” the Colonel said dismissively, “I doubt you’ll be able to do much more than they could with the repair facilities here, but then again who knows; I’m not a qualified engineer. It’s just that right now I’m forced to rely upon former pirate technicians to keep this place from falling apart, and most of those technicians are the same ones who are responsible for letting it fall into disrepair in the first place.” The Colonel paused and then ran a hand through his hair once again, “I suppose in fairness that’s not entirely true, but even still…”

“I understand, Colonel,” Brence said quickly, “you’re on the long end of a thin supply line and were hoping for more help than my two hundred engineers and trainees.”

“Well said,” the Colonel grunted, “anyway, get your men squared away and I’ll have my quartermaster get with you and see about the particular needs of your unit. However,” the middle-aged man said, pinning Brence in place with laser eyes, “if and when you find your mission to be a waste of time, I expect you won’t have any issues with helping out around here. We’ve got a few things we need fixed but never seem to have the hands for. Having enough security-cleared men to work on the levels and areas we’ve set aside for our unified Caprian/Confederation mission has been a bit of a bear.”

“We’ll help out as we can, Colonel,” Brence offered cautiously.

“That’s all I’m expecting, Warrant,” the Colonel said with a sharp nod before turning on his heels and stalking off.

“Well, that went better than I’d expected,” Brence said releasing a pent-up breath.

Seeing a man he assumed was the quartermaster, Brence straightened up. It was time to get squared away within the station so they could get ready to see what they could do about breathing a spark of life into anything that could still fly.

“Lead the way, Sir,” Brence said to the quartermaster, who had the rank insignia of a Marine Captain. Brence sure hoped his mission hadn’t been in vain, at least not to the degree that the Marine Colonel seemed to expect. Straightening his shoulders, he motioned for his men to form up and follow their guides.

Chapter 16: Tis But A Scratch

It’s hard to issue orders from a sickbay bed and still appear to be an effective Admiral, but until the doctors decided to release me I had little choice in the matter. I’m sure that using a data slate instead of a proper holo-receiver, on a proper console only made things worse.

“Communications Technician,” I said as soon as my priority codes allowed my slate to make the connection to someone in the Communications Section.

“Admiral,” the man at Comm. seemed surprised to see me. I wonder why? Could it be that word of the Admiral almost dying and being taken to sickbay had leaked already? I shook my head at myself, knowing it was a stupid question to ask, even of myself. Gossip on a ship was the only thing as fast as a point transfer through hyperspace, after all.

“I need to contact a Cutter,” I said, doing my best to appear like an Admiral who just happened to find himself in sickbay instead of a man who actually needed to be in Medical for the benefit of his continued health.

“A Cutter,” the Com-Tech said slowly, “any particular Cutter, Sir?”

“No,” I said coolly, “just get me the Captain of one of those ship types.”

“Right,” the com-tech blinked furiously and then nodded, “right,” he said again, “I’ll get right on it, sir.”

If that man said the word ‘right’ any more times, I was liable to reach through my data slate and strangle him. He was clearly not one of this ship’s brighter lights, so I took a deep breath, decided to be charitable and left it at that.

I looked up at the slate and the Com-Tech was still looking at me.

“Any time now, Technician,” I said as kindly as I could manage, which wasn’t very. Why couldn’t I have found someone like the former Communication Technician Steiner on the other end of the line?

“Right away, Sir,” the Tech said and my mouth tightened at his use of the dreaded word yet again. This time I didn’t suppress the urge to roll my eyes, “Oh and, Admiral,” the tech said quickly.

“Yes?” I said through gritted teeth.

“While I work on setting up that connection for you, the Captain wants to speak with you,” the tech paused, “I mean, Captain Laurent, Sir.

“I gathered that,” I said grimly, “however, please tell the captain to wait—”

The technician disappeared from my data slate, only to be replaced with an image of the Captain.

“Admiral Montagne, the bridge is gratified to see you are alive and recovering in the sickbay,” Laurent said with a smile.

I was in no mood for pleasantries. “Thank you for the concern, Captain,” I said shortly, “please relay my appreciation for the kind thoughts to the men as well.” Laurent nodded in agreement as I continued, “However, I just placed a call to another ship and am expecting a response directly. So…” I deliberately trailed off.

Laurent now looked concerned. I frowned, knowing the man was trying to play me or handle me, one of the two. He needed to learn that I was not about to be played or handled, and just because I’d made him the Captain of this ship didn’t give him any special right to intrude.

“Are you sure you are in any condition to be issuing orders right now, Sir?” Laurent said cautiously. He must have seen something in my expression to give him pause, so I quickly blanked my features. “Perhaps it would be wi—” he paused and visibly changed the word he’d been intending to use, “I mean, prudent to wait until you’re cleared from Medical before taking back command of the fleet?”

“My command of this fleet was never interrupted, Captain,” I said coolly.

“Yes, of course, Admiral, what I meant was—” he started but I cut him off.

“I know what you mean,” I said sharply and then I altered my voice into a more reasonable modulation, “however, time sits still for no man—Admiral or otherwise. Besides, I’ve been planning to send reconnaissance out to the Tracto system ever since we point transferred here. Being injured battling Bugs changes nothing of those plans, as far as I’m concerned.”

“I’ve always understood the need to jump outside the bounds of the Tracto System, Admiral, and even agreed with you when you presented it if you’ll recall…although I never quite understood the need to jump ‘this’ far out,” Laurent said stiffly. “I also have no disagreement with sending a scout Cutter to scan the system prior to point transferring in with the Fleet.”

“Then I don’t see the problem,” I said evenly, suppressing the surge of irritability I felt for an affable smile instead, “I mean, so long as we are both in agreement.” I took a deep breath and waited for his response. Despite the fact he was trying to obstruct my orders once again, his words were actually quite comforting to hear. There was a reason I’d decided to transfer several weeks’ travel at normal space drive speed ‘outside’ the outer bounds of the Tracto System, and if an experienced Tactical Officer like Mr. Laurent couldn’t see it, then I still had a chance to pull my plan off.

“Both Caprian and Confederation regulations clearly state that when the Senior Officer is medically unable to discharge his duties, that his or her command temporarily,” he said, stressing that last word, “devolve on the second most senior officer in the ‘fleet,’ or ship.”

“And you feel I am medically unable to perform my duties, is that it, Captain?” I asked in a deceptively mild voice.

Laurent’s eyes cut to the side briefly before shaking his head. “Of course not, Sir; this is just a courtesy call. In any case, I’m not the Chief Medical Officer aboard this ship—nor am I the second most senior officer in this fleet.”

I had already opened my mouth for an angry retort when I paused, mouth open. Closing my mouth, I lifted a single eyebrow.

“Indeed,” I said my mind racing furiously my face a blank royal mask. Was this a play by the Easy Haven contingent against my power base? Or was it just a friendly reminder of how the succession of command could go if things ever got in earnest? More importantly than that…where exactly did my newly minted Captain stand in all this? “You are a Captain,” I finally reminded, shamelessly fishing for information.

“A courtesy title,” Laurent said dismissively, his brow furrowing tightly before smoothing over, “I’m just a newly minted Lieutenant Commander for the purposes of seniority, even though I currently have command of the Flagship.”

“Then,” I said deliberately putting on a facade of false bonhomie to hide the glint of calculation in my eye, “I thank you for the call. I’m certain that if you checked my desk you’d find written orders for just such an event,” I lied without a qualm, “both now and in the future.” And by ‘written,’ I meant exactly that; they might not exist now, but it looked like I was going to have to put pen to paper and give my loyalists all the written support they were likely to need if I became…incapacitated, and Easy Haven decided to cause a problem.

“Of course, Sir,” Laurent said smoothly, “on behalf of all of us up here, please accept my wishes for a speedy recovery.”

In retrospect heading out onto the hull had been foolish in the extreme, to do so without an escort nearly criminal. It looked like I needed to remind myself that things were not as simple as they used to be when I ran around in just the Clover. Thanks to the Easy Haven officers, I was going to have to alter my schedule and to take precautions—different ones, perhaps, than with out and out mutineers.

After severing the connection to the bridge, I pulled up a list of officers currently in the Fleet. Right beneath my name in progression of seniority was that of Captain Synthia McCruise, who was listed as a full blown, out and out Captain, not a lesser rank like Commander or Lieutenant Commander. I smiled faintly at this bit of news.

Commodore LeGodat had just proven himself sneakier than I’d originally thought when slipping Captain McCruise into my order of battle. I wondered how many other knives in the dark he had planted throughout my fleet. Eastwood, as I recalled, was both an Easy Havener and Laurent’s second in command.

Leaning back in my sickbay bed, I rubbed my hands together as I let my mind race through the possibilities. When the slate chimed, indicating an outside connection, I almost jumped out of bed in alarm before gathering myself and activating the screen.

“Yes?” I said, calling upon all my royal training to assume my patented, pleasantly distant, princely expression.

“They said you wanted to speak with me, Admiral?” the young man on the screen said looking slightly confused.

“And you are?” I asked arching an eyebrow.

“Acting Junior Lieutenant Archibald,” the other man said unhelpfully, I allowed a slightly confused irritation to show and he stiffened before adding, “uh, I’m a Captain in the Herring Squadron, Admiral.”

“Ah,” my eyes lit with sudden pleasure, it looked like Laurent wasn’t going to be an obstruction after all. I made a mental note to have a sit down with the Captain of my Flag Ship at the soonest opportunity before refocusing on the Herring Captain, “you’re just the man I was hoping to speak with, Captain Archibald.”

“I am, Sir?” the Acting Junior Lieutenant said with surprise.

“How would you and your ship feel about a little reconnaissance operation?” I asked with a knowing expression. The Herring Captain stiffened and looked at me eagerly.

“Anything you need, Admiral, just give the word,” he exclaimed.

“Here’s what I want you to do,” I said, leaning forward as if to include him in a great secret, and then walked him through the mission—and, more importantly, what I wanted him to do in case of trouble. Jean Luc was twistier than a sidewinder snake, and while Gambit was hidden and Easy Haven a tough nut to crack, Tracto had both immense resources and little in the way of a defense force. Just a little, self-defense squadron of Cutters and Corvettes stood guard over my wife’s home world, and they would be entirely unable to contest the system with two Battleships.

No, Jean Luc would be able to see the immense potential this System contained just as easily as I had. Twitting me by taking Tracto out from under my nose would be just an added benefit as far as he was concerned. The only question, really, was whether he had anything better in the way of easy prospects for a little empire building as he reestablished his little pirate kingdom?

So while I prayed with all my might that he did, I wasn’t counting on it. That’s why we were so far out here from Tracto. Assuming our Lancer’s home system was clear, we could jump back there easily, no muss, no fuss, but if it wasn’t…well, that’s exactly why I was so far out here.

“Thank you for this opportunity, Sir,” Archibald said with a fierce salute, “we won’t let you down!”

“I have every confidence,” I said with a nod before severing the connection.

Now all I had to do was sit back and wait. It was too bad that waiting was one of the worst parts of this job.

Chapter 17: Fix’ing the Game

He was the very model of a recently upgraded space engineer

The Chief Engineer was dug into the guts of the main engine, and happily working away repairing substandard power relays when the sound of a throat clearing came from directly behind him. His droid legs, seeming to have a mind of their own, gave a sudden jerk and his head smacked into the normal space drive with the sound of a metallic clang.

“Sorry, Chief,” Parkiny said from behind him, sounding concerned.

“Blast these legs,” Spalding cursed, wiggling out from under the engine to bestow a withering look on the Engineering rating, “what’s the meaning of sneaking up on a person like this? Don’t you know this is a restricted area?!”

“Of course, Sir, sorry,” Parkiny said, glancing around the cramped engine space with a critical eye.

Spalding colored; he knew what the other man was seeing, but couldn’t help himself from defending his latest project.

“I know she looks a little run-down at the moment, but by the time I’m done with her she’ll change the course of this war,” he said, puffing his chest up proudly.

“Of course, Commander,” Parkiny said doubtfully, “I’m sure she’ll be the finest lander in the sector.”

“This ship’ll be the turning point of the entire battle,” the old Engineer said, purpling at this sort of namby-pamby, nay-thinking, and out and out doubt-mongering!

“I’m sure it will, Chief Engineer,” Parkiny soothed, “just as soon as we get in a war, this series will make the difference.”

Spalding’s excessively young heart rolled over in his chest and he glared at the rating with bulging eyes. “We’re already at war, lad!” he yelled, “a war for the Clover, and as all the evil gods of cold space are my witness, if I have to pry it out of their cold, dead hands, she’ll be ours again!” His voice had risen to a scream by the finish, and Spalding wondered who this rating thought he was to condescend to an engineer with more decades of experience under his belt than Parkiny’d even been alive.

Parkiny opened his mouth and then closed it, speedily backing away when the Chief Engineer’s droid hands almost seemed to activate of their own accord.

“Whatever you say, Commander Spalding,” the rating said still backing away.

Spalding stood there breathing hard and glaring, his hands opening and closing, and each time they closed the mini-plasma torches extinguished. Go ahead and run, you coward, he thought furiously. A real engineer doesn’t run, a real engineer stays and finishes until the job is done! No wonder this one never made crew chief, he sneered derisively, no stick-to-it-v’ness. It was a sad state the engineering department had been reduced to, a very sad and sorry state indeed!

Shaking his head derisively, he turned to crawl back under the lander’s thruster assembly, still having a few more modifications to make before moving on to the next system.

Behind him, Parkiny cleared his throat. “Pass me the auto-wrench,” Spalding said absently as he assessed a pair of stan-bolts that looked like they’d never been taken out and cleaned.

After a pause, the tool was slapped into his hand. Humming under his breath, the old Engineer attached the wrench to the stan-bolt and watched with growing frustration as the auto-function in the head of the wrench started to whine and make unnatural noises instead of removing the bolt.

“Blasted thing,” Spalding muttered under his breath as his face tightened with disapproval. Adjusting the wrench to manual, he twisted around until he had the leverage he was going to need and then gave a good, hard pull. The bolt resisted until the old engineer put his back into it so he could bring all his strength to bear.

With a torturous squeal, the stan-bolt finally broke free. Adjusting the wrench back to auto, he hummed to himself until the bolt finally came free. Bringing the resistant piece up to his eyes after knocking it free of the auto-wrench, he pursed his lips in disappointment. The stress fractures on that particular bolt meant it was a loss. Now he was going to have to run and get a new one.

He sighed with frustration as he started to wriggled back out of the thruster assembly. With more than a little surprise, he looked up to see Parkiny still standing there. Almost like a fool, he would have thought, except that for all his nearly slacking avoidance of higher authority, like running a work crew, Spalding thought, giving the other engineer the gimlet eye. Other than that, the rating was a top notch engineer, so Spalding was willing to reluctantly give him the benefit of the doubt…for now.

“Well, what are you doing, just standing there—and in a restricted area, I might add,” Spalding frowned at the other man critically.

“Captain wanted me to tell you that we’ve arrived at Gambit and will be docking with the Station within the hour,” Parkiny said carefully.

Spalding’s eyebrows rose in response to the news. “Faster than I thought,” he said gruffly, his eyebrows lowering thunderously as he realized he might have looked surprised for half a second. A Chief Engineer can, and of a right ought to be many things, but ‘surprised’ is not one of them, he thought direly. Then a smile tugged on the corners of his mouth. Well, not unless it was in reaction to some fool of a Captain’s even more idiotic ideas—or an Admiral’s, he allowed.

The other man must have seen the smile and misattributed, because the rating’s shoulder’s un-tensed and he took a firm step forward.

“The yard’s been without a senior Chief Engineer for a while now, Sir; I was sure you wanted to be informed and maybe take a look at the progress on the Armor Prince,” Parkiny urged, and only someone who was deaf, blind and stupid would have missed a blatant attempt to manipulate an old engineer like this. Still, Spalding was torn. The Armor Prince was a Dreadnaught class, after all, and he’d issued firm instructions before he left about what was to be done.

“I was sure you’d want to come over and take a look, personally,” Parkiny said with a sly smile.

“That’s why we brought Glenda—to handle the yard,” Spalding grumbled, feeling genuinely torn. Then he steeled himself and started to turn away in disgust; a real engineer refused to be manipulated.

“Of course, Sir,” Parkiny said his eyebrows rising in surprise at this bit of information, “I just meant to make sure no one had taken our absence to start slacking or ignore orders, I mean.”

Spalding froze mid-turn and whirled around to pin Parkiny with a frosty gaze. “Don’t think I don’t know when I’m being manipulated, you bloomin’ idjit,” he warned the other man thunderously.

“So…you’ll go,” Parkiny said with a cocky grin. Spalding started to feel his ears steam and then barked out a laugh, feeling the urge for anger dying down.

“Yes, yes,” the old Engineer laughed, “let’s go take a look at the backup plan. The lander project can wait for a few hours.”

“Backup plan?” Parkiny blurted, his eyes bulging in surprise.

“You didn’t think one Dreadnaught class could take on two others of the same spec…” the old engineer paused hesitantly, “I mean, unless that one was the Clover.” He rounded on the other man, shoving a finger in his face, “Which the Prince isn’t!”

“Of course, Sir,” Parkiny said, his eyes crossing as he stared at the finger. His eyes then uncrossed and he looked around the decrepit version of an ancient Lancer Lander model doubtfully. “If you say so,” he allowed, then sounding as if he were just being polite, the younger engineer asked, “does she have a name? The lander I mean.”

“All she had was a series of numbers before,” the old engineer said dismissively, “that’s why I’ve gone and renamed her the Horse.”

“Horse,” Parkiny said, his face so blank it practically spoke all on its own.

“After a famous war back on old Earth,” Spalding said eagerly, ignoring the other rating’s lack of belief in favor of bragging about his latest project, “we’ll take them by surprise with this one, lad!”

Together, the two men walked over to the airlock and then clumped into the cramped confines of the courier vessel.

“Of course, we’re going to need to put it in a hard dock when we get back,” Spalding said thoughtfully.

“In a hard dock,” Parkiny exclaimed, “I don’t think we have anything big enough for the Prince, Sir!”

Spalding looked at him in confusion until he silently replayed and realized the other man had thought he was talking about the Armor Prince.

“Not the Dreadnaught—that’s naught but plum foolishness,” the old engineer scoffed. “I meant,” he quickly lowered his voice and looked around to make sure no one was listening to the two of them, “the Horse!” he hissed.

Parkiny looked at him like he’d just lost his mind.

Spalding threw his hands in the air. Why is it everyone and their brother, sister, and toothless mother keeps looking at me like I’m crazy, he wondered in silent exasperation. Name one time I haven’t delivered since becoming the Chief Engineer and got half a chance to do things right!

“Just one!” he shouted out loud. When the courier’s crew and the junior engineer both looked at him strangely, he growled and stomped his way back to his quarters. He took a quick sonic shower and changed into his second best work utilities. There was a lot of work to be done before he could get back to the secret project. He probably wasn’t going to get a lot of sleep but the Clover needed him; he couldn’t start slacking now.

“We’ll get you back lass, even if I have to design an entirely new weapon’s system, build a ship around it and outfit it with the new armor everyone thought was mythical,” Spalding said, slamming his cyborg fist against the wall of the shower hard enough to dent the solid metal wall.

Still, Parkiny was probably right to demand he head out there and make sure everything was still going in the right direction. The Secret Project and the Armor Prince as a backup plan just wasn’t enough; it wasn’t worthy of the Clover, even if not one of Spalding’s plans had failed…well, not when it really mattered!

Maybe it was time to start laying the foundations of something a little more ambitious. Rubbing his hands together with glee at the thought of what they were going to be able to get done with a pair of up-to-date factories and a full service ship yard, fed by a robotic mining operation…just as soon as his recruiting drive starting funneling the manpower to the Gambit Yards, Spalding cackled to himself as entirely new system designs seemed to dance in his head.

He had more than a few ideas rolling around in his head that would have never seen the light of day if the Admiral had never come along. Those Montagnes sure know how to get things done, he thought, slamming a fist into his open hand. Not that the little Admiral was forgiven for losing the ship, he scowled before shrugging.

Taking out his data-slate and jotting down a few of his better ideas, he stopped long enough to shake his head at the stupidity of the engineering world—and the Caprian development yards in particular. Much like Duralloy II, there were any number of things the rest of the sector and galaxy at large could have done already, using pre-existing technology, if only they’d had the guts, the vision, and the drive to get it done!

“They think the Clover’s naught but another Dreadnaught, but we’ll show ‘em. They thought Duralloy II was a dream, but I set ‘em straight on that count, as well,” he muttered to himself as his fingers flew across the touchscreen of his data pad. “They even thought I was crazy to try the Montagne Maneuver with that old Hydra, but how’d that work out again?” Spalding grinned wickedly after the three-dimensional skeleton of his brainchild was completed and he watched as its image silently rotated on the data pad’s screen. “Well, let’s just see what they say when I show them this!”

Yep, he thought to himself as his grin spread even wider and he thumbed the power button of the data pad, my sweet Glenda was righter than even she suspected; we’re definitely going to need a bigger space dock!

Chapter 18: Nervous Jitters

Lisa Steiner stood in front of the little mirror set into the wall of the little closet that passed as a combined head and comfort room and examined herself critically.

She suppressed a surge of anxiety by reminding herself that if she didn’t get very many recruits at their upcoming target planet that there were many more inhabited star systems after this one. However, the butterflies in her stomach were not so easily appeased. Taking a few moments to steel herself before going out of her cabin, she finish putting on the last few touches of her understated makeup with a surprisingly steady hand. If one didn’t know it was there, they probably would have missed it. But putting on her war-paint, an almost natural, flesh-toned lip stick and a bit of blush on her cheeks did wonders for her self-confidence.

“You can do this,” she told herself looking into the mirror, “they picked you because you can do this.”

Lisa tried to smile, but this particular version of herself didn’t look very convinced. “I don’t have time for you right now,” she told herself sternly, “I have a recruiting drive to prepare for.”

Turning away from her mirror with a sniff and before she could think twice and stop herself, the newly minted young Warrant marched out of her room with quick strides.

Stepping out into the hallway, she glared around her with resolve, no one was going to stop her or worse stand there thinking that she couldn’t do the job. Her chin jutted out bullishly.

Several crew members walked past her without even seeming to notice she was there, and of the few people who actually did glance up at her, she could tell that ‘Lisa Steiner’ and her trials and tribulations were the last thing on their minds—either in a supportive or disbelieving manner.

She felt the angry resolve she had been using to steel herself slowly deflate, and she wondered why she had been so sure that her personal troubles were the center of the world. Everyone on this ship had an important job to do, she knew that better than most having worked her way up from the bottom rung of the enlisted ladder to the lofty height of a Warrant.

“It’s not like the long-term survival of the Confederation’s Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet depends on having more Officers and Crew to replace battle losses and grow the Fleet,” she muttered sarcastically, secretly feeling more than a little bit jealous of an Environmental Tech hurrying down the hall. All he had to worry about was keeping the oxygen scrubbers and recyclers running so the crew wouldn’t suffocate. Or maybe even stop a virulent space spore from getting into the ship’s air supply and killing everyone in short order. At least if he messed up his job, things would be over relatively quickly; which was the same with the engineers who ran the fusion generators. If they messed up, then ‘BOOM.’ They didn’t have to see the disappointment in everyone’s eyes if they made a critical mistake.

Her shoulders slumped. She was just going to have to woman onward and do her best. The system they had just entered was to be their first stop on the recruiting drive and the ship’s files listed its people as fairly diverse and all of them living under an Auto-Democracy, whatever that was. She had tried reading up on the place in the ship’s files during the cruise over here but there wasn’t much to go on. It had the basic planetary terrain and population break down, along with an estimated tech level.

This particular planet was estimated as slightly below the galactic norm, tech-wise, which was pretty much par for the course in the backwater that was called the Spineward Sectors. But while terrain, population and tech levels were clearly listed, the only reference they had in their sparse files on this star system’s political structure was:

Political Structure: Planetary Auto-Democracy with local Star System actively participating at Confederation Assembly.

A small link listed at the end of this description listed the planet’s governmental structure as “quirky.” Quirky?! she boggled. How was she supposed to plan a recruiting drive if she didn’t know the first thing about this planet. Like did ‘Auto’ stand for Autocrat or did having democracy in their title mean something like the ‘People’s Democracy,’ i.e. a socialistic or computer-regulated for fairness resulting in a communistic society with randomly assigned leaders?

If only the strange, outlying worlds of the sector would list their internal organizational structure more clearly, she would be just fine. Murphy forbid that they should use a perfectly normal monarchy, constitutional monarchy or strict parliamentary system—any three of which she’d have intuitively understood.

“Oh well, I’ll just have to do my best and the universe will provide,” she told herself firmly, “I just need to have a little faith.”

Mind made up and resolved to be respectful to others—yet at the same time refuse to take any guff—she threw back her shoulders, lifted her chin and strode down the corridor.

Rounding the corner, she almost ran into a trio of tough-looking Confederation marines with their heads together. Then realizing one of those ‘marines’ kept going up until his head almost hit the ceiling, she realized it was a pair of marines and one exceptionally tall (for a barely over five foot girl) Tracto-an.

“Hierophant,” she said with a warm smile, “I didn’t know you were off duty?” He has to be over six and a half feet tall, she thought for the hundredth time as she bent her neck until it felt like it was about to hit her shoulders. This big man had saved her life on the Lucky Clover while they were in hiding on several occasions.

“Warrant Lisa Steiner,” the Tracto-an said gravely. Not a hint of welcome or even simple emotion in his voice.

Lisa suppressed a surge of irritation.

“Who’s your friend, Hierophant?” one of the Marines asked flashing her smile.

She smiled back with perfunctory politeness before turning back to Hierophant.

“Did you know I’m leading the recruiting team down to the planet as soon as we set up an agreement with the provincial government, they call it an Auto-Democracy,” she said and then realized she might be babbling she cut herself off. Wow, she thought irritably, I must be more anxious than I thought.

“Yes,” Heirophant said with a nod.

“Yes…” Lisa said her brow wrinkling but she brushed it off, the man was pretty reticent most of the time he wasn’t losing his temper. The rest of the time, well….Tracto-ans sure had a thing about going on and on in gruesome detail about what they’d do with their enemies—it wasn’t one of their best features.

Heirophant started to turn away and she suppressed the urge to stomp her foot. Doesn’t he see that I’m nothing more than a bundle of nerves here?she thought with a mental eye roll. Then she grinned, as she reminded herself, Of course not; he’s a man. In her experience they were pretty clueless about some of the most important things.

“How do I look?” she said impulsively, feeling the need for the boost of a compliment, and at the same time oddly interested in what he would say.

Hierophant turned back and his assessing gaze seemed to take far too long as he raked her up and down with his eyes. Lisa had to resist the urge to squirm—they were friends and she had asked him, after all.

“You look like a Warrant Officer,” he said with a decisive nod.

The former Com-tech’s mouth dropped open and she stared at him dumbfounded for a moment. Behind him his two new marine buddies covered their mouths and laughed; one of them leaned in close to the Tracto-an and whispered something in his ear.

Heirophant shook him off, his face disapproving and then turned back to her, “Is there anything else?”

“Well, aren’t you going to wish me luck?” Lisa asked with disbelief and growing anger. Who was this person who failed to see that she was looking as close to a million credits as a girl could in a Confederation uniform?! She had just spent the last half hour getting herself ready until she wouldn’t have been ashamed to stand before the Admiral, the King, and all of Parliament itself! She looked like a Warrant? A Warrant!?!

“Good luck,” he said with the faintest hint of smile, and Lisa’s eyes bulged.

“Good day, Heirophant,” she said glaring at him before she turned on her heel and stalked off. She would be taking the lift situated in the opposite direction, she decided angrily. She didn’t need to take the one in the direction he had just come from.

Anxiety, jitters and stomach butterflies were forgotten in a haze of indignant—and well-justified—anger and it wasn’t until after she’d got up to the bridge, opened a com-link and then finished talking with the Auto-Magistrate that ran this system that she realized she hadn’t been the least bit scared or intimidated to be speaking with someone who literally controlled an entire solar system.

Covering a laugh with her hands, she realized that maybe that Tracto-an lug had actually done her a favor; not that she’d ever tell him that! ‘You look like a Warrant Officer,’ she scoffed. The nerve!

Chapter 19: A Meeting To Remember

“This is insane!” shouted the Minority Owner-on-board the Constructor, New Dream.

“No, it’s the designs for a Super Battleship,” Spalding disagreed vehemently.

“This is a complete violation of the Anti-AI Accords, is what it is!” screamed the Minority Owner. “You’ve gone too far this time, Spalding—do you hear me?! Me and my people will have no part of it. We’re done!”

“It has nothing to do with an improved Distributed Intelligence computer system,” Spalding growled and paused in consideration, “well, nothing more than what we’ve already seen on the Imperial Medium Cruiser, the Victorious Solar Flare!”

“The utilization of lethal levels of radiation in a mobile weapon platform or warship has been outlawed in the Clean War amendment,” the Minority Owner raged, pounding the desk for emphasis, “what you’ve designed isn’t a warship; it’s a floating death trap! And a mobile anti-matter drive system?! It’ll explode the first time you activate the normal space drive!”

“That’s why we’ve gone old school with the drive design,” Spalding snapped, “and the AI Accords are about AI’s, not weapon systems. The Clean War amendments their own selves were only signed by the Confederated Empire after the Union Treaty—which is itself, need I remind you, defunct!”

“Yes,” the Minority Owner said with angry sarcasm, throwing his hands in the air for dramatic emphasis, “igniting a series of nukes on the back end of your ship to produce propulsion is old technology. In fact, it’s so old—and absurdly ineffective—that no one in their right would even consider using it!”

“If we go with normal space drives, we’d have to link them into the grav-system and the minute fluctuations would explode the anti-mater,” Spalding snapped, jumping to his feet and glaring at the Minority Owner, “this way we can isolate the grav-plates from the normal space drive. We not only cut down on the power utilization, but we can reinforce the plates over the Anti-matter storage area so that we don’t experience a chain reaction! I’ve run the numbers and it’s perfectly safe!”

“Anti-matter on board a ship isn’t safe, it’s lunacy! And it’s never been successfully tested in a warship. Every test platform ever designed has exploded during pre-crewed trials; that’s not the definition of safe technology, Mr. Spalding. Anti-matter’s been outlawed for a reason,” the Minority Owner’s voice dripped with scorn.

“Only because they tried to utilize modern drive technology,” Spalding said mulishly.

“You’re calling nearly a thousand year old drive technology modern?” the Minority owner said with disbelief. “The basic technology predates the AI’s, and do you know why the AI’s adopted it and we use it still?” he asked rhetorically. “Because it works; blowing up the stern of a warship the very moment you need it doesn’t!”

“Reinforced and hardened Duralloy II, purpose built for the job, can handle the kind of energy produced,” Spalding said, jutting out his jaw. “It makes the technology feasible to get up close enough to the speed of modern drives.”

“Sure, bring up the one thing—the only one thing—that you’ve actually succeeded at finding, not creating on your own. Oh no,” sneered the Minority Owner, “but the only thing you’ve ‘found’ to try and back up your position is the tech you are championing. Not only was it old it was left in the graveyard of useless technology, it’s dangerous, deadly, and completely ineffective compared to current technology.”

“It will work,” Spalding insisted, stomping his foot and matching the Owner glare for glare.

“My people won’t have any part of building a ship that violates the AI accords, the Clean War amendments, and will irradiate its own crew just by running it, regardless of whatever archaic, technological brain fart you want to use to propel the ship,” the Minority Owner said with ringing finality. “The radiation produced just by operating your proposed ship is bad enough, but when you actually fire your hypothetical primary weapon? Assuming you don’t blow up from a matter/anti-matter explosion like every ship before you…no, we won’t do it.”

“Then pack it up, you useless dillydally,” Spalding said coldly. All around them, the members of the so called Space Committee straightened in their seats and began to collectively look concerned about something other than the Chief Engineer’s proposed new ship design.

“Nice bluff,” laughed the owner of the Constructor, “but you haven’t got the men, you haven’t got the facilities, and you haven’t got the guts to get rid of us.”

“Oh, really?” Spalding said, giving him the gimlet eye before tossing a challenging look around the table before once again locking eyes with the minority owner. “Here,” he reached into a pocket on his work utilities and placed a data chip on the table with a resounding click, “are yer new marching orders. I’ll only need around a hundred of your personnel to stay and help out with the yards, but don’t worry—the Confederation will replace them,” he said with a toothy smile. “And no one will have to work on anything that goes against their precious principles.”

“What is this?” the Minority Owner asked with sudden stillness.

“Your services at Gambit Station are no longer required,” Spalding said in a patient voice, as if speaking to a small child. “We have two factories, a refinery, one small mining operation and a growing shipyard.”

“Robots can’t replace men, unless all the cybernetic implants and metal rubbing against your brain’s gone to what’s left of your sanity and you’re planning to violate the AI accords further by making droids. You simply won’t have the man power to keep what you have running, let alone grow enough to build a warship if we leave,” the Owner said dismissively.

“Not droids,” Spalding agreed, “a recruiting drive.”

“What?!” the Owner said bolting out of his seat.

“And most of the people on that list are construction workers who would have willingly stayed with us if you’d been willing to void their contracts. Not that you have to worry about that, since the Admiral’s already voided their contracts using his power under the declaration of martial law in this system that I’ve also placed in this chip,” he said, tapping the chip and flicking it with just enough force that it skittered all the way over the table to stop in front of the minority owner-on-board. “That gives me the power to retain their services for the duration.”

“You can’t do this; it’s chaos out there,” the Owner declared, “sending us out unescorted is the same as signing our death sentences!”

“I’m sorry if your moral objections have suddenly changed along with the new circumstances,” Spalding said evenly, “but don’t worry; the fifty Lancers I’m sending over to help garrison your ship will also be accompanying you, and I’m sure we can scrounge up a warship or two as an escort. I’m sure these Sundered people I’ve been hearing about would be more than willing to give you a gunship escort. Fortunately, I happen to have a fast courier ship to arrange for them to meet you at your new destination.”

“You’d place our lives in the hands of a handful of primitive barbarians and genetically-uplifted freaks,” the Owner said with horror, falling back into his chair as he looked liable to be knocked unconscious by a stiff enough breeze.

“O’ course, we here in the Confederation Fleet are always willing to take any volunteers to work in our shipyard who feel that joining the armed services satisfied their in-born, patriotic duty,” Spalding said with finality.

“You can’t do this,” the Minority Owner said dully.

“Next thing on the agenda,” Spalding continued briskly, “we need to gather up the supplies you’re going to need over at AZT89443. Ye see, I’ve always wanted a mobile repair dock and there’s a pair of strange particle drives out there large enough to finally make that dream a reality,” he said, rubbing his hands together with anticipation.

“That Settler ship you lot left in AZT is a veritable magnet for pirates; we’re all going to die, you crazy old cyborg,” the Minority Owner lamented, placing his head in his hands.

“Some of us sooner than others,” Spalding agreed, recalling his run into a certain fusion reactor and suppressing a shiver at the horrible memory. “But not today, and so long as we work hard and keep from slacking, at the very least when we finally face the Demon on our trip to Hades, we can spit in his eye and tell him to do his damnedest!Besides, the pirates never got a chance to swing back there according to intel we took from the Omicron. Captain Strider and his fishy cohorts planned to come out and claim it fer themselves, but the Lady Akantha caught up with them before they got the chance.”

No one around the table seemed to find this in the least bit encouraging, which temporarily took the old engineer aback but he shrugged in the face of their odd reaction. Civilian contractors and military yard dogs weren’t known far and wide for their grit and determination—not like real engineers were, anyhow. It was a sad and sorry state of affairs, but not everyone was fit for real service. Those that cannot repair, build; just like those who could not do at all were stuck with the teaching assignments. Spalding shuddered, as dealing with students all day long was a fate worse even than being stuck station-side for the rest of one’s service.

“Now, as I was about to say before being so rudely interrupted with wild declarations of our mutual, impending doom,” Spalding said disgustedly. After all, everyone died but not everyone truly got to live—that’s why he was going to spend as much time living the dream as he could get away with. “Ye’re going to need a large number of those Imperial-style construction robots, so we’ll get a factory busy running out replacements.”

“You’re better off building a dedicated facility,” one of the Construction Overseers said glumly, and with that the meeting was finally back on track. Now all Spalding needed to do was keep his fingers crossed in the hope that those recruits got out to Gambit sooner, rather than later…before the Minority Owner got under his skin, Spalding had been planning to wait at least another two to four weeks before shipping the constructor over to AZT.

Chapter 20: The Scouts

There was a flash as a small, former pirate Cutter point transferred into the edge of the Tracto system. Unlike many other ships, this small warship gave its normal space drive a small flash, and then coasted into the system under minimal drive power to reduce its sensor profile. Anyone looking in the region of the solar system where it had arrived would still be able to find it, but if they weren’t then the small warship would go unnoticed for quite a while.

This strategy allowed its sensor suite more time to gather the information the diminutive vessel had been tasked to obtain. When it had got all the information it could from its current position, the Captain frowned.

“We need to get closer,” said the Acting Junior Lieutenant that was the little Cutter’s Captain with a faint frown, “we’re too far away to get the entire picture.”

“We need to report to the Admiral, sir,” exclaimed the Senior Chief Petty Officer that was the ship’s executive officer, “he needs to know that the Clover’s here—and so are the pirates who’ve taken her!”

“The Admiral told me he thought the pirates coming here was a strong possibility, and that if we didn’t return he was going to assume we were attacked and destroyed by them,” the little Cutter’s Captain said shortly. “But from this far out we can only pick up drive signatures from active ships. The larger, active ships,” he reminded his XO.

“Teach your grandmother to suck eggs, sprout,” said the former environmental petty officer.

“Well gramma, it goes like this,” the young Captain said, miming the act of lifting up an egg.

The Senior Chief smacked him upside the back of his head.“Focus, sprout,” she growled at him.

The young Captain grinned unrepentantly, ignoring what might technically be considered assault before sobering. “Don’t worry, Auntie, I’ll be careful,” Captain Archibald assured her, using a finger to cross his heart before turning back to the miniature main screen. “The Clover’s main screen was something else, even as old as it was, but this thing,” he sighed unhappily and then brightened as he reminded himself that at least here, on this bridge, he was the Master and Commander of everything he surveyed: all five, incredibly cramped consoles of it.

“Your brother marrying my niece back on Capria doesn’t give you license to call me ‘Auntie’, Captain,” the Senior Chief growled under her breath.

“I’m sorry, XO,” the Captain said, hiding a smile behind his hand. After he’d regained control of his features, he turned to look at their little helm. Since they were so close to each other on this bridge, all he had to do was turn his head and lean forward, “prepare to take us in system: full speed ahead,” he ordered.

“Aye, Sir,” the Helmsman, a Caprian girl from the southern provinces, said seriously. He didn’t even care that she was about ten pounds overweight and had an ugly, purple birthmark over her face that she must have had refused to have medically removed and a personality to match the description. Every time he heard himself be called ‘Captain,’ he had to suppress a thrill. What must it feel like to be an Admiral, he thought with wonder. It must be at least a hundred times as great.

“Take us in, Helm,” he ordered, “sensors, keep a sharp look out for hidden sentries and any indication we’ve been spotted. Comm’s, make sure to monitor your channels in case we’re challenged. We shouldn’t be from this far out, and I don’t plan to go in close enough to encourage such, but even so…” he trailed off as the ship accelerated. He could see his Com-Operator roll his eyes at being told how to do his job and suppressed a wince, but his excitement couldn’t be kept down for long; this was his first solo-mission, and he was almost too excited to sit still.

Finally unable to bear the strain, he popped out of his chair to stretch his legs and work out the kinks. There was nowhere to really walk on the bridge, but it was better than nothing.

“Sit down, Sir,” his XO leaned forward from her position standing behind his chair to mutter in his ear.

“Just exercising the legs, Chief,” he whispered back.

“You need to project confidence, Captain,” she said, her low voice gaining a sharp edge. “The crew doesn’t need to see you jumping up and down out of your chair.”

“The Admiral gets out of his chair,” he hissed back, but grudgingly decided it was best to do as she said. He irritably rubbed his thumbs together to keep from going crazy with anxiety.

“Maybe when something’s happening, but what about the countless hours spent traveling in a system? He sits still in his chair and,” she flicked his hand with a finger, “he doesn’t twiddle his thumbs.”

“I wasn’t twiddling,” he scowled before forcing his hands apart and deliberately putting them on the arms of his chair.

He immediately felt the urge to get up and take a walk, or to do anything but sit there. He’d never felt like this before—except during combat at Praxis, which this definitely wasn’t—and he’d been in command of the Cutter for a couple months.

Maybe it’s having an independent command with no one else up above to give me orders, he wondered with a concerned feeling.

“Is this how the Admiral feels all the time?” he leaned over and asked his Executive Officer in a low voice.

The Senior Chief looked down at him in surprise. “Probably, Sir,” she said, and he could tell she was trying not to roll her eyes at him.

“Thanks,” he muttered, and had to stop himself from heading over to the sensor console to see if he could refine the data from their array to get a better feed. The actual job of command was turning out to be harder than he had anticipated. He would have preferred to have a Corvette on his tail any day of the week over waiting for the enemy to respond like this.

Chapter 21: The Scouts Report

“And so that’s what we found in Tracto before we had to turn around and hightail it out of there,” said Captain Archibald of the Red Herring Squadron Cutter. “Two Battleships of the Dreadnaught Class, squawking the designations Vineyard and Larry Montagne; a pair of Light Cruisers; three Destroyers; and over a dozen Corvette or smaller signatures. And that’s just what was active at the time,” he added belatedly. “There could have been more if they were sitting in system with their drives down. We saw what could be evidence that there was a ship over at the new Belter station, and it’s was only place in the system with a repair capability when we left, so…” the Acting Lieutenant slowly trailed off.

“Thank you, Captain Archibald; a concise report,” I said, gesturing for him to take a seat as I turned to Eastwood, Laurent and the image of McCruise on the Ready Room’s imported holo-screen.

“Thoughts, anyone?” I asked evenly. The news was worse than even I had been expecting. I mean, I knew the odds of finding just the Clover here by herself had been low, but all the light vessels my Uncle had somehow managed to scrounge up left my own support vessels in the dust. Of course, six of those light units could be—and probably were, if I was being honest with myself—the remains of the self-defense squadron we’d left here to protect my wife’s home world. But even if that was true and none of them had been destroyed, that meant that all of them had been captured and pressed into pirate service, which in turn meant that Jean Luc had come up with at least a half a dozen other light units—in addition to five warships of superior size: the Destroyers and Cruisers.

“Well, as we only have one, now battle-damaged, Heavy Cruiser and a single Destroyer backed up by eight light weights—”

McCruise was interrupted by Captain Archibald coughing into his hand at the slur to the smaller ships, but she smoothly continued as she gave the young Cutter’s captain the evil eye, “Three Corvettes and five Cutters, to be precise.”

I had to suppress a smile as the young Cutter captain all but sank into his seat. I suspected that if he could have done so, he would have oozed all the way through his seat until his backside hit the floor.

“Your point,” I pressed, to divert attention away from the Cutter captain who was now turning pale and likely sweating copiously.

McCruise’s eyes cut back to me, and now it was my turn to feel the withering look of the hatchet-faced senior Captain.

“We’re outgunned, outclassed, and outnumbered,” she said flatly and then added, “Admiral Montagne. There’s no way we can take on those kinds of numbers. I don’t care what tactics you try to use—even if they didn’t have the Battleships, we’d soon be mobbed, crippled and brought down. Unless their ships are in such disrepair that they can’t operate both their guns and engines at the same time, we’re finished before a shot is fired.”

“A definite point,” I said, giving Captain McCruise a nod before turning to Captain Laurent.

“Anything to add, Captain?” I said, speaking to the Lieutenant Commander.

“Yes, Sir,” Laurent said meeting my eyes, “I think we have to seriously consider a withdrawal.”

“Really?” I replied coolly, even though it was the logical choice given the information they had to work with. It still stuck in my craw to hear it from my own, handpicked Captain. It was the same sensation as if something had been stuck sideways in my throat—a sensation with which I had a certain degree of familiarity. “Even though the Armor Prince could be brought back to service at any point in time and sent out here to reinforce us?”

“Even with the Armor Prince…” Laurent trailed off, looking embarrassed.

“What your Flag Captain’s too polite to tell you is that even with the Prince we’d still be so heavily outgunned that it would be suicide to go up against these people that it wouldn’t even be entertaining as a tactical simulation,” McCruise said shortly, and then added as if she were surprised that it needed saying, “I’m afraid, Admiral that your wife’s home world is lost.”

“Perhaps,” I said slowly, “then again, perhaps not.”

“We’ll follow your orders, Sir, just so long as you recognize the disparity of firepower we’re facing,” Synthia McCruise said flatly. “This isn’t the same thing as jumping into the middle of something and having to fight your way out. Here we can see what we’re up against well in advance, but unless we get more info suggesting those ships are half crippled from faulty maintenance, then realistically there’s nothing that can be done.”

“Interesting,” I mused, staring into space as I tried to figure out if this new information significantly changed my secret, overarching strategy, “Your points are well made, Captain,” I said nodding my head toward McCruise, “and have given me much to think about.”

Synthia looked like there was more she wanted to say, but instead snapped her jaw shut before nodding curtly, “All I ask is a considered strategy.”

“Then for the nonce we will hold our position here, while I consider further reconnaissance forays,” I pretended to muse aloud, all the while keeping a sharp look out of the corner of my eye at the others.

“Just remember that the more scouts you send in, the more chances they get to figure out we’re out here and destroy our scouts. Should that happen, we’ll have lost the element of surprise,” she said.

“Thank you for your input, Captain,” I said with a seated half bow, with my words a clear dismissal.

“With your leave, Admiral,” McCruise said after a long moment and then, not waiting for my permission, cut the transmission. I suppressed a slight frown and then shrugged, as I had been the one to dismiss her after all.

“Since a straight-up slugfest is out, we need to consider all of our other options,” I said smoothly, turning to the rest of my men slowly in turn.

“Shouldn’t Captain McCruise be here if we’re going to be formulating fleet strategy?” First Officer Eastwood asked pointedly with a gesture to the now empty projector.

“We won’t be formulating overall fleet strategy,” I said easily, as if the First Officer hadn’t just challenged my authority. I then turned toward the Junior Lieutenant who was looking as if he wanted to be anywhere but where he was, “Captain Archibald, as I recall you mentioned that my benighted Uncle seems to have continued, or at least allowed to continue, the trillium mining operation started by our Belters.”

“Right, Sir,” the Cutter Captain said with a vigorous nod, “they’re still going full steam as far as we can tell.”

“Trillium is quite valuable,” I said, thinking out loud. If I knew my Uncle, then his failure to shut down the mining operation had been due to his desire to keep it operational. That implied he had a use for the stuff—not a difficult conclusion to arrive at, as even impurity-laden trillium like Tracto’s was some of the most valuable material in the galaxy. Which logically meant that either he intended to use it all himself, in which case he’d need some freighters to carry it all, or that he meant to trade it—again, implying a need for freighters. “No sign of excessive Bug damage?” I asked, as if the answer was relatively unimportant.

“No, Admiral Montagne,” the Cutter Captain said furrowing his brows, “that’s one of the few blessings we can count from this mess; the Bugs don’t seem to have reached Tracto.”

“Hmm,” I muttered. Bugs or no Bugs, I was willing to rule out the possibility that Jean Luc meant to camp out in this system and stay Pirate Kinging it on Tracto for the rest of his life. So either which way, he would have a need for some freighters out here sooner rather than later, and being a pirate, I doubted he was going to be purchasing them legally.

“We’ll need to look at interdicting his Freighters,” I muttered, tracing a finger over the tabletop as I tried to recall the nearest systems.

“Freighters, Sir?” Eastwood inquired. “Did I miss something? I don’t recall any mention of civilian shipping in the system.”

“Oh, he’ll have them,” I said absently with a wave of my fingers, “sooner or later.”

“If you say so, Sir,” Eastwood nodded and leaned back in his chair.

I shot the First Officer a penetrating look, “Get with Navigator Shepherd and plot out all the star systems within a freighter’s estimated jump range of Tracto.”

Officer Eastwood blinked. “Navigator…aye, Admiral,” he said.

“Now, Eastwood,” I said pointedly when he failed to carry out my orders with the desired alacrity.

“Of course, Sir,” the First Officer said, standing to his feet and snapping a salute. He held it until I saluted in return, then turned on his heel and strode back out into the bridge.

I turned to Archibald. “You’ve done the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet a great service this day,” I said, standing up and coming over to clap him on the shoulder, “perhaps you’d like to head down to the galley and tell them I’ve given you permission to have a few bottles of the good stuff for you and your crew?”

“Thank you, Admiral Montagne,” the Captain said, his eyes lighting up as he quickly scrambled to his feet and saluted.

I returned his salute and then motioned to the door with a smile, “I won’t hold you any longer, and you can go see to it right now if you want.” I gave him a knowing smile as I continued, “I’m sure your crew will be up in arms if they find out they had to wait a moment longer than necessary.”

“Thank you again, Sir,” he gushed, taking the hint and hurrying out the room.

I released a pent-up sigh and allowed my smile to fade away so that when I turned back to Laurent, I deliberately allowed my displeasure with the situation we found ourselves in to bleed through. In all honestly, while I’d been planning for the worse—which had basically been for Jean Luc to already be in this star system—somewhere in my gut I still hadn’t been expecting it. It was as if I’d just taken a blow to the body and was still fighting for the next breath.

“Is something bothering you, Admiral?” Laurent asked with concern and then he flushed. “I mean other than the obvious,” he said, waving his arm vaguely in a direction I took to mean Tracto.

“You could say that,” I said sitting down in my chair wearily and rubbing my temples. “Pull up a chair,” I said, indicating he should move closer to me than where he was currently sitting.

Chapter 22: An Oath—and a Rebuke

“Alright,” I began, activating the holo-screen until it showed a map of the closest star systems surrounding Tracto, “I need some recommendations of which ships we should plan to send out on an interdiction mission.”

“What are we supposed to interdict?” Laurent asked evenly, clearly playing things cautiously. I suppose I would have done the same thing in his place if my commanding officer was out for bloody revenge and had just been told he couldn’t win, so I didn’t take any offense at the question.

“Those freighters I just mentioned a moment ago,” I said, easily emphasizing the point with a languid flip of the wrist.

“If you’re sure they’re going to be here,” he said, giving me a significant look to go along with his leading question.

“I am,” I replied neutrally.

“I can do it,” Laurent said giving me a nod, “although with Eastwood and Shepherd already on the case…” he hesitated, then shrugged indifferently as he continued to search my features.

“A little duplication of effort can be helpful at times,” I said with scoff, “just humor me.”

“Yes, Sir,” he said with another shrug and started bringing up potential point transfer routes, the nearest stars and the average and extreme hyperspace ranges for merchant freighters.

When he was done, we had half a dozen likely candidates, and I felt far more knowledgeable about merchant jump ranges than I ever had.

“Excellent work, Captain,” I said with a regal nod.

“This was just a preliminary run up, based upon my own knowledge,” Laurent warned, “normally I would consult with the Navigator before a briefing of this nature.”

“I completely understand,” I said, my pleasure fading slightly but I refused to be put off right then; there were enough things constantly going wrong around me that it was important to remember to stop and feel some satisfaction every now and again.

“Was there anything else, Admiral?” Laurent asked breaking me from my silent contemplation with his continued stare.

“What?” I asked irritably and then gave myself a shake, “yes, yes of course,” I said reaching for the table controls and deactivating the holo-projector.

Laurent just looked at me expectantly, waiting while I mulled over exactly what to say.

“Is it about Tracto?” he asked with a clearly leading question.

“After a fashion,” I said with a sigh, realizing there was probably no better way to go about the matter than to just plunge in. “Captain Laurent,” I gave the other man a significant look.

“Yes, Sir,” the Lieutenant Commander said straightening.

“I have a plan for taking back Tracto and for bringing down my Uncle Jean Luc and his pirate minions,” I said looking him in the eye.

“If I might ask…” Laurent said.

“I plan to keep the particulars close to the vest,” I said, shaking my head, “however, what I can tell you is that in the meantime we’re going to do our best to interdict any pirate freighters with our lighter vessels, while our larger ships stay out here waiting for our opportunity.”

“Out here?” Laurent said looking distressed.

“Yes, Captain,” I said flatly, “out here. Right here, in fact. Although, we might cast our sensor net a little wider, just to be sure things go according to plan.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to withdraw to another location, Sir,” Laurent suggested, his face a professional mask.

“But then the Bugs would pass us right by on their way to Tracto,” I said with a deliberately oblivious smile.

“Yes, Admiral, and possibly cause damage to the pirate fleet holding Tracto,” Laurent explained all-too-patiently.

“One Heavy Cruiser was able to destroy this entire group,” I said patiently, “so I doubt they’d be much of a problem for the pirates and with their multiple Battleships and Cruisers. On the other hand, this same group of Bugs could still cause quite a bit of damage to the Belters, or anyone else in space, until the pirates decided to do something about it—if they decided to do something about it. Pirates aren’t generally known for their generosity, after all.”

“A worrying possibility but, much as I hate to admit it, space is dangerous and the Belters knew the risks when they came here,” Laurent said in a clinically professional tone. “On the whole—”

“Which also,” I said sharply, raising my voice to deliberately talk over him, “completely leaves out the possibility that the Bug Harvesters will head straight toward the largest source of biomass in the system—a system that I’ve sworn to protect. Now what kind of Protector would I be if I stood aside and trusted these pirates to protect the system? Furthermore, what if due to some form of concerted resistance on the surface, Jean Luc decides to make an example of a couple city states—Messene, or Argos, for instance—and allows several Harvesters land and start converting people and vegetation into biomass?”

“Sir,” Laurent protested, “Devil’s Advocate here, but if we weaken ourselves fighting off every Bug expeditionary force we come across then we won’t be in any condition for a knockdown, drag-out battle later on!”

“I’ve sworn to protect this system from Bug genocide, and that’s exactly what I’ll do: stop these Bugs,” I said scornfully. “Anyone who doesn’t like it can get off of this ship and hitch a ride back home as soon as one of our vessels gets damaged enough that it needs to head back for repairs. Everyone knew the risks when they signed on for this mission; no one said this was going to be easy.”

Laurent looked distressed as he considered his reply. “I understand your position, Admiral, but I’m not sure how we’re going to explain it to the rest of the fleet. I’m not sure how the men will take us fighting the Bugs out here, instead of patrolling the Border—and all while the pirates sit it out in safety around Tracto.”

“Lady Akantha,” I said, turning my chair from one side to the other to check its range.

“Pardon,” Laurent said looking perplexed, “you mean you’re here because of her?”

“No,” I said patiently, turning my chair at an angle to the new Captain, “you asked how we would explain this, and I said ‘Lady Akantha’.”

“Ah,” Laurent said in false comprehension, as he was clearly still in the dark.

“Forget about me, or about explaining things to the crew for just a minute and turn this thing around,” I said, whipping the chair around to pin Laurent with a level stare. “Let’s suppose this fleet turns around and goes home so we can ‘gather our strength’, while the Hold Mistress of Messene’s world is eaten down to the bedrock because its inhabitants somehow offended the pirate King—say, by trying to kill him just like they did his nephew. What exactly do you think my beloved wife’s response is going to be toward the men of this fleet who ran away and did nothing while her people were, quite literally, eaten?”

Laurent blanched and his eyes bulged as I smiled grimly and continued, “When the crew asks you to explain why we’re ‘wasting our time’ out here, you tell them Lady Akantha—a woman with an Imperial Medium Cruiser and her own ‘independent’ fleet of genetic uplifts—would probably take rather poorly to us turning around and leaving her world to the mercy of Pirates and Bugs. Then you just let them do the math,” I said, stabbing a finger on the table for emphasis.

“A strong argument,” Laurent said after half a minute’s silence.

“The men and women of this fleet may no longer feel they need concern themselves with what I think—” I began icily.

“That’s not true!” the Captain cut me off in protest.

“No, I’ve been proven fallible and lost respect. I can deal with that,” I said, my mouth a tight line as I forced a shrug, “but they’d better blasted well be ready to do some serious explaining to Akantha and our Lancer force when she catches back up with them, and have a good reason why they cut and ran on her home world the next time they see her.” I paused and then added, “A good reason, as far as a grieving and enraged Tracto-an Lancer would see it.”

“On second thought explaining to the crew from the Clover won’t be as hard as I originally thought,” Laurent said, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe his forehead.

“Good,” I said with finality, and turned away in dismissal.

“But,” Laurent added pointedly, and I turned back to him with a frown.

“Yes?” I grunted.

“The Officers, especially the Officers and crews from Easy Haven, will be more difficult to convince. The Admiral’s Lady has a certain cachet with those of us originally from the Clover, and no one wants to look at an angry, Tracto-an Lancer crosswise,” Laurent suddenly cracked a smile, “unless they’re from the gun deck, of course.”

I stared at him nonplussed for a long moment, and then we broke out chortling simultaneously.

“Saint Murphy, but I needed that,” I said with a chuckle.

Laurent slapped a hand on the table.

Regaining myself, I looked down at his hand and quick as a raptor I reached out and grabbed the top of it before he could react.

“I need your help, Laurent,” I said, refusing to let go when he instinctively tried to withdraw his hand, “I can’t do this on my own.”

“We’re with you, Admiral,” Laurent said, staring down at my hand on top of his.

“We’ll hold here and gather our strength,” I said with sudden fervor, “Spalding, Akantha, the Omicron, Commodore Druid and the recruiting drive, the Sundered, Easy Haven,” I rapidly ticked off the people and places we might be able to expect support from going into the future, “we are not alone in this thing. I have a plan to win this that doesn’t involve throwing ourselves in front of the Bugs like some kind of self-flagellating human sacrifice.”

Seeing the other man still focused on his hand, I let go but still kept leaning forward with the intensity of my impassioned little speech.

“I have no intention of committing suicide; I’m in it to win this thing, Officer,” I said pounding a fist on the table before leveling a finger in his direction, “never doubt that.”

Laurent closed his eyes. “What’s the plan, Admiral?” he asked with a heavy breath.

“We have to keep this Fleet in line, focused, and on task. I trust our Clover’s crew, but when it comes to dealing the Easy Haveners I need you in my corner, fully focused and ready to help push this boulder all the way up the hill,” I said, feeling my eyes burn with emotion. “I need your support, but more importantly I need your trust. I know that’s a lot to ask after betting the house at the Omicron and coming up busted and imprisoned—on the line for execution, even, which I’m sad to say pales in comparison to the fate many of our fellows met with.”

Laurent lifted a hand with his eyes still closed, and I could see the way his fingers trembled as he did so. “I’m not sure…” he said shakily.

“I took a risk and rolled the dice. I lost. I failed. Our Battleship was taken and we were cast upon the tender mercies of politicians who had none,” I declaimed, slamming another fist into the table.

“That wasn’t necessarily your fault, Jason,” Laurent said opening his eyes.

“Yes it was,” I shouted angrily, “yes it blasted well was! I trusted Sector Central and those blighters on Capria, and that’s a mistake I won’t be making again. You know it, I know it, and any member of the crew with two halves of a brain cell to rub together knows it. I failed all of us—all of you!”

“Yes, you did,” Laurent shouted standing up from his chair.

“Good, let’s see some emotion,” I jumped to my feet, matching him glare for glare, “let me hear what you really think, or just plain shoot me down where I stand; I won’t stop you,” I said, and with two fingers pulled my holdout blaster pistol and threw it away to land against the wall with a thump. I then spread my arms to show that I was unarmed and did a slow turn around. “But whatever you’re going to do, you need to stop acting like you’re going to help in private and then slow-playing me when people are actually watching!”

“Stop acting like a crazy man,” Laurent growled, “you don’t have Chief Engineer Spalding’s panache and ability to pull it off.”

“Either you believe in this mission, or you don’t,” I said flatly, “either you think I can do the job, or you don’t. There is no middle ground here; there are no second chances. I need you all in, or all out, and you’re free to shoot me if you think that will help,” I said, still holding my arms wide.

“I don’t want to shoot you, you stupid, royal, gint,” Laurent raged, “punch you in the face maybe, for not saving us, but I don’t want to kill you. Space Gods,” he growled, running a hand over his face.

“In or out,” I said flatly, “this is not the Confederation Forces of Easy Haven, where Captains like Synthia McCruise are not only expected, but encouraged, to ‘play it safe!’ They would leave us rotting in her brig without so much as one word—one Murphy-blasted word! Of aid and comfort in our time of dire need,” I placed both hands on the table and leaned forward, “this is the MSP! We don’t always make the smart play, or the safe play, or the Easy Haven play. If we’d been playing it safe from the get go, that Settler you’d been riding in would have been captured or blown up by pirates. Tracto would be a barren wasteland of Bug Marauders, milking every last bit of biomass out of her. Easy Haven would be back in mothballs, and the Omicron would certainly still be in pirate hands!” I ran a hand through my hair as the other officer remained silent, “We don’t always make the safe play. We don’t calculate the angles and always go with the safest choice, like McCruise! We make the right blasted choice every blasted time, and blight the ever-loving consequences!”

I came to a rambling stop, feeling winded and breathing heavily.

“Are we really here to do what’s right, or is this all about revenge against your Uncle, the pirate? Do you really have a plan, Admiral and Prince Cadet Jason Montagne?” Laurent asked finally. “Because from where I sit it’s hard tell if this isn’t just some grand Royal Feud in the old tradition, just like we used to have back home on Capria.”

“I always have a plan,” I exploded, “they don’t always work—but that’s irrelevant,” I leveled a finger at him. “Jean Luc’s not a Central Politician; he’s an old school Montagne. Once he finds out where I am and that I’m still at large, he’ll come gunning for us. He’ll come for me, for you, and for anyone who even once dreamed of supporting me. If it’s in the best interest of our people, I’d scream and fight it, but in the end I’d let go of my revenge. But he doesn’t think like that,” I said hotly, feeling every inch of my face flush. “To him I’m a threat that will need to be tied up and eliminated, and the MSP is just a tool or organization that needs to be destroyed, whether I’m around or not. In this case, payback for what was done to us and doing what’s right are one and the very same thing.”

Laurent opened his mouth, but I wasn’t finished. “I need you with me, or I need you gone,” I said, deliberately turning my back on him. “Shoot me in the back or leave this room if giving me your full-fledged support in leading the fleet as its Admiral isn’t something you can live with. Or you can stay—you don’t even have to say anything, and I pledge you my complete trust and any support I can give in return. But if I’m going to command this fleet, I can’t do it without a strong right hand in command of my Flagship.”

There was a long silence behind us and then I heard the Officer move over to where I’d thrown the holdout blaster pistol. My skin crawled and everything in my body tensed. My neck muscles shivered when the Captain stepped up behind me, but I forced myself to remain still. I meant it; I couldn’t do this without his support, and if the man thought I needed to die then so be it. It wasn’t how I’d wanted to go out, old and in bed, surrounded by beautiful naked women but hey, we don’t always get what we want. At least it would be freedom of a sort.

I held hard to that thought as the muzzle of the pistol pressed hard against my back.

“Curse all royals everywhere, and especially your family—every, single one of you blasted Montagne tyrants,” Laurent said in a tight, furious voice, and I knew in that exact moment that everything I’d been working towards was over. I heard a thump behind me, and for a split second I wondered if I’d just been shot.

“Get it over with,” I said angrily.

“You always have to get what you want, don’t you?” Laurent said, his voice sounding thick.

“It’s a character flaw I’ve been working on,” I said, unable to fight the urge to babble. If he was talking, then I wasn’t getting shot, and that was still a good thing in my book. “You know, losing my wife, my ship, my crew…and almost my own life as well…it’s just hard to figure out how much more there is to give away.”

“Turn around and look me in the eyes,” Laurent said.

“Just do it,” I sighed.

“Do as I say,” Laurent’s voice cracked like a whip.

I slowly turned around and blinked in surprise. Kneeling before me was the Captain of the ship, and held before him butt first was my hold out blaster pistol.

“What is this?” I said with equal parts dismay and overpowering relief. My legs wobbled as I started to believe I wasn’t about to die.

“I want you to remember there’s still one thing I’m going to do to you after we get done with this,” Laurent said flatly.

“Whatever ‘this’ is,” I said hesitantly, but nodded agreeably all the same. After was good—having an after to have things done to me sounded very nice indeed right at that moment.

“Your servant, my lord Prince,” Laurent said, thrusting the blaster up against my hand, and without thinking I reflexively took it, blinking at him in surprise as I did so.

“No…no!” I said with dawning realization.

“You saved my life and that of my family on the Settler ship, you’ve saved this crew and a million or more people along the Border many times over. I, Cecil Laurent, do herby pledge my service as a retainer to you, Prince Jason. I am your man,” Laurent paused and then looked embarrassed, “I don’t have a knife.”

“There’s no need to cut yourself, fool,” I exclaimed with outrage and immediately felt ashamed. I hadn’t ever even bothered to learn this man’s first name, “I’ve got enough crazy sworn-men running around below decks already! You don’t have to do this; more, I don’t want it!”

“Too bad, your Highness,” Laurent looked up at me, “I mean, my liege; you’re stuck with me for the duration.”

“Oh, get up,” I muttered in disbelief, “up. Up, I said!” I snapped, helping him up to his feet. “I release you from your oath, since there’s no need for this,” I added irritably.

“I refuse to be released, and I meant what I said,” Laurent growled. “This doesn’t mean I don’t still think you’re too hard on our Easy Haven comrades in arms.”

“Space Gods,” I said placing a hand against my forehead in disbelief, “I thought I was dead. You are a cruel, cruel man, Officer.”

“All of that said, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” Cecil Laurent said in a serious voice.

I looked over at him and cocked an eyebrow at him.

I was so relieved at the result of this private meeting that his fist plowing into that very same eyebrow with a punishing overhand right took me completely by surprise and knocked me off my feet.

“That’s for losing our fucking Battleship!” Laurent said as I went crashing over my chair head over heels.

My head ringing, I was still pulling myself up off the floor when my Flag Captain strode toward the ready room’s exit.

“I hope the loyalty tests are over and done with, Sir,” he said before the door ponderously heaved open and he exited back onto the bridge, “they were getting more than a little tedious, if you want the truth.”

The pain in my head was quite at odds with the smile on my face as I slumped into my chair.

Chapter 23: Recruiting Issues

“Thank you for your time, Governor, as well as the chance to put up our shingle in one of your main job emporiums for the past two weeks,” Warrant Officer Lisa Steiner said with a genuine smile.

“Auto-Magistrate, if you will; I’m elected by the people of the Two Stellar Auto-Democracy and have been for the past 62 days and counting,” the current Governor or Magistrate of the Two Stellar binary star system said, puffing his chest out with pride. “Why, between my wife and I, we were Auto-Magistrate and First Receptacle for just over a third of last year! Now that’s a job-creating track record you can take to the bank straight away.”

“Of course, Gov—I mean, Magistrate Binklehoffer,” Steiner said with a nod. “There’s something I’m curious about, if you don’t mind?”

“Of course, anything for a pretty little lady like yourself,” the Auto-Magistrate leered at her in a manner she wouldn’t have expected from a man who had just claimed to be married.

Steiner opened her mouth, but he cut her off before she could speak. “It seems a shame that someone of your nature and caliber went into the military, though. What a waste,” he said wistfully, “you could have been so much more if you’d only stayed at home and focused on a more domestic career path.”

Steiner stiffened at his words. She had heard of the sort of misogynistic attitude some of the more Patriarchal and Matriarchal societies on the fringe of human space got themselves up to their necks in, but this was the first time she had personally encountered this sort of attitude on any planet.

“Oh, really?” she asked evenly. “And exactly what kind of career would that be…?” she paused, not wishing to offend the man even if she really did want to offend him, “in your opinion, of course; a homemaker, perhaps? Or do I seem more the ‘barefoot wife and baby-maker’?”

“And ruin your figure?” the Auto-Magistrate looked at her with what seemed to be genuine shock, “how absurd.”

Lisa gaped at him unable to believe how self-centered and misogynistic he appeared.

“No, with your face and figure I would have recommended you stay out of the military and go into modeling,” he said, frowning down at her severely. “Marriage and children should be the last thing on your mind, young woman. You have lots of years ahead of you. Why, to think of the complete and utter waste,” he looked down at her suspiciously, “what world did you say you came from? It sounds like you might be suffering under a particularly patriarchal régime back home. Little woman, let me assure you that if you’ve been pressed into military service, the Auto-Democracy takes any and all immigrants fleeing Patriarchal or Matriarchal oppression. We’ll even grant you a new citizenship—”

“What?” Lisa spluttered unable to believe what she was hearing, “Citizenship, modeling, oppression! What are you talking about?” she was now thoroughly confused and starting to wonder if she’d just inserted her foot into her mouth.

“Why, a career in politics…whatever else did you think I was talking about?” the Auto-Magistrate said frowning down at her skeptically, as if she were a not particularly bright specimen that had somehow wandered under his microscope.

“First it’s modeling and breaking my military service, and now it’s politics?!” she said, unable to believe what she was hearing.

“Well of course, all politics really are is an organized popularity contests, after all,” he said condescendingly. “Equal parts acting and planet-wide beauty pageant! Don’t they teach you anything about the democratic process and equality of the sexes back in whatever patriarchal hellhole you came from? Acting and modeling are one of the two surefire, prime career paths to political power—a decorated military or police service record coming in a close second, mind you! Have to show how personally tough you are on crime. You know, what with pirates and such being the plague they are nowadays, it really gets the daily voters all fired up!” the Auto-Magistrate paused. “You know, if you’d only just work on your acting a little harder, you’d have the perfect trifecta. Why, give me two months and the right publicity budget, and I’d have you elected to a People’s Tribune. After that, who knows; you might even be the next Auto-Magistrate by the end of the year!”

“What are you talking about?” Lisa blurted, wide-eyed and unable to believe her ears.

“Why, running for the top political office in the Two Stellar Auto-Democracy of course! With a body and figure like yours and your military record, you’d practically be a shoe in,” the Auto-Magistrate said eagerly, “what do you think? At least tell me you’ll think about it,” he pleaded.

“I’m sorry, Governor,” Lisa Steiner said firmly.

“Auto-Magistrate, please,” the System Governor corrected her.

“I think you’ve misunderstood me entirely,” she said in the same firm voice as before, “but I’m here on a Confederation recruiting mission, not to leave military service, renounce my citizenship, and somehow parlay a modeling career into political office!” Boy, had she ever got her signals mixed up when he said ‘leave the military for a domestic career.’ That would teach her to judge a book by its leering cover! “Honestly, I don’t know how you got the slightest idea I was interested in anything of the sort!”

“What have you done?” the Auto-Magistrate said with disbelief. “Why, you managed to recruit over fifteen hundred well-educated members of our most restless demographic! Not only that, you convinced them to permanently abridge their civil liberties for the duration of their military service, and perhaps even beyond if they happen to learn any military secrets during the course of their newfound duties. Young lady,” he said as he leaned down conspiratorially, “if you can get those types to do that, what couldn’t you do in the political arena? Our world is desperate for change it can believe in, and—”

“Not just no, but Hades no, Auto-Governor,” Lisa replied, backing away hastily. She was suddenly aware of the quad of plain-clothes palace guard types standing behind the politician—a man who more and more seemed like some kind of mentally unstable lunatic. She was also intensely grateful that Hierophant had decided to tag along with her today, for her last tour of the job fair.

“Auto-Magistrate!” he exclaimed. “Not Governor.”

“How exactly are your political offices selected, Sir?” Steiner said as she slowly backed away, wondering if she needed to fear for her personal safety and hoping that a few diverting questions might let her escape unscathed. Oh, how she wished she hadn’t made that barefoot, homemaker crack! If only she could have controlled herself, she wouldn’t have given this man the opening to start harassing her.

“We have a planetary Distributed Intelligence network that tallies the votes. One sentient means one fully enfranchised and completely equal vote, regardless of gender,” the Auto-Magistrate replied, standing up straighter and going into what sounded like a campaign stump speech. “An electronic voter ballot is sent out daily to each and every sentient on this planet to select tomorrow’s office holder!”

Steiner stared at him with horror, “How could that even work?!”

“Little lady,” the politician started condescendingly, and Steiner’s hand held com-unit beeped.

“Sorry, Governor—I mean, Auto-Magistrate!” she said hurriedly as she placed the com-unit to her hear and turned away, “I’ve got to take this!” She hadn’t even finished her last sentence before she was walking away at the fastest pace she could manage.

“Just a minute,” she hissed, “whoever this is, you are a life saver—I’ll get back to you in one; I’ve got an over eager politician on my six,” she spoke into the hand held anxiously. Fortunately, with Hierophant at her shoulder she didn’t feel so afraid that she had to start running in fear for her life.

“But! Wait!” the Auto-Magistrate cried out from behind her, “My polling indicates I could be in trouble. My campaign management professionals say I need you on the ticket!”

Shaking her head in sheer, abject bewilderment, she broke out into a jog.

“Let’s get out of here, Hierophant,” she shook her head vigorously, “before we get elected!”

“Politics…a fate worse than death,” Hierophant deadpanned from right behind her, his massive, Tracto-an legs barely moving at more than a steady walk to stay at her side.

Steiner’s gait broke and she had to stutter-step to keep from stumbling. “Did you just make a joke?” she gaped at him. The gunnery rating shrugged at her, and his face had the usual Tracto-an, enigmatic, faintly superior look she was used to seeing, “you did make a joke, and for the first time, too! This calls for a celebration—fizz-waters on me when we get back to the ship,” she grinned.

“Please, you could be the first candidate in twenty years to hold officer for the mandatory 180 days in order to make a constitutional amendment,” the Auto-Magistrate all but screamed after her, “this planet’s fate could rest in your hands!”

“The shuttle’s this way,” Hierophant said placing hand on her upper arm when she started to turn the wrong way and Steiner was never so grateful for the overgrown Tracto-an, former Lancer in her entire time she’d known him more than she was that day.

She flashed him a grateful smile and then remembered the com-unit in her hand and blanched. She quickly raised it to her ear.

“Steiner here,” she said breathlessly.

“If your dance calendar is finally clear,” the voice on the other end of the line said sarcastically, and this time she recognized the voice as belonging to the Captain of the Dungeon ship.

“Sorry, Sir, a little problem with the locals,” Steiner said as stoutly as she could managed.

“Head back to the ship on the next shuttle;, we’ve finally reached capacity, so it’s time to head out to the rendezvous coordinates,” the Captain said strictly.

“We’re almost to the shuttle now, Sir,” Steiner replied, unconsciously bracing to attention, “I’ll send the recall instruction to the recruiting booth and get the last of the recruits onboard the shuttle right away, Captain,” she finished fervently.

“See that you do,” he snapped, and then with what sounded like a snap of his fingers, the channel went to dead air.

Chapter 24: More Bug Scouts

I was in the middle of another bull session with the top officers on the Flagship when the red alert siren sounded.

Bursting through the slowly opening door as soon as the gap was large enough to squeeze through, I arrived at the Command chair just in time to hear the Sensor Officer announce, “We’ve just picked up a squadron of Bug ships, First Officer! We can tentatively identifying them as Scout Marauders, course and bearing fifteen degrees above what would be the ellipsis if we were still in-system. The group’s point of origin appears to be the same as the previous Harvester battle group!” he declared.

“Any sign of additional Bug Units?” Eastwood growled, sounding excited at the prospect of action.

I turned my face away and rolled my eyes before looking back at the screen. I wasn’t against a little action, but the man sounded a little overeager to me and not in the kind of professional, ‘let’s go blow them to kingdom come’ way I was used, to either. What makes this newest First Officer tick, I wondered as I looked at him with narrowed eyes.

Perhaps I was letting my well-learned distrust of First Officers in general rule my perception of the other man, but after Tremblay I was suspicious of anyone who would voluntarily accept such a position. What game was he playing other than the obvious – spying for LeGodat—trope that everyone and their sister could see. This one would bear further watching.

Almost as if he could hear me, Eastwood looked up with his brow winkling when he caught me staring. But before he said anything, something in Tactical diverted his attention.

“I have a request for orders from the Red Herring Squadron, Admiral,” a deep voice coming from the side said breaking me out of my contemplations.

I looked over and did a double-take, a faint moue of distaste forming when I saw that instead of the usual, cute Communications Operator I was expecting, I got a face full of craggy skin covered with a white-streaked beard.

Forcing my features back under control and a more appropriate ‘I’m a serious Officer, to be taken seriously’ expression back onto my face, I blinked at him as my mind raced to come up with an answer.

“Well, Operator,” I said, playing for time before my resolve hardened. This Heavy Cruiser wasn’t the only ship here, and more importantly, I was the Admiral of this fleet! I decided that it was time to get out there and lead, “Instruct the Cutter squadron to swing wide and prepare to execute a flanking maneuver on these Bug Scouts.” I hesitated as I envisioned every captain in the squadron maneuvering independently and getting in everyone’s way, “And instruct them they are to move in formation around Captain Archibald’s ship until they make contact with the enemy. Then they are to do their best to cause chaos and destruction while staying clear of our big guns!”

The old Communication’s Operator looked at me for a moment nonplussed, as if he was expecting something more than what I’d just given him. Then he gave a strange little shake of his upper body and turned back to his console to relay my instructions. I looked at him with irritation; if he was expecting more from his Admiral then he should have signed up with a different operation.

Dismissing him and his expectations—something I’d never had to worry about back when I’d still had the crew of the Clover—I turned back to look at the main-screen. On it, the Cutters were just starting to move, but McCruise’s Heavy Destroyer and our Corvettes were just sitting there.

So as soon as the Com-Operator had finished relaying my instructions to the Cutter force, I turned back to the Com-Operator.

“Operator,” I said, catching the older man’s attention, “please update Captain McCruise with the orders just given to the Herrings and, with my compliments, direct her to take her Heavy Destroyer and our three Corvettes to advance on the other flank of the Bug Scouts.” I pulled out a data slate and updated it with the plot of the current tactical situation and started tapping some projected changes into it.

The Captain of the Gift came up beside me, stopped to look out at the bridge to observe how everything was proceeding, and then turned to me while I was still working on my data-slate.

He cleared his throat. “Any orders for the Flagship, Admiral?” he asked quietly.

I ignored him for a second until I’d finished the last of the modifications I’d made, and then showed him the data-slate.

“I want the Flagship to charge straight down the middle of their formation,” I said, pointing out what I wanted done, “but if we detect a force of larger ships then we’ll adjust to slightly up and over the Scouts and then, depending on how many of them there are, we’ll either head straight down the middle with both broadsides firing, or cut one of the corners and try to only fight one Harvester at a time.”

“You’re planning a contingency for if we face more than just the Scout Marauders,” Laurent said with a nod, “good.” He then pointed at my screen, “However, heading down the middle’s not a problem if we were facing two to four Medium Harvesters, but we just ran into a pair of Large Harvesters. With our damage it’s probably better if we plan to skirt the edges in the event we run across Larges—or worse, Heavies.”

I shot a look at him out of the corner of my eye and after assessing his demeanor, I slowly nodded. “It’s your ship, Captain,” I said, waving a hand over at the main screen and then leaned back in my Command chair, “fight her how you think best.”

“Thank you, Admiral,” Laurent replied, looking pleased at my show of trust before bracing to attention and slowly advancing on the Tactical Section to consult with Eastwood.

Seeing McCruise and her squadron swing off to one side, and Archibald and his Cutters going wide on the other, my fingers started tap-tap-tapping on the arm of my Command chair. The urge to get up and start issuing more orders was nearly overpowering.

Two things stopped me, though: Laurent had only just come fully on board and I didn’t want him and more of his accusations of ‘loyalty tests’ to start cropping up again, which might just happen if I ‘appeared’ to be second guessing him too hard on the bridge of the Gift. The second, which had to always be a consideration when I was surrounded my actual trained officers, was looking like a military fool.

By limiting the orders I did give, I could pick and choose and hopefully avoid most of the pitfalls of sheer idiocy that I occasionally stumbled into.

“Alright, bridge staff; officers, prepare your sections for combat. Operators, ready your consoles; we’re going to blow straight through those Marauders like a lawnmower through tall grass,” Laurent said in a loud, carrying voice.

The bridge replied in what could only be called a hungry growl.

As I watched, the two wings of my fleet converged on the hapless Bug Marauders.

“Contact!” exclaimed a Sensor Operator, “I have one additional contact half a degree further and above the ellipsis than the Marauders.”

“Type and speed,” snapped Laurent, “what have we got here, people?”

There was an extended pause while all the sensor operators turned their instruments on the new Bug warship, and heads conferred with the new Warrant Officer for their sections.

“We’ve got a Medium Harvester on long range sensors, Captain,” the Sensor Officer finally confirmed, “I say again, one Medium Harvester is lagging behind the Marauder Squadron at extreme range.”

“Speed is standard for a Medium Harvester maxing out its engines, Sir,” the sensors’ officer confirmed, “there’s no way a Large Harvester with engines matching our threat profiles could pull those kind of gee forces.”

“Good work, Sensors,” I said, inserting myself into the operation when it became clear that Officer Laurent was just going to stand there chewing on his upper lip.

“Yes, keep it up, Sensors,” Laurent said belatedly, “and keep your eyes peeled for more of those Bug Heavies.”

“Yes, Captain!” the sensor Warrant said, turning back to his console with renewed vigor.

Glancing around the Bridge I could see that I wasn’t the only person on the bridge looking at the main-screen, even though I was arguably the only person with a job description that meant I was actually supposed to be looking at that screen.

I suppressed a smile and turned back to watch as Archibald and the half dozen Cutters slashed through the right edge of the approaching Marauders.

“Bugs are now firing on the Cutters, Admiral,” the sensors’ officer said jumping out of his seat.

“I can see that, Sensors,” I observed, as on the main-screen the Bugs started firing like a chain reaction as soon as a Cutter came within range of their weapons. “They’re still firing in every direction,” I observed with a derisive shake of the head.

“Only the smaller ones,” Laurent corrected, speaking in my ear.

My heart rate skyrocketed and I had to suppress a start of surprise. “You snuck up on me,” I replied as mildly as I could, when the heat slipped back down from my throat and settled back inside my chest.

Laurent grinned and then his expression turned serious again, the moment of levity forgotten as the Cutters sliced and diced two of the Scout Marauders into spewing wrecks of Bugs’ and ships’ guts.

“Their Harvesters seem to have decent enough fire control,” he said grimly, as one of our Cutters—targeted by three separate Bug ships simultaneously—lost its shields to an overload. The craft seemed to hesitate before jetting off on a new course directly away from the rest of the Scouts, as well as from the protection of its Squadron mates, at half its previous top speed.

I suppressed a wince, after a year and a half…or was it two years by then? Anyway, after so long away from Capria and learning the ropes of deep space, I was only now able to understand what it must be like to be on a ship as it was shot up by the enemy.

“She’ll need repairs,” Laurent observed steadily.

“I’ll send her back to Gambit for an overhaul,” I remarked as calmly as if I was back at the Palace, sipping tea with courtiers, instead of in the middle of yet another dirty, nasty battle against genocidal Bug ships who would like nothing more than to launch a marine force to try and convert us into biomass for their breeding and feeding chambers.

“There goes McCruise,” Laurent said, and although he tried to hide it, I could hear the suppressed tension in his voice.

I quirked a smile and nodded easily. “She appears to be coming in right on target without any problems,” I commented, looking at the main screen critically as the Heavy Destroyer led the small formation. The lighter Corvettes were guarding the top and bottom of her larger ship as she abruptly took her ship into a screaming turn that unleashed the fury of her destroyer’s broadside at point blank range. Meanwhile, the Corvettes broke formation around the destroyer and ran down the extended line of Bug Marauders, continuously firing as they went.

“Yes,” Captain Laurent agreed, clenching his hands with obvious emotion as Marauders broke in two, or began venting atmosphere without even breaking the shields of our fellow warships.

“Nice,” I agreed with a smile, and then stopped myself abruptly; there was no real need to agree with the Captain.

“Those Bugs are going to rue the day they ever ran into us, Admiral Montagne,” Laurent said in a suddenly louder voice, while I was still thinking about my reaction a moment earlier.

“Not if we squash every last one of them, Captain Laurent,” I said, coming back to myself with a sudden jerk and kicking myself for needing the new Captain to help remind me that crew morale on the bridge was a vitally important thing that needed constant tending.

Laurent grinned as McCruise burst a final Bug ship in two—one which had already been damaged by the slashing attack of the Corvettes—before roaring past the six remaining ships. Two of those vessels were already leaking copious amounts of Bugs and atmosphere from the myriad rents in their living hulls.

“There are always more Bugs out there to kill, Admiral,” Laurent said in a raised, sly tone. “I’m sure the terror of our passage will get out to the rest of them, one way or another.”

“The Imperials would argue that they’re not sentient enough to think for themselves and thus are probably unable to transmit complex information—like differentiating one human ship from another, for instance,” I said archly.

“Right, of course,” Laurent said with a sigh, “because the larger the concentration of Bugs on a ship, the greater their intelligence seems to climb.”

“I’m shocked, Captain,” I deadpanned as the Bugs seemed to mill around for half a minute before one of them started chasing after McCruise, and the other five turned to engage our still rapidly-approaching Heavy Cruiser, “are you saying that the Imperials deliberately deceived us about Bug intelligence, or are you trying to imply something about the Imperials themselves?”

“Far be it from me to speak poorly of the beloved Imperial Senate and their mighty Triumvirs,” Laurent mocked, and I could see several incredulous looks being cast our way as the Captain and their Admiral stood there debating the intelligence—or lack of it—shown by our former, Imperial masters.

I was about to say something else when we ran out of time for our little debate.

“Gunners, pick your targets and prepare to fire-at-will,” Officer Eastwood barked, holding a recently replaced, shiny new microphone to his mouth.

“Shields, be ready to receive strikes on both sides when we pass through them,” Laurent said, speaking in such a normal, matter-of-fact voice that one would almost think he had done this sort of thing all the time—meaning, charging straight through a formation of enemy ships which were determined to kill and devour every other form of life they stumbled across, sentient or otherwise.

“Aye, Captain,” the Ensign at sensors said crisply, “we’re ready.”

“Good man,” the Captain said with an appreciative nod, his hands going around behind his back as he wandered over to the Tactical Section in the moments prior to engaging the enemy.

As I watched on the main-screen, the symbol for our ship and the bug ships interpenetrated.

“Right through them and straight on to the Harvester, without fail, Mr. DuPont,” I instructed the Helmsman mildly.

“Yes, Admiral,” the now-seasoned Helmsman drawled in reply.

“Fire,” yelled the First Officer, who was still managing the Tactical Section after our last 1st Shift Tactical Officer failed to cut the cheese—or was it, ‘cut the mustard?’

The Little Gift, an old, Heavy Cruiser from an even more aged design, punched right through the middle of the Scout Marauder formation.

“Shields down to 75% and falling,” bellowed the high, tenor voice of Ensign Longbottom at the shields section even as our Turbo lasers lashed out, piercing one Bug through from one side to the other while another Marauder was destroyed in a chain reaction that sent its liquefied innards spraying out into space in a small, irregular blast wave.

The Bugs poured fire out into space in every possible direction. It was yet another demonstration of their lack of fire discipline in the smaller vessels, as their shots scattered wildly with seemingly no rhyme or reason. The gun deck thundered in response, and a wave indicating our return fire was clearly visible on the main screen.

“All Heavy Laser batteries shall continue with counter fire until we’ve cleared the firing range of those Scout Marauders,” shouted Eastwood, pounding the base of his microphone on the table.

“Shields to 59% and falling,” exclaimed Ensign Longbottom.

“We got another one,” cried the Sensor Officer, his crew of operators breaking out into a cheer.

“Steady on, Sensors,” I said in a loud, carrying voice, “the last thing we need is to miss a new Harvester because we just blasted a few Scouts!”

The Sensor team quickly took their chairs and resumed work. “Sorry, Admiral,” their supervising Officer said looking shame-faced.

“No need to apologize,” I said smoothly, “let’s just ‘try’ to stay focused on the bigger picture, Warrant.”

“Yes, Sir,” the Warrant acknowledged, hunching his shoulders and staring down at his console as his face slowly turned red.

I opened my mouth in frustration; this wasn’t exactly how I’d been hoping the other man to respond, but I silently put my teeth back together. There was no point in beating a dead horse any further. Maybe I should have let the Captain take the lead on this, I wondered.

“There goes another one,” Eastwood called out, pumping his fist in the air. It was the same fist holding his microphone, and I had to shake my head. Back when Laurent was running Tactical, we never had this level of display, I thought with a general feeling of disapproval for First Officers everywhere.

Then we were through them, the main screen showing we had just left three Scouts behind us with varying levels of damage for the rest of the fleet to clean up.

No sooner had we cleared the firing range of the Scout Marauders than another Murphy-touched Sensor Operator jumped out of her chair. “Contact,” she screamed in a shrill voice, “I’ve got multiple ships coming out from behind the Harvester!”

My eyes widened with surprise. “Get me those readings, Operator,” I demanded, grabbing hold of the arms of my chair and straightening my back.

“Yes, Admiral,” the woman at Sensors said in a firmer voice, but it was another Operator who spoke up next.

“I’m reading a trio of basic Bug Scouts moving into supporting positions around the Medium Harvester,” the man said pointedly, and I could see the triumphant look he shot the other operator.

She had just started to stiffen in response when the Warrant Officer cut in. “Good work, both of you,” the Sensor Officer said, turning around to me, “the boards are confirmed Admiral: three Scout class Bug ships in supporting formation.”

“Good work, Sensors,” I said genially as I relaxed back into my chair. Three Scouts was vastly better than three more Harvesters lying in wait until we had closed in for the kill, “please make sure to keep a weather eye out for more of those Harvesters.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” the Officer said smartly, and his section echoed him, looking more determined than ever.

“Steady on, Sensors,” Laurent said after a moment, and then once attention was focused on him turned toward the Helm, “continue on course for the Medium Harvester at full speed, Mr. DuPont.”

“Maintaining course and speed without deviation, Captain Laurent,” our Helmsman said, straightening in his seat, “steady on to the target.”

“Good man,” the Captain said with a nod and then returned back to the slightly elevated—by about a foot—command dais.

On screen it was easy to tell the exact moment the Harvester saw us, because it abruptly flared its engines and came around in a long, sweeping turn until it was directly on course for us.

“We should be able to take this Medium Harvester fairly easily, yes?” I asked in a low voice.

Officer, now Captain, Laurent looked at me with barely concealed horror. “Knock on wood, Sir,” he said, reaching around to wrap his knuckles on a strategically placed piece of wood screwed into the side of the chair.

“Of course,” I said wearily, and then gave the wooden piece a firm double knock.

Ritual of bad luck aversion now hopefully completed, I looked over at the Captain for the answer to my original question.

“We stack up favorably against a Medium Harvester,” he finally said with faintly sour look.

“Then let’s hope our stack continues to be bigger than theirs,” I said with a smile.

Laurent groaned, and the next few minutes passed quickly until we were within range of the Harvester.

“Bring us broadside on that Harvester, and do it smartly, Mr. DuPont,” Laurent’s voice cracked like a whip, “let our momentum carry us forward!”

“Aye, Captain,” DuPont said tightly and activated the dual joy sticks on either side of his pilot’s chair. Seconds later the grav-plates under us gave a stomach-turning wobble, and our orientation toward the Bug Harvester radically changed.

“Hold steady and await my order to roll the ship,” Laurent ordered, his voice suddenly sounding as coolly lethal as cold space itself, “these Bugs are about to be blasted out of this universe.”

Inside, I wanted to cheer and pump a fist, but being both an Admiral and a Prince meant I probably had too much dignity. Unfortunately, before I had come to the decision that my dignity could probably survive it, the moment had passed.

The Bug ship came charging forward and our turbo-lasers lashed out with a lethal kiss which lit the Harvester up square on its nose.

Our long-range weaponry lashed out with punishing force for a long minute, until we reached the outer range of the Bug forces. I was more than a little surprised to see the smaller Scouts only firing in our direction with the occasional, random shot to its rear, before such considerations were last in a cloudy belch of Bug-spawned fire-and-forget missiles.

“Turbo-lasers overheating; I’m allocating point defense lasers to anti-missile defense,” Eastwood reported, sounding a bit more professional that he had to date.

“Roll the ship…now, Mr. DuPont,” Laurent barked.

“We’re taking fire! Shields back down to 80%…68%, 63% and falling,” called out our new Shields Officer in a crisp voice.

The grav-plates adjusted, once again causing a regrettable stomach-rolling, and the ship rolled and lashed out with every weapon available as it came to bear on the target.

“What’s wrong with the grav-plates, Damage Control?” I snarled as I rounded in time to catch her eye glare at her. “Rolling the ship takes much less power than running the engines at full power!”

“Verifying, Admiral,” the engineering Rating said, calmly turning to look down and start tapping away on her console.

“Find out and fix it, whatever it is,” I said sharply,

“the last thing we need is to be turned into bloody, human smears during a critical power fluctuation!”

“On it, Admiral,” the Damage Control watch stander said, even now with only the faintest edge of tension in her voice, “so far everything on internal sensors reads within tolerances. I’m manually confirming with both the DI and Main Engineering.”

The Tactical section gave a cheer and my head whipped back around to the main screen; things sounded positive, but that was generally the best time for the enemy to throw a monkey wrench into the Murphy-benighted works.

Looking up, I saw the Harvester appeared to be bleeding from multiple rents in its starboard side, right before it rolled to present an undamaged facing to us.

“Shields down to 39%; reallocating energy from secondary generator in the port side facing to compensate for spotting,” reported Ensign Longbottom, his red hair plastered to his forehead as his fingers flew over his console.

“If and when you hear the order to roll again, you are to compensate for the new shield facing without waiting for a response,” Laurent instructed the Ensign urgently—too urgently, if I was any judge from the way shoulders hunched around the bridge as people instinctively hunkered down as if about to receive the blow to themselves personally. Not that any amount of flesh between you and a Bug blaster was going to save you from being annihilated where duralloy had already failed, mind you, but I suppose we all do these things.

“That’s right,” I said with a laugh and then continued to mock sternly, “any more scratches on the hull of this ship and LeGodat might not let us get back the security deposit for it when we’re done using her!”

For a moment there was blank silence and a glare from Eastwood in my direction. Then there was a loud guffaw, which was quickly silenced from the Sensor section and more than a third of the faces around the bridge seemed to lighten at my words.

I smiled tightly, having hoped for a better reaction than that to my attempt to lighten the mood, but an Admiral did the best he could and prayed for success along with the rest.

“Gun deck to volley fire, on my mark…mark,” Eastwood shouted into his microphone, and fire dropped off for half a second before lashing out raggedly, “you can do better than that, gun deck. Pick your targets and prepare to fire as one…mark!” he ordered, and this time nearly every weapon on the broadside facing the Bugs blasted out in concert.

“Captain,” DuPont called out as we rushed closer and closer to the Harvester, “I need to reactivate the engines if we plan to get out of the way of that Harvester; I don’t see any signs of them diverting from a ramming course,” he said tightly.

Looking over at Laurent, I saw him visibly hesitate before nodding. “At your discretion helm,” he said finally, “just give gunnery the maximum safe time on target to pound that Harvester before pulling away.” No sooner had he finished speaking than a blow punched through our shields and the ship shuddered.

“Shields down to 18%, we have critical spotting,” called out Longbottom, sounding obscenely calm for someone whose shields were close to collapsing. “Our ability to compensate is minimal,” he continued calmly, as if able to read my mind.

“Do the best you can, Longbottom,” Laurent said shortly, before turning back to the main screen.

As I watched and the ship shuddered through another shield-penetrating blow, I saw the Bug Harvester start venting Bugs, atmosphere, and a strange, greenish liquid substance out the previously undamaged side of it hull. It was then that DuPont activated his engines.

“Going to 100% power on the main engines now!” the Helmsman cried.

“We just lost a heavy laser battery to Bug counter-fire,” Eastwood called out. Then the lights flickered and gravity slammed into me like a sledgehammer.

“Backing down to 80% of maximum,” DuPont choked out, and suddenly the boulder sitting on my chest lifted off it.

I gasped for air, and looking over at the bridge crew, I saw men and women falling out of their chairs—or already on the floor.

“Helm, what was that?” Laurent demanded, pulling himself back to his feet and wobbling before a hand on the rail held him back up steady.

“It wasn’t us!” Shepherd defended his partner immediately. “Check with Damage Control; our plates have been fluctuating the whole battle!”

“These old tech grav-plates on these ancient ships always have small fluctuations,” Laurent barked at the Navigator before rounding on the Damage Control watch stander. “Well? Is he right,” he demanded, “is this Engineering’s fault!”

“The Chief Engineer has just traced a critical fault in the anti-gravity system,” the rating said, sounding slightly perturbed and irritated with the situation, but not at all intimidated by receiving a tongue lashing from the Captain of the ship. “The fault appears to be linked to the starboard side backup power transfer system that was damaged during our last battle—we thought we already had it repaired.”

“Sweet Murphy avert, I thought Potempkin said he had the power distribution system all buttoned up,” Laurent growled.

“Obviously not as well as he’d thought,” the Damage Control operator said clinically.

I watched as Laurent’s jaw clenched at her words, and decided now was the moment to but in. “Fight your ship, Captain,” I told him seriously, and then turned to stare over at the Damage Control rating with gimlet eyes. “Next time I identify a potential problem with the ship, I expect Engineering to jump to it much faster than it did on this one. Battle or no battle, do you understand me?” I said with a stern frown.

The Damage Control rating blinked and then nodded.

“Good, because next time you’ll either tell me where the holdup is, or you’ll answer for it,” I said, dismissing the matter and turning back to the screen.

“I’m not sure if I’m going to be able to avoid all those missiles at only 80% on the engines; I held us on target too long for those extra shots,” DuPont said, straining to maneuver the ship optimally via the pair of linked control joysticks.

Laurent’s fist banged against the railing at the same time as my hand clenched down at my side. “Do the best you can, Helm,” I said, working to project a calm and control over the situation that I simply wasn’t feeling.

A moment later Eastwood shouted, “Mark!” A second later, our broadside lashed out despite the fact we were turned at a very hard angle for most of the lasers to hit. A few seconds later, Sensors gave a cheer as the Harvester shattered into at least four ragged, unequal pieces, and individual Bugs started pouring out of the ship.

“Yes!” I cried out in victory, right along with the rest of the bridge before a series of explosions rocked the ship.

“Shield collapse,” shouted Longbottom.

“Missiles!” screamed a sensor operator right before the entire bridge went dark.

“I guess I’d better knock harder,” I muttered under my breath, thinking about my encounter with the wood right after blithely proclaiming the ease of our victory. Even if the missiles didn’t finish us off, what about those relatively untouched Bug Scouts?

Were we going to make it?

Chapter 25: Recruiting: The Drop-off

“You called me up to the Bridge, Captain,” Lisa Steiner said neutrally.

“Your transport has arrived, Recruiting Officer,” the Easy Haven Captain said, gesturing for her to go to the communication’s console.

“Sir?” she asked with surprise.

“I understand you know your way around a Communications Console,” the Captain said, his face an unreadable mask common to commanding officers in her experience. “So unless that’s in error,” she flushed at this last, “then I think you’d better help arrange the transfer of the new recruits. The sooner we can get out of this dead, single planet, single asteroid belt system, the better I and the other commanding officers will feel.”

“I told you the meet wasn’t for three days,” Steiner pointed out, causing the Captain to glower at her. She quickly straightened her face into what she hoped was a professional com-tech’s mask and hurried over to the Console, “with your permission, Captain.”

“Go ahead,” he waved her away after one final glower. “Just remember,” he called out before she had reached the com-section, “hyper drives recharge and cycle in their own times; we can’t always hang around in systems long enough to get at a certain time and place at the whims of the Recruiting Office. Not only that, but hanging around in dead systems like this can be dangerous!”

“Of course, Sir,” she muttered under her breath. Of course, she didn’t add that Commander Spalding had probably chosen this dead system precisely because it was dead. There weren’t many routes one would think of as ‘off-the-beaten-path’ that did contain a life-bearing world.

Sitting down in an empty seat, she pulled on a headset and booted up her communications console. In a way, it was almost a relief to be doing something she was familiar with. On the way out here she had done part-time duty in the Comm. Section, but after the political flare-up in the Two Stellar’s daily democracy, or Auto-Democracy, or whatever exactly they called it, the Captain had informed her he had been less than impressed and limited her bridge privileges.

Looking up at the main plot screen, she saw there was a rather large ship moving cautiously into the system. Looking down at her communications screen, she saw that the contact was identified as the New Dream, a constructor that had supposedly been lost at the same time as Commander Spalding.

Even though she had known for some time that the New Dream and all the people who’d disappeared along with the Chief Engineer were still alive and kicking over at Gambit, or now off with Akantha and her small fleet, Lisa couldn’t help a contented smile from spreading across her lips.

“This is Recruiting Officer Lisa Steiner, calling the New Dream,” she said, auto-squirting over her ship identification so that whoever was on duty over there would know who they were talking to. Then she sat back and waited for the message to propagate over to them, and for them to then reply.

“This is the Minority Owner-on-board the Constructor New Dream, Jacob Marley,” came an angry condescending voice over her com-system. “And I have to say, Recruiting Officer Steiner, I am less than pleased to have to come all the way out to this dead system to pick up a bunch of shiftless, wannabe Confederation recruits.”

“Shiftless wannabe’s, Sir?” the little Recruiting Officer said with disbelief. “Surely, I misheard you. These recruits are all highly trained with University level educations, and there’s nothing temporary or—”

“You heard me correctly, Recruiting Officer,” Minority Owner Marley spoke over her, “which is entirely beside the point. Are you aware that I am using a Constructor ship for this ‘mission’? A Constructor! In a potentially hazardous system in order to transport fewer than two thousand recruits from place to place, like I was some sort of luxury liner or personnel barge captain! I must protest, ma’am; I must protest in the extreme!”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Minority Owner,” Steiner said taken aback by the ferocity of the man’s verbal attack, “however, you’re here and, as you can see, we are also here. Perhaps it would be in all our interests to begin to transfer personnel as quickly as possible?”

“All this secrecy and sneaking around back systems is costing me money. I’ll send my shuttles now,” the Minority Owner snapped, there was a click.

“But sir, our ships are too far apart to send shuttles now…sir?” It took Lisa several additional minutes of dead air over her expected response time to process the fact that the Minority Owner really had just hung up on her.

“Well, Recruiting Officer,” the Captain asked in a frosty tone that let her know she had been wool gathering for too long, “what did the New Dream have to say?”

She flushed and turned to the Captain. “The Minority Owner is sending shuttles over to start transferring the recruits,” she reported, fighting the urge to twiddle with her headset nervously.

The Captain nodded and started to turn away.

“Captain, I’m reading shuttles exiting the New Dream…they appear to be on an intercept course for us—this ship, Sir” the Junior Lieutenant in command of the Sensor section said.

The Captain turned back to her.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” Lisa said splaying her hands and looked at the top officer of the dungeon ship helplessly, “the Minority Owner isn’t pleased to be here. I tried to talk him out of it, but he would brook no delays.”

“This will mean a shuttle ride of several hours for our poor recruits. Unacceptable, Recruiting Officer,” the Captain said damningly.

“Sorry, Sir,” she said in a small voice.

“Please remain in the Communication Section until the shuttles arrive to take on the recruits. We’ll plan to send our own shuttles back with them,” the Captain said, his mouth now a thin, tight light as his disapproval was now aimed squarely at her. He turned to the Navigator, “Lieutenant Striker, please plot us a course for the Constructor,” he then looked at the Helm, “Warrant Officer Jacobs, as soon as the Navigator has plotted the course, please proceed to the New Dream at best speed; there’s no need to make our recruits suffer any longer than necessary,” he said, pointedly not looking in Steiner’s direction.

“Aye, Sir,” the Helm/Navigation pair chorused as one.

“Communications,”’ the Captain said, and for half a moment Lisa almost answered before remembering that on this ship she was the Recruiting Officer first, and just a backup com-tech a very distant second.

“Aye, Sir,” said the Senior Chief in charge of Communications.

“Please get me the Commodore on the horn. We need to clear any movement orders through the Pennant before randomly moving around the system.” The Captain then slapped his hands together emphatically, “Let’s get this done, people.”

Lisa felt sick to her stomach. Under the Admiral she might not have always been noticed, but when she was—even as a mere com-tech—she had always felt like an important, admittedly small, part of the team. Under Captain Striker, somehow he made her feel like the third, clumsy, and very much unwanted provincial wheel in his operations. It was only when they got to a system to start recruiting that she began to feel useful again.

She was coming to learn that the Captain and the Admiral were two very different people, with more than a few minor differences in their command styles.

Chapter 26: McCruising to the Rescue

The Heavy Destroyer and its accompanying Corvettes and Cutters raced through cold space at ludicrous speeds, pushing their drives to the absolute limit.

“Is the Flagship responding, Comm.?” McCruise demanded harshly.

“Not yet,” the Ensign in charge of the Com-system reported quickly, “we’re still trying, Sir.”

“Keep trying,” McCruise said sharply, and the tension on the bridge of the Destroyer was thick enough to cut with a knife. The Captain turned to her Tactical Officer, “Give gunnery their head,” the aging Command Officer instructed him, “if they even think they have a shot on those Scouts, they are to take it! The last thing we need is our only capital warship crippled or destroyed.”

“Aye, Captain McCruise,” the grizzled, former Confederation retiree barked, before turning to growl at his section of two ratings. “I want shots—aimed shots from our Gunners,” he told his Tactical team, before picking up his microphone down to the gun deck, “we have a fire-at-will order: you see a shot on those Bugs and you take it!”

“Sensors, Captain,” the Senior Lieutenant in command of that section reported crisply, “still no sign of life from the Flagship; the Bugs are still firing into her.”

“ETA to extreme weapons range is thirty seconds, Captain,” the Navigator reported.

“Steady as she goes and straight down their throats, Helm,” Synthia McCruise said loudly.

“The Heavy Cruiser is live; I have a power signature,” the Sensor Officer reported with rising excitement, and then on the main screen which mirrored the latest sensor data, the Heavy Cruiser began to move, “the Gift is showing drive ignition! She’s moving, Sir.”

“The Gun deck is firing on the Scouts,” the Tactical Officer reported snappily.

On the screen, one of the Scouts briefly vented air before listing to the side and crashing into one of its fellows. They both lost power and went dead, floating in space motionless following the improbable collision.

“Good work, Tactical,” Captain McCruise grinned, “you are to give the gunnery teams that fired those shots the Captain’s compliments and move them up the Top Gunnery ranking list.”

“Aye, Captain,” the Tactical Officer growled.

There was a stir in the Sensor Section. “Captain,” exclaimed the Sensor Officer after a brief consultation, “the remaining Scout is turning to ram!”

“Protect the Flagship,” Synthia snapped at her Tactical Team.

“The Gift is between us and the Scout,” the grizzled Tactical Officer reported, “we can’t get a shot, clear or otherwise!”

“Blast,” McCruise said clenching her fist.

Then the Heavy Cruiser suddenly went to full acceleration.

“She’s moving, Sir, but it won’t be in time to avoid the ram,” Sensors reported with despair in his voice.

“If you see a shot, make sure to take it!” the Captain yelled at her Tactical team, “don’t wait for orders.”

“Already on it, Cap’n,” the Tactical Officer said absently, his attention clearly focused on his console.

With a lurch, the Flagship rolled and a single heavy laser lanced out, raking the oncoming Bug Scout across its engine section. The strike temporarily knocked out two of the Bug Scout’s three normal space engines, and the brief imbalance in drive force caused the Bug to go into a wild spin as it hurtled off its collision course.

“Yes!” the Captain said in support of the Flag.

“They’ve done it,” cried the Sensor Officer as the Scout passed within meters of the Gift’s hull, only regaining control of its motion after it had passed the Cruiser.

“Tag me that Scout,” McCruise said triumphantly.

On the screen, the last functional Bug ship exploded seconds later, having cleared the Flagship’s silhouette entirely and giving McCruise’s gunners a clear shot.

“Good shooting, Tactical,” the Captain said happily, “an extra hour of rec-time this week—and that goes for the entire gun deck.”

The Tactical Officer looked over at her with a sour expression. “Sorry, Captain,” the Officer said regretfully, “it wasn’t us who finished that one; it was the Flag.”

McCruise’s smiled faded. “Even so, the extra rec-time stands,” she said with a authoritative nod.

“Aye, Cap’n,” the Tactical Officer said, shaking his head and muttering something under his breath.

“Comm., raise the Gift and see if their command requires our assistance,” McCruise ordered.

“Sorry Captain, I can’t do that,” the Officer reported crisply, “we’re already being hailed, Sir; it’s the Admiral.”

The Captain arched an eyebrow and paused. “Put him through to the main screen,” she said evenly.

The image of the Admiral in his command chair on the Little Gift appeared on the bridge of her ship.

“Admiral Montagne, it’s good to see you, Sir,” the Captain said, straightening in her chair.

“It’s good to be here, Captain,” the Admiral said with a regal nod, “I wanted to call over and thank you for the assist.”

“Of course, Sir,” the Captain said with a faint smile, “it’s our duty after all, and for a moment there you looked like you needed the hand.”

In response to this, the Admiral smiled. “We could have managed, but I wouldn’t have wanted to,” he said in reply.

The Captain just looked at him for a moment and then shrugged. “Is there anything me and mine can do to assist?” she asked finally.

“I’ll have the Captain check with his department heads and get back to you,” Admiral Montagne said easily and then flipped a hand, “in the meantime, if you could push out a few scout ships to make sure we don’t get snuck up on while we’re consolidating?”

“Of course, Admiral, I’ll get right on it,” McCruise answered in a professional voice.

“Thank you, Captain McCruise,” the Admiral said, raising his hand as if to cut off the transmission before pausing. “One more thing,” he added, “as soon as we get things squared away over here—and always assuming we don’t have another Bug attack in the meantime—I plan to call a meeting to which you’re invited. There are a few tough decisions that need to be made, and I’d very much like your input.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Synthia McCruise said truthfully.

“Until then,” the Admiral said with a pleasant expression on his face, “I’ll have my staff forward the details.”

The Captain raised a hand in farewell and held it until the transmission was cut from the other end.

“Alright team,” she informed the bridge without delay, “you heard our orders; let’s contact the other ships and push out some scouts. The Corvettes are going to form up into a protective defense formation until the Flagship gets back on its feet.” The Captain glanced at Com’s before turning fully to her Tactical Team, “I want recommendations on the least damaged Cutters to push forward from the main body before I start issuing the orders, Tactical Officer.”

“Right away, Sir,” the grizzled old retiree said baring his teeth.

Chapter 27: Tough Decisions

“Our Tracto scouts are sure,” I said with a frown, “they can confirm two merchant freighters docked at the main trillium processing station?” I wished I could have put this meeting off longer, but with the damage our Flagship kept taking in every encounter, if I put off breaking up the fleet any longer then pretty soon the decision would have been made for me through simple attrition.

“Yes, Admiral Montagne, they can confirm,” said First Officer Eastwood, “independent analysis by our own team backs up their sensor readings.”

I leaned back in the conference room chair, outwardly presenting the cool and confident Admiral determined to ponder this new development fully before deciding on a course of action. On the inside, however, I was hesitating like mad and more than anything else, upset with myself for doing it. We had been on the outskirts of Tracto for two weeks, and I still couldn’t pull the trigger on the decision. What was I, gun shy after being put in prison, that I couldn’t make the tough decisions anymore?

I knew what had to be done: we had to interdict that shipment of trillium, if at all possible. On the other hand, we also had to intercept any and all Bug raiders. If we could do this, we could keep Jean Luc complacent about the Bug threat, and that would be the end of him…if we could do it; if we could stop Bugs without our Cutter force. If, if, if and if.

Those former pirate ships were ideal for taking on unarmed or poorly escorted Freighters. With enough numbers, we could…I paused. What was the likelihood that Jean Luc would send out freighters full of trillium without an escort?

The light-bulb went off, and I realized that this was why I had been malingering over making the decision—my subconscious had picked up on something that my conscious brain had been too thick to spot. However, that just made my current predicament all the more poignant.

How many ships could I afford to detach, and still be able to stop the Bug Harvester groups? That was the question that plagued mankind, or at least the Admiral nominally in command of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet, whose job was saving Tracto from a Bug invasion fleet.

“Admiral?” Captain Laurent asked, breaking my introspective train of thought.

“Right,” I sighed wearily, “I wanted to send the Cutters out on a roving Patrol, but we need to cover at least three star systems to have any chance of capturing the Freighters. With only five fully functional Herrings, and the need for at least two Cutters to have any chance of dealing with whatever we run across, I’m going to have to make a few changes to the Capture Force’s order of battle,” I said unhappily.

“What’s your decision, Sir?” Captain McCruise asked from her place. She was again appearing via a holo-screen set into one of the conference room chairs, and her illusory image leaned forward as she continued, “In addition to the two big attack groups we’ve dealt with—those Harvester Groups—we’ve also come across three singleton Scouts or Scout Marauder class Bug ships. We dealt with the singles easily, but I’m afraid that if we draw down our forces too hard we risk a defeat in detail.”

“We’re going to have to take a few chances if we even hope to win this thing,” I said, my face hardening at what I perceived as criticism. After half a moment to reflect, I could see that her words might even be genuinely meant as supportive and constructive, but even still I couldn’t help but feel stung by them. Is the woman slowly building a case against me, I wondered. “That’s why I’ve decided to detach Captain McCruise and her Heavy Destroyer along with one of the Corvettes,” I said, pushing aside such considerations and forging ahead into the sudden silence, “as well as a pair of the Herring Cutters. They can escort the damaged Cutter as far as their target systems, which are to be chosen by McCruise,” I said with a nod to the hatchet-faced Captain, “once she’s on the scene. After that, the damaged Cutter will be free from escort detail and is to proceed to Gambit for a rendezvous with Spalding and his repair yard.”

“May I ask why the Admiral has decided to detach me from the main fleet at this time,” McCruise asked tightly, and there was complete silence from the rest of the conference room.

Glancing from side to side, I saw that the rest of the Officers were unconvinced at the wisdom of my proposed plan of action. That was fine; I was always prepared to explain my reasoning and had absolutely no illusions about being a military professional, so if they could convince me of a better allocation of ships, I was more than willing to be swayed.

“Certainly,” I said, flipping a languid hand and activating the holo-screen at the front of the room which started streaming the various potential systems the navigation team had come up with as potential Pirate stopover points. “My reasons are twofold,” I lifted a finger for emphasis. “Firstly, we need a sufficiently powerful ship to overcome any reasonable escort that might accompany the trillium-laden freighters—merchant ships filled to the gunwales with our trillium,” I added, my face tightening with sudden fury, “gained by the Belters at considerable risk to their persons and equipment.”

I took a deep breath to steady myself before continuing in a more reasonable tone, “Secondly, while the Cutter and Corvette Captains have my every confidence, even they would have to admit to only limited Tactical training—and what little training they do have is more appropriate for a Battleship department team than an independent command. You, on the other hand…” I swiveling my gaze over as my words trailed off, to pin the Wolf-9 Captain with my eye.

“I have training that your officers lack,” McCruise said, her face flickering for a moment before it passed. If I hadn’t been watching her like a hawk, I would have completely missed the slight expression of surprise.

“Captain Laurent, being a trained Tactical Officer, might,” I said, stressing the word and hiding a satisfied expression behind my cup of tea, “be able to do nearly as well.” I continued after taking a sip and then nodding a head in McCruise’s direction, “Then again, nothing against you Captain,” I turned to look Laurent in the eye and give him a nod, which he returned, “he’s never had an independent command, either. I know for a fact, however, that you’ve led a two warship, convoy protection detail as well as run an independent command on an intelligence mission deep within enemy territory.”

I suppressed an assessing look. I knew she would catch the reference to the two Corvettes I had found protecting the Settler ships we’d rescued at the very beginning of this crazy tiger ride they called being an Admiral in Command. The only question was would she recognize the ‘intelligence mission’ as her duty as Captain of the Dungeon ship? Whether she did or didn’t, either way would tell me something important, so I watched her as closely as I could without appearing to be watching her like the hawk I very much wanted to be at that particular moment.

“A surprisingly logical allocation of resources, all things considered,” McCruise deadpanned.

“Oh?” I said with a deceptively negligently wave as I fanned my fingers in her direction, acting as if unaware of the dig. “What consideration would that be?”

“How long do you plan to sit out here fighting Bugs, Admiral?” McCruise asked.

“I wasn’t aware that the Bugs and the pirate interdiction efforts necessarily had anything to do with each other. Do explain,” I bared my teeth and gave her an easy grin in response. Almost like a wolf might bare its teeth at the competition, I thought.

“Please answer the question, Sir,” McCruise said flatly.

“As long as is necessary to consolidate our forces for a crippling surprise attack,” I replied smoothly, carefully placing the tea cup on its holder and then deliberately setting both of my hands on the table. I looked up to meet her flinty, Captain’s eyes with the raw iron of my own. If the molten desire for revenge against my uncle crept out of my control and color crept onto my face, I didn’t particularly care, “But be assured, I have no intention of dying out here in the dark of cold space far away from the lights of the living stars.”

“We are not your enemies here, Admiral Montagne,” the Easy Haven Captain said, her face tightening in response to whatever it was she saw in my expression. “It’s just that we thought we came out here to deal with pirates, or patrol the Border worlds, not blast Bugs while our ships slowly soak up damage.”

“Of course,” I spoke the words, but put no particular force of meaning behind them, “although, I still don’t understand how Bugs and pirate interdiction duties intersect, exactly.” I stopped to let the tension build in the room—I was almost hoping for a challenge to my authority.

“Pardon the curiosity,” McCruise said finally, “I am ready willing and able to lead the pirate interdiction squadron. Just give the word…” she paused, deliberately locking eyes with me before adding, “Sir.”

“I never thought anything else,” I said agreeably, matching her stare for stare, and while she’d had a good one, I was a man who had been in battle more times than I could easily count in the past year, and then faced his worst fear (imprisonment and scheduled, public execution) and survived. It would take more than this woman to rock me, it would take…family. “After the way the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet has been there for Easy Haven, Wolf-9, and her growing defensive fleet at each and every turn without stint or fail, I honestly cannot understand how any honorable ally could do anything less.”

If I’d been hoping to see her flinch or give way in the slightest, I would have been very disappointed. But since the Omicron betrayal, my Palace-taught understanding of deception had been honed to a razor’s edge and I was anything but disappointed. At this point I trusted the men and women of the MSP both because they deserved it, and because to do anything less was to start down the path to becoming my Uncle—a man I refused to become, even if I had to take my life with my own hand. But as far as supposed allies were concerned, I now expected betrayal—it was anything less that would be surprising to me.

“But, Sir,” McCruise said quietly, “you are mistaken in one particular.”

“That would be?” I said evenly.

“I am not an ally,” she said speaking as normally as if we were chatting over tea, “and I cannot be an ally because we are both part of the same organization: the Confederation Fleet. As you yourself say, we are both Confederation Officers. Being the same thing makes it impossible to be an ally, does it not?”

“I stand corrected,” I said tightly, “we are all one, big, happy Fleet, united together under the Confederation way. No man left behind and all that,” I said, my last line directed at her like a blaster bolt off the starboard bow.

McCruise shook her head sadly. “I’m afraid you’ve got your motto’s mixed up; no man left behind is a Marine motto. In the Fleet, we simply try to be all we can be,” she said without an ounce of give in her voice, “our motto: Not for self, but country.”

“Good to know,” I said, failing to add that not too long ago in Caprian history, a Prince was considered the same as his country. He represented and embodied it to such a degree that an insult or act against him was the same as against his entire country.

It was still that way, at least as far as I could tell, with Tracto’s whole ‘Hold Mistress/Protector’ nonsense. It was probably hard for a person steeped in direct democracy, like her, to understand such thinking. Or maybe she merely considered any single planet so hopelessly subordinated to the Confederation as a whole that treading an entire world or country under her boot heel by allowing its leader to be tortured and die in prison to be nothing more than a regrettable, yet necessary, sacrifice? Perhaps even desirable, if it served the needs of the overarching government she served? ‘For the common good,’ as it were, and all that rot.

Either way such ‘big government’ thinking was beyond me and I was glad of it. If leadership wasn’t personalized, if the individual—through their chosen leaders—was reduced to a meaningless statistic, to something undeserving of special respect or consideration, then what was to stop an intelligent man like me from doing whatever the Hades he wanted! No, I rejected such thinking and the pitfalls that accompanied it.

If the people themselves betrayed me, then I’d rain pain down upon their heads such as they’d never experienced. Let the punishment fit the crime—measure for measure—and their leaders would suffer right along with them. Otherwise, as a leader of men, it was up to me to rise above the common herd. It was my job to follow the ideals, to act with intelligence and honor. To be courageous were I was able, and to stand tall as an example to those around me. The fact that I’d already proven I was little more than a failure by losing the Clover didn’t mean I could excuse myself from my responsibilities. Quite the opposite, since I was only human and therefore bound to fail. Picking myself up, shaking off and doing my best until I was put out of my misery was all I had left—and all that mattered.

“Was there anything else, Admiral Montagne?” McCruise asked quietly.

That, however, I thought, turning away from my inner thoughts to scowl at McCruise, doesn’t mean rolling over for a good curb-stomping in the name of Confederation necessity. If the Confederation let its Officers, Admirals and other leaders be treated in this manner—if those at the top didn’t have respect for themselves, or at least for what they represented—then how could anyone else have respect for them or their office?

“No. You have my leave to go and see to your new command, Captain,” I said coldly. “Prepare your squadron for departure within twenty four hours; you are to do so unless you find some reason to delay, in which case I expect you to notify me and seek my permission.”

“As you say, Admiral,” McCruise replied, snapping off a salute.

“Oh, and Captain,” I said, a thought occurring to me when she went to cut the connection.

“Yes,” she asked warily.

“Good hunting,” I said with a nod before savagely cutting the connection that allowed her presence in my ready room. ‘Not for self, but country’ was no excuse when a person’s self was the embodiment of country. I needed to think on this longer, but if the Old Confederation’s official charter was to be believed and held up to a high standard, then ‘it is our firm belief that no one world should be considered more important than any other, for the purposes of these Articles of Confederation,’ meant that I needed to come up with an appropriate, yet measured response, for the callous way a Hold Mistress of Tracto and her Protector had been treated—and betrayed. Either Tracto deserved to be treated the same as any other world in the Confederacy, or it stood free, alone, and entirely able to pursue her own galactic polices…to the detriment of other worlds, empires and yes, even confederacies if need be. The thought of the Tracto-ans raging out of control along a Border gone mad made my blood run cold, and I steeled myself know that such an outcome had to be avoided at all costs.

“A handful of rotten eggs does not define a Star Government,” I closed my eyes and whispered. A long moment later, I snapped my hands together with renewed purpose and swept Laurent, Eastwood and Junior Lieutenant Archibald—who I’d appointed provisional representative and acting squadron leader of the Red Herring Cutters—with my eyes. “What we’re doing out here is vitally important. Saving one world and its millions of inhabitants from being eating in a stomach-filling glut of genocidal action is a worthy mission. I have a plan; we will succeed. The pirates must be cast down, and I plan to be the man to do it. Never give up, never surrender!”

“Yes, Sir,” the other three echoed, and I could see that my speech was having some kind of effect. Defining precisely what that was, I couldn’t tell, and I didn’t care. The words were as much for me as for anyone else.

“We won’t let you or Tracto down, Sir,” Archibald added abruptly and out of the blue, and I saw his eyes beginning to shine. I couldn’t help bestowing a smile on the young man. The older officers might be more guarded, but so long as there was even one man, one captain out there who believed in our cause, then we would never be defeated.

“Hold fast to your duty,” I said, jumping out of my seat and heading for the door to the bridge.

I heard the sounds of feet scrambling as the officers inside the conference room hurried to follow me out.

“Helm, lay in a new course,” I said, throwing myself into my command chair.

“Where to, Admiral?” DuPont asked, straightening professionally.

“I’m in the mood to pulverize a few more Bug ships,” I said with a hungry smile, turning to Sensors next. “Keep a sharp eye out, Sensors; a thousand credits bounty to the first man or woman who finds me a Bug ship!”

Sitting back I watched as the bridge jumped to make my orders into reality. Contemplating past wrongs and dealing with naysaying, potentially mutinous, subordinates was enough to get a man all twisted around inside until up was down, down was up and I’d turned into something I despised. That’s why I didn’t care what they said. Destroying world-eating, genocidal Bugs wherever and whenever you found them was a righteous cause, and fighting the good fight always helped clarify things.

Blast anyone who said differently.

Chapter 28: Jean Luc vs. The Envoy

Senior Lieutenant Raphael Tremblay stood at the edge of the conference room and tried to make like a bug on the wall, pressing up against the duralloy bulkhead as hard as he could in the hopes of sinking into the wall and going unnoticed. It was a foolish thought—a childish thought, even—but right then he would much rather be a child than an officer of parliament.

No one looked at Jean Luc like he was the bug on the on the wall instead of Tremblay — who was acutely aware that he would be squished if he didn’t morph into something much more useful.

“What is it now, Envoy,” Jean Luc said flatly, “my time is precious—waste it at your peril.”

“The Trillium you promised my patron has taken two weeks longer than expected to be gathered and made ready for transit, Commodore,” the mysterious representative of some shadowy and undefined Imperial interest said abruptly. The figure’s tone made it clear that he had very little respect for the rank the former pirate leader, a man who commanded two recently overhauled battleships and a whole fleet of lesser vessels.

“The Belters needed to be…motivated,” Jean Luc said easily, “but your trillium is here, it is processed, and it is ready for transport. So unless you have some other complaint, I’m afraid I have other things calling upon my time. Running both a Fleet and a Star System is a wearying job, after all.”

“You may not respect me, but you will respect my master,” the Envoy said with the hint of a mocking smile portrayed in his words, as his face was hidden behind a hood.

“Envoys are replaceable, but men with Fleets aren’t. You’d be wise to remember that—and to learn your place,” Jean Luc said, giving the Envoy a withering look before turning to a paper on his desk in dismissal.

The Envoy reached over and placed a hand on Jean Luc’s desk covering the paper with his hand. “All is one within the Flow,” the envoy said simply.

“What the Hades is that supposed to mean, mind crawler?” the Pirate Lord sneered.

“I crawl the Flow of probability, as you so quaintly put it, not a rejected product of a failed line’s mind,” scoffed the Envoy as he floated a foot up off the floor, with no visible anti-gravity harness or field.

“Like I care,” Jean Luc said, slashing his hand down on the table, “the difference is negligible.”

“My master is out of patience with you, Pirate,” the Envoy tapped a finger on the paper for emphasis before picking it up and tearing in two, “unless you have other things that are more important than dealing with…him,” the other man said in a mocking voice.

“You have my full and undivided attention,” the Pirate Lord said in a deathly cold voice.

“My Master is not pleased, he is out of patience and as such has decided to exact a penalty for your failure to deliver in a timely fashion the tribute you owe him,” the Envoy said, almost as if he were unaware of the lethal nature of the man in front of him.

Tremblay’s hand started to shake in terror—the same hand that the pirate king had once cut off and placed on ice. What kind of creatures this blasted Montagne found and brought back to plague mankind when he’d gone reeving beyond the rim of known space, he wondered with more than a shiver of fear. If he had ever doubted that exchanging Jason for Jean Luc had been a mistake, those doubts were now so far behind him he couldn’t even remember when they had first popped into his head. It was now a certainty; he had been wrong, that’s all there was to it. He could only pray that Parliament and the Caprian people didn’t pay too heavy a price because of it.

“Run back to your master, dog, before I chop you into little pieces,” Jean Luc whispered as his face whitened with rage along with his knuckles.

“As such,” the Envoy said, giving the Pirate Lord a hard look out of the corner of his eye before turning to fully face Jean Luc, “the Tribute shall be doubled, under the Flow.”

“Doubled?!” Jean Luc roared.

“Two tribute ships, holds full of Trillium, to be delivered to my master, or I am assured that you and your pitiful fleet will be the first thing he deals with on his return to this Sector—not the last,” the Envoy said, placing the knuckles of his fists on the wooden desk and leaning forward.

“Two tribute ships,” Jean Luc raged, “go back to your master with word of my defiance; let him come!” he shouted. “I’m not afraid of Arnold Janeski or his Dark Seer of a dog! How long were you spying on my operation at the Omicron?” he demanded.

“I am but recently joined to the service of he who will soon master the Spine—and yes, you will deliver another ship. Also, my master will send to this system another tribute ship every quarter, which you will fill without complaint until his conquest is complete, or your place within the Flow will be removed,” the Envoy explained, not yelling but still somehow managing to speak over the top of the enraged Montagne in a strange, lilting voice.

“Did you not hear me, cur?” Jean Luc said, reaching for the hilt of his new sword.

“Your words say one thing, but the Flow says another. If what you say was true you would never have agreed to pay the first tribute ship,” the Envoy countered, and Tremblay could feel the faintest hint of a sneer in its voice.

“You go too far,” Jean Luc snarled, pulling out his sword, “to mock me in the heart of my power.”

“You seem to think you can intimidate me, but it would take more than just you, Commodore—it would take Three. Failed scion of a failed line, what are you…you are merely One, and you are not the one I fear, oh master of two, mighty Battleships and an appallingly lesser fleet. If mere fleets were enough to fill me with fear, then my current master who has so much more at his command would be one to do so. Oh, if only I could laugh,” the Envoy said, swaying from side to side as if in the presence of some imperceptible wind.

“Out—before I rend you in two,” Jean Luc growled, pointing his sword at the Envoy and then toward the door, his whole body shaking with emotion.

The darkly cowled envoy cocked its head within its hood and simply floated another foot above the floor in silent response.

“Did you not hear me, you robed mind crawler? Get out of my office before I forcibly remove you,” the Pirate Lord said his voice like winter ice.

“All is position within the Flow,” the Envoy said bobbing its head and refusing to move, “and if I leave before the promised tribute is delivered then your position will be perilous, very perilous indeed.”

“Enough of your mealy-mouthed nonsense, I had little time for it on the Omicron and I have even less for it now!” Jean Luc growled.

“The Flow indicates and mandates—” the Envoy started, and Tremblay was amazed that this man, or creature, or whatever it was, was still alive.

“You’ll have your tribute ships when they’re loaded,” Jean Luc rasped, his voice a mere whisper of its former self, “but if you don’t leave this room right now—this very instant, in fact—then you will die.”

The Envoy bowed after a momentary pause. “Surprising,” it mused, turning away and heading for the door. Its dark obsidian eyes seemed to appear from the darkness of its hood, catching Tremblay’s eyes and stare straight into his very soul, “the Flow indicates that your master might have actually been able to make good with that last threat of his,” the Envoy paused for a split second and seemed to waver before shrugging with its entire upper body and continuing out the door.

As soon as it had left the room, Tremblay doubled over and threw up on the floor. Would Jean Luc allow him to live after seeing himself humbled by the mysterious, cowled envoy?

“Oh, get up,” Jean Luc smiled down at him, and Tremblay’s eyes widened as he realized the Pirate Lord had silently snuck up on him.

“Sorry, my Lord Prince,” the young Parliamentary Officer swallowed as he hastily scrambled to his feet. Bracing to attention in fear for his very life, he closed his eyes.

“No need to fear, my little snake,” the Master and Commander of the Tracto system—along with each and every man, woman and child within it—smiled.

“I s-saw nothing, I h-heard nothing, m-m-my li-lips are sealed now and forever,” Tremblay begged for his life.

“You honestly thought I was livid with outrage?” Jean Luc said with a smile on his face that didn’t reach his eyes. “Son, if I had wanted it so then the representative of that pustule on the backside of Imperial service, Arnold Janeski, would already be dead, I assure you,” the Commodore said dismissively, “no, the Envoy was never in any fear for its life, as well it knew. I had just hoped to negotiate a better deal.”

“Right at the end, it said…” Tremblay regained control of himself at the last minute and snapped closed his mouth.

“Oh, it spoke to you did it,” Jean Luc said his smile shrinking, “funny that I didn’t hear it. What did it say, boy?” he asked in a deceptively mild tone.

“I-I’d rather not-,” Tremblay gurgled as the Pirate Lord’s fingers closed around his throat and slammed him up against the wall.

“You’re wishes and desires are infinitesimal compared to my own,” Jean Luc said, the smile still frozen on his regal, princely, entirely Montagne face, “I thought I’d already taught you that…best I not have to repeat this lesson again, Senior Lieutenant.”

Like a deer trapped in the headlights of an oncoming hover-bus, Tremblay couldn’t even think about getting away. All that was left was compliance with what would be.

“It said that…I mean, it seemed surprised,” Tremblay closed his eyes and took a deep breath to steady his nerves, “it said that it was surprised after your last threat to kill it.”

“Why,” Jean Luc said, slowly enunciating every word, “was it surprised?”

“It seemed surprised that you could actually kill it,” Tremblay said, shaking all over.

Jean Luc’s grip relaxed, a faint look of surprise crossing over his face as he released the young Officer. “That’s all it said?” Jean Luc asked, turning away to pick up the torn paper and place it back on his desk.

“Yes, Sir!” Tremblay said with feeling.

“You’re sure,” the Pirate King asked his adjutant in that deceptively mild voice of his—the one that said ‘one wrong move and you’re dead.’

“Aye, aye, Commodore,” Tremblay said, praying to survive this meeting. Who could have known being an adjutant and holding a recorder in a room for what should have been a routine meeting could be so hazardous to a man’s health?!

“Interesting,” the Master of Tracto said looking faintly perturbed, “still, you have no need to fear. The Envoy is nothing and its Master won’t be coming here for quite some time. Fortunately, that means the only thing you need worry about in the near future is me.”

“As you say, Commodore,” Tremblay said faintly.

“Yes…quite,” Jean Luc looked amused before sitting back down behind his desk. “I already have the latest repair figures from that miserable excuse for a station repair dock, but the last time I checked I still failed to see the latest update on our Tracto recruiting drive on my data slate.”

Tremblay jumped. “Right away, Sir,” he said, rushing for the door and escape. He could always squirt the information the Commodore had requested from somewhere else in the ship after he had tracked it down. He thanked all his lucky stars that the Commodore let him get away.

“If my weakling nephew can recruit such fearsome Warriors, who were capable enough to take the Omicron with only minimal training, I don’t see why I shouldn’t do the same thing,” Jean Luc mused from behind him right before the door to the ready room slid shut.

Practically running off the bridge so as to put distance between himself and the Montagne Prince, Tremblay didn’t stop until he was in his personal cubicle in the Intelligence section.

Once there, he placed his face in his hands and shuddered silently. He stayed in that pose until the shakes went away, and only after he had re-mastered himself did he walk out of the cubicle with a stiff expression on his face and begin to procure the data his master had requested. Things had changed aboard the Lucky Clover—rather, the Larry Montagne, as it had to be renamed under its new master’s command—and under the Commodore, a request, if it ever had been, was no longer a simple request.

Unlike before, refusal of a request wouldn’t just earn a reprimand or time in the brig, which was why he hopped to when retrieving those Tracto-an numbers.

Chapter 29: Recruiting: Some Real Issues

The repurposed Dungeon ship shuddered around them.

“What are pirates doing in this system in a Light Cruiser?” Steiner cried. “We weren’t even going to do any recruiting here; this was just supposed to be a waypoint!”

“If you remember, we picked up half a dozen Merchant freighters at that last system and one old troop transport half full of Border World delegates and their staffs,” Hierophant grunted. The Medium Laser mount moved as he adjusted his sight window, “Captain said we’re supposed to get more people to fill their holds, as payment for the escort.”

“Border World delegates?!” Steiner exploded, ignoring his point about the extra holds to fill with recruits. “That’s probably why we’re being attacked by these pirates! Don’t they know there is no Assembly for the Border World Alliance? The Admiral himself said the Alliance was a lie to get Druid to surrender!”

“And yet, here are the delegates. Sounds to me like someone is lying,” Hierophant grunted, lining up on the pirate cruiser and firing his laser mount. “I’ve learned a new phrase; I think you call it ‘operational security’?”

“You think the Admiral lied to us!” Steiner cried, dancing to the side as the Dungeon ship shuddered and a spray of super-heated hydraulic fluid burst from a heavy laser two mounts over, spraying everything and everyone all the way over to Hierophant’s mount with boiling hot droplets before the blast partitions automatically dropped to protect them.

“He says there’s no alliance back in Praxis,” Hierophant yelled over the sound of screaming. He glanced over at the partition and then looked away from the source of the screaming—it looked like someone had been caught either trying to get into, or to get out of, that particular mount, “maybe there wasn’t, but is there now?”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Steiner shouted up at him, “unless…you mean the Alliance was ready in principle, but the Admiral was captured before it could go into effect…and now that he’s free, the Border Worlds are forming their Assembly? How does that work; I thought the Border Governors hated us?”

“Don’t you have someplace to be?” Hierophant said dismissively. He needed to focus one of those fast, darting little ships the other gunners had been so surprised to see. He thought they were called an ‘Imperial Fighter,’ and one had just danced its way across his targeting sights.

Ah, there it is again, he smiled, muscling his control sticks around to keep the fighter on his targeting reticule.

“The Captain made it clear that as far as he’s concerned I’m a Supernumerary who can stay out of his way and off his bridge except when we’re in system,” Steiner huffed. “Hey, what are you—”

He fired and missed, the sound of his weapon discharging drowning out whatever else Lisa Steiner might have been saying. Muttering under his breath about using the computer to help him target, he shook his head in annoyance. The little Officer wasn’t supposed to be here—it was a man’s job to die for the Hold—but like most women everywhere, she wanted to personally oversee the efforts of her warriors whenever possible. Out of politeness and respect for the superior sex, Hierophant failed to point out that technically he wasn’t under her command just then.

One look down at her now red face as she held her hands over her ears, and he was happy he had refrained from comment. Once again, the Tracto-an Gunner wondered what MEN had been thinking when the Data-God decided to put women in charge of his people? Then he shrugged, since it was not as though the men of MEN had been doing such a great job of it back before MEN tore a rib out of King Lykurgos’ chest for failure and used it to clone the first true Tracto-an woman. So even though she was rather small and puny-looking compared to a real, Tracto-an woman, the little Warrant Officer automatically deserved his respect.

Besides, she was very brave and much more suited to leadership and subterfuge than he was—another skill-set that he was more than glad fell firmly under the control of the women of a Hold and not its warriors. Well, the subterfuge that is…like any warrior, he was always ready to try his hand at leading.

Still upset with the missed shot, he silently blamed the computer. The gunnery ‘computers’ back on the Clover had been tolerable to work with, but he was missing more than half his shots here on this Dungeon ship, and he didn’t think it was because his skills had suddenly deteriorated. It had to be that these computers simply were not as good as the ones on the Lucky Clover. Everyone had always said how their old Battleship had ancient systems compared to everyone else, but this Dungeon Citadel seemed to have even older systems than those. It was a quandary, and he wondered if he had simply been hazed back on the gun deck of the Clover regarding their supposedly archaic technology.

Pushing such thoughts aside in an instant, he decided he was going to take the next shot on manual and swat that little Imperial fly out of cold space—permanently.

“Are you even listening to me?!” Lisa Steiner shouted up at him.

A warrior in the middle of combat was given great license to ignore the natural social order of things, but even that was no reason to be rude. Besides, he knew how difficult it was to stay calm and focused when under attack and unable to do anything to defend yourself. If a common warrior like him felt that way, how much worse must it be for a woman? She was used to being in command and control of everything and everyone around her. He supposed that some allowances had to be made for the greater sex.

“No, not really,” he said loud enough to make sure she could hear him, and then the fleet-footed little fighter ran across his targeting picture and he hit the manual override while swiveling his mount to compensate for the Fighter’s movements.

Lisa opened her mouth, but whatever she was about to say was drowned out when Hierophant pressed the trigger. There was an explosion and his hand tightened on his control sticks with satisfaction. He even allowed himself a small, smug smile at his success.

“Got him,” Hierophant said evenly.

“Who, the Cruiser?” Lisa Steiner demanded, dancing around beside his medium laser mount with an excited victory dance. The way her chest jiggled was a delightful distraction from duty—or it would have been, if he had allowed himself to be distracted so.

“No,” he said shortly, perturbed at his own reaction. This was battle, after all—there were enemies to slaughter! “Not the Cruiser, a small ‘Imperial Fighter’.”

Steiner visibly deflated and then looked back up at him, her mouth forming a cute little pout he was familiar with from back on the ship. It only made that expression when she was both suspicious, and angry about her suspicions. He wondered what he had done to deserve this kind of treatment.

“You did that on purpose, didn’t you,” she said, stomping her foot.

“Did what?” he asked absently, because over his head set the Chief Gunner for the Dungeon ship—or what passes for a Chief Gunner here, he thought with dissatisfaction, called out for one last broadside against the Light Cruiser before the Corvettes finished driving it away. When the time came he followed orders, turned back on the automatics, and fired his laser at the Cruiser’s shields.

When he glanced back down at Steiner, steam was practically coming out of her ears.

“Sorry, Chief Gunner,” he explained, causing her irritation to lower fractionally.

“Firing your weapons,” she demanded and at his uncomprehending look, “because of me, you keep shooting that medium laser, don’t you?” she demanded. “You think I need distracting!”

Hierophant froze before looking back into his targeting reticule, but the other fighter must have been dancing on the other side of the ship because he couldn’t see hide nor hair of it. Glancing back down at the little former tech, he considered her words carefully. Back on Tracto, if a woman had spoken to him about using his warrior skills because of her, or for her in any fashion it would have been an invitation of sorts—it would have most likely been courting behavior.

He still wasn’t sure about all the ins and outs of exactly how such things were done among the Starborn, but even so, he paused in consideration. Steiner said she was not from a Great House, merely the commons, but he cared little for titles. Great Ladies had Protectors, Minor Ladies had Guardians, and Common women had Defenders. He did not mind the idea of becoming someone’s Defender; it was not as though he came from any distinguished linage himself. But no, she had made it clear her affections were for the fat and lethargic Mike, and Heirophant had no interest in playing second consort to him.

So all he said was, “Not a chance, my lady Steiner,” and resolutely turned back to his job within the battle, his ears closed to further distracting entreaties. He had a job to do, and his was the joy of doing it!

Chapter 30: The Commodore Gets Swatted

“The Light Cruiser is venting atmo out its portside hull; I think it’s backing away, Commodore,” Druid’s Tactical Officer, Cashmere Fud, said excitedly, “this could be our chance!”

“The pirate’s probably just surprised the Dungeon ship’s armed and managed to get a shot in through its shields,” Druid said with a hungry smile. “Remind me to compliment Captain Icemark on the skill of his gunnery team. Whoever said a bunch of reservists on a glorified photo-op mission don’t know how to shoot ought to be taken to task; they got both a fighter and a hit in on that Cruiser.”

“I believe the person that called into question the gunnery skills of Captain Icemark’s command was you, Commodore,” his first officer, Quentin ‘Rampage’ Jackson, said from directly behind him. The hint of amusement in his otherwise stiff voice was far from lost on the Commodore tasked with defending the ever-expanding convoy this recruiting drive had turned into—a convoy that was currently under attack by pirates.

“Remind me to send over three shakers of Trimerian cooking spices for their gun deck after I put myself on report for such a lapse in judgment,” Druid said absently as the freighters continued to max out their engines in a desperate bid to escape. “How is No-Good doing at locking down that other fighter?” he asked, his eyes snapping back and forth as he calculated vectors and velocities.

“Lieutenant Tiger and the No-Go are chasing their tail over there, Sir,” Druid’s XO replied, “recommend we pull them back in and make a run on that Cruiser before it reaches the rest of the freighters, not just that slow-as-molasses Dungeon Transport, or whatever it is we’re calling her now.”

“Once a prison ship, always a prison ship, Rampage,” Druid told his First Officer, “a ship that dirties her soul hauling unwilling human cargo will always bear the black mark of her crimes.”

“As you say, Sir,” First Officer Jackson growled, “but the Dungeon Transport needs our help or she’s going to be in trouble; the other freighters might get away but she won’t.”

“Blast,” Druid swore, “that Light Cruiser’s got half her weaponry and a fourth her spec’s indicated acceleration. I’d hoped we would be able to dance outside of her range and deal with those fighters while she just fell out of range.”

“If wishes were warships, Commodore,” Rampage said, placing his hands behind his back as he stared forward at the main screen before glancing back down at his handheld data slate.

“Recall the No-Go and prepare to take us in,” Druid said with a sigh, “we’ll use the triad shifting pattern to try keeping our side from taking any critical hits—a blight on all pirates!”

“Recall the No-Go,” First Officer Jackson said the faintest hint of censure over using the No-Go’s informal squadron nickname, one that had ironically been embraced by her own crew, “Triad shift pattern attack run on the LC as soon as they’re here, Aye, Commodore.”

“Comm., get me Tiger on the horn,” Druid snapped to his Comm. Officer before turning to pilot. “Helm, take us in: attack pattern Triad Shift Druid One. We’re not going to wait; if we do, that Dungeon ship’s going to be venting her recruits into cold space.”

“Aye, Sir,” the Helmsman replied steadily, opening the throttle to 80% power and guiding the ship as it leaped forward, “starting attack run on pattern Triad Shift Druid One, confirmed.”

“Shooting the Captain of the No-Go over to your chair, Commodore,” the Comm. Officer said smartly, and seconds later Lieutenant Tiger appeared on the screen set into Commodore Druid’s chair.

“Tiger here, Commodore,” Lieutenant Tiger said with a grin. “We just received the Squadron’s orders and are accelerating to catch up and get into formation.”

“Good, but after you slot in, I’ve got a little side mission for you during the attack run,” Druid said with a nod to the younger ship captain.

“A little No-Good action for us, eh, Commodore?” Tiger said with a sly smile.

“The rest of us will be focusing on their engines, just like they’re going to be expecting,” Druid said, unable to keep himself from smiling, even though he had to shake his head at the younger man’s embrace of a ship nickname that started because of a bad string of equipment failures due to faulty maintenance.

Under the leadership of their new Captain though, Lieutenant Tiger, maintenance was no longer an issue. Druid suspected Tiger of hamming up the title for crew morale, but then again maybe not. Still, this new attitude was vastly preferable to having a slothful crew on a broken ship—and now was exactly the right time for their Squadron Leader to help build a little morale.

“What have you got for us ‘No-Gooders,’ Commodore,” Tiger said with a hint of eagerness.

“Like I said, they’ll expect us to go for the engines,” Druid repeated, “but you’ll be coming in late. It’s possible they won’t expect it and compensate in time when you roll over to the other side of their ship and go for their main hyper-dish instead. Just burn a few holes in it—crack it, if you can, but I’m not really expecting that—just do enough to keep them from forming a hyper-field until they can affect repairs.”

Tiger whistled and sucked on his teeth as he thought about it. “We’ll be exposing ourselves to both broadsides and breaking the pattern for a close approach,” he mused.

“Yes, it is,” Druid said, unconsciously holding his breath.

“Sounds dangerous, Commodore, and frankly this isn’t a great mission for a ship with faulty maintenance cycles,” Tiger said with a serious expression before a grin started tugging at the edge of his mouth until the serious expression cracked. “I like it! No one can say the No-Good isn’t up to the task after this; you’ve got yourself a ship full of volunteers, Sir! Let’s roast some pirate hyper dishes, No-Gooder’s,” Tiger turned his head and shouted off screen.

“I knew I could rely on your ship, Captain Tiger,” Druid said, shaking his head before cutting the transmission. Hearing an aggrieved sigh behind him, he turned to look at his First Officer questioningly.

“There’ll be no living with them after this,” Rampage sighed.

“No, there won’t,” Druid said with the expression of a happy squadron commander. “I guess the rest of the Squadron will just have to step it up; we can’t have the Flagship overshadowed by a bunch of ‘No-Gooders’ now, can we, First Officer?”

“We’ll show the No-Go how it’s done, Sir,” First Officer Jackson said into the sudden silence on the bridge, and then cracked his knuckles for emphasis, “just see if we don’t.”

A hungry growl went up around the bridge, cutting off the Commodore before he needed to say anything more.

“If I may, Sir,” Jackson gestured toward the Tactical Section, “I’ll just go have a few words with gunnery. I think it’s time to release the Rampage.”

“By all means,” the Commodore agreed, holding in a deep belly laugh by force of will and presenting an unconcerned, Senior Officer’s mask instead. A second later, the First Officer was over at Tactical and growling into the microphone connecting them to the gun deck.

“I want to see those engines pulverized, Chief. Do you hear me? Atomized, I say!” Quentin ‘Rampage’ Jackson, the erstwhile First Officer of this ship growled down to the gun deck, “There’s no way a bunch of no-good slackers over on the No-Go are going to show up this ship, do you hear me?!”

Druid couldn’t hear the reply, but whatever it was seemed to appease the First Officer slightly because all he did was thump the microphone down on the desk once for emphasis.

Druid was still listening with half an ear when Sensors called out, “We’re starting close approach now and should be within extreme range of their weaponry momentarily, Commodore!”

“Very good, Sensors,” Druid said smartly. “Helm, begin evasive pattern on my mark; Comm. is to broadcast to the other ships.” The Corvette shook around him momentarily.

“We took swat from a heavy laser, Sir; shields down to 75%,” called out the Warrant over at Shields.

“Mark!” cried Druid, after enough time had passed for the Com-Officer to link up and transit the warning, “one pass is all it’s going to take to put this poorly maintained pirate operation out of business, so stay steady and look sharp, bridge!”

Chapter 31: Workplace Distractions

“Interesting,” Hierophant muttered.

“What? What is it?” Warrant Officer Steiner asked with obvious interest.

“Light Cruiser was coming back to finish us off, but Corvettes are making an attack run,” he grunted, glancing down at her with a frown.

“What do you mean ‘finish us off’?” Lisa asked in confusion. “They barely got through our shields last time.”

“It’s just what the Chief Gunner reports Tactical is saying,” he said with a shrug.

Lisa stomped her foot. “Are we within range of your peashooter or about to be,” she asked in a serious voice.

“Peashooter?” Hierophant said with censure. He didn’t know exactly what the meaning of the word was, but he was pretty sure it was an insult to his weapon of some sort.

“Oh, you know what I mean; your ‘medium laser’,” Steiner said impatiently. “I’m sorry if I insulted your weapon. Really, I am,” she gave him a winning smile.

Hierophant grunted again and then broke down under the weight of her gaze. “We’re not in range,” he finally allowed.

“Great!” she exclaimed, scrambling up on to his seat with a hand hanging over his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he said, disbelief flowing over him. “You’re blocking my ability to take a shot.”

“I’m taking a look through your targeting sensor,” she explained, her bosom pressing against his face as she leaned around his head to get a look. “Out of the way for a second,” she told him, pushing his head to the side so she had enough room. “Ah ha!”

“Move,” he said flatly, knowing this was no way for a woman to act around a man—especially around his weapon, and especially in the middle of combat! A slight tussle ensued as he firmly, yet forcibly, moved her to the side.

“I just want to see what’s going on, too,” she told him crossly. “As your commanding officer I deserve to see what’s going on!”

“I need to be able to fight if that other fighter comes over here,” he warned her as soon as she was out of the way. She made a sound of protest and he sighed. “You’re just upset that I’ve got a sensor on this laser and you were kicked off the bridge,” he said, but allowed her to look over his shoulder so long as she was no longer blocking his ability to sight the enemy—and as long as she kept her bosoms from his face.

“First a joke and now an insult; why, Hierophant, if I didn’t know better I’d say you were starting to get used to me—at least enough to start letting your uptight Tracto-an hair down,” Lisa said absently before reaching around him to point at something on his targeting screen.

Hierophant spluttered and then she stiffened. Turning his attention to the targeting screen, he froze as he too was caught up in the impending battle.

As the pair watched on their single targeting screen, which Hierophant had to occasionally adjust to keep a good image of the Corvettes, those ships began a looping, twisting pattern as they advanced at the now-firing pirate Cruiser.

“They’re going to be killed,” Steiner said worriedly and Hierophant just shrugged.

“Watch,” he instructed her without thinking, and then wondered if he had been too forward before passing it off as in the past.

Less than half the weapon mounts of the pirate vessel lanced out at the Corvettes, and as they watched the exchange they saw all three Corvettes take fire. Although with all the dodging and weaving they were doing, no ship stayed in the same position long enough for the enemy gunners to get a firm lock.

Even so, shields overheated the closer they got until finally, the Corvettes fired shots of their own in response. None of Commodore Druid’s escort ships managed to penetrate the comparatively heavy shields of the pirate light cruiser in return, but they continued boring in close anyway.

Then, just when the Light Cruiser started to roll in response and the pair watching the battle through Hierophant’s gun sights were certain something awful was about to happen, the Corvettes broke apart. Two ships headed toward the engines of the ship, and the other spiraled around the middle of the enemy ship in a daring display of piloting.

One of the two ships took a direct blast from a turbo-laser, its shields collapsing immediately and it went spinning off with another pair of shots from a heavy laser lancing deep gashes into its hull.

There was a flash at the rear of the Light Cruiser, and Lisa closed her eyes.

“Tell me when it’s over,” she said tightly, “I can’t bear to watch!”

“The Commodore has a plan,” Hierophant said as confidently as he could.

“How can you know that?” Lisa’s eyes popped open to stare at him.

“’Have faith,’ isn’t that what you always said when we went into hiding on the Lucky Clover?” Hierophant had time to see her eyes widen and jaw start to hang open before he turned back to observe the rest of the battle.

What he very carefully did not add was that while he was certain the Commodore had a plan, if for some reason he did not, then the rest of the convoy he was protecting was about to be captured and destroyed by these road bandits of the stars. However, he had learned in their weeks together hiding on the Clover that regardless of what she said, she did not truly want to hear those kinds of thoughts.

“Thank you,” she whispered, squeezing his shoulder tightly for a moment before pulling away to watch the targeting screen. Hierophant was aware after she stopped moving that she was no longer as close as she had been previously.

The single Corvette took a series of hits before spiraling away from the pirate ship, and then a blast at the rear of the Cruiser, followed by flames shooting out the rear, gave testament to some kind of massive air leak. The only way to have flames in cold space was if a ship was leaking sufficient oxygen to sustain it.

“I hope those pirates are wearing their head bags,” the former little com-tech winced, as the flames continued for almost half a minute before abruptly cutting out, likely due to exhausting the nearby supply of oxygen.

“A head bag will not be enough,” Hierophant’s eyes were riveted to the screen as the pirate continued to fire until it damaged the single, remaining Corvette with shields—the one that had nearly destroyed their engines. “The Lancer Colonel had us go into an airlock with only a head bag and the airlock electronics disabled. We almost died,” he said bleakly, “but at least we learned how to operate the manual controls of an airlock, and there was no more boasting about breathing honor instead of air if our suit had a leak. The lesson of immediately patching our suits if one was damaged was driven home to great effect.”

“Hierophant…that’s horrible,” Steiner stared at him, “that’s inhuman, is what it is!”

“That is training,” he shrugged, “but it does make me think that even having a head bag isn’t going to be enough if they cannot get to air—and, more importantly, pressure—very soon.”

Eventually, the pirate’s fire trickled to a halt.

“Look, they’re alive,” the little Warrant Officer clapped her hands together as first one and then the other of the damaged Corvettes activated their drives and limped out of the pirate Cruiser’s firing range. The third and last of the Corvettes, while also damaged, had never stopped moving.

“Looks like the Cruiser’s dead in space,” Hierophant pointed to his screen.

“We’ve won,” the tech squealed and then kissed him on the cheek before throwing herself off the medium laser and dancing a jig on the deck, “we’re not going to die today, my friend!”

“No,” Hierophant said in an odd voice, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand, “we are not.” He deliberately looked away from the little Warrant Officer and her childish little dance. I have no interest in being second consort, he reminded himself. He was a proven warrior and gunner in the service of his Warlord; he had earned better. Ignoring the little officer was hard, but he resolutely turned back to his targeting screen and started scanning cold space around his side of the ship.

There was a Fighter out there somewhere, and maybe he could get another kill before the battle was finished. Battle and battle-honors were one of the best ways a man had to take his mind off all the things he couldn’t have in this life.

Chapter 32: Cutters do the Cutting, McCruise does the McCruising

“Well, Captains, that’s about the long and short of it,” Synthia McCruise said to her assembled Squadron ship commander. “To recap, we’ve been keeping tabs on the merchant freighters, and several hours before Captain Belmont and his Corvette,” she nodded in the direction of that part of the conference room screen that held that Captain’s image, “started a rapid series of point transfers to our position, those very same freighters were heading in this direction. It seems we guessed right on which way they would be coming.”

“Unless they’re trying to confuse us by breaking orbit and heading in the opposite direction, in normal space drive, from the star systems they intend to point transfer to,” Captain Belmont pointed out.

“There is always that; it could be a deception,” McCruise agreed. “However, most Captains—including myself—tend to point the ship in the general direction of the star they intend to point transfer toward,” she paused in consideration, “upon reflection, perhaps that’s something we need to consider changing, so as not to become too predictable to our enemies,” she gave a self-deprecating smile. “After all, we wouldn’t want them to do unto us as we’re planning to do unto them.”

“Still…what about her escort ships?” Captain Archibald, one of the two Cutter captain’s which McCruise had selected for this operation, asked worriedly. “I’m not so concerned about that fast courier; even if it’s armed, one Cutter should be enough to capture, destroy, or simply drive it off if she takes to her heels. But a Battleship and a pair of Destroyers…” he trailed off with concern.

“Light Destroyers—the kind with the sort of speed and engines a pirate captain would prefer,” McCruise said sharply and then took a breath. “While I doubt that they have the sort of maintenance and overhaul schedule that a regular fleet warship would have undergone as a matter of course, I’m not counting on that. We’ll prepare for them as if they are fully maintained, hot, and ready to trot as soon as we jump on their position.”

“But that Battleship, the Vineyard,” Archibald pressed, “what if it continues with them?”

“This Squadron is too light to take on a Battleship,” McCruise said regretfully, “so no, I don’t plan on any suicide death rides against any battleships today. If they come out here with her, we lay doggo and have our navigators make their best guess on where those freighters are going and then try to transfer after them. Under no conditions can I imagine taking this squadron head to head with a Dreadnaught class, not while I’m in command anyway,” she paused to smile tightly. “I make no promises where the Admiral is concerned, though. As far as I can see, he’s liable to do anything to anyone, with whatever he has under his command at the time, up to and inclusive of this squadron. He might take on a Battleship with this force but I, in good conscious, cannot.”

To her surprise, the other Captains in the holo conference grinned.

“The Little Admiral is something else,” Captain Belmont agreed, still grinning, “takes any blasted thing he sets his mind on.”

“Luckiest royal I’ve ever seen,” Archibald agreed, slapping his hand on the desk he was sitting at on the holo-screen, “the man can’t be stopped. Mutiny, betrayal, even prison in that Dungeon ship and still we break him loose and get the prize!”

“Luck can only take you so far,” McCruise said in a quelling tone, “as I’m sure even Admiral Montagne can attest; you can’t win all the time. That’s why we’re going to practice simulated micro-jumps and prepare for battle until two hours before the estimated arrival of those Merchant ships.”

“Even when he loses, he still wins!” Belmont continued in support of his erstwhile leader. “It was Parliament and those politicians at Central that are to blame!”

McCruise frowned at him, having not expected the banter to continue this long. “Moving this meeting forward,” she said, clearing her throat, “I want confirmation that you’ve all received the battle program I’ve forwarded for your simulators. The Admiral and his many attributes, both positive and negative, are not, and should not be, part of an extended discussion here—especially not while we are preparing for a raid and capture mission, clear?”

“We’ve got them, Captain,” Archibald said speaking for the other officers present, Belmont and the other Cutter Captain nodded slowly in agreement.

“Then let’s be about it,” Captain McCruise said evenly. “I know we practiced this in simulation before, but this time we’re going to plan on facing those two Light Destroyers, not the random grab bag spawned by the computer.”

“Yes, Sir,” the other Officers murmured in agreement.

“Oh, and one other thing,” McCruise said with a frown, “it’s tradition that when going into battle that the Senior Captain in command of a Squadron is addressed with the courtesy rank of Commodore. Just like you don’t have two Captains on a ship and the Captain is always a Captain, even when,” her eyes shot over to pin Archibald in his seat, “the Captain really is a Junior Lieutenant. So, then, is the commander of a Confederation Fleet Squadron called the Commodore. This is not a power grab on my part,” she explained seriously, “it’s simply part of the tradition that I, and now you, are a part of.”

“Alright, Captain…I mean, Commodore McCruise,” Captain Belmont said agreeably, and the other Captains—including Archibald—quickly nodded in agreement.

“Very well then,” McCruise said in a professional voice, “let’s prepare ourselves for those destroyers.”

Chapter 33: To the Armory

Lugging your own battle-suit down the corridors of your Flagship might sound like a fun way to spend an afternoon, but let me tell you it’s nothing of the sort. Between being stopped in the hall for questioning about just how I intended to deal with both the Bugs and my Uncle’s pirate fleet, and alternately questioned if my power armor was somehow broken, I was almost to the point of clenching my teeth.

“No,” I said as patiently as I was able to for the nth time, “I don’t need help moving the suit, that’s why I have this perfectly functional grav-cart.”

“Are you sure, Admiral, because it’s really no bother at all,” said a very concerned looking able spacer from the Environmental department.

“Really, it’s no bother. Simply being free and able to walk,” I said, laying the irony of the situation thick in my voice, as I was currently waylaid in the middle of a service hall, “is its own reward.”

“It must have been hard for you in prison, Sir,” the spacer said, seemingly unable to take a hint, “which reminds me—walking, that is—that I was on my way to hydroponics three and was wondering when you’ll be putting a priority repair order on fixing it up, I mean since it was vented into cold space, that is. The mess hall grub has become…uninspired of late.”

“Your lunch menu is my number one priority,” I lied, and then couldn’t believe it when the spacer nodded his head as if this statement was an entirely believable part of his world. “That’s why I’ve delegated all such repair efforts to the good offices of Captain Laurent and his bridge team.”

The enviro-spacer seemed to deflate, and then suddenly brightened. “Hey, how long do you think it’s going to take to finish up with these Bugs so we can finally start getting our homes back, Admiral?” the other man asked.

“Oh, gee, look at the time,” I said, activating my data slate. I stutter-stepped and reached up to my ear, “Sorry, I’ve just been paged,” I lied for the second time in the same conversation, “looks like I have to run. I’ll get back to you on this subject later!” I raised a hand in the air to wave at him as I hurried past.

“Great! Thanks, Admiral,” the man started to turn away and for a moment I actually believed I was home free to the turbo-lift.

“Wait,” he cried, “how will you be able to answer me if you don’t have my name. I’m Pavlo Moriss, of—,” I cut him off.

“I’ll make a crew wide announcement, Pavlo,” I shouted back at him, “it’s been educational meeting with you! Bye now. Bye-bye!”

Dashing to the lift system, I thanked my lucky stars to see a lift parked and waiting, almost as if Murphy or the Space Gods themselves had heard my plea.

“Saint Murphy, help me out here,” I muttered under my breath as I pressed the button to open the lift. Without pause or hiccough, the door opened and I hurried my grav-cart into the lift without hesitation. Pavlo Moriss was just rounding the corner into my field of vision when I slapped the auto-close feature on the door.

“Wait, Admiral,” the spacer exclaimed, “you forgot—”

“Good luck with hydroponics three,” I called out as the door slid shut, after which I slumped over on the grav-cart. I didn’t care what he thought I’d forgotten. Some people just couldn’t take a hint, and the last thing I needed right then were rumors of an irate admiral roaming the halls with a battle-suit in tow. Before you knew it, I’d have been wearing the power-armor and yelling at people in the halls because I didn’t want to improve their meal options. Sheesh, I really needed a vacation, one that didn’t involve forced confinement to a small, windowless, cubicle-like prison cell.

“Computer, take me to the Armory, please,” I said, finally able to breathe again.

“Destination: Armory,” the Computer chimed, and then we were off.

“Who knew that taking this beast down to be repaired was going to be such a chore?” I groaned. “Maybe I should have just let the yeoman do it…” I briefly considered before discarding this idea out of hand, “nope, the last thing I need is more excuses to stare at reports.”

With a newfound resolution, I turned my attention back to the indicator light on the lift panel.

Chapter 34:Agitation at the Armory

“I’m sorry, Sir, but only authorized personnel are allowed beyond this point,” an Armory rating in light armor and equipped with a sonic rifle said standing outside the armory.

“I’m the Admiral of this Fleet,” I said smoothly, “I assure you that I’m authorized, and that you’ve done your job by stopping to check my identity. Now stand aside, crewman.”

“Sorry, Sir; you’re not on the list,” the armed crewman insisted, stiffening to attention.

“I’m not authorized to go into my own Armory?” I said coolly, unable to believe my own ears. “Do you know who I am?”

“Yes, Sir, you are Admiral Jason Montagne, Sir,” the rating said firmly.

“So you know who I am,” I said with disbelief, “but because of your…list, you still won’t let me in.”

“That’s right, Sir,” the rating agreed, “you have to be authorized to enter the Armory.”

“Son,” I said with a laugh, even though the crewman was probably the same age or even older than I was, “you do know that I could hop in this battle-suit I’ve just lugged all the way here from the bridge and just force my way in, do you not?”

The rating leveled his weapon at me and I saw his finger tremble slightly as he slotted it against the trigger. “I’m going to have to ask you to calm down, Sir,” he said, looking concerned.

“Or what?” I asked, more amused than anything. “You’re going to shoot me? Your life won’t be worth a trip to the waste recycler when my Lancers get through with you; now speak to whoever you need to speak to, and get me cleared to enter.”

“Sir, you’re becoming agitated, and that’s dangerous. Please take a step back,” the guard said in a rising voice as his hands visibly tensed. “Now, as I said before, the Armsmaster isn’t taking visitors at this time, but I’ll be happy to take a message, Admiral. Now back off before I am forced to neutralize the threat.”

“This is mutiny,” I said mildly, reaching into my sleeve to grasp the butt of my blaster pistol, “and while you sure seem excited, I can assure you I don’t get much calmer than I am right now.”

There was a click when he took off the safety and his weapon whined as the power cell activated to pre-charge his sonic rifle.

“Fine,” I said taking a step back, “you win. See? I’m walking away.”

“Calm down, Sir, and raise your hands above your head,” the Guard was almost shouting now, his eyes rolling around the corridor, probably checking for my nonexistent co-conspirators as his weapon’s barrel wavered minutely.

Releasing my holdout blaster pistol, I slowly raised my hands, determined to have this man up on charges before the day was through.

“Gun,” he screamed at my very empty hands, and he pulled the trigger. The next thing I knew, I had been picked up by a rhinoceros and thrown down the hallway.

Not daring to get up for fear of being shot again, I lay there waiting to see what happened next. My new plan was to play up my pain and slowly reach for my holdout, whereupon I would shoot this mutineer in the chest until he was dead and then blow his face off with the last of my charge.

There was the sound of the Armory door sliding open and a raspy, older voice demanded, “What the Hades do you think you’re doing, discharging your weapon right outside the armory?” demanded a voice I’d heard before which belonged to the ship’s Armsmaster.

Time to see just how far this rot has spread, I decided, grasping my holdout pistol while their attention as on each other.

“Sir, this rating was attempting to follow orders related to today’s surprise anti-mutiny, anti-boarding drill, Armsmaster!” the crewman said in a parade ground voice before pausing briefly. “I didn’t mean to fire, sir, but when I thought I saw a weapon I just reacted, sir.”

“How did you know about the drill—which, by the way, hasn’t even started yet!” snapped the Armsmaster who then took a deep breath, “I take it then that your sloppy trigger discipline has just resulted in some hapless member of the crew getting blasted?” he said in a rising voice.

“Oh, space gods, I thought he was a Lancer—I mean, hostile force spy,” the guard said, looking sick.

“From his uniform he’s a Fleet Officer,” the Armsmaster swore, coming over to where I was still laying down. I was quite literally unable to believe what I was hearing. “Sweet Crying Murphy, he’s not a Lancer or even wearing a training harness, and you still shot him with a sonic rifle! That’s it, you’re relieved! How in the Demon’s name you thought he was part of the training exercise, I’ll never know.”

“He wasn’t on the list and he was trying to gain access,” the crewman protested, starting to sound hysterical. “I mean really, what are the odds the Admiral himself would come down here in the middle of a training exercise!”

“The Admiral!” the Armsmaster roared, rushing over to my side.

“The Lancers always say he’s one of them, I just thought…” the guard said miserably. “I mean, I gave him all the keywords we were trained to use when talking down a potentially volatile crewman.”

When the Armsmaster went to turn me over, he got the barrel of my pistol in his face for his efforts. “I’m not dead yet, but you and your buffoon might soon be,” I whispered in a deathly voice. It turned out when I tried to shout, a whisper was all I could manage after being shot point blank with a sonic rifle.

“Admiral,” the Armsmaster rasped carefully, “this wasn’t meant to happen. It was an accident caused by poor discipline.”

“And when my own ‘lack of discipline’ results in your man’s face getting ‘accidentally’ blown off, we can call it even?” I asked carefully.

With a sudden move, the Armsmaster slapped my blaster to the side before I could pull the trigger, sending a bolt into the ceiling. Before I realized what was happening, he had the blaster pistol pointed in my face.

The man had a hard glint in his eye, and I was pretty sure in the next instant I was going to die. When he flipped the pistol around so the butt was sticking in my face and then thrust it point first through his belt, I was surprised.

“Come on, Admiral, let’s get you up and over to sickbay for evaluation,” the Armsmaster said.

“Alright,” I said in surprise, and when he extended his arm, I grasped it and allowed him to pull me up.

“This here is an unregistered weapon, Sir,” the Armsmaster said carefully.

“Why, so it is, Armsmaster Atkins,” I said, feigning surprise as best I was able while still drooped over the other man with my arm around his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, Admiral,” the guard came over wringing his hands, “I thought you were part of the drill!”

“You are a dead man,” I said in a kindly voice.

My world suddenly tilted and I fell face first into the joint between the wall and the floor.

“Are you threatening a member of my Armory team?” the Armsmaster asked in a deadly voice.

“Did one of your team just shoot me?” my voice was muffled by being pressed face first into the wall. Feebly, I started to roll myself over.

What felt like a metal vice grabbed me by the collar bone on my right side and hauled me up until I was staring into the hard face of the Armsmaster.

“People who threaten my team don’t last long,” the Armsmaster rasped, a steely glint in his eye.

“People who shoot their Admiral for trying to enter the armory could be charged with mutiny,” I spat back defiantly. I wasn’t really going to shoot the guy. I mean, before I calmed down I might have tagged him in the leg as payback for shooting me center mass in the chest with his rifle, but I wasn’t about to kill the guy. However, the Armsmaster was more than a little intimidating—not that I was about to let him know that—and I felt I had to make a stand.

“Don’t make me do something we’ll all regret; this is not a hanging offence, so don’t try to make it one,” the Armsmaster growled in a deadly voice. “The boy will be reprimanded and serve his time in the brig for discharging his weapon into a member of this crew without cause, as is proper, and he’ll have daily drills to improve his trigger discipline. But I won’t see someone killed over an officer’s pride.”

“Pride?” I demanded, feeling genuinely offended; the last thing on my mind was pride! This was as much about loyalty as it was about discipline; while the crew was displaying improved ability, I was far from convinced that I could trust my entire command structure. How was I supposed to run this fleet if crewmen felt they could shoot me—even accidentally!—any time they felt like? No, this had nothing to do with pride; this was about military discipline, pure and simple.

“I know pride when I see it,” the Armsmaster said, his fingers digging in so deeply it was all I could do not to cry out with pain.

“Oh you do, do you,” I snapped though clenched teeth, suddenly infuriated. “If I wasn’t down from being shot—”

“You’d what, try and take back your peashooter and go on a rampage?” the Armsmaster said grimly. “Sorry, but this unregistered weapon and that power armor we issued you will be going back to the Armory until sometime after you’ve had time to calm down and fully recover.”

“You’d leave me defenseless against my enemies,” I gasped, my shoulder starting to cramp.

“There are no enemies here, Sir, not unless you make them,”’ the Armsmaster said in a no nonsense voice.

“That’s what I thought with my last ship—I was wrong,” I said when I finally thought I could say it without crying.

The Armsmaster held my gaze but said nothing.

“Fine, you discipline your man however you see fit,” I said finally. This being slowly tortured while I was weak was for the dogs.

“Your word on that, as an Officer,” the Armsmaster released me, and finding my legs under me I leaned against the wall for support.

“My word as a Prince, an Officer, and a Montagne,” I said as stiffly as I could, which honestly came out more breathlessly than anything.

“Good enough,” the Armsmaster said, turning away as if dismissing me.

That’s the last straw, I seethed. I realized later that he was reaching for the first aid kit on the side of the grav-cart holding the battle-suit, but at the time all I could see was red at this latest slight. Who was I that this man thought he could brace me against the wall and extract concessions under pain and threat of worse?!

“However, both your battle-suit and your man here have failed me. So while as the Department head I leave the disciplining of the man to you…” I said drawing myself up as best I could.

The Armsmaster stiffened and turned around with narrowed eyes.

“I will have to see to your disciplining and that of the entire Armory department, personally,” I grated. This man’s standing by his wayward rating was admirable—his taking the matter into the realm of personal insults was not.

“This isn’t a palace, and I ain’t no servant. You come at Armsmaster Eugene Hardy Atkins straight, or you don’t come at him at all,” the head of the Armory Department said.

“I came at you straight when I tried to blow your head off,” I drawled dispassionately, “and being a ‘straight through the front door’ type of guy myself, I’m saying your words offend me.”

“Well, we can’t have that, now can we? What are your intentions, Sir?” the Armsmaster rasped, tossing his head like some kind of enraged goat, his words turning the honorific into a slur. “Going to throw the book at me?”

“Oh, you got me all wrong, bucky me-boy-o,” I said, mimicking a similar line I’d heard uttered by Chief Engineer Spalding, “you and me—on the mats. Bring your whole department.”

“If how you handle your fists are as good as how you handle your assassin’s sneak weapon, I ain’t a-feared,” the Armsmaster grinned. “Although if you need witnesses, I’d have thought you’d bring some of those softy bridge types to make sure it’s a clean fight.”

“I’m not looking for clean; I’ve just been shot by your guard here and I’ll be bringing my own department.” I bared my teeth in return, “And I assure you that it won’t be the bridge crew.”

“Whatever you say, Admiral,” the Armsmaster said lazily.

“Oh, and Department Head,” I grinned as the other man turned back to me, “I said I would see to disciplining both you and your Department. It’s clear to me that your men need more training, so have them come wearing their sparring gear. I guarantee mine will.”

“I like an Officer who’s not afraid to get his hands dirty,” the Armsmaster said, looking pleased. “Although I’ll still break you over my knee before we’re done, I promise to still try and make it an…educational experience.”

“Good,” I said, feeling a thrill of trepidation slide down my back, “first prison and then riding a command chair; I’m terribly out of shape and could use the training.” I could, too, especially if we ever went back Tracto and my beloved wife decided it was time for the hubby to come down and visit with the relatives again.

The Armsmaster laughed as he headed back into the armory, and I decided to deal with my malfunctioning battle-suit later.

Turning on my heel, I staggered off down the hall making a bee-line for the nearest marine company. I had some Lancers to speak with and a ‘training exercise’ to set up. The Armsmaster might break me over his knee, but my Lancers were going to tear the rest of his Department apart—literally, if I let them have their heads.

Let’s see if he still has anyone to stand guard over his door and shoot me down the next time I drop by for a little informal visit, I thought with a savage thrill.

My bet was they were all going to be in sickbay.

I also planned to get my blaster pistol back. I idly wondered how McCruise and her little squadron were making out.

Chapter 35: Nikomedes:The Building of a Legend

“Mister Nikomedes,” Colonel Wainwright said as soon as the Tracto-an had activated his hand held communication devise, “I assume that’s a proper way to address you? Or did I miss a last name somewhere?”

“Warrior or Lancer with my name is good enough,” Nikomedes replied, staring at the Marine Officer, “what do you need, Colonel? I’ve been here for months and this is the first you’ve called me directly.”

Wainwright’s face tightened. “You’ve been left here to liaise with the Uplifts and observe, but the rank you hold is only that of a basic Lancer and nothing you’ve brought to our attention has been mission critical,” he said flatly. “I’m sorry if you think my Marine Officers have been less than courteous, but I’ve been too busy reorganizing my men and holding this Station together to start holding hands.”

“I wasn’t asking for special treatment,” Nikomedes said after a pause, “simply pointing out a conclusion. You’ve never called before, so I thought it must be important. If pointing this out somehow makes for a complaint with your people, then I stand corrected and ashamed.”

Wainwright drew a breath in through his nostrils.

“We’re about to have some visitors,” the Marine Colonel said and then paused, “from Sector Central,” he added finally, almost as if the words were dragged out of him.

“Come to call upon the hospitality of the Hold Mistress’s newest possession, perhaps?” Nikomedes asked, his mind racing.

“They haven’t done anything more than squawk their ship ident,” the Colonel said, giving the Tracto-an a hard look. “But one of the ships is definitely the Flagship of Admiral Yagar and the Sector Guard. They expect to dock on this Station, and I intend to let them—not that we have the firepower to stop them if we wanted too.”

“The Sundered say they could man enough of the Station’s defensive weapons to hold off a battleship,” Nikomedes said, his brow wrinkling.

“I don’t want any trouble,” Wainwright said grimly, “so whatever issues you have with them, I want you to bury them for the good of the station. They’ve brought a small fleet—three warships and a dedicated troop transport—and we could desperately use the support.”

“Let us hope that they have come to see for themselves the falseness of their claims against my Warlord,” Nikomedes said evenly.

“And if they haven’t?” Wainwright demanded. “Do I need to have my marines sit on you and confine you to quarters?”

Nikomedes hesitated; he didn’t think it would be as easy as the Colonel thought to confine him to his quarters. He had spent his time over the past months building up his rapport with the Demons of this station while acting as a liaison—Demons who owed fealty to the Hold Mistress of his Warlord, the lovely Lady Akantha, and tended to think of the Omicron as belonging to them after some fashion.

“On your assurance of good behavior,” Nikomedes finally agreed, “I am willing to extend Guest Rights the same as if they were the Kith of my Mistress, or Kin of my Warlord. To provide them with hospitality and protection within these walls from any foe, within or without, who would seek to assail them,” he said, the words tasting like ashes on his mouth.

“I’m going to hold you to those words, Lancer, not that I’m giving you any such assurances. If there are problems, I’ll be the one to deal with them,” Wainwright said direly, before adding, “obey your orders and do your job, Lancer. Don’t start any trouble you can’t finish because I’ll finish you before I let this station blow up in my face,” the old Marine’s finger slashed down, cutting the signal.

Nikomedes stared at the now blank screen with a hard expression on his face for several, long minutes. Then he reached out and reactivated it. Scrolling through the directory, he found the link address of one particular Sundered Leader. He was looking for an Elder named ‘Puko.’

“Greeting, Proxy,” Puko of the Sundered Demon creatures said, peering into the com-screen.

“My task is to protect and hold the Omicron against all comers, for the greater glory of Mistress Akantha and her future daughters by way of my Warlord,” Nikomedes corrected seriously, “I am not a proxy, simply a warrior.”

“Your people are strange, enhanced-stock,” Puko popped his lip, “you are warrior of the Hold Mother, but not Primarch among the warriors here. You are to speak for the Mother with her voice, but are not a proxy. It is all very strange, and not the custom,” the older yet still large and powerful Sundered glowered at him.

“A proxy for the Lady Akantha should be a woman,” Nikomedes explained, “among my people there is only one…or perhaps two ways for a man to be a proxy. First,” he said lifting a finger, “a Protector speaks with his Mistress’s authority unless told otherwise, second,” the Lancer paused in consideration before shrugging, “a brother or a father could be given such authority. It is not customary, but it has been done before. However, I am not family or a sword-giver, merely a warrior with a task.”

“Enough word dancing,” Puko chuffed, “tell why you called an old male like me?”

“An old adversary of my Warlord comes to call on our hospitality. He brings space-warriors and warships to our doorstep, in the name of his government,” Nikomedes paused to give his words emphasis. The experienced old Demon frowned and took the bait.

“Our agreement was with the Mother of your people,” Puko growled, “we have little faith in the lies of Sector Governors, and even less trust!”

“He is not a Governor,” Nikomedes hid his desire to grin by dragging a hand across his face thoughtfully, “his name is Yagar; he claims to be an Admiral and thinks to somehow rival my sworn master with big talk, a title, and his small, rodent-like ships.”

“We can destroy ships, even small warships,” Puko said dismissively. “Our people will female the station weapon mounts; this ‘Yagar’ won’t survive to dock with this place.”

“You would have the women take your battle glory?” Nikomedes was completely taken aback.

Puko grunted derisively. “The weapon seats on a hoo-man station are too small for a fully grown male,” he said sourly, slapping the floor and wall of his room in a rapid one-two motion before brightening. “But do not worry, our wives are very good shots, so these interlopers will not get very far. Why, I have two daughters who have won the sub-clan marksman contest,” the older demon male’s chest swelled to even more massive size. “Two champions from different wives,” Puko continued pointedly, “that is how you know they come from superior sire-stock. Someday, when you have children yourself, this is how you will know it.”

Nikomedes blinked, his brow wrinkled, and then decided to forgo another cultural comparison with the old male of Demon spawn—it was time to get this talk back on track.

“Man your weapons—,” he said only to be interrupted.

“Female,” Puke interjected.

Nikomedes froze and then frowned. “Female your weapons, then,” he said finally, “but at Colonel Wainwright’s request, we are to extend Guest Rights to this ‘Yagar’.”

“From what you have told me, this man is no guest; he is a threat to the Hold Mother and to the Clan! He should be crushed, not fed from the fat of the people. How can you be making such a man a guest?” Puko demanded, drawing himself up with what Nikomedes was certain was disapproval.

“Calm yourself, Demon,” Nikomedes said calmly.

The Old Sundered male blinked at him. “Careful with your insults, enhanced stock,” the Elder growled, “I am no more a demon than you are a genie.”

“Your pardon, but am I not a genie?” Nikomedes asked, and then wondering if it would help, he extended an olive branch. “You may call me a ‘genie’ as you like without fear of insult, or not, as you desire, but I did not mean to give offense.”

The Elder, Puko, grunted before baring his teeth and looking to the side. Taking this as forgiveness or the next best thing to it, the Tracto-an Warrior frowned at himself. He should have known better than to address the creature like it actually was. For some reason, the Demons were particularly sensitive to their origins. After being informed by the Sundered about what a genie was, he had not objected to being called one. He had requested they not use it when dealing with other Tracto-an’s they might encounter, until they had been given time to explain it to the others first, but there was no shame in being labeled as what you were. Labels enabled, after all, and what warrior would want to reject a fearsome, terrorizing label like that of ‘genie’—especially when it was both accurate and true!

The God had forged well when it pounded the old DNA-chains with its new data-hammer before quenching them in the amino-acid baths necessary to create his people.

“Do not kill Yagar and his band before they have a chance to prove themselves, please,” Nikomedes urged.

“I will not welcome an enemy into the arms of the Sundered,” Puko snorted, thumping his chest for emphasis, “unless it is to crush him!”

“A guest who attacks his hostess sacrifices both his rights and protections, and anything which is his can be legally taken by the Hostess and her guard,” Nikomedes said with a fearsome smile. “I say let us prepare a greeting such as his masters will never forget!”

“Better to just blow them out of space and be done with it all,” Puko said sourly.

“Prepare your gunships and…‘female’ your weapons,” Nikomedes said after a visible hesitation over the strange way these demons thought. In his culture there was a man’s work, and there was a woman’s work: men fought, and women ruled. A man should be proud of what he excelled at. Giving up a traditional saying because your men were too big to wield the weapon sat uneasily with him. A man who did well at court and was invited to a small, private meeting of confidants with the Mistress should be pleased to be included in the general address of ‘ladies,’ and take pride in not being singled out as ‘ladies and warriors’. The same went for women who did a man’s work on the battlefield and earned the title of warrior.

Forcibly, he shrugged it off; Demons had strange thoughts and ideas, which was why they were demons instead of people. “But let us not act too quickly. If we give them enough rope, I am certain Yagar and his warriors will betray themselves for the treacherous oathbreakers they are.”

“How can you be certain?” Puko growled as he leaned forward. Nikomedes could tell he needed to be convinced as the Demon continued, “They might not turn on us like you think.”

“Like Master, like servant,” Nikomedes said dismissively, “it would take truly fearsome oaths to bind an honorable man to a leader who willingly betrayed his own.”

“Then maybe he will bide his time and then knife us in the dark, or maybe he will not. Why chance it? If you are so sure of betrayal, this seems foolish and risky,” Puko objected angrily.

“The Colonel extracted the promise, and we cannot risk alienating him by openly working at cross purposes. He has too many warrior-marines,” Nikomedes said unhappily. “This Yagar, on the other hand, is not known for his patience in either word or deed. Although his courage is that of a scavenger, if we look weak I am certain that with the right provocation he will strike first and early, where a wiser man might hesitate.”

“On your head be it then,” Puko grunted, “my males will be waiting for your signal.”

“Position them in the corridors just outside the greeting areas of each main airlock his ships will dock in, when he shows his true colors and breaks or rejects his duty as a Guest, that is when we shall strike,” Nikomedes said, clenching his fist for emphasis.

“All of the ships may not dock with the Omicron Station, for safety,” Puko said heavily. “In addition to the corridors, I will have the weapons femaled, our gunships readied, and more warriors waiting in the secondary airlocks with head bags and boarding tubes. I still say we should destroy them before they get here, though!”

“The Colonel would not sit still for that, and would turn his marines against us as oathbreakers,” Nikomedes said with certainty. “He still thinks the servants of betrayers can be trusted…or at least worked with, and we cannot afford a battle on two fronts with one within and one without. Besides, I don’t have the stomach to fight with former battle-brothers while dealing with the Sector Guard. No,” he said firmly, “when he is proven wrong, we will not give Colonel Wainwright time for hesitation, doubts, or second thoughts about where his loyalties lay. That is why the very instant the servant of Sector Betrayers shows his true colors, we will counter-board Admiral Yagar’s ships. When the dust has settled, the Colonel’s choices will have been made for him, and we will all be the happier for it.”

“If what you say is true, many will not feel happy, especially the Colonel,” Puko observed. “But my people gird their loins for battle at your request and are prepared to bleed. Remember us to the Hold Mother when next you speak with her.”

“I will,” Nikomedes promised.

Chapter 36: In Yagar, WeTrust!

Dressed in a uniform so bright it almost hurt the eye to look at, Admiral Yagar of the 25th Sector Guard strode through the airlock his Flagship had hard-docked only to pause on the ramp.

Nikomedes stared at him with the same attention one would give a rock-viper, knowing that the other man’s soul was as black as his uniform was white. How could it be otherwise when he was in service to his treacherous masters? It was almost a pity the man would never have the chance to redeem himself…almost.

“Greetings, Omicron,” Yagar declaimed, planting himself in the middle of the boarding tube while two quads of marines in power armor tromped past him to take up positions in two lines in front of him as he spread his arms wide. “I come with word from our new Masters, the Sector Council. The government has decided and made manifest, through our glorious new Elected and Appointed Sector Assembly, that it’s finally time to bring you, the residents of this former pirate station back into the fold of our wonderful Sector.”

Colonel Wainwright strode forward, leaving behind his Marine Officers and their guard of marines. The Admiral’s power-armored guards shifted slightly, to block the old Marine in his suit of old, battered Caprian power armor.

Nikomedes watched as Wainwright paused and stared coldly at the Admiral’s guards before coming to a metal-stomping halt, the joints of his power armor whining in protest.

“I greet you in the name of the Caprian Marine Corps; be welcome to this former pirate Station,” the Colonel said. The Admiral frowned at the word ‘pirate,’ but went back to smiling as soon as the colonel had stopped speaking.

“You have done good work here, Colonel, you and your men,” Yagar said glancing around with a self-satisfied smirk, “that’s why it is my distinct pleasure to arrive here with your promotion to Brigadier General, and a troop transport home.”

Wainwright looked taken aback. “We’re to be returned to Capria, Sir? But what about the station, or the men currently on your transport?” the Colonel frowned.

“Don’t worry your ground pounding head with it any longer,” Yagar said snidely before bringing himself to halt, and after taking a breath, he continued pompously, “sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“Yes it was,” Wainwright bit out.

“Colonel, this station is no longer your concern,” Yagar said in a soothing tone, “I have brought the men and ships necessary to secure this prize for our Sector Assembly.” He raised a finger to stifle a burgeoning protest from the Colonel, “The men on the transport signed up for an extended garrison duty, while you and yours did not. We shall simply move your brigade onto the assault transport as soon as the regiment currently aboard her have disembarked. A suitable escort to your home-world will be delegated, and your men can finally go back to Capria.”

Wainwright looked surprised and a little concerned. “Admiral, there are factors involved here that you need to be made aware of,” the Colonel said finally.

“Nonsense,” Yagar scoffed, “listen, Colonel, anything you have to say in confidence can take place after the Regiment of Sector Guardians has embarked and the christening ceremony renaming this station has taken place.”

Nikomedes noted that the Colonel was not refusing this pustule named Yagar’s assumption of control of this station. Knowing it was time to act, the Tracto-an swept up several of the Sundered with his eye and marched over to the boarding ramp.

“Admiral Yagar,” he called out as he approached the Admiral and his power armored guards. “In the name of Warlord, Jason Montagne, Protector of Messene and Admiral of the Confederation Fleet, I welcome you to this Hold as my personal guest. Make yourself comfortable in the newest possession of his Sword-Bearer, the Hold Mistress of Messene, with all the guest rights and obligations deserving of a man of your station. Welcome to Hold Omicron, Sir.”

“Now is not the time, Lancer,” Wainwright barked.

“Murphy avert,” Yagar cursed, forking his fingers to point at the quad of Sundered warriors who had fallen into formation behind Nikomedes, “what are those accursed things following behind you?!”

Nikomedes smiled broadly. “Guest Yagar, behind me are the Vassals of Hold Mistress Akantha and the newest citizens of her Hold. Let me make known to you Elder Puko of the Sundered people,” Nikomedes said gesturing to the graying Male beside him and hiding his pleasure at the increasingly agitated look on the Admiral’s face.

“By the Space Gods, they have cybernetics in the back of their heads, Colonel!” Yagar cried.

“Calm yourself, Admiral,” Wainwright said coolly and then rounded on Nikomedes. “Get them out of here,” he ordered, pointing to the Sundered.

“Puko is here to head your personal Honor Guard while you are a guest here on the Omicron,” Nikomedes proclaimed, deliberately ignoring the Colonel’s attempts to calm the situation.

“You seek to surround me with AI Slaves?” Yagar demanded, his face turning red and a vein started throbbing on forehead.

“Everyone, please remain calm,” Wainwright said, gesturing for his marines to move between Nikomedes, his Sundered guards, and the Admiral.

“Remove these creatures at once, Wainwright, or I’ll be forced to have them destroyed,” shouted the Sector Admiral.

“That is hardly the way to speak to your hosts, Sir,” Nikomedes said, moving quickly until he was face to face with the Admiral’s power-armored Guardians. “you are a guest here. Please make no further threats against the Hold Mistress’s vassals, or you will lose your guest rights.”

“I told you to get back, Nikomedes,” shouted Wainwright, rounding on the younger man and grabbing him by the upper arms as he shouted into the Tracto-an’s face, “leave or I’ll have you shot!”

“My first order as the new Military Governor of this Battle Station is to order the forcible evacuation of every non-human on board!” cried Yagar, his face as read as a beat. “Do you hear me Colonel? Send them away or I’ll have them cleansed! Now get these creatures away from me; I’ll brook no AI Slaves in my presence. Murphy knows what kind of plagues or viruses they could be transmitting just by being near me!”

“We don’t have the transport for that kind of operation,” Wainwright snapped, twisting around to glare at the Admiral without releasing the Tracto-an’s arms.

“Threaten my Lady’s sworn warriors again, and I’ll have satisfaction in blood,” Nikomedes leaned around Wainwright to yell.

“You need that briefing I spoke of, Sir, before you make any more mistakes,” Wainwright said, and Nikomedes caught the faintest sensation of movement. The Tracto-an barely had time to turn his head enough to take a power-armored fist to the armored side of his head, instead of straight through his now open visor and right in the face.

Even taking the Colonel’s gauntleted blow on his helmet staggered the powerful Tracto-an. His ears ringing and fighting for balance, he grinned down at the Marine Colonel. Wainwright was a true warrior, unlike this postulant Admiral with his fat belly and short stature.

“I’ll tolerate no more of your blunders today, Colonel,” snapped Yagar, turning to his Guardians.

“My blunders?!” Wainwright thundered, turning to the Admiral. His grip adjusted just enough that Nikomedes was able to shift his center of gravity and forcibly shrug off the Marine Colonel. Temporary freedom wasn’t enough, however; he needed several seconds. So hooking his heel around the Colonel’s leg, he shoved forward on Wainwright’s back, sending the other man to the floor.

Behind Nikomedes, the Sundered Warriors slammed their hands to the floor simultaneously and then crashed the hafts of their spears to their chests, all without moving a single step forward.

“Guardians, retake control of this area,” Yagar shrieked stumbling backward, “the Slaves are rising! Subdue them! Subdue them all and we’ll sort everything out later!”

“Aye, Sir!” shouted the power-armored Sector Guardians, leveling their blaster rifles at Nikomedes and the Sundered.

Clawing for his blaster pistol, Yagar pulled it out and fired, with one of his shots hitting Nikomedes in the chest.

“Semper fidelis!” the Guardians shouted as one, even as they unleashed a hail of blaster fire at the Lancer and the duralloy-armored, Sundered males crouched behind their shields. Only one of the four fell out of formation due to rifle fire, while the rest stayed upright.

Snapping down his visor and activating the light sword of power hidden in the grip of his metal gauntlet, with only a few inches of hilt sticking out to either side before the hidden blade snapped forth, and Nikomedes raised its glistening, white, crystal blade.

“Sic gorgiamus allos subjectatos nunc!” he screamed, launching himself forward and into the line of Guardians. Beside him, the Sundered leveled their duralloy-tipped spears and lunged forward.

Planting his Light Sword in the armored chest of the Sector Guardian in front of him with his power assisted muscles, Nikomedes quickly kicked him away. He started to step forward toward the Sector Admiral, who was now frothing at the mouth and firing at everything that wasn’t a Guardian, when Nikomedes took blaster fire in the side.

Pivoting quickly, the Tracto-an Warrior slashed out with his blade, cutting off the barrel of the Sector Guardian’s rifle where it joined the main grip of the weapons. The explosion that resulted from the damaged blaster destroyed one of the Guardian’s hands and spread metal and red bits of blood and bone in an upward arc. Staggered from the lingering effects of the Colonel’s head blow followed by explosion, Nikomedes lashed out with his sword. Metal shrieked in protest and the arm with the remaining good hand of the Guardian flopped, hanging by a bit of metal to the rest of the battle-suit, red flowing down his arm.

Ignoring the screaming Guardian, Nikomedes lurched forward, his sword raised high.

Unleashing a hail of blaster bolts into the Tracto-an’s visor, Admiral Yagar’s face twisted with rage. Whatever fear he had felt at the beginning of the fight had been washed away in the heat of combat, and Nikomedes felt a thrill like he had not experienced in many, many years.

Hearing the thunder of reinforcements streaming into the large open area surrounding the airlock behind him, and seeing more Guardians pouring out of the hatch leading into the Light Destroyer that was the Admiral’s Flagship, Nikomedes knew he had to press forward.

“Guardians,” raged Yagar, calling for reinforcement even as another Guardian—this one with a duralloy spear sticking out of his chest armor and laying on the floor—kicked Nikomedes in the leg and tried to grab his foot.

“My blade feasts well tonight,” Nikomedes bared his teeth with satisfaction as he dropped his knee into the visor of the fallen Guardian, trying to stop him with all the force and weight of the Tracto-an’s older style battle-suit. The visor cracked and the helmet bent, but the man below him was still flailing. Reversing his grip on the light sword, Nikomedes brought the blade down into the man’s chest armor where he estimated the Guardian’s heart was located.

The fallen Guardian’s body arched briefly and then went still.

Smoothly regaining his feet, the Tracto-an Warrior saw a pair of new, power-armored Sector Guardians draw even with the Admiral, one to either side.

“Suppress, subdue, and then eliminate the Uplifts, their traitorous AI sympathizers, and any remaining pirates onboard this station!” Yagar screamed, throwing his blaster pistol at one of the two remaining, original Sundered honor guards. Then, grabbing a blaster rifle from one of his Guardians, he bellowed, “Man, not machine!”

Running forward to meet the new threat, Nikomedes was determined not to let the Admiral escape. Seeing the new Guardians had plasma rifles—and were certain to get to him before he could get to Yagar—the Tracto-an Warrior gritted his teeth and did the only thing that was left for him to do: cut off the head of this invading monster. It was a simple truth that nothing could live without its head, but he had learned that particular lesson on Tracto during his youth, and it was a lesson that was still with him today. It applied just as much out here among the stars as it ever did back home.

“Argos!” the Tracto-an shouted, drawing back his arm. Whipping his hand forward with all the power in the battle-suit and his own considerably powerful thews, he threw the Light Sword of legend hurtling toward Yagar faster than the other man’s Guardians could interpose themselves.

Time seemed to slow down. The light sword spun end over end once, and the Admiral’s mouth opened to shout something. The sword spun twice, and then it rammed hilt first into the Admiral’s eye. Even though it struck with the cylindrical hilt instead of the sharp point of the blade, it struck with enough force to pulverize the eye and sink more than a hand’s width into the Sector Admiral’s skull through his eye socket.

The Admiral’s body arched and fell twitching to the floor, and Nikomedes had seen men dance like that before—the Admiral was dead, but he just didn’t know it yet.

“They’ve killed the Admiral,” screamed one of the Guardians.

Right fist drawn back, Nikomedes struck hard enough to crack the visor of the guard on the right of the Admiral and send him staggering. The other guard shot him in the side with the plasma rifle. Heat and pain such as the Lancer had never felt before lanced through his body.

“Argos,” roared Nikomedes his side on fire as he grappled with the Sector Guardian—he had to keep that rifle from coming to bear. Another shot like that and his now heavily-damaged armor would no longer protect him.

“For the Code,” came the battle-cry from throats deeper and rougher than any human voice, and seconds later the Tracto-an lancer was jostled first on his right and then his left as spear-toting, shield-wielding gorilla men pushed past him while blaster and plasma fire streamed past him from both directions.

A spear lanced out, punching through the visor of the plasma rifle-wielding Sector Guardian Nikomedes had been grappling with. The Guardian stiffened, and the Lancer gave a mighty heave and pushed the man to the side.

Bulling forward, arm raised to protect his already blaster-damaged visor, the Tracto-an forced his way to the fallen Admiral before the Guardians could drag their leader back. Even though he was certain Yagar was dead, he refused to take the risk that one of their magical healing tanks could heal even a scrambled brain.

Jerking from side to side as he took blaster bolts to his upraised arm, he ignored the weight of enemy fire until he took a hit to his chest armor that felt like the glancing blow of a stone rhino. His chest now on fire from a second plasma bolt—thankfully in an undamaged section of his armor—and Nikomedes hunched over the fallen form of the Sector Admiral. Grasping Yagar’s head with both hands, he twisted until he heard a crunch and then squeezed his magically-gauntleted hands.

Adjusting his grip, he stood up. Holding the head with one hand he pulled out the Light Sword of Power out of the Admiral’s eye socket, careful to only hold the hilt and not the edge of the blade.

Seeing their Admiral’s head in his hands, the Guardian’s roared their rage and a pair of hairy hands pulled the Tracto-an Lancer back by his shoulders.

“Release me,” he snarled, rounding on the Sundered who was holding him.

“We have this,” Puko popped his lips appraisingly

as he scanned the Lancer’s damaged armor, “go see a healer.”

“I can still fight,” Nikomedes growled, shrugging off the older male’s hands but when he turned back to the fight, a wall of Sundered had already moved past him. Unlike how the Lancers trained to keep distance and fight as fire teams, the Sundered moved in formation, their duralloy shields locked. The males stood to the fore, and the females to the rear firing blaster bolts around and between the legs of the males.

“World of Men,” Nikomedes cursed. If he wanted to push his way back into the fight at this point, he would have to push some Demon’s wife out of the way, and probably enrage one of the warriors currently busy fighting the Guardians. Even Demons did not take kindly to another man making any kind of physical contact with their mates.

“Push,” boomed Puko from beside him, and as Nikomedes watched, her Ladyship’s Vassals thrust forward with their spears and then shoved forward with their shields.

“We can’t get into the ship in time, not at this speed,” Nikomedes said, adjusting his grip on his sword and readying himself for a charge. They had to press forward before the Guardians realized they had the weight of numbers.

“Don’t worry so much,” Puko grunted, “we have boarders already crawling on the hull of the Destroyer.”

“What?” Nikomedes asked in surprise.

“We started moving before the peace fell apart. If there’s one thing we’ve learned, it’s that ‘negotiations’ with ‘monkey-boys’ always break down,” Puko said sourly, then the older male brightened, “the Coalition was more than willing to join us for the chance at a warship.”

“You brought in outside, non-aligned, war-bands?!” Nikomedes flared.

“The Hunt-Packs wouldn’t hire themselves to the likes of him,” Puko shook his head, “they either stayed neutral or came to us. It was an easy decision to make.”

“Easy,” Nikomedes said in a hard voice.

“They want to fight, and it’s better their blood water the decks than that of my people,” Puko snarled.

The Lancer’s lips twisted. This was the problem working with allies—everyone had their own agenda.

Before he could say anything else, he heard the tromp-tromp-clomp of power-armored boots coming up behind him and then the blast doors leading into the enemy Flagship sealed closed.

“Take a good look at that sealed door, and then tell me you’ve made the right decision for this Station,” Wainwright said icily as Nikomedes felt the muzzle of an oversized, normally crew-served ion cannon pressed against his helmet, “because this close, a bolt from my ion cannon will scramble your brains worse than you did for Yagar.”

“We’ve got boarders on the hull of the Sector Flagship as we speak,” Nikomedes said, ignoring the ion cannon.

“Boarders?! This wasn’t the only ship!” the Colonel snarled.

“There are other teams for the other ships,” Nikomedes shrugged.

“I ought to blow your head off for insubordination,” Wainwright snapped. “You couldn’t have known all of this was going to happen, and still you went behind my back.”

“The servant of betrayers will betray you; this is a well-known fact and saying in my land. My only surprise is that you are surprised by this,” the Lancer said evenly.

“You couldn’t know what would happen, and you had your orders,” growled the Marine.

“My orders are to hold onto this station as the matrimony of my Warlord’s future daughters—and to do so by any means necessary,” Nikomedes snapped back. “I had a plan for a receiving a proper guest, and I had a plan for a betrayal,” the Tracto-an decided to moderate his tone, to something more reasonable. “If this Yagar wasn’t like his masters, he would have challenged his overlords over their dishonorable natures, and we would be guesting him right now in the quarters I have prepared. But since he was not as you hoped, we are even now prepared to capture everything we can and destroy the rest with station weaponry.”

“I locked down the fire link,” Wainwright said in a low, hard voice.

“My people have them on manual control, and possess the override codes to lock out the fire control,” the Elder Sundered rumbled, shoving his spear’s tip between the two men and using it to lever the ion cannon away from Nikomedes head. “Fighting among ourselves is pointless. We are all on the same side, fighting the same foe—again.”

“You have taken away all my choices, is it?” Wainwright ground out.

“We are not your enemy,” Puko said evenly.

“Agreed. We are battle-brothers, forged in the same fire when we took this station,” Nikomedes assented.

“The Moral Code says—” Puko started as Colonel Alabaster Wainwright stood their glaring at the two of them.

“Of all the fie,” the Marine Officer snapped, “I am surrounded by crazy Uplifts and even crazier natives. Who would have ever thought the Uplifts to be the more understandable of the pair?”

The Marine Colonel activated his communicator, “Operation rapid response is a go. I say again, Operation Rapid Response is a go—we have ticks on the hull and it’s time remove them,” he said.

Nikomedes smiled. Akantha would have this Hold for her future daughters, and it was because of him. Who knew how the Marines and their leader would have jumped? That was why he had tried to take that decision out of their hands. He wondered what reward he would receive from the Beautiful Hold Mistress.

It was too bad her Protector was still alive…for if he was not, this kind of action would have surely won him significant favor in Akantha’s eyes.

Chapter 37: Thanks for the tribute!

“Do you want us to give the signal now, Captain?” the Comm. Officer asked with a thread of urgency running through his voice.

“Not yet, Comm.,” Captain McCruise replied, her eyes locked on the main screen, “we’ll let them get nice and complacent before we make our move.”

“Sir,” interjected her Tactical Officer, “they have to be halfway through their recharge cycle by now.”

“And well past the need for active sensor sweeps,” the hatchet-faced Synthia McCruise agreed.

“Protocol says to continue active sweeps whenever the ship is outside of dock,” the Tactical Officer said doubtfully.

“These are pirates, remember? The wolves of the stars,” she smiled tightly, “what do they have to fear three hours into an empty system?”

“That’s a big gamble, Sir,” the Tactical Officer finally said.

“Life’s a gamble, girl,” McCruise responded with a smile.

“For the record—” the Tactical Officer started.

“An objection is noted in the record,” McCruise said dismissively, her eyes still locked on the main screen, “we continue as planned.”

“Yes, Sir,” the Tactical Officer said unhappily.

“Oh, lighten up Malaria; we’ll have more than enough time with this convoy, even if we decided to wait for another hour,” McCruise said, leaning forward in her chair.

The Tactical Officer muttered something under her voice.

“What was that?” the Captain asked, her voice hardening.

A stir in the Sensor section diverted the attention of everyone on the bridge from the rising drama between the Captain and her Tactical Officer.

“What is it, Mister Koff?” the Captain demanded.

The Sensor Lieutenant turned to the Captain, his eyes shining. “You were right, Sir. They’ve just stopped actively pinging,” he said with controlled excitement.

“Lazy, pirate broads,” the Confederation Captain said with satisfaction. “I knew the girls over there couldn’t be bothered to stick to military protocol for any longer than they felt they had to.”

Lieutenant Koff’s brow wrinkled.

“Yes, Lieutenant?” the Captain asked impatiently.

“Um, studies show that absent outside factors, the average pirate is male, Sir,” he said hesitantly, “by a wide margin, I might add.”

“It illuminates one of the bigger flaws in the other gender,” McCruise said with an agreeable smile, “for as a rule, most women are smart enough to avoid a descent into general piracy and brigandage.”

Officer Koff blinked rapidly, looking confused.

“Don’t worry, Koff,” smirked the Captain, taking pity on the beleaguered Sensor Officer, “it’s like when newscasters talk about the woman-in-the-street perspective on planetary political issues. I’m simply trying to put myself in the shoes of the other side. Never having desired to be a man, and lacking hard intel on the opposing captains, I tend to assign an arbitrary gender to my opponents.”

“Of course, Captain,” Koff agreed, beating a hasty metaphorical retreat.

“Was there a purpose to that little charade?” McCruise’s First Officer asked in a low voice as she leaned over to speak in the Captain’s ear.

“Any further pings, Sensors?” the Captain asked in a raised voice, seemingly ignoring her First Officer.

“No, Captain,” Officer Koff replied, nearly jumping as he straightened from the console he was peering over one of his operator’s shoulders to see.

The Captain smiled with satisfaction

“The Bridge was getting a little antsy,” she muttered in a low voice to her First Officer, “this way, the five minutes or so I needed to verify inactivity passed without constant, potentially career-ending calls for us to do something precipitously.”

The First Officer looked surprised and then nodded before stepping back.

“Helm,” McCruise called out in a well-practiced Captain’s voice that carried across the bridge.

“Yes, Captain!” said the Helmsman.

“Let’s keep our drive emissions down, so point us at that convoy and take the engines to fifteen percent power, if you please,” Captain McCruise said.

“My pleasure, Sir,” the Helm said with excitement.

“Comm.,” the Captain turned to her Comm. Officer unhurriedly.

“Aye, Captain,” said the Comm. Officer.

“Contact the other ships via whisker laser; they are to match speeds with us and advance upon the enemy,” she said with a hungry smile.

“We’re already linked in via com-laser, Captain,” said the Officer, “relaying now.”

“Oh,” McCruise added as if it were something she had only just recalled, “you can also tell them the old battle-axe is finally ready to get off her duff.”

The Comm. Officer blanched. “Captain!” he spluttered, “why I would never.”

McCruise grinned. “Just yanking on your chain,” she glanced over at the Tactical Officer pointedly, “like a few of you have been doing to me.” She paused when she shot her eyes back over to the Comm. Officer, who was still looking dismayed, “Although I really won’t be offended—I was more than half serious about relaying that ‘battle-axe’ comment.”

“Hardly proper for a Communications Officer,” the Officer said a touch stiffly, “however, I am always ready to transmit the Captain’s words directly to her subordinate ship commanders. If you’ve got a transmission, Sir?”

“That’s alright,” McCruise said, hiding a smile behind her mouth, it was probably time to stop playing with her Officers and get back to work. She’d already had her fun, after all. “Let’s focus on those Light Destroyers, people, and remember they’ve got two freighters to guard, not just one—let’s divide and conquer.”

Chapter 38: The Furball

“They’re coming right for us!” screamed the Captain of the other Cutter on the Herring sub-channel

“Break right. Break Left!” Archibald screamed at his fellow captain. “Helm, take us around to guard their port side!”

“Shields to maximum, Captain,” shouted the Chief Petty Officer at the shield console.

“Aaagh!” Shrieked the Captain on Archibald’s screen as klaxon’s sounded in the background and a structural support beam cracked before falling on what looked like his sensor operator, crushing the hapless man on the other ship.

“The Horn Toad just lost her shields and is streaming air from multiple rents in her hull,” cried out Archibald’s Sensor Operator, “she’d not going to make it!”

“Get us on her port side, Helmsman! Do it now,” Archibald ordered, his stomach in his throat. “I don’t care how you do it—just get us there!” he cried, grabbing hold of the arms of his small command chair to keep from falling out of his chair as his little Cutter rocked from side to side.

“We’re not going to make it, Archie,” the Horn Toad’s Captain said, looking desperate and about to break under the force of the incredible strain.

“We’ll get there, Garros, you guys just hold on. Hold on, you hear me?” Archibald’s head snapped away from the main screen where the Horn Toad was being strafed by one of the Pirates Light Destroyers to glare at the other captain, “We’re coming!”

“Firing our lasers and blaster cannons now,” reported Archibald’s weapon’s officer.

“Take the pressure off them, anything,” the young Cutter Captain yelled.

“It’s been an honor, Archie,” Captain Garros of the Horn Toad said, looking green in the face.

“No!” the young Caprian Captain shouted at the screen built into his command chair, but the other Captain ignored him.

“There should be an opening soon, Arch,” Garros said, turning away from the pickup. Even as his own ship shuddered around him, Captain Archibald of the Red Herring Cutter, Silent Strike, heard his brother captain order, “All non-essential hands to the escape pods. Helm, set a ramming course for enemy Destroyer B.”

“Aye, Sir,” Archibald could hear the helmsman shout in the background while someone else started screaming that they had to run away. Garros’ First Officer moved across his screens field of vision and the sound of fist hitting flesh could be heard over the pickup, after which the screaming stopped.

“You don’t have to do this; we’ve got you, man,” Archibald pounded the side of his chair with a fist.

“Core’s going unstable,” Garros said with certainty, looking unsteady as he leaned over the side of his chair to throw up.

“Garros, no,” Archibald said faintly, “we’ve made it through worse than this and survived.”

“Tell the Admiral we gave them Hades,” the Captain of the Horn Toad said before the image on Archibald’s screen blurred and everything wobbled back and forth. When the screen settled again, Garros was on the floor. Heart in his mouth, Archibald watched as the other man dragged himself back into his chair. Having regained his post, Garros snapped off a quick salute and then cut the connection.

“We’re there, Captain,” cried Archibald’s helmsman, “we’re stuck to their port side tighter than a burr-tick; that destroyer won’t blast any more holes over here!” Then the helmsman’s voice wobbled, “Sir!” he cried, “they must have lost drive control—they’ve turned straight toward Destroyer B!”

“Pull off,” the young Herring Captain’s voice wobbled.

“What, Sir?” demanded the Helm, “We can’t just abandon the Horn Toad!”

“I said pull the Silent Strike off their flank and get us out of here,” Archibald said in sudden rage, finding himself standing before he even realized it, “they’re going to ram them, you fool—the Toad’s lost!”

There was a brief silence after which the young captain shook his head. “I’m sorry, that was uncalled for,” Archibald said.

“Escape pods are beginning to separate, and I think the pirates are starting to realize what’s going on. Destroyer B has just taken evasive maneuvers,” the Sensor Operator said faintly.

“Maneuver the Silent Strike for best advantage; I want as many of our blaster cannons and laser mounts brought to bear. When they ram we’ll pulverize anything that’s left!” Archibald said, uncaring of the tears streaming down his face. He knew that Garros, at least, wasn’t going to abandon his warship—someone had to ride the Cutter in.

“Aye, Sir,” his First Officer growled in her grizzled, well-trained, Senior Chief Petty Officer’s voice’s.

“Yes, Sir,” their Helmsman said after being prodded.

“It’s okay, Paul-Henri,” the Captain said, speaking to his Helmsman, “you’ve done a great job. Just do it again and get us in the sweet spot.”

“I can’t believe it,” cried his Sensor Operator as the Horn Toad slammed into the pirate destroyer on its starboard side and the little Cutter shattered into pieces.

“They’re not going to break through,” reported his weapon’s officer in a sad voice.

“The Admiral will be proud of them either way,” Archibald said, his ears feeling like they had been stuffed with cotton and his head placed under water as events continued to unfold on the screen.

Then there was a flash on the screen as the Cutter’s core went critical and exploded.

“They must have taken off the safety interlocks,” cried the Damage Control operator in horror.

“Take us in and give them both barrels…stand and deliver indeed!” Archibald ordered, everything snapping back into focus as he saw a giant gash open in the side of the pirate ship.

Chapter 39: McCruising through the Bumps

“We’ve knocked out their shield generator,” crowed Tactical, “now it’s just a matter of time.”’

“Status on Destroyer B; what’s going on over there,” McCruise demanded, pointing to that part of the main screen that showed the other side of the convoy, where a pair of Cutters were fight a Light Destroyer all on their own. “I ordered the Cutters to assist the Corvette against B, not taker her by themselves head-on.”

“Drive failure, Captain—make that, Commodore…the pirates got in a lucky shot,” reported Tactical after a moment.

“Not good enough, Tactical,” McCruise snapped as one of the Cutters, now leaking atmosphere, rammed into the side of the enemy Light Destroyer, “raise the Corvette.”

“The Captain says he’s sorry, Commodore, but his ship was hit in a critical relay and it caused a power surge. It’s going to take time to get back into the fight,” reported the Comm. Officer.

“Sorry,” McCruise said with blood in her eye, “I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry that because his ship’s a piece of refurbished pirate junk and he couldn’t keep her combat active that people died. Including,” her eyes were riveted on the main screen as a massive secondary explosion completely destroyed the remains of one of the Cutters and caused major damage to the pirate escort, “one of our ships!”

“The Captain is offering his resignation, Sir,” the Comm. Officer winced at whatever he was hearing over his head set.

“Cut the channel,” McCruise growled, “I don’t have time to hold hands.” She rounded on her bridge crew. “Helm, go to full speed and bring us around the starboard side of A. Tactical, tell Gunnery to rapid fire their weapons until the focusing arrays over heat and the crystals fracture. I want Destroyer A out of the action, and I mean now!” McCruise snapped, then waited until the ship began to move before continuing, “After we come around their back side and get a few shots up the kilt at their engines, Helm, I want you to bring us around to Destroyer B—we can’t let a Cutter face a Light Destroyer all by itself!”

Medium and heavy lasers lashed out, pummeling the hull of Destroyer A and punishing the pirates for the actions of their kin on the other side of the convoy.

“I’m reading heavy air venting on Destroyer A,” Sensor’s reported right before their own ship was rocked by a hull-penetrating laser strike which saw the lights dim slightly.

“Shields are spotting on the port side and I can’t transfer power fast enough to compensate, Captain; recommend we roll,” called Shields.”

“No,” McCruise said flatly, knowing that if they saved themselves from damage now, they were going certain to lose the other little Cutter. “Steady as she goes, Helm. Shields, you’re just going to have to do your best.”

“Aye, Sir,” they chorused in response.

Gunning its engines, their Heavy Destroyer took the hits and gave worse than it got as it spun around Destroyer A. Air streamed out of both ships from rents on their respective hulls, but the pirate ship was by far the worst of the two.

Then the Heavy Destroyer came around for a pass on the Light Destroyer’s engines. Realizing its plight, the pirate Destroyer gunned its engines and tried to spin away from primary arcs of McCruise’s weapons.

“You’re only going to have a short time on target,” said the Helmsman in a rising voice, “they’re just too fast.”

“We’ve got this,” the Tactical Officer snapped in a cold voice before clicking on her microphone, “Gunnery is to fire the moment a shot becomes available—target those engines, boys, and make it count!”

Captain McCruise crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair. It was time to do that hardest thing in a commander’s lexicon: stand back and let her command team fight the ship, which meant doing absolutely nothing.

As the Heavy Destroyer finally gained their firing angle, the pirate Light Destroyer tried a desperate roll of their ship. Such a maneuver wouldn’t keep the stern of the ship out of range of their weapons, but it would make a precision shot that much harder for McCruise’s gunners.

Seconds later, heavy and medium lasers speared out almost as one to strike the newly-presented stern of the Pirate ship.

“Smoke one pirate!” said the Tactical Officer with satisfaction, and McCruise cracked a smile as one of the enemy destroyers two main engines—the engines that gave her superior speed and tactical maneuvering ability, compared to the tougher, Confederation vessel of McCruise—guttered and died as they were hammered by Confederation weapons.

“Good job, team,” McCruise said loudly.

“Commodore, if we come around for just one more pass, they’ll be out of the fight for good. Then we can finish with the other one,” Tactical Officer Malaria said urgently.

McCruise hesitated, feeling torn. She hated to sacrifice another Cutter…blast that Corvette, anyway!

“One more pass,” she said reluctantly, feeling as if a claw had grabbed her heart in its sharpened grip, as she mentally sacrificed the second Cutter to the greater good.

“Commodore,” the Comm. Officer said in a hurried voice, “I have the Captain of Destroyer A on the link—she’s begging for terms!”

“Her?” McCruise said, temporarily taken aback that the Captain actually was another woman. Generally speaking, the feminine half of the species was smarter than to fall to piracy, but relief passed through her like a wave, “accept her surrender on the condition that she eject one of her fusion cores and powers down everything else! Tell her if she complies they’ll get life on a penal world—otherwise, it’s out the airlock when our marines storm her ship!”

The Comm. Officer hurriedly spoke into the miniature microphone next to his mouth, and the rest of the bridge crew watched with bated breath as he turned back to Captain McCruise.

“They agree!” he cried.

“Helm,” McCruise said urgently, “as soon as they dump their cores, we head for the remaining Destroyer.” She rounded back on the Comm. Officer, “Tell that pirate witch that she either dumps her core now, or we come back for another pass!”

“Aye, Captain,” the com-tech said with a sharp nod and focused once again on his transmitter. Moments later, one of the pirate’s fusion cores was ejected into space.

“Setting course for Destroyer B,” the Helm reported as the icon on the main screen went to full thrust and changed its heading.

McCruise just hoped they weren’t too late.

Chapter 40: The Silent Strike!

“We’ve hit them good, Captain,” the Weapon’s Officer shouted, “but their shields are starting to reform.”

“Blast,” growled Archibald.

“Sir, we have to withdraw,” exclaimed his XO, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“No, the Horn Toad and her crew sacrificed too much,” Archibald declared adamantly, feeling close to tears.

“If we die then the Toad’s sacrifice won’t mean spit,” she retorted angrily, “get us out of here, Captain; we can’t take much more of this.”

Captain Archibald’s mouth twisted and he reluctantly opened it to give the order she wanted. But his resolve hardened before he could do so, and he changed his mind.

“No, Auntie, we won’t retreat,” he said, ignoring the look of outrage that flashed across her face at the title. “Besides,” he grinned, “who’s to say we’d make it out? No, we’re not withdrawing—we’re going in.”

“That’s suicide, Captain,” the Senior Chief Petty Officer said.

“Her shields are starting to stabilize, Captain,” reported the Weapon’s Officer.

“We’ll last a lot longer in tight with that destroyer than we will out here,” he said with a decisive nod before turning to the Helmsman. “Pilot, take us over to that Destroyer—we’re going to board her before her shields rebuild!”

“Hold on to your backsides,” the Helmsman acknowledged after an audible gulp, and the Silent Strike lunged toward the Light Destroyer like a lapdog pursuing a pit-bull.

Archibald leaned back in his chair, his own eyes wide with horror at his brief, likely ill-advised audacity. He thought he finally knew what it was like to be the Admiral on one of his death rides heading straight down an enemy’s broadside.

Chapter 41: Conflict Resolution 101

Atkins came in with an overhand right that clipped me behind the ear and had me seeing stars. I had tried to duck, but obviously hadn’t succeeded. A left popped me in the nose before another right went straight to the gut.

It was the first match of the evening, and if I’m being perfectly honest, I was getting my butt kicked. Give me a warship, or a power-suit, or even a stupid sword and blaster and I’d hold my own, but this fisticuffs business was for the dogs. Fighting the urge to double over, I swayed to the side and only realized after the Armsmaster’s fist whiffed past my nose that I had unknowingly avoided another blow.

“Had enough, Your Majesty?” asked the Armsmaster, his teeth bared in a smug grin. He didn’t even look winded!

There was no way I was walking out of this one on my own two feet, and the Armsmaster had all but humiliated me with his boxing skills. It was time to mix things up—if I was going down, it would be on my own terms, not being picked apart in the middle of the combat circle playing someone else’s game.

“No time for dancing and recovery during combat, Sir,” the other man mocked, making a come hither motion with his hands. “Trust me, you don’t want to make me chase after you.”

Baring my teeth—blood-streaked as they no doubt where—I pulled back my right hand and launched myself forward. Atkins bobbed to the side and I missed, whiffing through the air once again as you’d expect, but this time the fist was only a decoy—I really meant to grapple.

He rabbit punched me in the side, and from the pain I experienced I could no longer deny that the time away from Akantha had made me weak. He then kicked me in the leg—hard. I hadn’t been inspired to exercise in order to save my life, and it was finally clear that I’d let myself go.

I brought an illegal elbow to the back of his head, and finally I’d managed to land a glancing blow. It wasn’t my first hit, but it was the first blow I’d launched with a real chance of doing some damage. Encouraged, I leaned forward with my arms reaching for purchase.

With a one-two combination, the Armsmaster vented his reaction to my action with the savage force of a pair of body blows. It hurt and took more than a little out of me, but it also let me in close. Grabbing the back of his head, I brought up a knee, seeking to strike his chin with a knockout blow. But I wasn’t quite as limber as I could have been, and although I got that knee up to chin level, he managed to jerk back just enough that I only grazed him on the cheekbone.

“Blighter,” he cursed, trying to muscle free and when he couldn’t do so, he smashed forward with a head-butt. I’m certain a greater man, with a more noble bearing would have almost certainly had a broken nose after a hit like that, but to my continued shame my nose was not—and never would be—described as great. Flat and wide, certainly unintimidating, the only way people would sing odes to that nose would be if I paid them hard credits to do so.

Even though my nose hurt so bad tears threatened to pour from my eyes, nothing was broken and I should have been counting my lucky stars. Instead, I got distracted with the insane idea that I would have exchanged a broken nose for a magical change to a prominent, noble nose in a heartbeat and took a blow to my inner thigh—the Armsmaster was going for a crippling blow!

Snapping back to reality, I focused back on the clinch and when the Armsmaster tried his next move to break free, I put him in a head lock. He rabbit punched me in the side, while I squeezed his neck between my arm and my side.

“Dirty pool old man?” I gasped at him, knowing I’d started the illegal blows with the elbow. “I like it.” I lied through gritted teeth. It was all I could do to hold onto him, even with a slightly superior position of leverage.

The Armsmaster growled in response and redoubled his efforts to pound his way into my stomach with his fists through my exposed side.

When his hand started crawling up my chest and to my face and a finger poked me in the eye, I’d had enough. The next flailing finger went into my mouth and I bit down—hard. It was one thing to fight dirty, but it was another to go after my eyes. I needed those to run the fleet, and this man needed a lesson.

The Armsmaster screamed, and in his thrashing we went over sideways and crashed to the floor.

In the scramble, my shoulder was wrenched almost out of its socket and I started to wonder that if there were any lessons to be taught that day, would any of them be taught by me?

Finding myself behind the Armsmaster, I rolled to my knees and wrapped my good arms around his throat. If I couldn’t win on my feet, maybe I could choke the blighter out.

I held on grimly as he tried to pummel me by striking out behind him with his fists in the general location of my face. I could hear the cheers of the Tracto-ans and the groans of the Armory team as the Armsmaster rolled and writhed, trying to throw me off. Holding on grimly, I knew that if he got free it would be the end of me.

A lucky, flailing blow to my face followed by a powerful twist of his body and I felt my grip started to slip. I tried to leverage against my other arm to keep a grip on throat, but the supporting arm was the same one with my wrenched shoulder and I couldn’t put as much power into the motion as I needed.

An alarm klaxon sounded.

“Red Alert,” shrieked the overhead speakers, “Red Alert. This is not a drill. All hands, man your battle-stations, I say again—all hands, man your battle-stations!”

“Saved by the bell,” I gasped at the Armsmaster as I released my hold. I would like to say I instantly sprang to my feet and got up, but sad to say that even with a red alert blaring in my ears overhead, I couldn’t muster the strength.

“Rematch,” demanded the Armsmaster.

I closed my eyes. “Of course,” I snapped. I couldn’t let any hint that I wasn’t up for another beating pass my lips or cross my face while my Lancers were present.

The Armsmaster extended a hand and, the tired fool that I was I knew I couldn’t get up on my feet otherwise, so I took it.

After he helped me up to my feet, the Armsmaster leaned in close and whispered.

“You’ve got potential, but you’re too hesitant to go for the low blows,” he said into my disbelieving ears, “need to work on that.”

I stared at him in disbelief and then snorted. A snort turned into a laugh, and my ribs and various bruises on my body gave vent to their displeasure causing me to wince.

“Now that’s an accusation I haven’t heard before,” I spluttered, as a pair of Tracto-ans in power armor hurried over to escort me to the bridge. In all honesty, I could use the exercise slash training, but getting my face beat on wasn’t how I enjoyed spending my evening. Whoever said a stressful day of watching for Bugs should be capped off by having your face beat in was probably insane—or a Tracto-an.

Chapter 42: Bugs, Bugs, Bugs

“Report,” I snapped the moment the blast doors leading to the bridge slid open. I wasn’t even through the doors when I started barking out orders, and I didn’t care. We were on the tail end of 2nd shift, and it was almost my usual sleep time. I’d been beat up by the Armsmaster, and now we were about to be attacked—all in all, probably not a great way to go into a battle.

Not that I expected the enemy to do anything but inconvenience me as much as they possibly could. That’s why they were called the enemy, even if they were questionably sentient/non-sentient Bugs.

“We’ve got a Large Harvester and what look like two dozen assorted Regular and Marauder class Bug Scouts,” Officer Eastwood drawled in response.

I looked around the bridge, as it didn’t seem like Captain Laurent had made his way up here yet. Since I’d not been the fastest of responders due to being down in the training facilities doing what passed for my evening calisthenics, this was cause for some concern.

“And us with only a pair each of Cutters Corvettes,” I muttered, not adding that our Heavy Cruiser had already been damaged during the last several engagements with the Bugs. I grimaced when I saw the 2nd shift bridge crew glance at me. I needed to keep up a confident front, so I cocked an eyebrow and went for my most arrogant expression, “Too bad they only sent one Harvester, eh?”

Officer Eastwood looked at me decidedly nonplussed and grunted. “If you say so, Admiral, but I’d prefer less of them. Still, any dead Bug is a good Bug, as far as I’m concerned…so the more, the merrier, I guess,” said the Easy Haven transferee.

“Cheer up, man,” I scoffed, “and if you can’t, then at least look on the bright side.”

Eastwood frowned at me questioningly and I smirked in response. “At least you’ll be able to break another microphone on the altar of Bug combat,” Eastwood flushed a bright, scarlet red that started at the top of his chest and went all the way up to his hair line, “I hope you had Tactical stock a few spares during our latest recess.”

“Sorry, Sir, I’ll try to contain myself this time,” he said stiffly, and then seemed to draw himself up. “Does the Admiral plan to engage this group also, or let them go?”

“The Admiral,” I said with a blast of heavy irony in my voice, “intends to blast every Bug heading for Tracto to the Demon’s pits.”

“Very good, Sir,” Eastwood said, his tone implying as far as he was concerned the opposite was true.

“What word from the other captains, Comm.?” I asked turning stiffly to the communication’s section.

“The other ships of the fleet report that they are ready and awaiting your orders, Admiral,” the Comm. Officer reported.

“Good,” I said decisively and then quirked a smile, “although, we’re hardly big enough to be termed a ‘fleet,’ I think.”

“The Admiral is here personally, along with multiple warships bearing the Confederation Flag,” Eastwood broke into the conversation pointedly.

“My presence doesn’t substantially increase our ships or firepower,” I frowned and then smoothed my face.

Eastwood looked like he wanted to say something, but he shook his head and closed his mouth just as the blast door leading into the Heavy Cruiser’s bridge swished open.

“Sorry,” Laurent muttered when I glanced over at him with a questioning expression, “I got stuck down in environmental. They’ve had to make some adjustments after losing two thirds of our hydroponics.”

I nodded as if with understanding. I really didn’t want to show that I hadn’t the faintest clue what kind of environmental crisis could have us still breathing clean air and somehow trap the Captain below decks.

On the main-screen, the various Scout class ships almost seemed to wander around aimlessly. I would have thought them aimless, except they never went more than 90 degrees off course for the still distant Tracto Star System.

The Large Harvester, on the other hand, continued to point unerringly toward the Star System that was their target. Whenever it would start to pass the various Scouts, they would almost casually change their course and speed to stay ahead of the Harvester, only to once again begin wandering around when they got too far from the largest Bug vessel.

“Send a message to our other ships, general channel but still encrypted,” I said, feeling much more confident of what I was supposed to do as an Admiral with a Captain on deck. After several battles and a lot of face time in front of the computer running practice simulations, I almost thought I was qualified to armchair quarterback someone else’s fleet operation.

I shook my head as I knew that I had no real business doing this job. “If they insist I be put back in charge of their fleet, who am I to argue?” I whispered under my breath and then caught myself. I was a man hardened by prison, torture and betrayal I reminded myself savagely, the doubting Admiral of yesterday was gone. He’d tried, people died—it was time to stop trying and just do.

“I’m sorry, Sir, but I didn’t catch that last transmission for the other Captains,” the com-tech said for what I realized had to be the second time.

I purpled with embarrassment. I was a Prince of the Caprian realm, and these sorts of things should be happening less, not more.

“I want them to proceed to these coordinates,” I replied, flipping open my data slate and making a few quick calculations before reading off the numbers to the tech, “after which I’ll give them their next orders.”

Captain Laurent was looking at the main screen and then down at his own data-slate before sidling up beside me. He almost seemed to be waiting for something, but when he didn’t speak right away, I just sat there glaring at the screen. If my eyes were turbo-lasers, those Bugs would have been deep-fried by now.

“Those coordinate will send our lighter ships through the edge of their formation unassisted,” the Captain murmured in my ear.

I wrinkled my forehead and waved my hand to shoo away the uncertainty. “They won’t be unassisted,” I said with a nod at the main screen, “I’m sending all four of them together on this run.”

“Those are light ships, Sir; they’re not meant for charging enemy fleets,” Captain Laurent demurred in a quiet voice.

“They’re going to tear through the edge of the Bug formation, not the center of it,” I disagreed instantly with this challenge to my orders, “the coordinates I’ve given will take them across the Bugs’ edge.”

“What if the Bugs change course to intercept? They could be in the middle of a furball,” Laurent disagreed once again.

I gave Laurent an assessing look, wondering if this a blatant challenge to my authority. “Our light warships are superior to their light warships in just about every conceivable way,” I said coolly, “as such I am unconcerned about their chances against a few Bugs.”

“And if the Large Harvester manages to get within range, Admiral,” Laurent said in a loud enough voice that I could see shoulders twitch and ears cock to listen in, as bridge crew realized there was a disagreement in the chain of command.

“They can always maneuver for best advantage if necessary, Captain,” I drawled, as if unaware of the listeners. The best way to downplay the situation was to act as if it wasn’t as big a deal as it was, “I just want them to cut the edges and start trimming the Bugs we’ll be facing at once down to a manageable number.” I could see the moment the Captain realized he’d started to attract unwanted attention, as he froze before continuing in a lower tone.

“Yes,” Laurent whispered pointedly, “but those aren’t the orders you actually gave. You just issued them a set of coordinate points and told them to achieve it. Those Captains out there aren’t Confederation Officers—they’re not even trained Caprian SDF, for the most part they’re young ratings. Former bridge crew off the Clover and my Tactical section!” he finished quite heatedly. “They need to know what they’re doing and why, or this will turn in a real donnybrook the first time things don’t go according to plan.”

I blinked. It was an interesting point, and probably accurate as well. I’d just assumed that the captains would be smart enough to figure out what I was ordering and why, and that was my first mistake. Then I’d assumed they would react like I would if things got stood on their head, namely maneuvering for advantage to stay out of trouble for as long as possible while giving the Bugs what for. From the thrust of Laurent’s argument, I now had to assume this was mistake number two.

“If we’re not going to go in there with the Heavy Cruiser as close support for those boys and girls, I recommend explaining what you want and issuing less restrictive orders, Admiral Montagne,” Laurent continued, when my silence had gone on for too long…at least in his opinion.

I felt a flash of irritation but quickly thrust it aside. I was angrier with myself than I was with the Captain, to tell the truth. “A good point, Number One,” I said evenly.

Laurent opened his mouth as if to object to something and then closed it, a faintly sour expression flitting across his face before disappearing entirely to be replaced by what I could tell was genuine relief. Wondering what all that was about, I shook my head before turning to the com-tech, glad that we seemed to be able to get on the same page.

“Comm., open another channel to the captains of our Cutters and Corvettes; I want to talk with them directly,” I said in my best Admiral’s voice—one that brooked no comment or dispute.

“Yes, Sir,” replied the com-tech.

I sat there in my command chair, waiting patiently until the Tech looked over to me and nodded to indicate the connection had been made. “You’re live, Admiral Montagne,” he said seriously.

Straightening up in my chair to present the most royal image I possibly could, I mentally wrapped my office of Admiral around me like an invisible cloak. It’s not that I wanted to be the Admiral and lead them into battle, but I had to and I couldn’t even say I would bow out, given the option. I’d made a promise to the people of Tracto—both the natives on the world and the Belters up in space—and until the Bug menace was dealt with, and my pirate uncle who had conquered their system was no longer a threat, I couldn’t step aside. For better or for worse, I was their Protector. That meant that I had to keep this fleet together, and these Bugs held off…at least until the time was right! Then, let my uncle and all the naysayers reap the whirlwind that was Montagne Vengeance—Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet style of course.

“Captains of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet,” I said as soon as the screen had filled with the images of Laurent’s fellow captains throughout what was left of the fleet, “We stand on the doorstep of a new millennium. Friends, comrades, fellow Confederals…” I wound down to a slow halt the little speech I’d been planning ever since our last battle. The words were sitting poorly on my tongue, so I shrugged and realizing I was staring off into space before tossing out the rest of the speech.

“Look, Captains,” I said, pausing to meet each man’s eye, “I’m detaching you to make harrying attacks that cut through the edges of the formation. Your task will be to whittle down the number of Scouts, since there are too many for us to take on straight up—especially with that Large Harvester waiting in the wings. So do as much damage as you can while hitting around the edges, but don’t get trapped, and most importantly, don’t get your ships shot out from under you. We need to stop these Bugs from hitting Tracto, but just as important is that we keep our assets in optimal condition—that includes our persons. It does us and Tracto no good if we get blown up out here.”

The light warship captains nodded, and I saw them exchanging glances by the way their eyes shifted from side to side. One of them, braver than the rest or possibly just more foolish, nodded his head again. “We won’t let you down, Admiral,” he said quickly.

“Although a few of us,” another captain cut in, “have had questions from the crew about why we’re out here when the pirates could just as easily be dealing with these Bugs, Sir.”

“It’s not that we’re not with you, Admiral,” the first captain said, emphasizing my rank and shooting a glare over at the other man, “it’s just some rumbling from the lower decks.”

“I completely understand,” I said, flashing my patented royal smile to cover the flash of rage that ran through me. I took a small, short breath to lower my temperature before something hot and angry came roiling out my mouth. These are my loyal men, I firmly reminded myself, relaying honest concerns.

The fact that I was unwilling to share the entirety of my plan with them after the way I’d been betrayed at the Omicron, with spies and insiders working against me at every turn, I had decided the need to keep my plans a secret were paramount. I couldn’t risk my uncle getting word early and queering the deal, but these men were literally bleeding with me, so I needed to keep that in mind.

“In fact, I share many of your concerns. However,” I paused to give the word heavy meaning, “while we don’t have time to go into the all of it now, let me assure you,” I could feel my eyes turning red as I considered my revenge against that traitorous cur of a pirate uncle, “that I speak from the depths of my soul, that no one wants to see Tracto saved, the pirates crushed, and these Bugs dealt with once and for all more than me.”

Realizing that at some point I’d come out of my chair, and I now stood with a clenched fist raised and pointed at the main screen, I suppressed surge of humiliated embarrassment. I had to soldier on and not let them see how out of control I’d been, so with a flourish I sat back down in my chair.

“Dealing with these Bugs ourselves is not some emotional, rage-driven decision…nor is it the strategy of a desperate man,” I said in a much cooler voice and I smiled. From the looks of the men on the screen, it wasn’t as reassuring a smile as I’d first assumed. “I may have been captured…we may have been captured before,” I corrected myself, “that said, if you take a look at the record, the only people that have survived the fury of the MSP have been the ones who cut and ran at the first opportunity. Cowards, in other words,” I sneered derisively. “This time we’ve got them right where we want them. This time…” I was breathing heavily, with my best attempts to stay cool and collected failing once again as I imagined paying back those pirate dogs for what they’d done to us, “this time we’ll do to them what we tried to do the first time.”

The captains looked more than halfway convinced, except for the doubting Thomas who had been questioning me all along.

“And if they try to run away when we go after them again?” asked the doubtful captain.

“Greed,” I said simply.

“I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t get that last part?” the Captain asked with a look of confusion.

“They’re sitting on enough Trillium to run three sectors,” I said dismissively, “they’ll only bug out when they know they’re whipped. Not think—know. This is the big score, and everyone knows it.”

The doubting Thomas started to open his mouth, but I cut him off with a gesture. “You’ve got your orders, men,” I said sharply, “so let’s be about it.” I clapped my hands and motioned for the com-tech to sever the connection. I hadn’t meant to allow my order clarification to turn into a general question and answer session on the mission of the fleet as a whole, but it was done and over with.

The com-tech cut the connection before they could do more than acknowledge their orders. On the main screen, the Bug ships were getting closer and several seconds later the two Corvettes and the two Cutters still accompanying the new Flagship lunged forward.

“Bug sign; it looks like they’ve spotted us and are flaring their drives to intercept, Admiral,” reported the Sensor Officer.

“Steady as she goes, bridge,” I said in a loud, carrying voice.

“Yes,” echoed Laurent eyes flickering toward me and then back to the rest of the bridge, “steady on crew, and wait for further orders.”

“The light squadron is making its attack run,” reported First Officer Eastwood in a professional voice, just before the Sensor Officer could say anything. It was almost comical to watch the Warrant Officer slowly close his mouth and turn back to his Sensor section with a faint look of dissatisfaction on his face.

“And there they go,” reported the Sensor Warrant right before Eastwood had the chance. On the screen, the small squadron of light MSP warships smashed into a corner of the enemy formation. They tore through the Bugs, leaving one Scout destroyed and another pair streaming atmosphere.

“Looks like they’re being followed, Admiral,” the Sensor Officer said uneasily as a half dozen undamaged Bugs started in on pursuit, evenly split between Marauder and basic Scout classes. The two already damaged Scouts fell in behind their undamaged brethren, and a total of eight Scouts headed off in pursuit of our light squadron.

Of course, that left something on the order of fifteen smaller Bug ships and a Large Harvester coming right for us—long odds, if it was just the Flagship.

“What are our chances of plowing our way through those escorts and slugging it out with the Harvester without being destroyed?” I asked Laurent casually.

Captain Laurent looked over at me sharply and then stepped over. “No chance,” he said flatly.

I looked at him disgustedly. I was used to a little more gilding of the lily in these sorts of situations, something like: ‘somewhere on the order between slim and none, Sir,’ or perhaps ‘Not very good,’ or even, ‘we’d need Murphy’s own blessed hand hovering over us to succeed with such a…daring maneuver.’ Sadly, there seemed to be little levity in the ship’s captain right then, and I heaved a sigh.

“Well then, I guess we’ll just have to work on evening up the odds a bit first, hmm?” I said with a faint smile to show that I wasn’t in the least bit concerned. Even though in the back of my mind, where no one else could see, I was very much quite concerned.

The Cutter and Corvette group advanced far enough beyond their pursuers that they started arcing back around with the eight Bugs still in hot pursuit. They dodged around the rear end of the Bug formation and swooped down below to avoid the Harvester as they tagged another pair of Scouts on the edge of the Bug formation before once again arcing out wide.

“Bug Scout Marauders entering extreme range,” reported the sensor warrant.

“Gunnery is to fire upon targets of opportunity, Tactical,” Captain Laurent ordered.

“Targets of opportunity, aye, Captain,” replied Eastwood before relaying the instructions into his microphone.

“Any orders for a change of course, Admiral?” Captain Laurent asked.

I suppressed a start; staring at the tactical picture was much more mesmerizing when I wasn’t playing a computer simulation and had actual people and ships on the line. Plus, keeping track of multiple groups of ships was a different experience from just dealing with a single, powerful battleship.

“Adjust course down ten degrees and over fifteen degrees to starboard; I want to cut through the bottom corner of their formation,” I replied as smoothly as I could manage.

“Course adjusting, Admiral,” DuPont exclaimed with excitement.

Captain Laurent frowned but didn’t say anything.

We could tell the moment we came into Bug range, as they commenced firing in all directions. Our laser cannons thundered in response—well, ‘whined’ might be a more accurate description, but in my mind they thundered, especially when they tore into the hulls of the Bug Scouts and Scout Marauders.

“Shields to 72% and falling,” the Shield Operator reported mere seconds into our passing within firing range of the Bugs.

“Recommend we roll to give our starboard side a chance at some of these Bugs and compensate for overheating, Captain,” Eastwood suggested.

“The Harvester is turning toward us and increasing speed, Sir,” the Sensor Warrant reported.

“Roll the ship to compensate,” I instructed DuPont.

“Port shields starting to spot,” the Shield Officer said in a rising voice.

“Don’t adjust shield power to compensate; keep the starboard side strong, Shields,” Laurent barked at Shields.

“Rolling now,” DuPont declared, right on the heels of the Captain’s declaration.

On the screen, the Gift ponderously rolled to present a new facing to the Bug scout ships, and the moment it did a renewed storm of fury lashed out from our as-yet silent starboard broadside. One, two, and then a second pair of Bugs broke in half or imploded to go silent and dead in cold space.

“Steady on, Helm,” Captain Laurent’s voice cut across the bridge, “and prepare to adjust our course to compensate; that Harvester’s increased its speed.”

“Yes, Captain,” growled DuPont his hands tight on his controls and his face locked on his piloting board.

“Comm.’s,” I said, turning my head to the com-tech, “the detached squadron is to continue coming about until they are on a course to pass just behind our ship. Advise them that we intend to cut the corner of this Bug formation as well.”

“Yes, Admiral,” the man at communications replied. He turned back to his console, “Relaying now.”

“We’re gaining some distance from the targets now that we’ve destroyed the close ones, but those scouts will be back on us in no time,” First Officer Eastwood reported from his station at Tactical.

“Steady as she goes,” Laurent told the bridge—mostly speaking to the Helmsman in my opinion.

“Detached ships are coming fully about and accelerating towards us,” reported the Sensor Warrant.

“Two Scouts coming up fast,” barked Eastwood, “recommend the Helm fishtails the ship so gunnery can get in a few good shots and shake them off, Captain.”

“We’ll lose our forward motion, Admiral,” DuPont exclaimed, “and then we’ll get even more Bugs on us than if we’d continued straight forward.”

I glanced over at Laurent, whose eyes were boring into my own. I could tell he wasn’t happy, probably because Eastwood was talking to him, and like a kid going to another parent hoping for a different answer, DuPont was trying to get me to override the decision.

“I think the First Officer’s suggestion is a good one, but then I’m always up for a good Bug roast,” I said loudly, still meeting Laurent’s eyes. “However, since it’s your ship, Captain,” I stressed the rank, “why don’t you decide?” There, I thought with satisfaction, Laurent gets what he wanted, a clear display of support for him as the new ship’s captain, while I’m still shown as being the ultimate power in charge. If anything happened to go wrong—as things often did in combat—while I might still be on the hook for the blame, the Captain would be there right alongside me. Win-win-win.

Plus, as the Captain was a trained tactical officer, we’d likely get the best decision for this situation.

“Fishtail the ship,” Laurent ordered, sounding more grim than usual.

“Yes, Captain,” DuPont acknowledged, sounding less than excited by these new orders.

“Gunnery, you are to keep your eyes on your target reticules and prepare for targets as far back as your weapons will turn or depress. We’ve got Bugs circling up on our rear,” the First Officer growled, giving his microphone a good thump on the desk for emphasis.

Almost reluctantly, the ship began to adjust its course. While still moving forward, we were now turning slightly, first to one side and then to the other.

At the epoch of one turn, a pair of heavy lasers lanced out behind us and at the furthest extent of the other, an entire quad lashed out.

“A hit,” reported Sensors, “the second Bug ship is now venting atmo into space.”

The sense of relief at this news was slight, yet palpable, but relief turned to dust in my mouth as soon as I saw both Bug Scouts were hot on our tail—and another five of their brethren were on the way.

“At least our focusing arrays will have a few minutes to cool down,” the Captain said to me in a low voice.

“Every cloud must have its silver lining, I suppose,” I said with a sigh. “At least we’ll be ready for blasting a few more scouts out of cold space.”

“That’s always possible,” Laurent conceded.

I looked over at him with surprise, and the Captain just shrugged and pointed over to the main screen.

“I’m afraid that unless something changes, we’re going to be in range of that Large Harvester before we get too much further. They managed to press their engines faster than I thought possible.”

I looked back at the main screen with a jolt, and then used my data slate to pull up the Bug Harvester’s acceleration profile. “They’re moving as fast as a Medium Harvester,” I protested, although who or what I thought was listening to my exclamation of unfairness and going to do something about it was anyone’s guess.

“Possibly we should have ignored Clinton and gone with our Helmsman’s advice,” Captain Laurent said with a scowl.

“It was a command decision,” I said dismissively, even though it took me a couple seconds to recall that ‘Clinton’ was the first name of our new First Officer. Although, now that I thought about it, neither the Captain nor the First Officer were as new as they had been almost two months earlier when we left Wolf-9 in the Easy Haven star system.

“Even still,” Laurent said, looking displeased with himself.

“We make the best decisions we can at the time and move on. Victory or defeat is the final arbiter of whether it was ultimately a good decision or not,” I said, politely not mentioning that there was another final arbiter outside of fleet or ship actions—mutineers and rebels. Because if your crew decided you weren’t doing a good job and threw you in the waste recycler, then you quite clearly hadn’t been doing a good enough job.

Laurent looked surprised and then impressed. “I forget sometimes that you never went to the Academy…any academy, really,” he said finally. “You take to command like a duck does to water. It must be your royal blood.”

“Thank you…I think,” I said, looking over at him quizzically.

Laurent took a deep breath and the Helmsman goosed the bow thrusters, giving the ship an extra eighth of a turn and a Scout exploded on screen as half the port broadside thundered its fury.

“The cost of command,” Laurent said, nodding at the main screen and the horde of Bugs rapidly overtaking our aged heavy cruiser, “that’s why I mustered out of the service a Warrant. I never went for the academy or command, the price…” he trailed off, “it wasn’t just lack of connections. There are ways around that, it’s just not something I wanted badly enough, I guess.”

“Lost ships and body bags,” I agreed, running my tongue over a tooth as my upper lip curled in sympathy. I knew the price of command plenty well, since every time I turned around my choices seemed to cost someone his or her life.

“Some might call that a calloused response, Sir,” Laurent said looking down at me, his mouth an even line.

“Well,” I frowned up and him before shrugging it off, “some might say that not aiming for officer during a fleet career and then talking about not wanting command after making Captain makes them unsuitable—or even a coward.” Laurent stiffened, the corner of my mouth on the opposite side of the Captain quirked, “But I say smoke those blighters. What do they know anyway? We’re out here, they’re back there, and the high and mighty ones that were supposed to know about these things went and made my uncle a Captain, appointed Yagar a Rear Admiral, and every single one of them left this fleet to die on the vine.”

Laurent blinked and then his face twitched, “An interesting position to take, Sir. Some might say unconventional, maverick, or even…,” he looked like he wanted to say something more but stopped himself first.

“Well, I’ve never been a conventional sort of Admiral,” I started, but was interrupted by a vigorous snort from the Captain. I cocked a grin in his direction even as I unconsciously stiffened my back to assume a more princely demeanor.

“You can say that again, Sir,” Laurent snorted, “’unconventional’ is your middle name.”

“Yes, well, again,” I said, a frown starting to form, “I have little use for those old men.” My gaze hardened in remembrance, “Politicians of any stripe have only brought me humiliation, pain, and death. Let them come, I say; they’ve already used up the last of my good humor. If what they want is a war to the knife, then I’ll grab a broadsword and shove it up their—” I broke off. There was no need to go any further; a royal and a prince—not to mention an Admiral on his own bridge—had no business descending into coarse vulgarity merely over the fact that someone had tortured and tried to kill him.

I hadn’t really understood that before, but now I did. If we didn’t have courtesy and civilization then we had nothing. Nothing but a bloodthirsty, blood feuding, vengeance seeking—I broke myself from my ruminations, “Revenge is a dish best served cold, or so they say.” I knew I was speaking more to myself than to the Captain, but that was less important than the sentiment I was trying to express, “and while my wife might disagree, I intend to give cold revenge a try.”

Captain Laurent’s eyes became hooded.

“If it pleases, I think we’ll need to deal with these Bugs first, Admiral Montagne,” he said in a stiff, formal voice.

“No worries, Captain,” I said easily, as if he hadn’t just shut down emotionally, “as far as I’m concerned, these Bugs are as deserving of my efforts as any other who’s tried to harm us. I mean,” I added absently, “at least they’re honest about it,” I tried to explain, “killing and eating us in job lots, that is. There’s little room left for treachery and deceit. It’s almost refreshing in a diabolical, doomsday sort of way—at least compared to dealing with politicians.”

Seeing I was only digging myself a deeper hole, I rolled my eyes and splayed my fingers before turning away in disgust. This should be a lesson: commiserating with an underling and baring your soul didn’t always produce the expected results. It was probably something best to avoid doing again in the future.

Fortunately, while we—I?—had been talking, the Light Squadron had arrived and were just now beginning their attack run.

“Captain Gardeto reports they are beginning their attack run, Captain,” the com-tech said, turning around in his seat.

“Good to know, Comm., but Fleet communications should go to the Admiral first,” Captain Laurent replied, his voice moderating the rebuke down to a simple reminder for the future.

“Thank you, Sir,” the tech said, turning over to me and opening his mouth.

“I already got the message, com-tech,” I assured him, covering a smile with my hand. There was no need to make the man think that I was making sport of him.

“Yes, Sir,” he said faintly before turning back to his console.

Suppressing a sigh, I said, “Make sure to signal my acknowledgement of the message.”

“Anything else, Admiral Montagne?” the com-tech said more formally than usual.

“I have nothing to add at this time,” I frowned.

“Yes, Sir,” he said, turning back to his console.

Feeling dissatisfied, but with no outlet upon which to vent my rising spleen, I turned back to the main screen and what I saw brightened my day.

“There they go,” growled Laurent as the two Corvette, two Cutter short squadron rushed into the breach, “a good thing, too; our shields can’t stand up to half a dozen Bug ships for long without spotting rather quickly.”

I winced, as the last thing we needed was our engines shot up, especially with that Large Harvester barreling towards us like some kind of angry space hydra eager to cut us up and consume our flesh.

A sudden flurry of light and medium lasers lashed out from the short squadron, as the little warships tore into the center of the enemy formation. It took the Bugs precious seconds to refocus their weaponry from taking pot shots at our rear and randomly firing off into space, to acquire our lighter warships as their new targets. By that time, another Bug was reeling out of their quasi-formation, streaming atmosphere and an already damaged Bug scout imploded, sending hull fragments and globs of quickly frozen internal liquids spraying out into space.

The battle wasn’t entirely one-sided, unfortunately, and a lucky strike penetrated the shields of one of the Cutters, sending it careening away at high speed. That left one Cutter and the remaining Corvettes in the middle of the bugs.

The space around our little ships seemed to light up as everyone, Bug and MSP warships alike, lit up every weapon they had.

One of our Cutters was venting atmosphere and the other cutter was moving at half speed by the time our ships cleared the fray. However, in their fury to hit our warships the Bugs hadn’t been careful with their fire and they took almost as many hits from their own forces as from our plucky little fighting ships. Two more Bugs had gone cold and silent, their backs broken, while another exploded into a cloud of green and brown goblets composed of expanding atmospheric gases and internal juices. Two more Bug ships were damaged, and as I watched and our short squadron pulled away, one of the damaged Bugs suffered an explosion on the side facing the center of their formation.

“What was that, Sensors?” Laurent barked.

“Sorry, Captain,” replied the Sensor Warrant, “it looks like the Bugs fired a number of their dumb-fire missiles. Amazingly, it hit one of their own ships instead of ours.”

“Ha,” Laurent laughed, “friendly fire isn’t, eh lads?”

“Stupid Bugs,” I heard someone mutter.

“Bugs on our nine-o’clock,” cried Eastwood, causing a fervor of activity to cascade through the Tactical section, “going weapons-free on your order, Captain.”

“You have it, First Officer,” Laurent cursed, “give them the Demon’s own time of it.”

Looking back up at the screen, I saw that while we’d been patting ourselves on the back over the destruction of the Bug Scout pursuit group, the Large Harvester had come within striking range of the Flagship.

“Firing turbo-laser now, Captain,” Eastwood, said reaching down to bark into his microphone. Apparently he didn’t like what he heard, as he immediately started pounding the base of the microphone on the desk of his console while shouting, “well get them retargeted and then to send that Harvester straight to Hades!” he snarled into his speaker.

Almost tentatively at first, our turbo-lasers started to pound into the hull of the Harvester. First one, and then a second, until finally all three of our remaining, functional turbo-lasers on that side of the ship lashed out with rising fury to stab the nose of the oversized Bug ship.

“Five hundred meters of pure mean,” Laurent said, pointing at the Harvester as our Heavy Lasers started tearing away at its reinforced front, “they don’t make them much bigger.”

“I hear the Heavy Harvester Class is almost seven hundred meters in length,” I demurred, “and while they vary in size, the mother-ships always dwarf anything else they have.” I could tell the moment the massive Bug ship came into range, as its icon on the main screen was almost as big as our own.

Laurent grunted in response.

“Besides, we have shields while they don’t,” I made sure to point out, even as our Shield Operator started calling out our now rapidly falling shield levels.

“They also still have around a dozen scout ships,” the Captain retorted as half a dozen scouts came around from behind the Harvester and added their weight of fire to the mix.

“Blast,” I scowled, my eyes turning to rapidly search for our short squadron, maybe they could be of some help. When I found them, I saw that our little warships were dealing with a half a dozen Bugs of their own. I saw a scout explode, and then one of our Corvettes, the one previously damaged, go dead in space as it suffered a massive systems failure. Seconds later its primary fusion core ejected, and I stifled a curse as I knew it would only have a pair of backup nuclear fission piles for energy. That was assuming that those hadn’t also been knocked out, and that the Bugs didn’t finish them off before they could recover—or be recovered.

“The short squadron won’t be of any help,” I observed as the Cutter that had been going at half speed suddenly exploded, taking a Bug scout with it, leaving a pair of our warships to deal with the four remaining Bug ships. Far from providing help, those little warriors over there needed ours and we were completely unable to give it.

“Scratch one scout,” crowed one of our tactical trainees, only to be smacked on the back of the head by Eastwood.

“Man your post and call down targets to the gun deck—that kind of happy horse-hockey has no place on a warship,” snapped Eastwood. “We have a chain of command for a reason, and wiser heads than yours have set it in place.”

The trainee looked abashed and I wasn’t entirely sure I agreed. I mean, I liked the bridge participation—at least when we were kicking hind ends and taking down the names.

As I watched, another Bug scout was taken out by our portside gunners and all thoughts of espirit-de-corpse versus dull and boring, quiet professionalism (something I had yet to really experience) were knocked out of my head.

“Shields are down to 20% and falling,” snapped the Shield operator, cutting through the din of voices and activity as our ship struggled to compensate with the strain of combat, “we’re beginning to experience severe spotting! Recommend we roll the ship now, Captain!”

“Roll the ship,” I ordered before Laurent had the chance.

“Make it so, Helm,” Laurent growled.

Seeing that our Helmsman had already started to roll the ship before the captain had given his confirmation, I shrugged. If I gave an order then I expected it to be carried out, or be given a blasted good reason why not. Like, ‘if you do that, Admiral, the grav-plates will fail and we’ll all be turned into crushed little piles of blood and bone,’ now that was a good reason to wait for confirmation from someone more experienced. But my command style was all about results and getting things done. I’d learned that doing something, or sometimes just anything, was preferable to just standing there doing nothing while the enemy came at you. If this was sometimes at odds with the ‘Fleet Way’ of doing things…too bad—I was the Admiral.

“Now I understand why you never promoted Tremblay to Captain,” Laurent grumbled in a voice loud enough that only I could hear it.

I cocked an eyebrow at him, confused since I’d never trusted the man far enough to give him that kind of power. Was Laurent saying he himself wasn’t trustworthy, or was this once again something that I was missing about how a ship with a captain was supposed to be run? It was probably the latter, now that I thought about it.

Our roll completed, the fresh broadside which had been focusing on harrying attacks by Bug Scouts renewed its thunder against the Harvester that had just come into the sights of its gunnery teams. Another Scout exploded just before the Harvester began taking heavy damage itself.

“We might just make it out of here without losing our engines,” Laurent said with surprise as a third Scout went dead in space, leaving us facing only three of the little Bug ships—and the much bigger Harvester, obviously.

Then the weight of the Harvester’s full power focused on us in an explosion of beam and missile attacks from both of its sides. Even the Scouts seemed to marginally increase the accuracy of their attacks, as fewer shots spewed out in every direction and almost three fourths of their attacks struck our weakening shields.

“Shield failing on the starboard side and down to 60%—no, 54% to port,” snarled the Shield Officer as the ship bucked and writhed beneath us.

“Significant damage to hydroponics two,” the new Damage Control watch-stander from our previous battle said, sounding unconcerned. The bridge crew, on the other hand, groaned in unison.

“They just fragged hydroponics again?!” cursed an overwrought yeoman as the ship shuddered.

“Backup power relay system damaged,” called out the Damage Control watch-stander in an obvious response to the crew’s concerns, “primary system still intact.”

There was a cheer as the Harvester started venting gases, but both it and my rising spirits plummeted when the visible air leak quickly trailed off.

“Pour it on, Gunnery; give it to them with both barrels,” ordered Eastwood from his position at Tactical, giving his microphone yet another good thump for emphasis.

“Shields critical,” cried the Shields operator right before he pounded both hands on his console, “shields have collapsed! It’s going to take at least fifteen minutes to reform them.”

“Assuming we have fifteen minutes; this battle will be long over by then,” snapped Laurent, “thank you, Shields, but we’ll take it from here.”

One thing was for sure: our shield system wasn’t nearly as robust as on the Lucky Clover. It was just another way in which our old battleship was superior to this refurbished piece of pirate junk, ‘Little Gift’.

I knew one wasn’t supposed to denigrate the ship I was on, nor was it entirely fair to compare our old battleship to this even older, smaller vessel, but I couldn’t help myself.

The Harvester temporarily lost power right before our broadside fell down to a third of its former ferocity.

“What’s going on, Tactical?” I demanded.

“Overheated barrels and focusing arrays,” reported Eastwood.

“Blast,” I muttered angrily as the Harvester came back up to full power and resumed blasting our exposed hull.

“Maybe we should roll the ship,” I offered, thinking out loud.

“No,” Laurent demurred, “without shields by the time we turned we’d have just taken more damage—this is knockdown, drag-out fight to the finish. We can’t risk exposing our back; we have to hold, Sir.”

Sitting still while we were mercilessly pounded on by Bugs wasn’t my idea of a good time, but in the face of my Captain’s certainty I bit my tongue and stared unblinkingly at the main screen.

“Then hold we shall,”’ I said after regaining my composure. The only thing harder than standing by and doing nothing was standing by doing nothing while other people died—it seemed I was destined to do both.

Hold we did, against a withering storm of bug attacks.

“I’ve got missiles,” snapped the Sensor Officer, “they’re on close approach.”

“Switch every weapon that can be brought to bear over to point defense,” the First Officer barked into his microphone, not waiting for orders from me or the Captain.

Our gunners sent rapid-fire streaks out to every missile they could reach. Seconds later, there was a massive explosion on the side of the Harvester as those guns that couldn’t easily be switched to point defense punched through the side of the overgrown Bug.

“Good job, turbo-lasers,” cried Eastwood, who was accompanied by a cheer from the rest of the bridge right before several missiles slipped by our point defense screen.

The bridge’s cheer hadn’t even finished when The Gift was struck by a hammer of the space gods.

“What the blazes,” Laurent cried after being tossed across the bridge. A moment later, the power cut out. Long seconds passed before the dark red illumination of the emergency lighting came on.

“The main power distribution system that runs throughout the ship was just cut and we lost our last hydroponics bay,” Damage Control reported in a tight voice.

“Get power restored here, immediately, Damage Control,” I snapped.

“Sorry, Sir, I’ve got no access to my console for the rest of the ship. Everything is dead,” reported Damage Control coolly.

I looked over at her in disbelief. “You just said we lost hydroponics; you can’t have lost all access if that’s the case,” I said scornfully.

The Damage Control watch-stander looked at me levelly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t clearer, Admiral,” she said strictly, “I’m still getting reports through the wireless,” she pointed to an ear bud and small microphone attached to her ear. “I can get reports from auxiliary control, Engineering, and can even listen in on the general damage control channels. My ability to respond is extremely limited—nothing like I have when my console is activated.

“Blast,” I ground out with frustration and the ship shuddered again, “well, do the best you can to get us back into operation. We need those outside links.”

“Yes, Sir,” she replied and focused back on her headset.

Several long minutes passed before power suddenly returned to the bridge.

“Rebuilding our scan picture,” the Sensor Officer reported tensely.

The first thing to reappear was the Large Harvester. It appeared mostly intact, except for a big, gaping hole in its side. Thankfully, it was silent and unmoving and its power signature was minimal.

Where the remaining Scout Marauders had been harrying us, there was only a scattered debris field.

“What happened to those scouts, Sensors?” Laurent demanded as he made his way back to his usual post.

“I’m not sure, Sir,” reported the Warrant Officer.

Just then, some of our smaller laser mounts fired into what appeared to be empty space.

“Get your men under control, Tactical,” growled Laurent.

“Aye, Sir,” grunted Eastwood. He spoke into his horn and then looked back over at the Captain with surprise. “Sir,” exclaimed the First Officer, “the Chief Gunner reports that the gun deck never lost power. They took out the scout ships, Captain.”

“Pass the men my compliments,” Captain Laurent said after a moment’s pause, “and find out why they’re still firing.”

“My compliments to the men as well, First Officer,” I added.

Eastwood glanced over at me and then focused back on the Captain. “They say they’re firing at large, borer Bugs, Captain,” Eastwood said stiffly.

“Boarders,” hissed Laurent.

“Communications, inform the Lancer and Armory departments immediately,” I snapped, turning to the com-tech, “they are to armor up and prepare to repel boarders!”

“On it now, Admiral,” replied the Com-operator.

“What’s the status of that Harvester?” demanded the Captain, but I had other concerns.

“Where are our lighter ships—whatever’s left of the short squadron?” I said, cutting over him.

The Sensor Officer looked back and forth between the two of us and then quickly conferred with his team.

“The Harvester’s down for the moment, although we’re seeing signs of increasing activity,” reported the Sensor Officer before turning back to me. I hid a frown of displeasure at the Officer answering Laurent’s question first, but let it slide for the moment as he continued briskly, “as for the short squadron, the Corvette,” the Officer said interrupting my paranoid train of thought, “the Rapid Ranger, while damaged, still seems to be moving under her own power.”

“The others?” I said impatiently.

“I have a dead Corvette and a floating Cutter on my plot, and as the Admiral will recall, the other Cutter was destroyed,” reported the Sensor Warrant.

My heart clenched in response to this information. Three out of four of the smallest ships of my fleet had just been destroyed or rendered inoperable; now all that was left was one damaged Corvette, and a badly damaged Heavy Cruiser.

“First Officer, I want that Harvester completely destroyed as soon as possible,” I said angrily.

“Helm, as soon you have control you are to roll our ship and bring our other broadside to bear. We’ve taken significant damage from that Harvester on the presented facing,” Laurent cut in.

Seconds ticked down as the Harvester’s systems reactivated, and more marine and borer Bugs began jumping from the Large Harvester in a growing wave. It felt like an eternity as the Gift slowly rolled over to present its still mostly functional broadside at the 500 meter bug ship.

“Come on,” I whispered under my breath, silently urging the Heavy Cruiser to move faster. I wasn’t the only one who flinched as the first Bug beam weapon lanced out to strike our damaged top hull, but fortunately it was only one shot. Although it was followed several seconds later by two more, and then the Harvester almost seemed to twitch…its drive didn’t activate, but I would have sworn—

“Ranging on the Harvester in three-two-one,” Eastwood called out in a clear, calm voice.

“Fire as she bears, Tactical,” Captain Laurent ordered, staring hotly at the main screen.

The Captain hadn’t even finished speaking, certainly not enough time for Eastwood to have relayed his orders, before our gunners fired.

Turbo and heavy lasers tore deep gashes deep in the nose of the Harvester, causing a minor amount of venting to occur. The Bug fired back with half a dozen weapons before falling silent. This time, we didn’t stop firing until our lasers were tearing through one side of the bug and coming out the other.

“Helm, please prepare to reposition the ship behind the Bugs. I want to make sure her engines are destroyed before calling it,” Laurent ordered calmly, “as well as avoid as many of those boarders as we can.”

For a moment I was taken aback, and then I realized that unlike most bug ships, even most Harvesters we had run across, this ship hadn’t broken apart or shattered into pieces before we killed it. I scanned the hull of the Bug ship intently, but the only difference I could see was the big, gaping wound in its side that had originally knocked it out of action. We hadn’t had time to finish it off like we had the others, and it made me wonder if this Harvester had managed to isolate the damaged part first.

Minutes later we had destroyed the Harvester’s engines and left her dead in space. Unfortunately, we were starting to get reports of borer and marine Bugs on the hull. But we’d regained engine control, and somehow managed to get away from the Harvester in time to avoid the majority of the wave.

Chapter 43: Not Quite Fix’ed

He was the very model of a recently upgraded space engineer.

The old engineer working beneath the main power relay whistled tunelessly as he disassembled the unit. Nice to finally be able to get some work done without interruption, he thought with a sigh.

A throat cleared behind him and the multi-tool in his hand activated before he could stop it. Growling under his breath, Spalding pulled back enough to pop his head out from under the relay.

“What the blazes is it, Park—” he ground to a halt and stared at the vision above him. Realizing his mouth was hanging open like a fool, he snapped it shut and squinted upward. “Oh…it’s you,” he said flatly. Then with a ‘harrumph,’ he thrust himself back under the relay.

The throat cleared above him again, and the old engineer found his shoulders hunching. “I’m busy,” he said shortly.

“You know what they call this little pet project of yours don’t you?” the other asked archly.

“No time for gossip ‘round here,” he blustered, grabbing an auto wrench and banging it against the undercarriage of the relay before sinking it into a stan-bolt he hadn’t meant to get around to for another ten minutes at least.

“’Spalding’s Folly,’ they call it, you old coot. Do you know why that is?” the other engineer asked rhetorically.

“I don’t particularly care for the—“ he snapped, but the other cut him off.

“Because we’ve got a battleship in that accursed, flexible shipyard of yours, another one—” this time she was the one to be cut off.

“It works!” he interjected defiantly. “A thing is only ‘accursed’ if it fails in some way, but the Duralloy II did the trick, just like I said it would,” he bragged. He was about to go on, but as she did habitually, she spoke back over the top of him.

“Another one, the Royal Rage, is practically in pieces waiting to go in as soon as the Armor Prince is patched back up and out of there,” she continued. “And to top it all off, you’ve got everyone—including all those green-as-sin new recruits—working overtime to build a new shipyard which is bigger than anything I’ve even read about!”

“The best way to learn how to do a job is just to do it,” he growled, shoving himself out from under the relay to wag a finger at her admonishingly. “Those recruits and construction workers need to learn by doing—and that’s another thing, Glenda; speaking of jobs, why aren’t you busy over there doing yours?!”

“You’ve been hiding out in this miserable excuse of a lander, a type of small craft not used since for almost two centuries because it was tossed in the trash bin of outdated and impractical technologies by every single government, and you have the gall…” her face turned red with outrage as her voice began to tremble. “You have the complete and utter gall to lay there on your back and accuse me of shirking my responsibilities?!”

“Now, Glenda,” Spalding said a might testily.

“Don’t you ‘now Glenda’ me,” she snarled, “shoving the work off on me and the others while you get to play around with your pet project—”

“Now hold on just a bloomin’ minute,” Spalding snapped, pushing himself the rest of the way out from under the relay and getting to his feet, “this here isn’t some pet project; it’s a top-secret weapon that’s going to save the day!”

“No,” Glenda Baldwin retorted hotly, “you’ve got a crew of civilians and greenhorns trying to rebuild a Dreadnaught class and an unprecedented shipyard. That battleship and those yards are what’s going to be saving your bacon,” she yelled, poking her finger in his chest, “not some love project you’ve locked yourself away in this last month or more!”

“I gave clear instructions on what was to be done,” Spalding glowered at her.

“You left the work and yard crews without a leader,” Baldwin cried in exasperation.

“What do you mean, ‘without a leader’?” Spalding said scornfully and jabbed her in the chest with a finger of his own. “Why, I left them with you, didn’t I? Drafted you into the fleet and put you in charge of the repairs and new construction and put you at the top o’ the food chain.”

“I’m a civilian! I’ve always been a civilian; I’ve never even worked on a project like this before. Simultaneously expanding a shipyard and rebuilding a battleship!” she glared at him. “I could have used a little bit of help, but nooo,” she drawled, extending the word sarcastically, “someone was too busy with more important work—like rebuilding this lander from the ground up—to spend more than two days a week overseeing the larger project at hand,” she finished with a shout.

“You’re in the navy now, so buck up and no more of that civilian nonsense out of you, lass,” Spalding said mulishly and they brightened, “but this here lander—”

“A pox on your Lander!” cried Baldwin. “And a pox on your fleet! I was pressed—Shanghaied, even! And to think that such things still happen in this day and age is a disgrace.”

“Hey now,” Spalding glared at her, “you where honestly conscripted, and I don’t want to hear any grumblings otherwise.”

“It’s those battleships that are important,” Baldwin said angrily, “although I don’t even know why I care.” She then turned the full force of her withering regard upon the old engineer, “As only a fool or a moron would place a conscripted person in charge of their shipyard.”

“Blast it, woman,” Spalding spluttered and then addressed the last part of what she’d said, “A fool, is it?! I’ll have you know that no member of the Fraternal Order of the Hammer and Wrench—”

“Don’t give me that old saw,” Baldwin blinked at him,

“I’m a member of the Order, too! Although why you lot made it the ‘Fraternal Order’ and then actively encourage women to come into it was never entirely clear to me.”

“Now, now, lass,” Spalding said soothingly, “if and when there are more women than men in our beloved mechanical Order, you can vote to change it to the Maternal Order of Hammer and Wrench.” He barked out a laugh, “That’ll be the day, ha!”

The former Construction Manager rolled her eyes in patented disbelief.

“Although,” Commander Spalding continued, thinking out loud, “I find it hard to believe you can’na understand why the Order seeks to fill our halls with more of the feminine half.”

Baldwin lowered her head and stared at him through her eyebrows.

“I mean, it just plain makes sense,” Spalding said waving wildly into the air, “if ye’ve two people who can rightly do the same job in your Fraternal Hall, wouldn’t you rather have it be a pretty lass, rather than some old Joe with his crack hanging out the back end of his trousers?”

Baldwin’s mouth fell open and then her face flushed with outrage. “Why, of all the cheek and nerve, you have finally outdone yourself, Mr. Spalding,” she snapped.

“Commander,” the Old Chief Engineer corrected absently, his eyes catching back on the power relay and the job still to be done.

“I beg your pardon?” Glenda said stiffly.

The old Officer started to reply and reluctantly looked away from the power relay. “You’re in the fleet now, girl,” he said as kindly as he was able, “and I just made Commander.”

“I’m sorry, Commander, Sir,” the former Construction Manager huffed with outrage, “although, as I will remind his Officer-ship, I hardly qualify as a girl anymore seeing as how I’m already a grandmother and an Engineer with more than three decades worth of experience!”

“Never fear, lass,” Spalding said with a soothing smile, “you’ll always be a girl, in my book.”

The former Construction Manager turned Yard Supervisor turned a brilliant shade of purple before taking a few deep breaths.

“I mean, I respect you, of course,” the Old Engineer said cautiously, “why, I don’t have a more qualified person in the yard to run the yard, and being a grandmother only raises you in my eyes…” he trailed off, seeing that no matter what he said, it only seemed to make things worse.

After a tense, awkward silence, Spalding asked cautiously, “Was there some specific reason in particular you chose today to come and take a peek at this top secret project? Some problem with the Armor Prince, perhaps?” he asked, hoping to divert the conversation back to safer paths.

Glenda Baldwin took several deep, calming breaths before shaking her head at him. “Yes,” she said flatly.

“And?” he asked leadingly.

“We’ve got a new repair job,” she ground out.

“I understood that already,” he sighed. Honestly, talking with women was almost like pulling teeth sometimes, he thought exasperatedly. “There’s always a new job to be done; what makes this one special enough to drag me away from here?”

“Well, after the way you sent away that Cutter off with the New Dream—you remember, the one Admiral Montagne sent over here for repair—I’m not entirely sure you will be interested,” the former Construction Managed sneered.

“New ships?” the Old Engineer asked eagerly, but seeing the angry expression still on the yard’s second in command, he took a deep breath. It looked like he was going to have to address that Cutter, “Now, see here, lass; I need those reactors and generators from the broken up Settler Ship over in AZT, and that Constructor of yours needed to get out of here somethin’ terrible. Lettin’ the Constructor do the repairs on the little Cutter on the way meant that Minority Owner-on-board got himself the escort he’d been belly-aching about for weeks, and he was out of my hair before something terminal happened.”

Baldwin snorted derisively, making it perfectly clear what she thought about sending away the Constructor with nothing more than a damaged Cutter in need of repairs to defend her.

“Yes, new ships,” she said almost reluctantly, and then as if a dam had broken, the aging lady engineer became more animated. “Apparently there was a big raid of some kind; we’ve got a battered Cutter, a Corvette that keeps losing power during combat, and…,” she paused for effect, “a trio of newly captured ships: a Light Destroyer and a pair of armed Freighters. ‘Tribute ships,’ I think the officers who brought her in on that damaged Cutter and Corvette called them. Anyway, they’re all knocked up and banged around, in need of repairs.”

“Oh,” Spalding said feeling intrigued, despite the critical nature of the project right in front of him.

“So are you coming, or do I need to come back with a couple T-95 construction robots and drag you out of here by your nonexistent hair?” she asked mildly.

“Hey, no digs about the hair,” the Spalding said defensively, his hands going back up to where his magnificent ‘do used to be located before realizing how he must have looked doing so. He stiffened and scowled down at her, “Besides, that kind of talk’s mutiny!”

Glenda Baldwin narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m sure you’d do worse if you’d a mind you had to,” she said evenly.

“Yes, well…that’s not the point,” he glowered before finally throwing his hands in the air and stomping out of the lander.

Chapter 44: Spalding Reminisces on the Prince

“This is what you called me all the way out here to deal with?” the old Engineer blurted, unable to believe his own eyes.

“I just thought we’d take a small detour,” Glenda said with a smile.

“Misappropriation of resources, and the deceiving of a Confederation Engineer!” he shouted, feeling his ears turning red right before a side party of Engineers descended on him, all of them eager to for his advice.

“No-no-no,” he said testily, “you can’t cross-connect an environmental sub-node controller to one of the ship’s backup generators because you’re running out of connection points on the nearest power junction. You have to either put in a new port, or,” he lifted a finger when the young engineer looked like he was about to interrupt, “run a new connection all the way from another junction further up the line.”

“But on the Clover I saw that Environmental had a sub-node in the same location tied in directly to the backup,” protested the younger engineer.

Spalding glared at the young lad. “Never you mind all that, lad; you get the line boosters and run it in right. And don’t even think about splicing in on another line instead of running it right to a power relay!”

“But back on the Clover—” started the young lad, and for a moment all the Old Engineer could see was red.

“Listen here, you young sprout: this here is a yard operation, see?” Spalding growled, activating the plasma torch in his pointer finger and shoving it up until the tip of the flame was almost touching the underside of the young engineer’s chin. The younger man cried out and backed away as Spalding continued, “We don’t need any battlefield modifications being done here in the shipyard. You do the job, and you do it right the first time. Why, if I catch you so much as using our sweet girl’s name in vain one more time to excuse your miserable attempts at engineering, I’ll-I’ll-I’ll,” he stammered and all the other torches in his fingers activated.

“Now, now,” said the sweet voice of reason, grabbing his elbow and frog-stepping him away from the growing confrontation.

The Old Engineer took several deep breaths but didn’t seem able to calm himself. Looking around the shuttle dock and then the corridors as Glenda escorted him through the ship to the Chief Engineer’s office onboard, he felt his heart clench. It was so much like, and yet at the same time so unlike, his beloved ship it made him want to cry or break something—or somebody—in half. Preference heavily on the breaking something, of course; it was a terrible urge for any Engineer to have, but he couldn’t deny it.

“It breaks my heart every time I step aboard the Prince,” he said sadly.

Glenda looked at him with surprise. “Really? I would have thought you’d prefer the familiar surrounds of a Dreadnaught after having spent so many years in one. I mean, after the way you go on and on about the Lucky Clover,” she said finally.

“You know, I got turned around the other day when I was here,” he said finally.

Glenda shook her head inquisitively.

“I was headed for one of the machine shops to rebuild a part for the lander,” he explained, ignoring the way her face shuttered at the mention of the top secret project. He knew he shouldn’t be mentioning anything about the Lander Project because of operational security, but if he couldn’t trust the lady who held his heart in her hands and was running the yard while he focused on the more important stuff, then who could he turn to?

“Anyway,” he continued after a long moment, “everything here seems so similar that at times I can almost convince myself that I’m back on her—on the Clover, that is—but then I’ll be going along, just mindin’ my own business and a maintenance hatch’ll pop up where no maintenance hatch in its proper mind would be located, and I’m forced to remember.”

“Remember your lost ship?” she asked sympathetically.

Spalding looked over at her in surprise and then shook his head. “No…I mean yes, in a way, but it’s not the remembering that cuts the deepest,” he tried to explain.

“Then what is it,” she asked.

“This ship, he’s a good lad—even though it’s not proper for most ships to be anything other than girls, you understand,” said hurriedly. “I mean, all us original engineering teams knew he was a lad the first time we set foot on him.”

“Yes, I’m quite familiar with the common Naval tradition of referring to their ships as ladies,” Baldwin said, shaking her head.

“Well, in Capria it just didn’t make sense to call a Prince a girl,” Spalding expounded, happy to divert off the painful subject for a moment. “I mean, the Queenie was easy, the Queen Anabella first and the Clover now, she never really felt like no man. Not even when she was called the Larry, but the Prince, now he didn’t seem to take to being referred to as a girl very well.”

Hearing no response, he looked over to see Glenda with her eyes closed and muttering something under her breath. Probably about the superstitious nature of old spacers, he supposed. Not that she’d be entirely wrong to shake her head or roll her eyes. After all, spacers could go a touch overboard betimes; it’s just that she wouldn’t be entirely right, especially at those critically important times when a person needed to believe the most!

“So what is it that’s so different about the Clover, other than the location of the maintenance hatches and other internal rearrangements? If you don’t mind sharing,” Glenda inquired politely.

“It’s his heart and his soul,” Spalding said, his shoulders slumping as he absentmindedly kicked his foot against the deck like he was kicking a stone on a dirt road back home. Only there was no stone and no road, just the cold, metal corridor.

“His heart…you mean, the ship’s…soul?” Glenda asked, her brows shooting for the ceiling.

“No,” Spalding said despondently. “His soul is stout, same as our fine lady. Even after a few decades with the pirates, the Prince is still ready for action—a man can feel it in his bones if he knows how to look for it,” he heaved a weary sigh. “I suppose I just got used to talking with my old ship. You know, the feeling of danger and excitement just isn’t here, not in the same way as on the old girl. Why, the Clover has more heart in her bow-thrusters than all the rest of the Dreadnaught class ships combined! Too much sometimes, I suppose,” he admitted, grinding to a halt, “although that’s probably half the thrill of workin’ with her.”

“I see,” Glenda said in a voice that even as lost in his old memories of the Clover as he was, the Old Engineer could see that she didn’t, and was at best humoring him.

“Anyway, I’m sure we have more work to do,” he said refocusing on the present.

“We’ll take a look at the new ships while they’re still on arrival from the Chief Engineer’s office and then head on over to the yard,” the former Construction Manager said.

“We should have just headed over to the yard directly and saved the time,” he grumbled.

“Well…” Baldwin grinned, “I did have a few other items I wanted to go over with you, regarding the Prince,” she said devilishly.

“I knew it!” Spalding grumped. “Getting’ me over here didn’t have anything to do with those new ships. This is nothing but treachery and deceit!”

“Don’t you know it,” Baldwin said with satisfaction, and then waited until they were in the office with a holo-screen activated before going into detail, “now, about those fusion generators. We’ve replaced all the missing ones with new models, but I’m half a mind to tear out the remaining ones as well and replace them with new models.”

“Are you daft lass?” he cried waving a hand through the holo-image and disrupting the picture. “The only way to do it is to replace…”

Chapter 45: Spalding Takes Over

He was the very model of an exasperated space engineer.

“So this is the new ship the Admiral’s sent up,” Spalding scowled at the inside of the Light Destroyer. “Don’t look like much.”

“McCruise sent up,” said the temporary Captain of the Destroyer ship.

“Pardon?” Spalding rounded on the acting Captain.

“The Commodore sent us, not the Admiral,” the destroyer’s Captain explained, “we were on a detached assignment.”

“Druid sent you?” the old Engineer asked with surprise, “I’m surprised that Guardsman managed it.”

“No, Commander,” the destroyer’s Captain said with a confused look. “Synthia McCruise, the Captain of the Heavy Destroyer detached from Easy Haven and Commodore of the task force which Admiral Montagne assigned to her, sent us over to the rendezvous point for Gambit with the prizes after the battle.”

“Commodores,” Spalding muttered under his breath, “LeGodat, Druid, and now this McCruise, we’re getting entirely too top-heavy for this few ships if you, ask me. There’s so many, a man can’t hardly keep ‘em all straight in his own head.”

“I’m sorry, Commander, I didn’t catch that last,” the acting Captain said.

“Oh, nothing but a bunch of stuff and nonsense, and never you mind,” Spalding declared. “Out to space, I was—but you try putting too many cycles inside a fusion reactor and I guarantee things will tend to take a might longer than had before.”

“Alright,” the woman in command of the Light Destroyer said slowly.

“Never fear, Captain,” Spalding hastened to reassure her, “we’ll get your fine new filly set to rights, lickity-split.”

“My top priority is getting back to my primary assignment,” the temporary Captain explained. “This was just a prize crew assignment.”

“We don’t have enough hulls yet to be running personnel all across the great beyond,” Spalding grunted, “so you can either wait until this one gets a fixer-upper and ride her back, or you can try and hitch a ride back on one of the other two warships that came with you—that Cutter, or the Corvette.”

“Whichever is faster,” she sighed in response as she adjusted her Confederation officer’s uniform.

“Hmm,” the Chief Engineer said, scratching the itchy part of his scalp where the metal met the meat.

The other Officer’s face twisted with distaste before blanking clean of expression.

“Well, the Cutter is all shot to pieces and that Corvette failed in combat twice with only minimal damage. With that record, we’re not only going to have to run a diagnostic, but we’ll practically need to tear her apart replacing internal power lines and anything else that went wrong under those blasted pirates who rode her hard and put her away wet. I mean, we fixed her up before but if she’s still acting buggy…” the old engineer trailed to a halt as he considered the myriad engineering problems currently facing them.

“How long, Chief Engineer?” prodded the Captain, who, like all Captains everywhere, was always in a rush to go somewhere.

Spalding frowned at her severely. “Might be if all this here destroyer’s dealing with is hull and engine damage that we can have her done before the others—or at least, close to around the same time,” he amended, not wanting to make any promises he couldn’t keep.

“What are you talking about?” the Captain asked with disbelief. “The Corvette’s hardly damaged, just a faulty power system and the Cutter isn’t a quarter the size of a Destroyer!”

“Do I tell you how to do your job?” Spalding demanded, sticking a finger in the Captain’s chest. “I’m assumin’ it’s the hardware side, rather’n a software glitch and that there’s nothing else wrong with her. I honestly can’t say for sure at the moment; I’ve also got a new shipyard under construction, a battleship in our only working yard that’s still under repair its own self, a factory complex to man with an attached foundry, and a small mining operation that needs to feed everything else. Toppin’ it all off, I’ve not half the men I need—and more than half of the men I do have are rank greenhorns!” He emphasized his words with another stab at her chest.

“I’ll thank you to keep your hands to yourself, Commander,” the acting Captain said stiffly.

The old Engineer threw his hands in the air and turned to stalk off.

“Hey,” she called after him, “what about my ship?!”

“We’ll get back to you when we’re done with her,” he yelled back at her. He had more important things to deal with than a beached captain. “Until then, have some R&R or help the work crews. I’ve got other projects that need my attention.”

He left behind him a fuming and spluttering acting Captain.

Chapter 46: Harbinger, Thy Name is Middleton

“I thought you said we were getting close, Captain Middleton,” said the Representative.

“We are getting close, Sir,” the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet Captain whose extended patrol had turned out to be much more extended than any of them had ever suspected, said as patiently as possible. “But let me remind the Representative that the Pride of Prometheus isn’t the fastest ship—either on normal space or at hyperspace point transfers.”

“I just hope this Confederation Admiral you’ve told us so much about is actually able to help us,,” the Representative said with a sigh. “Ever since the Empire withdrew, it’s been one disaster after another for our sectors.”

“I understand your concern, Sir,” Middleton said evenly, “however, I think it’s a little late for that. We’ve already passed the border of Sector 24 and are back in the edge of 25.”

“We are committed,” the Representative agreed with a slump.

Seeing the Representative in the doldrums, Middleton decided to try and cheer him up. “Listen, Representative, no one despises the Imperials for what they’ve done more than Admiral Jason Montagne,” the Pride’s captain said stoutly, remembering the battle for Easy Haven against Captain Cornwallis with a shudder. “Besides, this sort of situation that the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet was created for—Man, not Machine, Sir!”

“Long live the Confederation,” the Representative said tiredly. “Let’s just pray that your Commander is both able and willing,” he sighed, turning toward the blast doors leading off the Pride of Prometheus’ bridge, “assuming we can even find him at this Tracto of yours. It’s possible that he and the rest of your fleet are already out on patrol somewhere. My people don’t have months to wait, and with the blasted Com-Stat network of the Imperials down for the count…”

“If he’s not at Tracto we’ll head straight to Easy Haven, I’m sure between the two we’ll find out where the Admiral’s at!” Middleton called after him. “This is too important to wait; we have to find help for your worlds!”

The Representative turned and raised a hand before the blast doors closed, cutting him off from the bridge. “Thank you,” his words drifted into the bridge.

There was a stir on the bridge, but Middleton ignored it in favor of slumping back into his chair in relief as a hand landed on his shoulder.

“You’ve done a great job, Sir,” said his First Officer, a former Petty Officer from back before they left the Lucky Clover for their extended patrol. “I’m sure the Admiral will recognize what the rest of us have seen.”

“Six months of Hades when we were supposed to be gone for less than two,” Captain Middleton said with a sigh. “I’m not so sure the Admiral won’t tear off a strip of me and fry it on the grill the first time he sees us.”

“He attacked those Pirates at AZT with nothing—not so much as a single weapon installed on the ship, nothing except heart and the determination to save those people. Then he went head to head with Cornwallis and a top of the line Imperial Cruiser at the drop of a hat and a pair of cross words. Captain, he sent us out to stop piracy wherever we found it and report back. That’s exactly what we are and have been doing, Sir—he can’t fault us for that!”

“We haven’t exactly been dealing with pirates though, now have we, XO,” Middleton said heavily. “Sweet Murphy, but it will be good to get back to home space and be able to report back. You don’t know the weight of command until everything’s on your shoulders, Sarkozi.”

“You’ve done fine, Sir,” First Officer Sarkozi said, giving his shoulder a squeeze before letting go and taking a step back.

Middleton closed his eyes and when he opened them again, the tired Officer of a few moments prior was replaced by the seasoned warrior that had slowly replaced him over the duration of their cruise. He noticed the buzz on the bridge, which had sprung up at the Representative’s exit, had only grown.

“Something I need to know?” he asked, looking over at his First Officer.

Sarkozi nodded with an unhappy expression. “Yes, Sir,” she reported, motioning toward the Comm. operator. “We just got a report from the roving Lancer patrol, Sir.”

“What do our Lancers have to say?” Middleton asked sourly. “Did War Leader Atticus find a liquor-still, or another pair of illicit lovers in an airlock?”

“Nothing so benign, Sir,” the First Officer said heavily. “Captain, the War Leader reports they picked up a small power surge on their scanners, and when they went to investigate they discovered a recently opened pod.”

Middleton jerked in his chair.

“Another one,” he yelled, jumping to his feet, “is he sure? I thought we dealt with the last of those things two weeks ago—that’s why we’ve been running continuous patrols ever since we left Hedonist IV!”

“Looks like this pod was stealthed,” Sarkozi reported, “there was no way to pick it up with this Promethean junk they left on board, Captain. The Lancers report they wouldn’t have even found it if it wasn’t open; they’re standing right in front of it now and they can’t scan through the exterior.”

“These things are dug into us worse than ticks on a boar hog,” Middleton cursed. “Call out the Lancer Company and get ship’s Security down to the Armory to start suiting up. You know the drill: I want constant internal scans and roving patrols, and no one moves in teams of fewer than four.” The Captain paused to take a deep breath, “Good thing we didn’t have the crew turn in their side arms, isn’t it?”

“They would have rioted if we’d tried, Sir,” Sarkozi replied, tapping her own side arm for emphasis, “not after the last two pods assaulted the ship and tried to destroy main engineering in a frontal assault via the crew’s own quarters.”

“Space Gods take them; if I don’t see another blasted Droid for the rest of my life, it’ll be too soon, XO,” Middleton fumed.

“Man, not Machine, Sir,” First Officer Sarkozi said with solidarity. “We’ll beat these AI slaves before you know it! Just you wait and see, the Admiral will have the answer.”

“Just having the trillium to run their ships will help the other sectors right away,” Middleton agreed as he rubbed his chin, “besides, Droids trying to take over two whole sectors? I never thought I’d live to see the day. This trumps whatever troubles they have back home—there’s simply no way that anything the MSP has been dealing with even compares to this threat.”

Chapter 47: More Bugs and Mutinous Murmurs

“We’ve got a Heavy Harvester, Admiral,” screamed a Sensor Operator, bypassing her Warrant Officer and jumping out of her chair.

“Sensors, confirm that reading,” First Officer Eastwood demanded, hurrying over to the Sensor section.

“How did that one get back on the Bridge?” I asked, turning back to Captain Laurent with a sigh. “I realize that running the Bridge crew is your bailiwick, but isn’t this the same one that fell out of her chair a few engagements ago, is it?”

Laurent turned from looking over at the Sensor section to frown at me. Meanwhile, the sensor operator who had discovered the initial contact started doing what I could only describe as the chicken dance: hopping around her chair and stabbing buttons on her console.

“Admiral, we can’t take on another Harvester in our Condition,” Laurent said in a low, urgent voice, “and a Heavy, at that! Those things are as big as a battleship.”

“I mean it, Captain,” I said unable to tear my eyes away from the spectacle in Sensors. “I want that woman off my bridge.”

“Forget about Sensors and listen to me!” Laurent hissed in my ear. “We’ve got half our original weaponry, and our starboard hull has a gaping hole in it where hydroponics used to be. We have to withdraw, Sir.”

“No,” I replied evenly, leaning over to stare him in the eye with a hard look before turning back to try and look at the main screen. But once again, the crazy sensor operator caught my gaze. This time, her Warrant Officer had her by the arm and was telling her something in an urgent voice, “How you can focus when something like this is going on is entirely beyond me,” I muttered, waving at the section.

“Blast it, Admiral,” Laurent growled, snapping around to yell at Sensors. “Someone get that operator off my bridge and confine her to quarters—the Admiral can’t think with all this racket.”

“I didn’t say that,” I objected mildly.

“Sir,” Laurent said, placing a hand on my shoulder and squeezing, and I noted that he was now speaking loud enough for the entire bridge to hear.

I looked down at his hand pointedly until he removed it.

Laurent must not have liked whatever it was he saw in my eyes at that exact moment, because he flinched back before regaining control of himself. “Look,” the Captain continued in a much lower, controlled voice, “I know you plan to hold off the Bugs until their Main Fleet arrives and then let them do the heavy work while we just follow them into Tracto and try to clean up the pieces afterwards.”

I started as my eyes went wide. Then my brow crashed and I glared at him. “How could you know that,” I demanded, “did you tap my quarters?”

“I’m a trained Tactical Officer, Sir,” the Captain scoffed, “it wasn’t that hard to figure out.”

I suppressed a flash of irritation. I knew that if I let it consume me, the next thing I’d knew I’d be full of anger and seeing nothing but red.

“Well, now that you’re all updated on the grand plan,” I said tightly, “you understand why we can’t let any Bug ships through until we see the Mother-ship.”

“No, Sir,” Laurent said shaking his head sharply, “I do not understand that. What I do understand is that this ship cannot handle a Heavy Harvester in her condition, and,” he added quickly when he saw I was about to shoot him down, “that even if she could, the Little Gift would be in no condition to do anything afterwards.”

“We have to stop that Harvester, Captain. I don’t know how much clearer I can be,” I glared at him and hissed, “if we give my Uncle too much warning, he’s liable to do anything—up to, and including leaving Tracto to the Bugs and posting scouts to inform him when they’re done. This way, either he deals with them himself or he heads off for a bit, giving us the chance to deal with the Bugs, make repairs, and then prepare for his return.”

“The crew believes in the Little Admiral,” Laurent said flatly, “they believe in him to get them into a fight and get them right back out of it again, but no one will be around to believe in anything if we go head to head with a Heavy Harvester in our condition. That ship has us by two hundred and thirty meters, and we’ve already been shot to pieces!”

“I, for one, would rather die than—” I was about to say ‘than leave Tracto and the Belters under my Uncle’s tyrannical rule,’ but I didn’t get the chance.

“That’s just it,” flared Laurent, “you’ve asked for my trust and this is the reason you seem to think I’m so hesitant to support you—this, right here! It’s because this isn’t all about you and what you want. I don’t care if you’d rather die than turn away from a fight, or endanger your master plan; you have a duty to this crew!”

“That’s not what I meant,” I snapped, “don’t put words in my mouth. Show me a way to win that doesn’t involve a sacrifice like this and I’m game. But if there’s even a chance, then we have to take it! If it looks impossible, I’ll turn us around and get us out of there—all I ask is a little faith! Not all this questioning and second-guessing I thought we’d put behind us!”

“Admiral, for the love of Murphy, we can’t do this in our condition. There’s no point in getting any more people killed,” Laurent begged. “McCruise’s been gone for three weeks, and for all we know her squadron’s lost and this is all we have left. Don’t throw us away because you’re too stubborn to change course, Admiral. I urge you to reconsider.”

“Throw away my people…that’s what you think of me?” I could feel myself turning purple. “Everything I do is for ‘my people’. I’m the Admiral of this fleet, but I’m also the Protector of Messene and I owe it to the people of this System to save them.”

“Defeating your Uncle and saving the people of Tracto is important,” Laurent said stiffly, “but don’t forget that before Tracto, the Bugs, or your Uncle, there was this crew—the same crew that’s bled and died for you, both back on the Clover and right here on the Gift. Please don’t forget us in your desire to seek some kind of revenge.”

“I’ve thrown myself on the grenade for this crew before, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat,” I said, fighting the urge to pull out my blaster and start shooting. “When Sir Isaac offered me the chance at luxury accommodations and life in prison versus death by torture, did I sign their papers and watch you all hang in my place as he wanted? No! I signed their full confession instead and readied myself for execution on the promise that you’d all be returned to Capria to live out your lives without a pogrom,” by now my voice had risen to an angry shout, “So, no; I haven’t forgotten a single one of you!”

“Contain yourself, Admiral,” Laurent said with concern as he looked around the bridge.

“What am I supposed to do, just to give up on the Belters, the Tracto-ans and the families of so many people in this fleet living in Messene?!” I shouted, feeling so enraged I was liable to have a stroke, “when we don’t even know if we can or can’t defeat this Harvester yet? Is that what you’d have me do, Captain,” I practically spat out the words, “leave them to die? I thought the military was here to help and protect people, and that if its officers didn’t have the stones to help others that they’d at least try to save their own families.”

“I have a wife on Messene, Montagne. So watch your implications,” the captain roared, before taking a deep breath and visibly relaxing himself. “Listen, Admiral,” he said, returning to a more professional sounding voice, “any chance there is of defeating your uncle and liberating this system and ‘saving our families’—those of us that have families on Tracto anyway—is more likely to die with us here if we’re destroyed than it is if we let this Harvester through and your Uncle runs for it.”

“You can’t say that with certainty,” I said coldly, my rage of earlier turning glacier like determination. “I won’t have it said that I stood by while your families were eaten and did nothing when I could have stopped it. I’ll roll those dice and throw myself on the grenade every time. Why can’t you seem to understand that we need to do this?”

“We don’t know if letting this ship through will or will not affect your plan,” Laurent ground out, “but I’m telling you, both as your Captain and your former Tactical Officer, that if we go up against a Heavy Harvester in our condition we won’t be rolling any dice—we’ll be destroyed, and before we can try to get away our engines will be crippled. Then, after that—assuming our reactors don’t go critical on us—we will be consumed and our bodies used to fuel the very attack upon the world my wife resides.”

I squeezed my fists until I felt like my hand was about to explode. The man believed this with all his heart and soul, and in the face of such certainty I found it almost impossible to disagree with him. In my heart I knew we could take this lone Harvester just like we’d taken entire groups of Bugs before, but it seemed my heart was wrong. Was this because I was still a naval ignoramus, or had I truly been blinded by the desire to save our people and stick it to my uncle?

“I have a contact,” the Communication’s Officer exclaimed, cutting through the tension-filled bridge, where I now realized every single one of the crew had stopped whatever they’d been doing to turn around and watch the spectacle of their Captain and Admiral go at it nail and tong with eyes wide and mouths agape.

“What do you have, Comm.?” Captain Laurent asked grimly.

“Sir, it’s the Heavy Destroyer,” the other Officer said looking surprised, “I have Captain McCruise on the line.”

“Put her through to the main screen,” I said, bolting upright in my chair. “And Sensors,” I turned to spear the wide-eyed Sensor Officer with my gaze, “find out how far away her Squadron is and exactly where they’re located. We can stop this Harvester yet!”

“Contact!” exclaimed a Sensor Operator. “I’ve got three of them, Sir.”

“Blast, it looks like McCruise lost a ship,” I said, shaking my head over the loss of the men and equipment. The next news out of the Sensor section really rocked me, though.

“We can confirm three more Heavy Harvester’s, Admiral,” called out the Sensor Warrant, his voice shaking.

My eyes bulged and I almost lunged out of my seat with the urge to go and see with my own eyes, when Captain Synthia McCruise blotted out the tactical picture up on the main screen with the image of her seated in the command chair of her own bridge.

“Greetings, Admiral, it looks like we showed up right before the action,” the hatchet-faced woman said, pursing her lips.

I fought the urge to scream. The Heavy Cruiser plus the entire detached group couldn’t handle four Heavy Harvesters, not after the damage we’d taken and probably not even if we were up to full strength.

“McCruise,” I said evenly, “it’s good to have you and your ships back with the fleet.”

For half a second, the Confederation Captain looked confused and then realization dawned.

“You must not have us on your sensor picture yet, Admiral,” she said, not realizing that as far as I was concerned I couldn’t even see the tactical representation with her taking up the entire screen. I was going to have to talk with the Comm. section later about split screens when we had enemy ships to keep an eye on.

“I’m afraid we’ve been a tad mono-focused on the Bugs bearing down on us,” I said, trying to laugh off the dig against my sensor team, “please enlighten us.”

“Our mission was a success, Admiral,” McCruise said with satisfaction. “We monitored and then intercepted two tribute ships full of trillium.”

“Tribute ships?” I said sharply.

“Yes,” she replied crisply, “two armed freighters that rolled over quick enough, once we’d defeated their escort.” She looked up and met my gaze solidly, “An escort composed of two Light Destroyers.”

“Losses?” I asked, feeling my gut tighten.

“One Cutter destroyed,” she replied, and I closed my eyes in reverence, “another Corvette and Cutter were damaged. All told, two armed freighters successfully interdicted and captured, along with one Light Destroyer. The other was too damaged to repair, and it was scuttled at the scene.”

“Murphy blast them,” I growled, “well, we’ve got a Cutter that could use some time in the yard and another Corvette that’s missing its fusion reactor, along with a destroyed Cutter whose crew we already picked up.” I rolled my lower lip between my teeth for second before I reluctantly decided we couldn’t risk losing one of our larger ships—the Heavy Destroyer and the Heavy Cruiser—to a tow. “Oh well. We’ll have to leave the Corvette out here in deep space and have your two damaged ships and the damaged Cutter here escort the freighters back to Gambit.”

McCruise’s face tightened. “I already sent the tribute freighters to Gambit under escort of the damaged warships attached to the short squadron,” she reported.

I froze and then forced a smile I absolutely wasn’t feeling.

“I see,” I said as evenly as possible, then I popped out a patented royal smile, the meaningless kind that displayed for politicians and the masses. “Well, it would have been nice to have those ships here to help escort our own battle-damaged vessels, but since it seems you’ve already taken the initiative in that arena, I suppose there’s nothing to be done other than to send our own damaged ship back to Gambit on its own.”

“I did what I felt was best at the time, Sir,” McCruise said, sitting stiffly in her chair.

“Of course you did, Captain,” I allowed, flashing another false smile, “initiative in the field and all that. It was a touch outside of your mandate to send the captured ships off like that, but I won’t quibble with the woman on the spot.” Although, I silently determined that the next time I sent her out, I was going to cut a set of orders that were like a straitjacket, but for once they’d completed their mission. I saw no reason to hamstring ‘how’ a person accomplished that mission, even though it was giving me heartburn.

“I thought it was prudent to send our captured gains back to one of our bases while—” she started.

I raised my right hand in the air and twiddled my fingers. “Moving on,” I said, knowing that the longer we continued on this subject, the more foolish I was going to look to the bridge crew. “We won, and that’s the important thing to keep in mind. The rest are fiddly bits,” at the lack of comprehension I added, “details that can all be straightened out later. Right now we seem to have a number of Bug ships we need to decide how to deal with.”

“Deal with?” McCruise said with surprise and she visibly switched gears. “Admiral,” she continued hesitantly, “there’s no way we can deal with three Bug ships of that class with the forces we have available. I wouldn’t want to take on one of them with our ships in their current condition. Withdrawal is the only prudent course.” She seemed completely unaware of how those words rubbed salt into an already open wound, and I was determined she would remain that way.

“I am forced to agree,” I said, disguising my unhappiness with a shake of my head. A glance over at the Captain of my own ship, however, revealed that I hadn’t perhaps been as good at hiding my emotions as I’d initially presumed.

“Your order, Admiral?” McCruise said neutrally.

Blast it, I thought, am I that transparent? I really was going to have to work on that later, but in the meanwhile this argument with Laurent in the middle of the bridge had embarrassed me and obviously had more of an impact on the visibility of my emotions than I’d expected.

“Consolidate on the Flagship and fall back,” I said, every single word feeling like an admission of failure. Which it was, of course: the failure to defeat these Harvesters. But to me it signified something more; it signified the futility of our struggle against the Bugs and pirates who had each descended on Tracto like a plague of locusts. Each was determined, in their own way, to strip the system bare.

“Very good, Sir,” McCruise said crisply, “we will rendezvous with the Flag.”

“We need to shadow these Bugs and figure out exactly how many of them there are, Captain,” I said, thinking out loud when I was interrupted by another stir in the sensor section.

“Captain,” Called out the Sensor Operator, “we’ve just picked up another sixteen Harvester Class ships and over fifty smaller Bug vessels.”

“What!?” Laurent and I called out at the same time. Even McCruise, who must have heard the report over her com-channel, looked like a dog that had just caught the scent. “Verify those readings, Warrant!”

“Over seventy,” the Sensor Officer paused, “no, eighty total contacts and climbing, Sirs,” he said looking white as a sheet.

I felt my blood run cold. This was a lot of Bugs—more, perhaps, than I’d really been expecting, if I’m being honest. I mean, after all we had just destroyed a number of Harvesters and smaller ships.

“We’re now picking up something big, Captain—Admiral,” the Sensor Officer said, and I could see shoulders start to slump throughout Sensors.

“Well, spit it out,” I growled when the silence started to drag, “what is it, man?”

“I think we’ve found the Bug fleet, Sir,” the Warrant whispered, barely loud enough to be heard. In fact, we normally wouldn’t have been able to hear it except the bridge of the Flagship had gone unnaturally still and silent. “I’m reading a Mother-ship class at the very edge of our sensor range, Admiral.”

You’d think after preparing for such an occurrence for the better part of two years, and actively fighting off waves of Bug attacks for nearly three months, that I’d have been ready for that announcement. But those words, and the sight that slowly appeared on the main screen as our Sensor section slowly built up a more cohesive picture, painted its own horrifying realization: we were all going to die.

“Something’s wrong with the bow of that ship,” Laurent said into the growing silence.

Looking at it, I realized that it did look somewhat deformed. Almost as if—“It’s been damaged at some point in the past,” I said flatly, my lips acting of their own accord.

“Bad enough to cause that kind of damage?” Laurent said with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity, and my stomach tightened until it felt like my guts were literally clenched up tight. The front of the ship was definitely smaller and deformed compared to the majestic bulk of the rest of the mighty—over two thousand meters long!—Bug Mother-ship.

“Bad enough that someone could have broken it in half, or perhaps smaller pieces even,” I said, pointing to a deformed section of the ship a fourth of the way forward from the back that looked like it had been repaired—or, more accurately, scabbed and healed over. It was a ragged line, but clearly visible once you knew what you were looking for, which I was after months of studying Bug ship data.

“It’s amazing that ship survived…whatever it was,” Laurent marveled.

“Yes, isn’t it,” I said, grinding my teeth, “it almost looks like one of those Harvesters we destroyed. You know, one of those that broke in half and didn’t explode?”

“This is going to make it much harder,” Laurent said, shaking his head. “I mean, with a ship that size I don’t understand how it could be that badly damaged and still survive. Whoever attacked it should have been able to finish…”

I could see the moment realization cross over his face.

“You’d think so,” I agreed, not quite ready to give full voice to what was becoming increasingly more clear and likely to me, “still, it does finally explain why we’ve been encountering ‘Marine Bugs’ almost since the beginning, which is something that most SDF’s and Confederated Imperial Fleets don’t encounter until further into an invasion cycle. Also, it explains why we’ve seen an unusual pattern to how long it’s taken for the Mother-ship and main fleet to arrive.”

“No, Sir, that’s just not possible,” Laurent denied, “it’s just not possible, Admiral!” He was now seeing what I was seeing: someone had attacked and destroyed this Mother-ship at some point in the past, and then allowed it to reattach and reform the damaged, rear section of itself. Although by this point, it had also managed to re-grow a significant portion of the forward section, as well.

“It fits, though. This fleet’s also clearly outside the standard behavioral pattern simply by being located within the Spineward Sectors as well, wouldn’t you say,” I mused, ignoring his protest.

“What are the two of you talking about,” demanded First Officer Eastwood.

“Why, isn’t it obvious, Number One?” I drawled, rolling my head around to look at him casually. I ignored the suppressed grimace and unsuppressed eye roll from Mr. Eastwood in favor of driving my point home—like a sword through the heart, “Someone transported these Bugs here to Tracto. This world was never meant to survive…or at least, its indigenous population was never meant to.” Finally, all the strange clues and missing pieces of the puzzle had come together to form a complete and mystical hole. Since this predated my arrival, it couldn’t have been aimed at me and the MSP. I hadn’t even known about the system before our random patrol had brought us here; my arrival here had been pure happenstance.

That meant that someone hated my Tracto-ans and wanted them destroyed—someone with a starship big enough to move a Bug mother ship. When you put it that way, there was really only one power in the entire galaxy with ships capable of doing that job.

“We’ve got three weeks, people,” I called out. Three weeks before this Mother-ship arrived to descend upon Tracto like the wrath of the old gods reborn.

Yes, someone definitely hated my wife’s people. I’d have said they’d just made an enemy out of me with their genocidal actions, but I was beginning to suspect that actually saying that would have been a lie. It would have been a lie because unless I was wrong—we were already mortal enemies.

I turned back to the main screen, on which the silent image of McCruise watched everything with hooded eyes.

“You called them ‘tribute ships’,” I said, pinning her with my eyes.

It took the Confederation Captain a moment to realize what I was asking. “Yes,” she replied, looking surprised.

“From the pirates obviously,” I said, ignoring the mighty Bug fleet on my screen even while Captain Laurent ordered our ship turned around and headed away from the Bugs at best speed.

McCruise nodded.

“Pray tell…who?” I put to her mildly. “Who was the intended recipient of this tribute?”

Surprise turned to dawning realization, and a flash of horror crossed her features which was quickly suppressed—but she couldn’t hide the tightness around the corners of her eyes when she responded. “Interrogation and the data files both agree,” McCruise said, taking a deep breath, “the freighters were headed for 28th Provisional, where they were to be given to one ‘Rear Admiral Arnold Janeski’.”

“Of course they were,” I said icily, as the final piece of the puzzle fell into place before my mind’s eye.

I then turned and gave new orders to the damaged Cutter; it was time to start gathering our forces.

The Battle for Tracto was officially on a countdown to annihilation—the only question was: whose?

Chapter 48: Spalding tries to sneak away…

He was the very model of a stealthy—d’oh!

“Where exactly do you think you’re going, Mister?” Glenda’s voice cracked like a whip as she strode into Main Engineering of the Armor Prince.

Spalding winced. “I must away, ‘ere break of day,” Spalding muttered under his breath before quickly tapping his approval of the last order on his data-slate and handing it over to a new engineering recruit who had been waiting for it.

“I’m talking to you, you old reprobate,” Baldwin snapped, placing a hand on his arm and forcibly turning him around.

“Glenda,” Spalding said, pasting on a false, delighted smile, “so good to see you. I didn’t know you were on board!”

“Did you think that you could sneak a battleship out of space dock without anyone noticing?” she growled. “Or is it just that you think I’m particularly stupid?”

“Now, Glenda,” Spalding soothed, trying to ease the situation by letting his girl down slow.

“Don’t you ‘now, Glenda,’ me,” she said, shoving a finger up under his nose, “and don’t avoid the question: just where the Hades do you think you’re taking this battleship while she still needs yard time?”

“Ye’ve done a fine job with the old boy,” Spalding hastened to assure her, “there’s nothing wrong with her that a shakedown cruise under a set of real engineers can’t fix.”

“Real engineers,” she shrieked, “what am I and the rest of the yard team, Green Creeper cheese?!”

“Now, I didn’t mean nothin’ by that,” Spalding, barked starting to get genuinely angry. “I’ve no bias against you yard types, it’s just that—”

“Yard types?” she glared. “Well, I’ll have you know, Mr. ‘Real Engineer,’ that it’s thanks to us ‘yard types’ and very little thanks to you that you’ve even got a ship ready to sail.”

“I never said otherwise, lass,” he growled, “but it’s time and past time we left; the Admiral needs us!”

“You in particular, or this thundering big battleship you’ve been ignoring in favor of sneaking away all hours to hole up inside that floating death trap of a hobby horse you’ve just transferred into the Prince’s shuttle bay?” Glenda demanded accusingly, stabbing him in the chest with her perfectly lubricated finger covered in grease. “Because we need you here; I’ve got two major projects as well as any number of infrastructure growth to manage without the needed hands to man everything. Impossible schedules; incessant demands for manpower I can’t fill,” she continued, ticking off points by stabbing him in the chest each time.

“You’ve done some good work here, Glenda,” Spalding said shortly, “but we’ve just got word and it’s time for some thunder and lighting. The Clover, she needs us!”

“Word,” Glenda scoffed, “from that wreck of a Cutter that just pulled in here? If that’s how well the Admiral’s been taking care of the rest of your ‘fleet,’ then I shudder to think what he’ll do with the Armor Prince.”

Spalding’s face hardened.

“We’ve no time for womanly qualms and squeamishness,” he glared, “if ye can’t deal with the thought of ships getting’ torn up in combat, then it’s a good thing you’re now a yard dog.”

The former Construction Manager huffed with outrage. “I’ll show you how this blushing violet deals with her ‘womanly’ qualms, you old goat,” she threatened, grabbing her tool belt and hauling out the large auto-wrench hanging from the left side which she immediately swung at his head.

Spalding ducked the swipe and stumbled back. “Mutiny,” he yelped, “assaulting a superior officer in a time of war is mutiny, woman!”

The new Yard Manager stopped and sneered at him. “Afraid of a little honest auto-wrench, now? I thought the high and mighty Chief Engineer who stepped into a burning fusion reactor was tougher than that,” she spat.

“I don’t go ‘round hitting women,” Spalding said with great dignity, “so it’s not fair to attack a man who can’t defend himself.”

“Life isn’t fair,” Baldwin said scornfully.

Spalding felt his face flush in the face of her scorn and disregard. “That’s why Murphy invented ‘mutiny charges’,” he agreed, squeezing his fist closed to keep his plasma torch fingers from activating.

“That old saw,” she rolled her eyes, “you’re just afraid you’ll be licked, is what. That’s why you’re hiding behind your rank. This is the age of patriarchal reign where you can hide behind your chauvinism to protect you.”

“I’ll hire a mercenary is what I’ll do,” Spalding declared, “and pay her to flatten you.”

“Like I said a coward,” she said flatly.

Filled with fury, when she waved that blasted auto-wrench in his direction again, he grabbed it mid-swing and tore it out of her hand. With a yell he grabbed it with both hands and bent it over his droid leg.

“I’ll show you cowardice,” he raged, drop kicking the auto wrench to the other side of the room where it bounced off with a clang, “talking trash against a man who can’t defend himself!”

“That tool was expensive,” Glenda said with disbelief, “and you just destroyed it!”

“There’s a cost to everything,” he grumped, feeling embarrassed at letting his temper get the better of him—and in front of his Glenda, no less! He turned and started stomping away, disgusted with himself.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Baldwin demanded.

“Tracto,”’ he said shortly.

“Blast it, Commander, we need you here,” she said, coming around in front of him and blocking the way to the turbo-lift.

“You’ve done a fine job, Glenda,” Spalding said with a sigh, “you’ve more patience with the yard projects and all the whining that comes with them than I do, and that’s a sure and certain fact. You’ll do fine.”

The former Construction Manager blushed. “I don’t know about all that,” she muttered before rallying, “not that it’s hard to do a better job than a man who doesn’t show up to work half the time!”

“I’ve told you before: it was a top secret project,” Spalding sighed.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” she said skeptically.

“How many times have I been wrong?” Spalding groused to no one in particular. “And how many times have I done what they thought couldn’t be done, and still they doubt me and call me crazy?”

“It would probably help if you weren’t foisting all the work off on me and running away to tinker on a piece of junk lander so old all the electronics had hardened and every major system had to be replaced,” the Yard Manager said critically.

Spalding sighed. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll just give you an acting commission before I leave so you have the rank to run things in me absence.” Glenda fell behind him in surprise and then hurried to catch up.

“That’s not the point; I don’t want your rank,” Glenda protested.

“Good,” Spalding said with a nod, “not wanting the job means you’ll probably do better than most. In my opinion there are two types of leaders that do a good job: the ones that don’t want the job, and the ones that love the job for everything it is—not everything it can bring them.”

“Is there any way I can talk you out of going?” she asked finally.

“’Fraid not lass,” he said with genuine regret, “you just get that new space dock ready and start on that complete rebuild of the Rage we talked about before.”

“If I wanted to be stuck in some shipyard, I wouldn’t have signed up on a Constructor,” the new Yard Manager grumped and then gave in. “Oh, alright, I’ll do what can be done. You just make sure to see about getting us some more hands over here while you’re off gallivanting all over the border of known space.”

“Eh?” Spalding looked at her in surprise and then smiled, “I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ll see about the warm bodies.”

Chapter 49: Spalding Comes for Brence

He was the very model of a recently upgraded space engineer.

“Commander Spalding, it’s good to finally meet you. I’ve heard great…things,” Colonel Wainwright said.

Spalding narrowed his good eye. “Naught but a passel of lies, I’m sure, Marine,” he said, extending his hand.

The two men shook and Wainwright winced.

“You’ve got quite the grip there,” the Colonel observed.

“Doctor installed these mechanicals,” Spalding said with a frown and then demonstrated the way his new fingers could ignite into plasma torches, “had a little trouble with a reactor. Nothing I couldn’t deal with, but I’m pretty sure I looked worse than a parted out hover-bike in a chop shop after they got done removing all the damaged bits and pieces.

“That would explain it,” the Colonel said blandly and Spalding appreciated the way the other man refused to stare at his beady, red eye or chrome dome of head.

“I don’t have a lot of time for the social bits and graces,” Spalding said abruptly, “never had much use for them to start with. Anyway, I’m just here for a few personnel and to check up on how young Brence has been doing with the repair project I set him. So if you’ve got any questions, now’s the time.”

Wainwright grunted. “I see you’ve got the old Prince back into service,” the old Marine said finally, referring to the battleship the Engineer had just parked up against the Omicron’s second docking arm.

“Yes, she runs,” Spalding grunted, “but we’ve still got a bit more finish work to do before I’m ready to put the seal of approval on her.”

“Any chance you’ve got a relief force, or at least some reinforcements on board her,” Wainwright asked, sounding hopeful. “We’re somewhat thin on the grounded boots over here.”

The old Engineer heaved a sigh and shook his head, coming to a stop. “Afraid not,” he said.

“I figured as much,” Wainwright replied sourly, “had to ask, though.”

Spalding hesitated before deciding to throw the Marine a bone. “We’ve just started getting more personnel in the pipeline,” he said gruffly, “I find anyone who can’t cut it in engineering and I’ll see about sending some of them over to Marine country.”

Wainwright blinked and then scowled. “Engineering rejects for marines; is that what the Confederation’s come to?” he demanded.

“Maybe I’ll just see about sending them over to Gunnery instead,” Spalding retorted, meeting him glare for glare.

“Good thing we’re a Caprian unit then and not any part of all this Confederation nonsense,” Wainwright ground out.

“That’s what you think,” Spalding said in a rising voice, “but the fact of it is that most this here fleet’s Caprian, and I don’t see his Majesty James sending anyone to come and haul your sorry hind-ends out of this hole and back to the home world.”

“Doesn’t mean anything,” Wainwright growled, “travel times mean that back home might not have even had word yet of where we are.”

“Oh, they’ve heard,” Spalding said with an evil grin, “the Lady Akantha’s made sure of that by now—I guaran-blasted-tee it. I’m afraid you’re here for the duration, Marine.”

“We’ll see about that,” Wainwright disagreed with finality.

“Suit yourself,” Spalding turned away and headed for the exit to the receiving area, then he paused. “It’s too bad really,” he said casually.

“You think I’m that easy to manipulate? You really have been through the fusion reactor one too many times,” Wainwright said derisively and shook his head. “All right, I’ll bite: what?”

Spalding scowled at this latest bit and almost changed his mind before deciding not to. “It’s too bad really,” he repeated, “an engineer like me getting to go and finish sweeping up the last of the Omicron pirates…while Marines like you are stuck station-side on a garrison duty.”

“I don’t think so,” Wainwright said shaking his head, “try those kinds of psychological tricks on the youngsters, Engineer.”

The ornery old engineering officer shrugged and then cocked a grin. “Well, it was worth a try,” he said pausing to adjust his tool belt before heading deeper into the station.

“How many of these ships you got up and running yet, lad?” Spalding demanded, storming into the work bay.

Brence stood up from where he’d been working on a partially disassembled shuttle’s ramp hydraulic assembly. “We’ve got a dozen shuttles but only eight or nine of them are up and running at any one time,” he replied, deliberately answering a different question.

“Shuttles,” Spalding cried, “who gives two figs about a blasted shuttle? It’s landers and warships that are going to pull our big hairy chestnuts out of the fires on this one, Brence! Tell me about the ships I sent you out here to repair!”

Brence winced. “We’ve got a pair of armed freighters up and running that might qualify as Q-ship’s if we can ever get them to a full service yard and modify their hull profiles better than we can here,” he said, unhappy to be reporting what was essentially a mission failure, “but everything else is nothing but a bunch of floating space junk. I mean, until and unless we can get them to a real space-yard.”

“Armed freighters?” Spalding demanded chewing on his lip. “Hmm…might be I have a use for those,” he said after a moment’s consideration.

“Chief?” Brence asked hesitantly.

“Don’t you worry your head about it, Brence,” Spalding said, “freighters are going to be less than useless where we’re going.” He looked over sharply, “Thankfully for you I brought along a Battleship, a Corvette, and a Cutter. This freighter nonsense is not good—and I mean not good, Brence,” he snorted.

“Sorry, Sir,” Brence replied, “there just wasn’t a whole lot to work with. They stripped everything that would run when Lady Akantha pulled out of here. Either we need a yard or a Constructor, which is basically just a mobile shipyard slash factory complex when it unfurls itself, extends its builder wings and gets up and running.”

“I thought about that,” Spalding growled, “but it was hard enough getting that Minority Owner over to AZT, an uninhabited star system,” he slammed a hand against the side of the shuttle for emphasis. “I figured that forcing him to come over to a former pirate stronghold that might still have a few scavengers lurking around and lying in wait, as it where, would have taken more Lancers than we could spare,” he said with real regret in his voice.

Brence nodded, feeling more than a little surprised that the Chief Engineer hadn’t just forced the issue anyway.

“No,” the old Engineer frowned before his face lightened, “never fear, lad, I’ve got another auto-wrench in the tool box. Just you wait and see, ha!”

“A wrench, Chief?” the former wayward space had asked questioningly.

“It took more computer power than I’m entirely comfortable with, you understand,” Spalding said, leaning in conspiratorially, “but I’ve done it, lad!” He slapped Brence on the arm hard enough to rock the other man into the metal wall of the shuttle, “She’ll fly!”

“Sir…what works?” Brence asked with genuine confusion.

“Top secret, old Brence, me boy-o,” the old Engineer said, laying a finger alongside his nose, “you won’t winkle it out of me.”

Brence looked at the Commander more than a little uneasily. He loved the old Engineer—heck, the whole Department did—but the look in the old Engineer’s eye was half crazed. He had learned during his time under the old man that the crazier the old engineering officer looked and the less sense started making, was directly proportional to the amount of Hades that was about to be dumped on everyone.

“Not another Montagne Maneuver,” he asked half-seriously.

The Chief Engineer looked at him like he, Brence, was the one who was crazy. “O’ course not,” Spalding snapped, his voice full of condescension, “the Maneuver’s a completely different beast—besides which even you should know those kinds of things take time.”

Brence breathed a sigh of relief as Spalding continued, “Don’t worry, this new project is just a simple application of sound engineering principles,” the half borged-out old man said, his glowing red eye seeming to burn with the Demon’s own unholy light.

“Sweet Murphy,” Brence muttered, unable to help himself from keeping the words from slipping out. The last time Lieutenant—that is, Commander Spalding back before he was a Commander had invoked the phrase ‘sound engineering principles,’ he had lobbed asteroids at inhabited words!

“Eh,” Spalding said, sounding like he’d been lost within his own thoughts, “I suppose ye’re right. We can always use the Saint’s help. Remember his primary maxim, after all, since enough’s gone wrong already!”

“Promise me we’re not going to be throwing any kinetic strikes at Tracto,” Brence said fervently, very much mindful of Murphy’s primary axiom, ‘whatever can go wrong, will go wrong.’

“What are you blathering about, Brence?” Spalding stopped and gave him searching look. “Who said anything about trying to bombard…” he dropped his voice to an almost comical level—well, almost comical for anyone other than the Chief Engineer of the Lucky Clover—“the Lady Akantha’s home world! Tuck it in, lad; only a fool or crazy man would want to get on the bad side of a great Lady.”

Brence heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Sir,” he said with feeling.

Spalding shook his head at him disapprovingly before the other man’s face brightened. “Don’t worry, lad; we won’t be throwing around any kinetic weapons in Tracto. No, this will be much more dangerous,’’ he grinned, clapping the young Engineer on the arm, and once again knocking Brence up against the wall.

“That’s reassuring,” Brence said, giving his superior a sickly smile. Anything the old man thought was more dangerous than an orbital bombardment was enough to give any sane man nightmares.

“This is going to be great,” Spalding said, rubbing his hands together before his brow wrinkled and he leaned forward to glance at the partially disassembled hydraulic system in the back of the shuttle. “I think you need to pull the cylinder,” the Chief Engineer advised.

Brence glanced at it and nodded, “It’s on the repair list. We’re going to haul it out and take it back to the machine shop,” he replied and a long moment passed before curiosity got the better of him. “You said something was ‘great,’ Commander,” he finally broke down and asked.

“What?” Spalding muttered and then recognition seemed to dawn, along with a truly evil smile, “Caprian Procurement and the R&D Departments like to throw out anything halfway old technology and install a brand, spanking new model,” the Engineer opined, clearly getting onto a subject that was near and dear to his heart. “At least, they do on their top-of-the-supposed-line, Parliamentary ships, but do they ever stop and ask themselves if there’s a need to upgrade—or if it’s even possible that by utilizing some previously discarded technology, they could do the same job at half the cost?”

Brence nodded absently until realizing the old engineer was looking at him expectantly. “Um…no?” he hazarded.

“That’s blasted well right,” Spalding snarled, “those blighters never ask if something old could do the job just as well, or…or,” he stumbled for half a second before regaining his bearings before finishing triumphantly, “perhaps even better!”

“I don’t understand what’s so great about this,” Brence said, fighting the urge to cringe at saying something he knew was bound to do nothing but set off the other man.

“Of course you don’t understand,” Spalding growled, “no one understands what those blighters over there think they’re up to—except possibly lining their own pockets.”

The old Engineer started chewing on his lower lip angrily and Brence took a cautious step back, in the name of examining another one of the Shuttle’s hydraulic cylinders.

“No,” Spalding said with utter certainty in his voice, “we’re not going to win this thing by trying to beat them at their own game,” he declared.

“We’re not?” Brence asked before he thought it through, “I mean what game is that, Sir?”

“If we play by their rules, son,” Spalding said leaning close and speaking in a hoarse, angry whisper, “they’ll clean our clock and beat us every time. No, I say let them have all those shiny new toys,” he scoffed, “because if there’s one thing I’ve learned in a lifetime of engineering, it’s that there’s more than one way to stabilize a fluctuating hyper-drive or fusion reactor going critical!”

“You’ve lost me, Chief,” Brence admitted, “I don’t know what we’re talking about.”

“The war, son!” Spalding exploded. “Whatever else would I be blooming talking about?!”

Brence’s eyes went wide as his superior continued, “We’ve got to come at them from an unexpected angle, see,” the Commander Spalding hissed, his eyes casting about the work bay suspiciously. “And since the enemy’s got the market cornered on the shiny, new gadgets department, we’re going to have to get…” he paused dramatically as he again laid a finger aside his nose, “old school.”

“A good plan, Sir,” Brence said with a weak grin. Once again, and not for the first time in his career since meeting Terrence Spalding, he was wondering what the other man was going on about that the rest of them didn’t see.

“That’s right,” Spalding said with a nod as he seemed to lose a bit of his steam at the realization that no one was arguing with him, “there’s more gadgets and doo-dahs no one’s ever seen before ‘cause they retired the old stuff before anyone figured out what to do with it in favor of some shiny new toy. A shiny blinking toy! Came along while no one was looking and upended the apple cart, they did. But have no fear lad; we’re gathering up all those lost little apples and bringing them out of retirement. You just wait and see. No one—and I mean no one—will see this one coming. Old school, hah!” he scoffed, “why, when I’m done with them, they’ll be saying: ‘where does he get such wonderful toys,’ and you know what I’ll tell them?” Spalding demanded.

Brence was forced to shake his head by way of reply. “I don’t, Chief,” he said worriedly.

“I’ll say to those wasteful sprats, that I was just using the stuff they threw away,” Spalding finished by stomping his big, metal foot into the duralloy floor with punishing force. The resulting clank drew eyes from all the way around the room. “They never should have even thought about getting’ rid of and retiring that old stuff—they’re jewels, lad. Perfectly good jewels what’s been thrown away for want of a good polish!”

Seeing Spalding starting to stare off into space despite all the many eyes now locked on the two of them, Brence decided it was time to beat a hasty retreat. “Are you sure we should be speaking about all this here, Sir?” he asked, trying to give the old engineer a significant look. “I mean, somewhere not so many of the men could hear?”

“You’re a good lad, Brence,” the old engineer said, “quite right. This used to be a pirate station after all—the walls prob’ly have ears.”

Feeling ashamed at playing to the older man’s paranoia, Brence looked away before regaining control of himself and leading the Chief Engineer to a lift leading to one of the main docking spurs. Maybe a tour of what we’re currently working on would distract Commander Spalding, he thought.

“Oh, Brence,” Spalding said along the way.

“Yes, Sir?” replied the Warrant.

“Pack everything up and load whatever you don’t want to leave behind on the Prince or those freighters of yours,” Spalding said waving his arms at their surroundings.

“Where are we going?” Brence asked after Spalding’s words had a moment to sink in.

Spalding looked at him like he was stupid. “What we should’ve done months ago, Brence,” the Engineer glared at him, “we’re goin’ to get back the Clover!”

Chapter 50: Tracking the Mother-ship

“How are we doing, Helm?” I asked with some concern.

“So far, so good, Admiral,” DuPont declared, “the engine’s running smooth enough and I see no signs of overheating.”

“Where are we on our recharge cycle, Mr. Shepherd?” I asked, looking beside DuPont at our Navigator, “I don’t want to be caught with our pants down. With only one of our secondary engines up and running, it’s not only those Bug scouts that can outrun us, but the Medium Harvesters as well.”

“We are doing our best to maintain our charge levels as close to 80% as possible without crossing the critical threshold and forming a hyper field,” Shepherd reported stoically, as if I hadn’t been asking for this same update every hour on the hour.

“Good man,” I said agreeably, leaning back in my chair and looking back up the main screen worriedly.

“Rather lonely out here,” Captain Laurent observed from my right elbow. I suppressed the urge to jump and instead frowned at him.

“We’re limping along on one damaged secondary engine, and have had to use our hyper drive twice just to stay ahead of the Mother-ship and her horde of Scouts and Harvesters,” I said evenly, “so if that qualifies as loneliness, then I confess to it.”

“I meant with just us out here, and McCruise and her Heavy Destroyer sent away,” he demurred quietly.

My frown became a scowl which I made no attempt to conceal. “We need eyes on Tracto System to make sure my uncle doesn’t do something unexpected,” I said sharply, “when we go for this snake I don’t just intend to cut off its head—I want to crush the head and destroy the rest of the body as well. Their piracy ends here.”

“I didn’t say I disagreed with you,” Laurent said, drawing back rigidly. “And I’m sorry if I gave that impression,” he added with a frown of his own.

“Sorry,” I muttered unhappily, “it’s just that McCruise sent off all her damaged ships, and then I had to send our only remaining escort to spread the word of the need to rally, which left either the Flagship or her Heavy Destroyer to picket Tracto outside the hyper limit. Needless to say, with us limping along and ready to cut and run at the first sign of that Bug Armada on our tail overtaking us, she’s not exactly my favorite person right at the moment.”

“It was a good call, Sir, to secure the gains and send the damaged ships back for repair,” Laurent said stoutly.

“Good or not, as events have proven out it was very much the wrong call,” I said disgustedly.

“Six of one, half a dozen of the other,” Laurent said philosophically, “we might never know for sure. An Officer makes his or, in this case ‘her’ best call, and moves forward from there. In this case, an experienced officer made a judgment call and I can’t say from here that it was the wrong one—remember that hindsight is always 20/20.”

“Maybe I need some bifocals then,” I grumbled under my breath. Even in hindsight, I often had trouble seeing how I could have done things better and I would be the first to admit that I did a lot of things deathly wrong.

“Admiral?” Laurent pressed.

“Nothing, Captain,” I replied, smoothing out my features into a pleasant uncommunicative mask, “nothing at all.”

“If you say so, Admiral,” the Captain said speculatively.

“Keep us running parallel to the Bugs,” I instructed, standing up from the chair, “I’m going into my office to read some reports.”

“Yes, Admiral,” the Captain said with a frown that cleared a split second after I glanced at him.

Chapter 51: A Hero’s Welcome…or not

“Representative, please report to the Bridge; we are about to initiate a point transfer through hyperspace into the Tracto system,” Captain Middleton’s voice rang throughout the ship.

Several minutes later, the Representative was escorted onto the bridge by his security team. “Thank you for your invitation, Captain,” the Representative said with a serious nod, “you don’t know how important this is to my people.”

“Oh, after the better part of several months in Sector 24, I think I have some idea, Mr. Representative,” Middleton said evenly.

The Representative finally cracked a smile. “Perhaps I don’t give you and your men enough credit, Middleton,” the Representative said wryly, “although, despite all their troubles—and they are great—Twenty-Four hasn’t yet experienced a fraction of what we in Twenty-Three have had to endure since the Imperials destroyed our fixed defenses and abandoned us to the Droid offensive.”

“My understanding is that the Droids didn’t attack until after the Imperials pulled out,” Middleton said, his words more a question than a statement.

“The Droids attacked our outer worlds within a week of reaching them,” the Representative said bleakly, “and despite the Union Treaty, our desperate pleas for help fell upon deaf ears. The Senate has abandoned us and if the Assembly even knows of our plight, they’ve done nothing to show it.”

“The Admiral will help if he’s able,” Middleton assured him as confidently as he could, although he had to wonder if even the Little Admiral could do anything against the Droids.

The Navigator started counting down the seconds until the jump to hyperspace, until he finally called out, “Point emergence.”

“Sensors can confirm: we’re well outside the star system, Captain,” the Chief Petty Officer in charge of the Sensor section said confidently.

“Good job, CPO Sensors,” Middleton said as a dread he hadn’t even known was inside him released when the main screen populated, and he could see for himself that they weren’t about to crash into any suns, moons or planets.

“Just doing our job, Sir,” the Sensor Chief said with a nod, but Middleton wasn’t fooled. He could see the pride in the head of his Sensor unit.

“Even so,” was all he said in response, but he could tell as soon as he said it that it was enough.

Middleton sat there quietly as his bridge went through yet a breakout routine. They had done enough breakouts over the past year that it had become old hat for the men and women that had become his crew. However, this wasn’t just another point transfer into a new or previously visited system; this was the end of a very long patrol, and everyone on the ship knew it.

“Contact,” Sensors reported with surprise.

“What is it CPO?” Middleton asked, sitting up in his chair with surprise. Spotting activity in Tracto System wasn’t unexpected—it was the fact that they had pinged something this quickly that concerned him.

“Sensors reading multiple drive signatures, Captain,” the CPO at sensors reported on his team’s growing sensor picture, “three of them and rising…we’re now up to five, and now ten drive signs, Sir!”

Middleton stared at the main-screen stonily.

“Trouble?” the Representative strolled over and asked mildly.

“It’s more ships than we were expecting is all…looks like the Fleet’s been busy,” Middleton said after a moment.

“Let us hope that all has gone well since you have been away,” the Representative replied with a nod.

“Your pardon,” Middleton said, turning away from the Representative.

“Of course,” the Representative replied in a quiet, even tone as his eyes narrowed and he took a step back and away from the command chair.

“Sensors, can you identify the Flagship,” Middleton asked, suppressing a growing sense of concern.

“Not yet, Captain Middleton,” the CPO at Sensors reported, while in the background Shields called out its standard report of descending shield power and the Helm extended baffling and activated the engines. “However, we have identified signs of current mining activity, so it looks like the Belters are still up and running. All I can say for sure is that operations have expanded significantly since our last visit.

“Good work, notify me the second you identify the Flag,” Middleton said evenly.

“Do you want me to send out a hail, Sir?” asked his Comm. Operator.

“Not yet, Comm.,” Middleton replied, “we’ll wait until we see the Admiral or a ship we recognize before relaying the news of our joyous return with word from our Sector neighbors.”

“Got her, Sir,” the CPO in charge of Sensors said with a sudden grin, “I’d recognize that profile anywhere—it’s the Lucky Clover, Sir.”

Something the Captain hadn’t even realized had been clenched up inside him suddenly released with the sound of a long, pent-up sigh. It had been a long time, after all. He was just happy that the Lucky Clover was still in Tracto, which suggested that nothing too terrible had occurred in their absence.

“Send out the general hail, Coms,” Middleton said with a grin, “it’s time to let them know that the prodigal sons have come home.”

“And prodigal daughters,” his Tactical Warrant Officer grumbled good-naturedly.

“Breakout,” reported the Helm, and the ship gave hardly a shudder as it emerged from the gravity sump.

“Excellent work, Helm; set a course for Tracto IV if you would be so kind,” Middleton ordered his Helmsman, making a point of ignoring Tactical until that last part was done.

“On it, Sir,” replied the Helmsman sounding happy, “it’s nice to be back.”

“That it is, Helm,” Middleton said before turning back to Tactical and making sure to catch the Warrant Officer’s eye before quirking his mouth and saying, “now, now, Sheila, of course it’s the prodigal daughters too. When you’re sitting in this chair, you can make sure it’s said just so, but until then try to keep a lid on it.”

“It hardly seems fair, is all,” the Warrant Officer said a bit defensively.

Middleton shook his head and sighed, “You know that when in doubt or when speaking for large groups, Confederation convention not only allows, but actively encourages us to gender-ize all comments based on the speaker’s own—in this case, your Commander’s gender.”

“Sorry, Sir,” Sheila said ducking her head, “still a bit of matriarchal dust stuck on this Officer’s provincial boots, I’m afraid.”

“I realize you’re at a bit of a disadvantage coming from a strict matriarchal society on a closed world, and you’ve done a bang up job at Tactical ever since we picked you up on that damaged station around Agincourt III—which is why you’re now my first shift Tactical Officer—so please don’t get me wrong when I tell you that one of the few perks of being Master of a warship answerable only to the chain of command and the Space Gods is the ability to not have to worry about gender norming every single conversation I initiate,” Middleton said with a smile to take away the stinging edge off his criticism.

Warrant Officer Sheila pinked. “Sorry, Captain, it won’t happen again,” she said quickly.

“Don’t worry about it,” he chuckled wryly.

The next half an hour ticked away as the ship settled out and started boosting for the edge of the Tracto System.

“We seem to have arrived an exceptionally far distance outside of normal transfer range,” the Representative observed dryly.

Middleton grinned. “Natural defenses,” he said as enigmatically as possible.

The Representative raised an eyebrow, but the Captain just smiled and refused to comment further.

“Don’t think I’m going to let you get away with that, Captain,” the Representative said with a quiet dignity which belied the hint of a smile around the corners of his eyes.

Before Middleton could respond, his Sensor section went like a kicked over hive of ants.

“Point transfer!” cried one of the Operators.

“It’s close—blasted close, Sir,” cursed another.

“What’s going on,” Middleton barked, “someone report!”

“They’re five hundred clicks off our starboard bow,” snarled the CPO in charge of sensors.

“Weapon’s locking on,” Sheila at Tactical said exuberantly, even as she started issuing rapid orders down to gunnery through her com-link.

“Captain,” the Navigator said, speaking over the rising hubbub, “the mathematical probability of another ship randomly jumping that close to our ship approaches the absurd.”

“Weapons locked and loaded; just issue the order, Captain, and that ship is history,” Sheila said, the barely detectable catch in her voice belying her excitement.

“Keep our weapons targeted on that ship and wait for orders, Warrant Officer,” he rebuked, “this is friendly territory and the last thing we need is to fire on one of our own ships. That said,” he turned to Sensors, “I want that ship type and cast before they break out of that sump, CPO.”

“Aye, Sir,” replied the CPO with steady authority in his voice.

“Just give the word and we’ll geld that bastard for you,” Sheila said hungrily.

Middleton winced and looking around. He wasn’t the only man in the room that didn’t particularly care for that particular descriptor.

“All starships are considered female, with only a few special exceptions, Tactical,” was all he said.

“I’m afraid I’m used to all ships being considered masculine,” Sheila grunted shaking her head and refusing to take her eyes off the readouts on her console.

Middleton suppressed a scowl, as he and the rest of the bridge had already been treated to the Tactical Officer’s opinion that all ships should be considered male because they were possessed of superior power and could destroy everyone inside and around them if they weren’t carefully guided and controlled by their crews—which, in her society, were generally composed of women.

“I’m reading a Heavy Destroyer of unknown configuration, Sir,” snapped the CPO, breaking Middleton out of his reverie, “all I can tell you is that whatever she is, she’s old but has been recently refitted.”

“They’ve just broken the sump, Captain,” his Tactical Officer said urgently.

“Shields to maximum,” Middleton barked.

“We’re receiving a hail,” his Comm. operator exclaimed.

“Put it on screen,” the Captain said quickly.

A severe featured, almost ugly, middle-aged woman with white in her hair appeared on his screen. “Thank the space gods we got to you in time,” said the woman, and Middleton’s eyes skittered across her Confederation Captain’s uniform.

“Captain Synthia McCruise, if I’m not mistaken,” Captain Middleton said with a nod of his head. “I remember you from that little scramble back in AZT.”

“We don’t have a lot of time, Captain, so switch this com-link over from general hail to a point to point laser link and listen closely,” Captain Synthia McCruise said, speaking quickly. She then waited with obvious impatience until Middleton’s com-tech indicated her suggested changes had been made, at which point she resumed, “You are ordered by Admiral Montagne to proceed directly to these coordinates at your top speed.” A series of numbers designating a nearby star system appeared on his screen, “Our hyper-drive still needs time to recharge, but we’ll meet you there as soon as possible and give you a new series of jump coordinates.”

“You want us to leave?” Middleton said, shaking his head in denial, “but we just got here!”

“I’m sending over my authorization for your team to verify now,” McCruise said, her voice cracking with authority, “I want you to verify this order as genuine, point your ship out of this system, set your engines to maximum and jump at the earliest possibility.”

“This is highly irregular,” Middleton said, his eyes narrowed with suspicion, “perhaps I should wait and verify these orders with the Admiral. We should be receiving a reply from the Little Admiral in another half hour to forty five minutes.”

“The Admiral is not in this star system,” McCruise ordered abruptly, “there have been certain changes that cannot be discussed over a com-link in this system.”

“This is an encrypted line over a laser link,” Middleton said with disbelief, “what could be so important?”

“Do you read and acknowledge your orders, Captain?” McCruise said severely.

Captain Middleton turned away and glared at his First Officer, who had his head together with the com-tech.

The First Officer looked up after half a minute, and meeting Middleton’s eyes gave a grim nod. “It matches our last codes,” the First Officer confirmed, splaying his hands helplessly.

“I have information critical to the survival of the Spine that cannot wait, McCruise,” Middleton said seriously thinking about ignoring these orders, even if they had been authenticated as best as possible.

“Tracto has been compromised,” McCruise said, her mouth making a tight line across her face, “if you ever want this information to reach the Admiral, you’ll do as I say.”

Never looking away from the Confederation Reservist, Captain Middleton spoke to his bridge. “Keep our shields at maximum and weapons on target,” he said grimly, and then after an extended pause, “and Helm, take us away from Tracto at best speed. Navigation is to plot a new jump to the coordinates provided by Captain McCruise.”

“Thank you, Middleton,” McCruise said, “I assure you that you won’t regret this.”

“Sorry, McCruise,” the Captain said through gritted teeth. After being away from home, or an unqualified friendly port of call for over a year, they were being sent away before they’d even crossed the hyper limit, “But it’s too late—I regret this already.”

Chapter 52: The Gathering Storm

“Point emergence,” the clarion call cut through the room like a siren.

“What have we got, Sensors?” I demanded, jumping out of my chair.

“I don’t know yet, Admiral,” the Sensor Officer said with concern, “but whatever it is, this thing is big.”

“Locking weapons on target,” First Officer Eastwood growled.

“I’d say go to flank speed, Helm,” Captain Laurent said loudly, “but as you’re already doing your best approximation, all I’ll say is to get ready for evasive maneuvers.”

“Let’s hope that’s not necessary,” I told Laurent in a quiet voice.

“With our ship shot to pieces and us unable to outrun even a Bug, I have to agree with you,” the Captain said dryly.

“Navigation, what are the odds that someone followed the directions on that beacon we left tied to that dead Corvette, versus some random pirate discovering us out here in cold space?” I asked.

“Not very—” Shepherd started.

“I’m reading a Dreadnaught Class Battleship,” cried a Sensor operator.

“Not very high; I’d say it’s a very high chance its pirates,” Shepherd cried.

“Weapons lock on target and get those shields up to maximum,” I said, slamming my fist into the rail separating the command chair from the rest of the bridge.

“Aye, Sir,” barked Eastwood.

“Shields already at maximum,” Ensign Longbottom said crisply and then flushed, “I mean, aye, aye, Admiral.”

“They’ve initiated the beginnings of a sump slide,” Sensors reported tensely.

“They’re raising shields,” Eastwood said in a rising voice, “if we’re going to fight, we need to attack before they have the chance to break free.”

“We can still try to run, Admiral,” Laurent advised urgently, “there’s no shame in admitting we’re overmatched and bugging out!”

There were too many voices demanding my attention, and I couldn’t think. We needed to close in and clinch, or get the Hades out of there five minutes ago. Decisions, decisions—I didn’t want to get my people killed in a fight they probably couldn’t have won even if we were up to our full fighting weight, and yet the thought of bugging out of anything stuck crosswise in my craw.

I knew what I had to say, I just hated the idea of running away and as soon as I forced the metaphorical fish bone that seemed to have materialized in my throat out of the way, I knew was going have to—

“Sir, we’re being hailed,” the com-tech said excitedly.

“Increase our distance, DuPont,” I managed to force out in a wheezy voice and rounded on Communications, “and put whoever it is through, Comm.’s.” Amazingly, the fishbone seemed to have disappeared the moment I gave the order to make like a coward and run away, which was fortunate since an instant later a strange officer appeared on my screen.

“I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure,” I said, drilling the screen with my angry, narrowed gaze.

The woman on the screen looked taken aback.

“Acting Captain Susan Rider, on detached duty to the Armor Prince on the order of Captain McCruise, reporting for duty, Admiral,” the woman on the screen said, snapping off a smart salute.

“The Armor—” I realized my mouth had started to drop open and I quickly closed it, returning the salute. “Of course you are,” I said, trying to play it cool, calm and collected, like I had somehow come into magic powers and known all along that the battleship which had appeared alongside us had been one of ours.”

“You look like you’ve had the worst of it since I was put on detached duty to take those tribute ships and our limpers back to Gambit, if may be so bold, Admiral,” acting Captain Rider said.

“Fighting Bugs is a full-time job and hazardous to life, limb and duralloy-plated warships, Acting Captain,” I said, my mouth going on autopilot as I was still taken aback, “if you’re not ready for that kind of adversity, then you’re not ready for the Bugs.”

“Anything we can do to help, Sir,” the Acting Captain said firmly.

Something she had said earlier finally caught my attention. “You said that McCruise assigned you to the battleship?” I asked, keeping the suspicion out of my voice.

The Acting Captain colored, “The Acting Commodore put me on detached duty to shepherd the prizes and limpers to safe harbor,” she clarified, “but it was Commander Spalding who recruited me to Captain the Prince, since none of our damaged warships could be completed first.” She was clearly referring to the Armor Prince when she said ‘Prince.’ “For some reason, all the ship repairs seemed to have concluded simultaneously. What are the odds?”

I hid a smile. “That sounds like our Chief of Engineering,” I said in a serious voice.

Her mouth made a little moue of displeasure, but in the face of my calm acceptance of the state of current affairs, she quickly got rid of the expression and looked into my eyes. “Whatever you need, Sir,” she said with a nod, “we’re here to help.”

My eyes narrowed as I considered this latest development. McCruise’s First Officer had brought out the Armor Prince, and now the main question here was how best to use the Prince and her crew…speaking of which.

“I’m curious, First Off-I mean, Acting Captain,” I quickly corrected myself.

“Fire away, Sir,” she said with a smirk.

“What’s the status of your crew over there,” I asked as courteously as I could, because while that was an important question, the main one as far as I was concerned was the location of a certain aged, space-crazed engineering officer.

“We’re pretty light on the ground,” Rider reported with dissatisfaction, “we don’t even have enough for a skeleton crew, Sir, but Commander Spalding insisted we needed to get out here and into the fight! We have fewer than a thousand souls onboard.”

“Interesting,” I said, and it was. It was interesting because here I was in an almost fully-crewed Heavy Cruiser that had been battered to the point it was now actively dangerous to take it into combat, and an under-crewed battleship had just dropped into my lap.

“Most of our crew are so green you can still smell it; we’ve only a few hands that have ever served on a warship before, Admiral,” Susan Rider continued with her report.

“Not a problem,” I said, slashing my hand through the air and then paused, “may I presume that the Commander is aboard the Prince, or did he decide to stay at Gambit Station?”

“No, Sir, he’s here,” the Acting Captain of the Armor Prince hastened to assure me.

“Well, Captain,” I said, leaning back in my chair and putting a leg over its arm. I was doing my best to present the perfect image of a royal lack of concern with our hasty and dire situation, “You have a powerful, undamaged ship crewed by men better suited to repairing warships than fighting them, and it just so happens I have a fighting crew inside a warship that’s in dire need of some repairs. What say we swap?”

Rider looked flabbergasted and then disbelieving before her face slowly settled into the perfect image of forced acceptance.

“Might I assume that I’ll be able to stay aboard the Armor Prince until arrangements can be made to return me to my home ship?” the woman asked hopefully.

I hesitated, feeling torn. The Little Gift, damaged as it was, would need a steady hand to guide a green, unfamiliar crew that might not even be used to working together back to Gambit.

“Sorry, Captain Rider,” I said regretfully, “but I think we’re going to need you to transfer over here with your crew. Maybe next time?”

“I be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed,” she said, looking frustrated and yet at the same time strangely resigned to her fate, as she finished with a sigh, “but you can count on us to get the Little Gift back to safety.”

“Good woman,” I said, blinking my eyes and leveling a finger at her for emphasis, “don’t think you or your crew’s dedication to duty will be forgotten.” I didn’t add that it wouldn’t be forgotten, assuming I was still alive this same time next week, but I figured I didn’t need to.

“Thank you, Sir,” she said, her face seeming to brighten as she perked up, “I’ll make sure to pass the word along. We’re getting good at running convoys of damaged ships back for repair.”

“That’s the spirit,” I grinned.

“I’ll have my Helmsman and Navigator get with your team and have our ships docked together for the transfer as soon as humanly possible,” she said with a wistful look on her face.

Chapter 53: An Impassioned Plea, part two

“Captain Middleton,” I said, staring at the main screen, my stomach clenched with dread for the second time within the same 24 hour period, “what an unexpectedly pleasant surprise.”

The other man flushed. “I’m sorry we took so long to get back home, Admiral,”’ the other man, Captain Middleton, replied as his face flushed, “but events spiraled out of control and…well, we’re here now.”

“I understand things spiraling outside of one’s control,” I agreed.

“Well, I understand you’ve had some trouble of your own back here in Sector 25, Sir,” Middleton nodded. My ears picked up at the implication that if he was only now returning to this Sector then he must have been outside of it for a significant portion of his patrol.

“You could say that,” I said grimly, recalling my wife, Lancers and crew being abandoned the Omicron, while the rest of us were taken back to Central for torture and imprisonment.

“I know there’s nothing light about your situation here, Sir, but Admiral,” he said, taking a deep breath and clearly plunging forward, “I haven’t just returned from a patrol, Sir,” the Captain said looking tense. “I have critical information—for your eyes only.”

“More critical than following a Bug Armada and Mother-ship into Tracto where they will encounter my traitorous uncle a man who turned pirate, betrayed this fleet and then invaded Tracto—my Wife and most of our Lancer force’s home world?” I asked as mildly as I could.

“Sir—” Middleton started, clearly believing that it was important enough to continue on in the face of this disastrous, looming confrontation and my heart sank. This was exactly what I didn’t need right at this time: another problem. A big problem, if I could read the Captain of the Pride of Prometheus—a man who I had sent out on what was supposed to be a short patrol in the Medium Cruiser.

“Let me clarify,” I said firmly, “is this system about to be invaded before, during, or immediately after the Battle for Tracto? Or Easy Haven, or Capria, the rest of this Sector, or anything else that we hold dear and are currently trying to protect?”

“Under that time frame…no, Admiral,” Middleton said, looking like a man whose dog had just been shot and taken to the vet. “However, I still believe that it’s imperative I speak with you…the fate of this Sector could depend on it,” his eyes bore into mine. “And not just this Sector, either; there are countless innocent lives at stake here, Admiral.”

I felt myself sway and a wave of unexpected rage swirled through me. I couldn’t even deal with one threat before two more popped up, and here I was on the eve of what should have been the titanic, climactic battle of my life, being told ‘oh, by the way, Jason—I mean, Admiral Montagne, Sir—but even if you win, there’s this new and terrible threat to the sector looming over all our heads.’ It was enough to make a grown man want to scream and start tearing things apart with his bare hands. I mean, honestly, how much more could they ask of me?

I chuckled, realizing that had been a terribly stupid question to have asked myself. Joe Public and his friend, the Plundering Politician, would ask and keep on asking until there was nothing left, and then spit on me for failing to live up to their expectations before tossing me in prison for a failure and possible threat to the future. We can’t have those sorts of people running around and stirring up trouble, after all.

“Sir?” Captain Middleton asked, looking concerned. That’s when I realized that laughing inappropriately in the middle of a life or death conversation probably wasn’t doing too much good for my image as a man and officer in control of not only himself, but his entire fleet.

“I understand,” I said in response to Middleton’s plea for my time and attention, “and we will sit down and take a good, hard look at seeing what we can do to help these people you are talking about. But as of right now, I’m afraid that the most important thing,” I paused and reconsidered, “nay, the only important thing is winning the confrontation before us. Events are in motion that cannot be stopped—if we lose, there is a world full of people who are going to be eaten by the Bugs. So until and unless it becomes more urgent than people being eaten alive, I’m afraid I’m going to have to take a rain check.”

“I understand your position, Sir, and,” Middleton heaved a sigh, “and I can’t fault you for it.”

“I promise,” I started, and then at another wave of irrational anger I decided that I was letting my emotions get the better of me and needed to do some kind of personal penance, “no, I swear: after we’ve dealt with the Bugs and my uncle, win or Lose,” I said, crossing my heart, “I’ll see what I can do for these people—what the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet can do for these people,” I paused for a single heartbeat, “agreed?”

“How can I say ‘no’?” Middleton asked rhetorically.

“I understand,” I said and in that moment all my anger and irritation and rage faded into a small corner of my mind. I could see that the weight of the world seemed to be resting on the other man, a Captain I’d sent out to Patrol our border and help keep our worlds safe, while I was supposed to go deal the death blow to the pirates in this sector. I knew this look of his, because I’d worn it too many times myself. Unlike my superiors, who had sent me out here as something of a joke Admiral and whose response to finding out I’d been forced to deal with world shattering events with no support was to try and kill or imprison me, I recognized that I was responsible to this man. I’d sent him out there into the black, cold space—with just one ship. When a Captain I sent out finally reported back with what looked and sounded like the sort of situation I had railed against facing unsupported and literally begged for help dealing with, could I in turn get mad, throw him under the bus, or simply ignore what he had to say?

If I became like my erstwhile superiors how could I possibly claim any sort of outrage at how I myself had been treated. It was time to practice what I preached: Accountability, support, and a refusal to ignore a problem when it stared me in the face.

“I swear it,” I whispered again. I couldn’t, I simply couldn’t deal with one more crisis right now. If I diverted my attention from saving Tracto and dealing with both the Bugs and my uncle, we could lose everything. I had to stay focused, and I couldn’t do that if I was chewing my mental fingernails over yet another ‘life threatening’ crisis. One thing at a time, I reminded myself.

“I’ll hold you to that, Sir,” Middleton said firmly.

His words were like prison shackles locking me down. Duty was a master more fearsome than sloth or uselessness, and anyone who said otherwise was lying.

Chapter 54: Planning to Offend

“Alright,” I said, sweeping the conference table in the ready room of the Armor Prince, a room that was like, and yet at so very much unlike a similar room on the Lucky Clover, “we are gathered here for war. This is a pre-battle planning session and the only one where we’re all going to be gathered together to plan and discuss our strategy and tactics for defeating the enemy. That said, I’d like to open the table for comments.”

“Sir,” McCruise began cautiously as she leaned forward. She and her Heavy Destroyer had transferred back to the Flagship shortly after my conversation with Middleton, and considering the odds we were facing, I was glad to have her. “On the face of it, we are heavily outnumbered to the point it becomes questionable if we are even really in this fight.”

“That sort of defeatist talk is hardly the sort of attitude I’d hoped to find to start our meeting off on,” I said, taking a deep breath.

“I said ‘on the face of it’,” McCruise repeated without strong emotion, “it’s true we’ve only got one Battleship and a handful of lighter vessels, while both the Bugs and the pirates each heavily outnumber and outgun us. By any objective measure you might care to use, we are at a serious tactical disadvantage.”

“Thanks,” I said, allowing sarcasm to color my voice. I could tell she was aiming for a point in there somewhere, but the way she was going about it was definitely getting my hackles up.

McCruise gave me a nod in reply that sent my blood pressure sky rocketing.

“With the arrival of the Armor Prince,” Laurent interjected before I could say something McCruise would regret, “we have significantly increased our combat power. The Gift was, and is, still combat-capable but I wouldn’t feel confident of her ability to survive a smaller, fresh foe, let alone a heavy target. But the Prince—he changes things.”

“Without the Battleship, all we’d be doing here is whistling in the wind,” McCruise said with a decisive nod at Laurent, “but with her back in service and recently repaired and upgraded, we actually have a chance now. It’s a small one,” she said with certainty in her voice, “but it’s definitely there. This plan of the Admiral’s is crazy, but it just might work.”

“Crazy, is it?” I asked blithely.

“Mad as a hatter,” McCruise replied, and I didn’t like the way the other captains and first officers around the table laughed in response, “but that might be the only reason it will work: because no one in their right mind would want to do such a thing. Following in behind a Bug fleet and waiting until either the Bugs or the pirates get the upper hand before swooping in to pick up the pieces…there’s a certain cold-blooded beauty to it that just might work.”

“Gee, thanks,” I said with a frown before quickly re-mastering my features.

I took a breath when I noticed everyone had looked over at me after my outburst. I’d wanted to regain control of the conversation, but this wasn’t at all the way I would have liked to do it.

“In truth, I learned from the best,” I said in a colder, less emotional voice. I didn’t think it would help my case to mention that the ‘best’ I was referring to were in no small part my own cold-blooded uncle and his ilk, “The plan is to let our two biggest enemies duke it out and, as Synthia put it, swoop in to pick up the pieces,” I swept my gaze around the table. “Unfortunately, no plan survives contact with the enemy,” I paused to allow a few ticks to pass before cracking a smile, “even if the plan is to not make contact with said enemies until after they’re done chewing on each other.”

The laughter that swept around the table at this little non-joke was decidedly absent from the face of my Chief Engineer, who was looking decidedly concerned.

“However,” I said quickly regaining control of the conversation, “if at any time it looks like the Bugs are going to be able to land on Tracto and begin consuming its populace in large numbers, and I think that we still have a good chance of defeating whatever remains of the opposition in-system, I reserve us the right to get up on our white horse and charge off into battle. Besides,” I added contemplatively, “the best time to take action might actually be while the two sides are distracted.”

“But what about gettin’ back the Clover?” Spalding burst out as soon as my mouth closed.

“The Lucky Clover is a high priority,” I temporized, “however, the timing will have to be right or we won’t have any kind of reasonable chance.”

“What kind of chance are you talking about?” Eastwood asked suspiciously. “Even if the Vineyard’s out of the picture, that still leaves us going head to head with a Battleship of the same class. If they’re ready to kill and we’re just trying to make a capture of some kind,” he looked both doubtful and mildly contemptuous at the same time, “then we are sure to lose.” He paused and then added, “All things being equal, of course.”

“Odds are that by the time we enter the battle, the Lucky Clover will have already been damaged,” I said, projecting certainty into my voice, “I don’t know yet exactly how we’re going to manage to storm the ship with as few Lancers as we have available, but—”

“The Commander,” Acting Captain Rider broke in glancing over at the Chief Engineer, “brought along two companies of marines.”

“Even with the marines,” I said shortly, “it’s going to be a tough fight.”

“I still don’t see how we’re going to take that ship if they’re really determined to deny her to us,” Eastwood said flatly. “Even if they don’t stop us with their broadsides, a battleship isn’t like boarding a cruiser; it’s bigger, with over ten thousand crew. If they seal the bulkheads…”

A few chuckles went up around the room.

“Locked doors won’t stop our Lancers so long as they have power suits and vibro-weapons—they’ll go through the walls,” I said with a chuckle at the First Officer’s surprise.

“Well, even so,” Eastwood said looking slightly flustered, “getting in close could cripple this ship,” he jabbed his finger down on the Armor Prince’s conference table. “How are we going to be able to deal with any remaining pirates or Bugs if the Prince is shot-up?”

“I can shut down the Clover,” Spalding interjected.

The room went silent, and in just a few of seconds I wasn’t the only one staring at the old engineer.

“I just need to get onboard,” the older man continued, the red light of his mechanically replaced eye burning a shade that sent a chill down my spine.

“A jump from ship to ship would be dangerous,” I argued.

“Dangerous?” McCruise said lifting an eyebrow. “Such a jump was only possible for you last time, back in Easy Haven, because the ship you were jumping towards had already been damaged to the point of near-immobility. We are seeking to avoid that, as to bring their ship to that state the Armor Prince would need to take nearly as much damage as the Larry Montagne—”

“The Lucky Clover,” Spalding exploded out of his chair, his voice rising to a shout, “her name is the Clover, and we don’t need to damage her! The Fix is in, girl, and I’m the one what fixed it.” He made a thumb’s up gesture and then thumped himself in the chest before muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘idjit’.

“What are you blathering on about, man?” Eastwood demanded hotly. “Speaking to a Captain like that is unacceptable!”

“No,” McCruise said firmly, “let him speak; it’s been a rather long time since anyone has thought to call me a ‘girl’.”

“As soon as I’m aboard, I can shut her down and then you can board and retake her,” Spalding said proudly. “And won’t that show the Captain,” he raised a fist in the air and shook it, “a more fitting reply to his treachery, taking everything he has ever desired from him, I can’na imagine!”

One of the Cutter captains coughed with embarrassment and you could tell which people in this room had come from the Clover and which had transferred over from Easy Haven by the expressions on their faces.

“The Lucky Clover is everything he’s ever wanted?” McCruise asked pityingly.

“As long as he possesses the Clover, he has the keys to the Kingdom—the keys,” Spalding said, his voice lowering to a whisper, “to Known Space—the entire Galaxy, perhaps. Who knows what he could do if he remains in possession of that ship!” He may have started out whispering, but he ended at a near roar.

I felt dismayed, and I wasn’t the only one. But the new transfers didn’t look dismayed, they looked like they’d just stepped into the room with a crazy uncle who needed to be shuffled out of the room as quickly as polite convention allowed.

“Spalding,” I wasn’t really sure how to put this, “maybe we need to focus more on the here and now.” I felt like I was somehow letting the old engineer down, even though he had clearly gone beyond the pale, “Things like how exactly we’re going to get on that ship in the first place?”

“I already told you: I took care of that part,” Spalding sneered, “that’s not important. We have to stop him—he has to be stopped!”

“Yes, of course he does,” I soothed, “and no one wants him stopped more than me. The man shot me and left me for dead; if it weren’t for that backstabbing weasel, I’d—” I cut myself off. Even now I couldn’t say anything that might smack of praise for my belated First Officer turned traitorous Chief of Staff. The man might have saved me, but until and unless he passed a chemical interrogation, I wasn’t going to believe he did it out of the goodness of his heart. That man was an unrepentant, die-hard Parliamentarian and as far as I could tell, he considered me a natural enemy of the common man. That sort of thinking didn’t leave much room in a man’s heart for the milk of human kindness or loyalty to a royalist such as myself.

“Promise me we’re going to take back the Lucky Clover, Jason,” Spalding demanded his crazy biological eye boring into mine, “we can’t let him get away with the ship!”

“Saving millions of people has to be our top priority, Spalding,” I said gently, and I couldn’t suppress a wince as his face twisted with fury.

“After everything I’ve done and everything you’ve failed to do, you can’t even promise this one thing,” Spalding raged as he got to his mechanical fleet, “what kind of Admiral are you!?”

“Tell me how we can take back that ship without destroying her and we’ll do our best to make it so,” I said as seriously as any man could when he couldn’t even meet his accuser’s eyes.

“But I already told you,” Spalding exploded, pounding his fists on the table, “all you have to do is get me within turbo-laser range and I can do the rest!”

I gaped at him, but Captain McCruise was made of sterner stuff. “You most certainly said nothing before about getting within turbo-laser range of that battleship before this moment,” she growled.

Spalding waved a hand in the air. “Details, these are just details,” he said irritably, “I already told you the Fix was in, didn’t I?”

“Hardly the most illuminating of statements,” McCruise said irritably.

“If I can get on the ship, then I can shut her down,” Spalding said with a hungry smile on his face, “and then the Clover will be ours again!”

“How many men would you need to ‘get on the ship’ to be able to perform this miraculous feat?” McCruise inquired mildly.

Spalding chewed on his upper lip for a moment, “A small team would be best, but I could probably do it all by my lonesome if need be,” he said with a decisive nod.

“Impossible,” Officer Eastwood exploded, “one man to take down a battleship? That’s not just insane, it’s preposterous!”

Spalding got a shifty look on his face, “Not if you’ve got the scram codes for the fusion reactors,” he said with an exaggerated wink.

Jaws dropped around the table, but the First Officer picked up the torch. “Even if,” Eastwood spluttered, “you’d still have to get on board and then manually enter those codes from a console in Main Engineering.” His resolve and disdain were slowly returning as he spoke, “There’s no way anyone is going to miss a borged-out, former Chief Engineer who just happens to be wandering around the Engineering deck in the middle of combat. Security will be on you like a politician on pork before you can say ‘boo’.”

“Not if I happen to have the override codes to the turbo-lift system,” Spalding said, and I didn’t know it was humanly possible to put as much condescension as he did into those last few words. “Which I have, and,” he bared his teeth, “if you know the combination to take that lift directly into the Chief Engineer’s Office, then inputting the codes from the Chief Engineer’s console and shutting down those reactors long enough for the Prince to grapple and board her would be child’s play,” he finished triumphantly.

I could see rising excitement on the faces of everyone else around the table.

“Even so,” Eastwood said, his face falling, “jumping from ship to ship is still an insanely dangerous way of traveling. And any shuttles would be blown to pieces long before it could land.”

“The Fix is—” Spalding started to repeat himself for the nth time.

“Mr. Spalding!” McCruise exclaimed, and I also cut in.

“What exactly is this ‘fix’ you keep talking about, Commander?” I interrupted, shooting McCruise a ‘be quiet and let your Admiral handle this’ look.

Spalding blinked in brief confusion. “The Fix is a modified, Penetrator Class Lander—but it’s been upgraded since it was last used by Marines and Lancers for boarding operations,” Spalding said, swelling with obvious pride.

My mouth muscle started to stretch and I quickly realized I was grinning like a fool, so I quickly stiffened my upper lip and tried to look nonchalant as I swept the table with my gaze. I saw that I wasn’t the only one who was suddenly proud that our Chief Engineer hadn’t yet lost all his marbles as the other old Clover crew was giving their Easy Haven brothers and sisters a few superior looks.

“Let me be clear,” Captain McCruise said, her eyebrows climbing for the rafters, “The Fix is a Lander you’ve prepared for the specific purpose of boarding a small strike team onto a Dreadnaught Class Battleship?”

Spalding looked at her like she was stupid. “I told you The Fix was in,” he said, rolling his good eye, “she’s down in shuttle bay two, slip eight this very moment.”

McCruise gave a slow nod. “One question,” she said, “I’m just curious…you see, I’ve been in the Confederation Fleet for a long time and I’ve never even heard of a Penetrator Class Lander before.”

“Oh,” Spalding said and I could see the dawning realization in his eyes, “the Penetrator Class is a two hundred year old model that was just layin’ around, pickin’ up space dust at the Wolf-9 bone-yards. They were discontinued because modern technology made them impractical; couldn’t get close to their targets without horrendous casualties, so they stopped using them. But don’t worry,” he smiled as he buffed his fingernails on his collar, “I’ve made a few upgrades.”

“Wonderful,” Synthia McCruise said in an utterly emotionless voice.

“Once again with the insanity,” Eastwood blurted, and not for the first time since the start of the meeting.

“She’ll be right,” Spalding snapped, “I’d stake my life on it, First Officer.”

I placed my face in the palm of my hand. I could tell this was going to be a long meeting

Chapter 55: Reaping the Whirlwind

“The Bugs are finally going in,” Sensors reported with a viciousness I wasn’t used to hearing from members of my bridge crew.

“It looks like they’re sending in an advanced force of Heavy Harvesters, Medium Harvesters and smaller Bug Scouts and Scout Marauders,” Captain Laurent said with a grim expression. “I read two Heavy Harvesters, another four Medium Harvesters, and thirty two of their smaller ships.

“A potent force,” I said, my mouth twisting as I imagined my uncle assessing the odds on his throne—my throne, the Admiral’s Throne on the Lucky Clover. Our Clover, for I refused to believe that my battleship belonged in any part to that madman.

“Let us just hope that your uncle the Blood Lord doesn’t take to his heels as quickly as he did the last time he encountered a large ship,” Captain Laurent said derisively.

“If our blood relation weren’t as clear as the nose on that pirate’s eye-patched face of his,” I scowled thunderously, “I wouldn’t even admit to him being a relative. As it is, he’s got two Battleships and a passel of Corvettes, Destroyers and a pair of Light Cruisers while the Bugs have a similar number, at least as far as he can see. I’d like those odds if I were him.”

“We can’t choose our family,” Laurent said with scant sympathy in his voice, “we’re stuck with whatever blood ties we’re born with and I hope, for the sake of this ship that, that your read on the Pirate Prince is correct.”

“That man is no family of mine,” I said hotly, “family implies something closer than the reality—loyalty perhaps…closeness maybe. A relative, on the other hand, can snub you every day of your life and then stab you in the back and no one will think wrong of it,” I drew myself up haughtily, “and that man is a relative, if ever I’ve seen one. That said, I make no promises where that backstabber is concerned.”

“I think your definition of a relative is a bit off,” Laurent said, looking as if he was choosing his words carefully to avoid setting me off.

“Well, if the space gods are willing and Saint Murphy watches our back for the dagger, Jean Luc will be dead this time tomorrow and all such distinctions will become academic,” I said with a greedy, shark-like smile. I could almost taste the sweet, savory flavor of revenge in my mouth.

I closed my eyes for a long moment, thinking what was to come and after that brief, glorious moment I cruelly jerked myself back up short. There would be plenty of time to pat myself on the back until my arm broke after my Pirate Uncle and self-proclaimed Blood Lord, Jean Luc Montagne, was dead and incinerated in corona of the nearest star.

“There they go,” the Captain, said drawing me back from my reverie.

I blinked my eyes to clear them and focused on the main screen.

“They’re going right into the most tempting source of biomass for light years,” Laurent said with satisfaction in his voice, “there’ll be no turning the Bugs around now.”

“Hey,” I exclaimed, “there’s no need to become overjoyed at the thought of the Bugs thinking it’s such a sweet idea to eat everyone on Tracto.”

Laurent blinked. “Sorry, Sir,” he said with a frown, “it’s just that this was a necessary part of the plan, if your idea’s going to work.”

I politely ignored the way he was distancing himself from the battle plan by calling it ‘my’ idea. If we won, I’m sure he’d be calling the victory something ‘we’ had done, but if we lost…Victory had a thousand fathers and mothers, but defeat was and would always be a bastard child of my own unique and unnatural creation.

Although, maybe that wasn’t an entirely fair assessment in this particular instance, since I did give the man the perfect opportunity to shoot me in the back and he’d declined to do so.

“No worries, Captain,” I said, trying to shrug off the ‘perhaps’ unintended insinuation, “so far they’re doing pretty much what we want them to do.”

“That’s always when something’s about to go wrong,” Laurent muttered direly.

I cocked an eyebrow at the other man.

“Right when you think they’re doing exactly what you want them to do,” he brought his hands together with a resounding ‘wham,’ “they pull the rug out from under you and leave you scrambling.”

“Perhaps it’s time to go to silent running and start sneaking into the star system?” I mused, rubbing my chin thoughtfully.

“It’s still a few hours early,” Laurent demurred, “and if we’re silent running we can’t get near as much speed as if we light off the engines.”

“No need to run the risk of stray emissions getting out to the pirates,” I concluded after thinking it over, “even if we’re on the other side of the star system from the vector of the Bug incursion, those pirates are going to actively scan everything and its ugly brother.”

“As you command,” Laurent said with a barely perceptible shrug as he turned to the bridge crew. “Battleship to silent running; Comm., contact the rest of the fleet via whisker laser and relay the orders: all ships are to rig for silent running.”

“Yes, Captain,” the com-tech said, holding a hand to his headset as he began relaying the orders, and soon afterward the rest of the fleet went to silent running.

“I guess there’s nothing left to do but wait for stragglers,” I said after a minute.

“If any of the pirates break and run we’ll be in position to sweep them up if they flee in the opposite direction from the Bug Armada,” Laurent replied evenly. “Of course, if they try to go off at an angle away from them, things might become more difficult.”

Several more minutes passed as the Bugs headed further into the system, and the pirate ships scrambled to form up and meet them.

“Blast it,” I grumbled, “I feel like I’m nothing better than a carrion bird. Sitting out here and enjoying the scenery, waiting for some fresh meat to drop just doesn’t sit right.”

“We have by far the less potent force,” the Captain said philosophically.

“Still it, sits wrong with me,” I grumped, “skulking around the outskirts of Tracto like some kind of criminal or Easy Havener while the actual criminals go to fight the Bugs.”

“I think you’re too hard on our loyal comrades to lump them in with this sort,” Laurent warned with a glint in his eye.

“You’re right, of course,” I apologized without any feeling. I was still smarting over the way Commodore LeGodat had sat around for weeks waiting for his perfect weather window before acting. Said window only arriving when Spalding threw caution to the wind and blew through Praxis like a whirlwind. Now there’s the sort of example I should be emulating, I thought, feeling thoroughly disgusted with myself. Straight down their throats and the Demon take the hindmost.

“It’s the smart play,” Laurent said sternly, as if I were some kind of truant child he had to watch out for.

Like I would really try to charge our ships towards the enemy without any hope of success, I scoffed internally.

“It’s a good thing her Ladyship isn’t here,” the Captain said, and my blood ran cold.

“Yes,” I agreed, “I doubt she would have been willing to sit here doing nothing while her home world was occupied and under threat of worse.” I shuddered to think what she would say if I tried to hold her back, “Heads would roll,” I said bleakly. It was never wise to upset a woman with a sword—especially that woman.

Although, come to think of it back when I’d had a sword, she hadn’t seemed to care how much she upset me. Women, I thought, shaking my head and then instinctively hunching my shoulders and looking around furtively as if expecting a blow.

Seeing that my erstwhile wife hadn’t magically appeared to scowl or clout me upside the head, I breathed a sigh of relief. I really need to get a grip, I thought as I turned to the nearest yeoman and ordered some tea. This was going to be a long afternoon, and it was important I stay refreshed.

Leaning back in my chair as the first of the fastest Bug Scouts ran headlong into a squadron of pirate Corvettes and got themselves annihilated, I idly wondered if the mess could send up some popcorn. Seeing the quickly sprawling fleet action and resulting destruction, I found out that I rather enjoyed watching my enemies destroy each other. I’d rather watch this than a holo-movie any day of the week, I thought with satisfaction, the trial and tribulations of a Confederation Admiral feeling lighter than they had in a long, long time.

Chapter 56: The Furious Phoenix

“How soon can the Furious Phoenix jump out of this accursed star system—this blight on the river of stars,” Akantha demanded hotly. The thought of staying any longer in this barren wasteland of an island star system enraged her; she was so close, her navigators had told her so, and there was still nothing she could do for her home world! It was enough to drive a woman to cold-blooded murder.

“Another two hours to hyperspace jump, Milady,” Gants reported from his position to the side of her command seat.

“And then we’ll be home?” she demanded, clenching the hilt of Bandersnatch until her knuckles turned white.

“The Navigator swears this next jump will take us to Tracto, Lady Akantha,” Gants hastened to assure her.

Akantha disliked ‘being reassured;’ she felt like returning home and killing something.

“I hate to bring it up, my Lady,” Gants said cautiously.

“Then do not do so,” she said shortly.

Gants closed his eyes and took a breath his face twisting up into a horrible mask of anguish.

“Oh, go ahead, then,” Akantha cursed, “what is it?”

“The…guests,” he started carefully.

“Do not bring them to my bridge,” she commanded, already knowing where this was going.

“They asked if they could—” he said looking miserable.

“Mother Elaina is one thing,” Akantha said sharply, “but if I have to see that three-faced bitch and her kill order again before we reach home, in my present mood I-” she cut herself off sharply. “Somehow I doubt my Protector would care for our reunion to include a headless, family corpse.”

Gants paled. “I think you’re right,” he said fervently.

“He is squeamish that way,” she sighed, “and it is family. Although it grates against my being to do so, it is likely best to let him deal with it.”

“Your Ladyship is very considerate,” Gants choked.

“Too much sometimes, I worry; else why would we be in these straits?” she asked rhetorically. “MEN knows we have fought hard enough.”

Gants wisely kept silent and Akantha turned back to staring at the count down on the screen. She was certain that with sheer force of will, if only she wanted it badly enough, she could cause that counter to move faster.

Chapter 57: It really was the perfect plan, honest!

Everything was going to plan; I couldn’t believe it. The pirates had been suckered into taking on the advanced vanguard of the Bug Armada before they got a chance to see the true power of the Bug fleet.

The Bugs were dropping like flies and the pirates were being softened up, so everything was working perfectly—just like I’d imagined it. There were a couple of pirates at the Belter’s trillium refinery—the only place in the system with any kind of repair facilities—that appeared to be down with drive troubles. But then, what did one expect from poorly maintained pirate ships? The amazing thing wasn’t that none of the pirates were still docked at the new Belter Station, but that there were only three of them.

This is almost too good to be true, I thought gleefully. Reaching around quickly, I knocked on the strategically placed piece of wood on the command chair’s arm.

“What’s the current breakdown of pirate ships?” Laurent asked.

“Two Battleships, a pair of Light Cruisers, four Destroyers—two Light and two regular—and a mixed force of eighteen Corvettes and Cutters,” Eastwood replied in a crisp, carrying voice. “It could be seventeen, as one of the Corvettes just took heavy damage and looked like it was knocked out before recovering enough to get its engines going again, but it’s in the middle of a Bug swarm and isn’t firing. With all the pirate modified drive systems out there it’s hard to tell, at least from the other side of the star system,” irony was in his voice as he explained, “exactly which signatures are Cutters and which are Corvettes.”

“Don’t forget the dozen armed freighters,” the Sensor Officer cut in, looking jealous that he hadn’t been given the chance to give the enemy breakdown.

“And twelve freighters,” Eastwood agreed, looking grateful for the help while the Warrant Officer continued to look unhappy.

With only a single Battleship, one Heavy Destroyer, one poorly manned Light Destroyer, a Corvette, a pair of Cutters and every single one of my ships—except for McCruise’s Destroyer—sporting recent and extensive repairs and a skeleton crew, we were by far the smallest kid in the sand box—by a long chalk.

Learning that Yagar was dead had been satisfying, but what would have been more satisfying was to have his Flagship and escorts available for this battle. I didn’t care if they were manned by the Sundered gorilla men, our men, or Wainwright’s marines, we could have definitely used the hulls for this battle. Unfortunately, they were still stuck at the Omicron.

Leaning back in my chair, I took a sip of my lukewarm tea and grimaced. “Yeoman, if you could freshen this,” I said, holding out my cup of cooling tea.

“Of course, Admiral,” the yeoman replied, taking the cup and hurrying away.

“I’ve never seen a Commanding Officer drink tea on the bridge during the middle of a battle,” the Captain chided.

“We’re not in battle yet,” I observed.

“I’m just saying,” Laurent said, moderating his tone and stepping back.

The tea arrived and I was contentedly sipping on it when there was a stir in the Sensor section. Since ‘stirring’ was only ever rarely a good sign, I felt my muscles start to tighten. Ruthlessly suppressing my body’s natural urge to jump up and start kicking an enemy that wasn’t even present, I placed a foot atop the knee of my other leg, determined to present the veritable image of ease and unconcern.

Seconds passed and the main screen started updating with new tracks updating. The pair of pirate battleships—that black pustule on ship lists of known space currently called the Vineyard for one, and our own cruelly used Lucky Clover for the other—had been maintaining distance from the Heavy Harvesters, suddenly leapt to close the distance.

The reaction among the pirates was mixed, with about half the warships no longer dancing around at the edge of Bug firing ranges, using the superior range of our human built weapons for best effect, even if that meant thirty seconds of firing for every five minutes of maneuvering, and instead lunging into range and firing concerted bursts. Meanwhile, the other half did almost exactly the opposite and increased distance, with about half of those immediately turning and pointing their engines right at the Bugs and burning for all they were worth.

“Looks like something spooked them,” Laurent advised with a calm and steady voice.

“I wonder what that could be,” I said with an innocent voice, as visions of Bug Mother-ships danced gleefully in my head. Those pirate cowards had a fair distance to go but if they kept on coming in this direction, we’d scoop them up like a child goes after cotton candy. “In your face, camel cakes,” I whispered as Jean Luc finally realized he was about to come face to face with his worst nightmare.

“Sir?” Laurent asked, a worried look on his face.

“Did you need something, Officer?” I responded in turn, whipping my face of any vindicated expressions it might or might not have had.

“No, Sir,” he said, his expression once again a straight, professional mask.

On the outside I made no move, but on the inside I gave a figurative shrug. I figured that I probably would have been worried, or at least a little concerned, if my commanding officer had suddenly started talking nonsense to himself in the middle of battle.

As I watched, the pair of Battleships, accompanied by their Light Cruiser escorts, went up head to head with the Bug Harvesters. I was mildly disappointed when one of the Heavy Harvesters was pinned between all four ships and blown to smithereens, but I couldn’t be too unhappy about it. As much as I wanted to see Jean Luc suffer, bleed and die, my enemies were killing each other and the more Bugs he destroyed before biting the bullet, the fewer I was going to have to deal with.

In an ideal world, they would engage in mutually assured destruction and I would simply swoop in the pick up the pieces. It was perhaps a fool’s dream, but one I was more than willing to cherish and entertain until reality decided it was time to smack me in the head.

It took us another hour to finally start picking up the Bug Mother-ship on our scans—and we actually knew where to look for them, unlike Jean Luc and his pirates. In that time, Jean Luc’s ships had taken plenty of damage and one of his Light Cruisers had been forced to withdraw, streaming atmo into the void of cold space, but the Harvesters had been destroyed.

“It’s hard to tell how much damage the pirate took to his heavy squadron,” Laurent advised me in a low voice, “but I’m surprised it was only one of the Light Cruisers that had to be withdrawn.”

“I’m not,” I said flatly, “whatever else he is, was, or will be, Jean Luc knows how to fight his ships.”

“That’s just good news for us,” Laurent said pointedly.

I looked over at him with disbelief, failing to see how having a skilled opponent was good news.

“I prefer stupidity in my enemies,” I disagreed vehemently.

“It means less Bugs for us to have to deal with later,” Laurent explained, ignoring the bite in my voice even as a swarm of Bug Scouts fifty strong detached to from close protection of the Mother-ship and surged forward in search of pirate targets.

I winced. They might be small individually, but fifty of anything was a huge number as far as I was concerned, at least when it came to enemy warships—or Bug ships, as the case may be.

Despite not admiring my enemy’s skill with a fleet, everything was going well, almost exactly as planned. Behind that swarm of fifty scouts came a dozen additional Harvesters, including the last of the Heavy Harvesters. Yes indeed, everything was going just fine—good, even. Our enemies were killing each other, and we got to sit on the sidelines cooling our heels until one of them had been battered unrecognizable.

That’s why fate decided to throw us a curveball.

“Contact,” exclaimed one of the Sensor operators in disbelief, and a sense of urgency that we hadn’t had from the Sensor section since the Mother-ship showed up.

“What have you got, Sensors?” Captain Laurent demanded, and I was more than happy to sit back and look the part of the unruffled Admiral in total control while my subordinates did the heavy lifting.

Of course, that doesn’t mean that I wasn’t interested and…concerned.

“I’m picking up a hyper footprint twenty degrees around the edge of the hyper limit from position of the current battle,” the Warrant Officer reported.

“Verify,” snapped Laurent, “and find out who it is.”

“Contact,” cried a Sensor operator, “I have another contact, Sirs, we’re getting multiple hyper wakes from the same general area of space. It looks like it might be some kind of convoy, Captain.”

I ran my hand through my hair. Was it possible that Jean Luc had just gotten additional reinforcements?

“Get me class and hull types,” the Captain barked, “I want to know who that is.”

I didn’t like this—I didn’t like this at all.

“I don’t like this,” Laurent said to me, almost as if he’d been reading my thoughts.

“What’s not to like?” I asked dryly, my smile twisting. “Our enemy gets more reinforcements to fight Bugs and we don’t have to deal with them tomorrow, after we ourselves have already been in battle. Or maybe it’s nothing but a couple of random merchant ships, and while I’ll feel sorry for them, there’s a war on in this system. I’d do what I could for them if that’s the case but in all our time picketing this system, there hasn’t been any real activity except for those tribute ships we swiped, so I doubt that’s very likely.”

“I’m getting some strange readings, Captain,” the Sensor Officer reported after an almost interminable wait while Sensors did their thing and scanned the black.

“Strange…how?” Laurent asked tightly.

“We’ve tentatively identified three Corvette class vessels,” the Warrant Officer said reluctantly, “but the other one’s a mystery. If I hadn’t known it was there, I doubt we would have been able to spot it at all. If I didn’t know better…I’d say it had some kind of cloak.”

Laurent pursed his lips irritably. “And just how do you ‘know’ that they don’t have some kind of stealth properties to that mysterious, fourth ship?” Laurent growled in the tone of voice that makes you straighten up in your chair question your assumptions.

“Well,” the Sensor Officer gulped, “because they made a big hyper splash and all four of our new contacts appeared together. If they were trying to be sneaky, I’m pretty sure they’d have split up some, at least.”

“Pretty sure?” Laurent scoffed. “Next time just give me the data and leave the speculation to others, Sensors—all I’m interested in is the facts, man, not assumptions. You do know what assumptions make by now, don’t you Warrant Officer?”

“Of course, Sir,” the Sensor Officer flushed, “right on it, Captain.” He turned back to his team, and a half hour passed with only minimal updates until they finally conceded.

“We’re confounded, Sir,” the Sensor Officer reported back for at least the sixth time, per Captain Laurent’s request, “we can get a general size profile: it’s in the Cruiser range—Heavy Cruiser is our best bet—and the Corvettes are acting as escorts. But we won’t know more unless we get closer.”

“You did the best you could, Sensors,” Laurent said grudgingly, “keep trying.”

“Aye, Sir,” replied the Warrant, turning back to his task.

Laurent and I shared looks,but there was nothing we could do without more information.

“Admiral,” the Comm.’s Officer bolted upright in his seat looking shocked, “I’m getting a general transmission hail from the mystery ship.”

“Put it on the main screen,” I instructed, feeling grateful that something at least was happening. Hours spent sitting in that chair had done nothing for my back and I was about ready to break down and pull out my data slate to surf the archive for interesting bits of minutia.

“Sir, it’s…” the com-tech pulled himself up short. “Of course, Sir,” he said, sounding formal.

A vision of loveliness appeared on my screen that I thought I would never see again. Beautiful, blond haired and with pale, white skin, her features were as familiar as the dreams I had every night where I tossed and turned wondering what she had been up to. I was surprised to see the twin lines of scars running down beneath each eye—almost as if they had been made by tears.

Snapping back to reality, I realized she was speaking. “This is Akantha of Messene aboard the Furious Phoenix, and I am a Hold Mistress of Tracto. To the warring parties within this system, I say: fear my Name. If you surrender now, I promise to make your deaths swift, although I cannot promise they will be merciful after what you’ve done,” my wife said in a harsh, brutal voice. “So flee if you can, or kill yourselves if you are cowards, but know that if you survive this battle, you will be hunted down like the kine you are for what you’ve done to my home world,” she drew herself up and pulled her sheathed sword around in front of her. “Upon the Sword I Bear, I swear it,” she finished, drawing Bandersnatch half way out of its sheath to expose the blade, “Akantha of Messene, out.”

The transmission ended, and for a long moment everyone sat there, utterly stunned.

I thumped the palm of my open hand on my forehead and Laurent and I exchanged a look. “We have to go get her,” I said with more than a hint of exasperation in my voice. I was simply unable to believe that my grand battle plan, the work of sweat, bloody months and careful planning had just been thrown on its head. I was used to hearing about battle plans that didn’t survive contact with the enemy, but I’d yet to hear a saying about how they couldn’t survive the arrival of your wife. “Now!” I snapped, with iron in my voice.

“Of course, Admiral,” Laurent acknowledged, looking like he was unable to believe what was happening or what he had seen.

I understood because I was feeling the same way. Weeks and weeks without any contact; I hadn’t even known if Akantha had lived or died from her proposed mission to head to Capria, and now out of the blue she picked today to show up—during the middle of the battle?! It defied belief. It defied my battle plan. And it had the potential to ruin everything. But after everything she had suffered due to my failures, I couldn’t stand back and do nothing.

Besides, after everything ‘I’ had suffered, I was selfishly going to go and save my wife. I felt like I was entitled to something more than the chains of duty—chains thick enough that Jacob Marley himself would have sympathized with me.

Come what may, at least we’d go down together. This would be my payment for everything that had happened to me. The smart play might have been to sacrifice Akantha and her little squadron. The pirates might even believe that this was the extent of what we were able to muster and let their guard down afterwards. The more I thought about it, the more it sounded like the sort of plan my uncle would have employed. Sacrificing others—men, women and yes, even wives—to ensure his victory.

For me, however, the choice was clear. I was not my uncle, and I would not sacrifice my wife on the Altar of Victory. To me it was no choice, and even if my Akantha hadn’t been onboard that ship, and it had ‘just’ been regular officers and members of my fleet and crew, I like to think I would have done the same thing.

I was going to go and get my wife back!

Realizing no orders had been issued by my Captain, I turned and glared at the man. “Communications,” I snapped, “issue general orders to the fleet: silent running is canceled. Everyone is to turn around and thrust full speed back toward the hyper limit, while spinning up their hyper drives—the fleet will jump in unison.”

“Helm, Navigation,” Laurent growled, seemingly snapping out of his paralysis, “you heard the Admiral!”

Filled with nervous energy, I could barely contain myself. Glancing back and forth between my now clenched hands and the main screen, I tried to calculate if we were going to get there in time. Unable to sit still for another instant, I jumped out of my chair.

“What are your intentions, Admiral?” Laurent asked, giving me pause in my march to my intended destination: the Captain’s ready room. Unlike the Lucky Clover, the Armor Prince didn’t have a Flag Bridge and a Battle Bridge. It had a bridge, and an auxiliary control room. “You realize they’ll know we’re here and see us coming.”

“I’m going to do the Right Thing,” I said irritably. “I’m going to go save my wife and make sure the Lady Akantha doesn’t get herself killed by Jean Luc and his battleships, or the Bug Queen and her Mother-ship,” I said irritably. Our drives were already burning and the die was already cast. What had been was no more; now we had to deal with the world as it was, not what we wanted it be, and certainly not the grand battle plan of five minutes earlier.

“Even if it means costing us the battle?” he asked in a low voice.

I turned to stare at him with silent fury. That’s the moment that I realized that as much as I lusted for vengeance upon my backstabbing uncle by the bucket load, it would be as next to meaningless if the only way to get it was to lose my wife.

Laurent raised his hands in the air. “Look, I’m your Flag Captain,” he said taking a step back, “it’s my job to ask the tough, unwanted questions. It doesn’t mean that I agree with them.”

“Our hyper drives were kept spun up, below the critical threshold,” I said in a calm voice, instead of strangling the Captain where he stood like was my first impulse. “Have the Navigator plot us a short jump to the nearest point we can get for a least-time course to rendezvous with Akantha and the Strike Cruiser. Also, have Communications let the,” my mouth twisted as I realized or the first time that Akantha had changed the name of the Invictus Rising into its new, strangely mythological moniker, “Furious Phoenix know that we are on the way and will rendezvousing with them directly—this is so they aren’t trying to shoot at us on the way in. Hopefully we can keep her from getting herself killed before we can arrive.”

“You’re the Admiral,” Laurent said with a nod.

“What the Hades is that supposed to mean?!” I snapped, tired and fed up with all this ‘you’re the Admiral’ nonsense people liked to flip at me whenever they didn’t agree.

“It means the orders will be carried out,” Laurent said evenly, “and we will get the Prince where he needs to go. You can count on us—not everyone’s out to get you, Sir.”

I took a deep breath, wondering if I’d overreacted. I had grown used to constant challenges to my authority, vis-à-vis Rafael Tremblay, from within as well as tries against my interests from without that it was possible I’d started looking for trouble that didn’t really exist.

“Alright then,” I grumped, “if you need me, I’ll be in the ready room, trying to take a look at the new field of battle and getting something inside me to fill the empty spots.” Possibly even stretch out on the couch with my eyes closed for a little rest—note I didn’t say ‘sleep,’ as that would have been impossible.

The odds had just ticked up significantly in our favor with the arrival of Akantha and a certain former Imperial Strike Cruiser, and I needed time to think.

We were still significantly shorter on lighter units than Jean Luc Montagne, but while we were still overmatched two battleships to one battleship and a strike cruiser, I knew just how potent and powerful that Strike Cruiser was, courtesy of the first battle for Easy Haven against Captain Cornwallis. The Furious Phoenix wasn’t in the same league as a Battleship, but it could sure give a Dreadnaught class a run for her money.

It was time to give old Jean Luc and that Bug Mother-ship a run for their money. The Battle for Tracto had just turned into a three-way horse race—and I aimed to cheat.

Chapter 58: Fleet Maneuvers

“Point Emergence,” hollered Navigator Shepherd.

“Extending baffling and activating the drives,” DuPont at the Helm informed us, not wasting time asking for orders or verification, instead just getting the job done.

I was grateful, as this was a wartime situation and lives were on the line—lives that were very important to me.

“Shields at maximum and holding steady,” Ensign Longbottom reported eagerly.

“Initiating main engine burn,” DuPont reported, and the ship shuddered as if slamming against a wall before plowing on through. “And we’re free,” he reported, “there was hardly any inertial sump to speak of with an inter-system jump like that.”

“Full power to the engines, Helm,” I said, bypassing Laurent and issuing the orders. I didn’t have time for the niceties. “I want to intercept that Strike Cruiser before she engages the Bugs or the Battleships.”

“Full speed, Admiral,” DuPont replied, “if it can be done, we’ll catch her,” he said, not bothering to mention what all of us knew: if the much faster Imperial Strike Cruiser didn’t want us to catch her, our better angle for intercepting the main furball that was the current two-way battle between the Bugs and my Uncle would mean squat.

“Just do your best, DuPont,” I said firmly, “I trust you to do your job and can recognize the impossible when it stares me in the face and yawns.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” DuPont said with a bit of a chuckle.

Looking up at the main-screen, I saw that the wave of Scouts had been mostly dealt with, leaving cold space strewn with the dead and drifting pirate ships and corpses of Bug Scouts.

The second—or I suppose it was the third—wave was comprised mainly of Harvesters and only a couple Scout Marauders had already been released and was less than fifteen minutes away from intercepting my Pirate Uncle’s fractured fleet.

“I hope they eat you,” I snarled as I watched, my eyes switching back and forth between the icons of the Lucky Clover and Vineyard as I wondered on which ship Jean Luc had parked himself.

“Even as close to the outer part of this star system and the hyper limit as the Pirates have decided to engage them, neither the Armor Prince nor the Phoenix will be able to engage the Harvester group before they reach the pirates,” Laurent advised after running the numbers on his data slate.

“Not that I would ever want to do such a thing,” I said glibly. Silently, I was scoffing at the notion of putting myself between Jean Luc and harm’s way. The mere idea was preposterous.

“Yes,” agreed Laurent his face scrunching slightly, “so unless the Bugs turn on us, we should be good.”

“A disturbing thought,” I said with a hungry grin that belied the words, “we wouldn’t want those poor, helpless Bugs to come under our recently refurbished and upgraded Armor Prince.”

“We’ve seen firsthand what the Bugs can do to similarly outfitted Heavy Cruiser,” Laurent said disapprovingly.

“From your own mouth, Captain, that was a Heavy Cruiser and this is a Battleship,” I said with a dismissive tone. When it was clear that this wasn’t selling my unconcern hard enough, I looked over at the Captain irritably, “A Dreadnaught Class Battleship,” I reiterated emphatically, “upgraded by our very own Chief Engineer. We’ve got twice the turbo-lasers and more than that in heavy lasers. I have every confidence we’ll pulverize any Harvesters foolish enough to come within range.”

“A Battleship is no Heavy Cruiser,” Laurent temporized unhappily.

I sniffed in response but didn’t say anything. Several minutes passed and I looked over at the com-tech. “Any response from the Furious Phoenix?” I asked, wondering what was taking them so long.

“Not yet, Admiral,” the com-tech said with a sad shake of his head, “it could be that we just haven’t had a return signal yet. We did just jump and effectively outrun our last message.”

“Well, keep trying,” I grumbled. What was Akantha playing at, running radio silent like this?

Chapter 59: On the Hunt

“We’re getting another message from the Armor Prince, my Hold Mistress,” said Isis from her position at the communications console.

“Has my Protector deigned to address us himself this time?” Akantha asked icily.

“It’s another status update and instructions for the Invictus Rising to proceed to a set of rendezvous coordinates short of the Bug Fleet and the Star Bandits we’ve found in our Home Space, Mistress,” Isis said without emotion.

“An insult,” Akantha declared, “we are back together again for the first time in months, and the man does not even address me personally…he has his underlings send messages, and now what does he do?” she demanded in a rising voice, one hard enough to cut glass with. “When we fail to jump to the orders of his lackey—a person whose voice I don’t even recognize—

Realizing her voice had risen to a screech, she cut herself off and then continued in a colder firmer voice, “No, you are to remain silent. He attempts to chide me with his seeming forgetfulness of this honorable ship’s battle-tested new name and deny us the honor of the first strike against the invaders, and I will not have it!”

“Yes, Hold Mistress,” Isis said with a sharp nod.

“I’m sure the Little Admiral’s only excited to see you again, my Lady” Gants said, manfully throwing himself into the fray, “maybe he just wants to have our ships in close proximity for Communication Security?”

“Now we must skulk around, exchanging words in impersonal whispers passed through subordinates?” Akantha said with patented disbelief and rising anger. She bared her teeth but restrained herself from upbraiding the eager young Starborn like he probably deserved. Gants had proven his stalwart service to his Warlord and the Hold by helping plan the attack of his own home world, so she would give him the benefit of the doubt—even when she felt none herself. “Every moment the Bug Demons and these pirates inhabit Tracto space is an insult that cannot, and will not, be borne for a second longer than absolutely necessary. You loyalty to your Warlord Admiral is well presented and well placed—however,” her voice hardened, “my orders stand. Is this going to be a loyalty conflict for you?”

“Yes, Lady Akantha,” Gants said unhappily, “I mean no, Lady Akantha. I mean, I’ll carry out your orders, my Lady.”

“Good,” she said with real pleasure. “So long as you are certain. This would have been a less than ideal time to lose my First Officer.”

Gants just looked at her despairingly.

“You are much more loyal than our last First Officer,” she hastened to assure him, “it would be difficult to do without you.”

“I’m just an Armory Head; I don’t know as much as you think I do about running a ship,” Gants protested.

“Nonsense,” Akantha said sternly, suppressing the urge to smile, “you have done a wonderful job.”

“Are you sure that we shouldn’t contact the Admiral?” Gants hazarded again.

Akantha’s face hardened. “This insult will not be borne,” she declared. “Besides, he would merely try to hold us back. A blow must be struck!”

Gants placed a hand over his face, which she pointedly ignored.

“Relay the order,” Akantha said standing up and pulling out her sword, “we shall increase our speed to ‘full speed ahead.’ Straight at our enemies, Furious Phoenix! We shall drive our weapons straight down their throats!”

Chapter 60: The Supplicant Seeks a Boon

“We’re getting hammered, Sir,” Captain Heppner reported, his face popping up on the arm-screen of the Admiral’s Command Chair.

“Blast it, Jim,” Jean Luc cursed, “I’ve got this battle well in hand.”

“Half our fleet is gone and of the remainder, just under half of them are running for the hyper limit as we speak,” Captain Jim Heppner argued.

“I’ll deal with the cowards later,” the Pirate King said with a savage grin, “they will make a fine example for the new dynasty I plan to found in this system when I hunt them down and the holo-vid of their torture goes viral.”

“Respectfully, we’re getting hammered and the Mother-ship hasn’t even entered the battle yet, Commodore!” the Captain said urgently. “Sir, we have to withdraw. We have Bugs to our front and the scrapings your nephew has pulled out of his hat to the rear; our position is rapidly becoming untenable.”

“No!” Jean Luc snapped with a sudden surge of rage, “my nephew means to taunt me—he tasks me, but I’ll have him brought to his knees yet!”

“We must, Commodore,” Heppner said all but pleading, “both battleships have taken hull damage and our shields are spotting hard; those Heavy Harvesters are tough to deal with. Sir, we can always return to this system later.”

“Bugs always follow a pattern of increasingly larger attacks…this was a deliberate ambush,” Jean Luc said in a deathly voice. “The naval buffoon masquerading as my nephew thinks he can get these sub-sentient creatures to do his heavy lifting and come along behind to sweep up the pieces, but the fool doesn’t even have control over his own forces, let alone these Bugs!”

“I don’t see how this impacts our situation, Sir,” Heppner said respectfully and Jean Luc bared his teeth.

“Your new orders are to maintain our distance from that Mother-ship and as much of her Armada as you can. Fight this ship, Heppner,” Jean Luc declared.

“What will you be doing, Sir?” Heppner asked pointedly, his gaze sharpening.

“I will not surrender the trillium operation in this system for the Bugs to devour. I have plans for the wealth of this place and will not accept a setback of years in order to rebuild everything they will destroy in a matter of weeks!” Jean Luc shook his head in savage negation, “I will not give in to the ‘Little Pipsqueak’ and this gimmick he’s trying to masquerade as a real battle strategy. No—we hold,” Jean Luc said flatly.

The one-eyed Pirate Lord leaned menacingly toward the small screen’s pickup as he continued, “You deal with the Harvesters and smaller fry, and keep distance as best you can in order to rebuild our shields for the arrival of my nephew. A run-down and parted out Battleship and a Cruiser of some kind, run by neophytes like them cannot stand against battle-hardened professionals.”

“Staying out of range still leaves us dealing with the Mother-ship at some point, unless we mean to let it ravage Tracto IV,” Heppner said.

“You leave the Mother-ship to me and fight the ship until I get back; I need to retrieve something from…my Quarters,” Jean Luc said with a grin, and it was far from a pleasant expression.

Heppner looked slightly skeptical before seeming to reach some kind of internal decision and nodding decisively.

Severing the connection on his Admiral’s Throne, Jean Luc stood up. “Transfer full command authority over to the bridge crew,” he ordered, heading for his ready room.

His Chief of Staff started to follow, and Jean Luc wheeled around to glare at Tremblay. “Make sure I’m not disturbed,” he ordered, before heading inside and priority locking the door.

Sitting down in his command chair, he popped out the lever cleverly concealed within the desk.

Seconds later, the Pirate King was hurtling through his Battleship at the speed of a turbo-lift in nothing but the ready room chair, which was normally situated behind the Admiral’s desk.

Arriving down on deck twelve and a half, with the ship shuddering and shaking around him occasionally as proof of his wisdom in handing full command of the ship and battle over to Heppner, Jean Luc hurried through the dark, foam-covered, low ceilinged secret deck.

Pausing outside a faintly glowing room, the Montagne Prince paused to gather himself before striding forth boldly to enter the room with the Core Fragment. He blinked in surprise when he saw what looked to be another Core Fragment forming around the black, metallic sword he had taken off that foolish putz of a spoiled nephew.

“Impossible,” he muttered, raising an eyebrow before shrugging off his refusal of that which sat before his eyes. He was now doubly glad that he had decided to let the Core Fragment and its deadly powers rest, and not attempt to retrieve the black sword which was, itself, a far cry from his old blade.

For a second, he hesitated as what should have been an easy decision was complicated by the fact that there was no longer only one Fragment to petition.

With a barely audible growl, he shook off his indecision and planted himself in front of the original AI Fragment. “I beg a boon from the Massively Multi-Parallel Entropic Network,” he said, dropping to his knees. It irked him no end to put himself in a subordinate looking position like this, but the protocols were clear and to defeat his current enemies he considered the temporary discomfort to be well worth the price.

There was what felt like a long, deliberate pause before a straight line appeared on the plasma screen hanging from the ceiling.

“Proceed,” said the digital sounding voice, the straight line on the screen moving up and down with the Fragment’s words.

“I know that the AI’s created, and can control, the sub-sentient creatures known as the Bugs,” Jean Luc began, staring up at the screen. “This ship is beset by the creatures and I require your help to secure the safety of all those onboard her.” He was deliberately playing to whatever sense of self-preservation resided in the broken remnants of an AI so powerful that man had once considered it a Data-God.

“An inaccurate statement, but currently irrelevant; clarify your request,” the digital voice said in an emotionless voice.

Jean Luc suppressed a curse and throttled the urge to become irritated with the Fragment—that path lead to a swift death.

“I request access to any codes, ciphers, commands or control frequencies necessary to take control of or destroy the Bugs, or more specifically, their Mother-ship,” Jean Luc said in a tight voice. “Although I’m more than willing to destroy any of their smaller ships as well, if it pleases.”

There was a brief pause and a humming sound started in the background, which cut off abruptly.

“Extend your data slate and place it on the top of the crystalline structure directly in front of you,” instructed the voice.

Pulling out his slate, the Pirate King bared his teeth and stepped forward, careful not to touch any part of the Core Fragment with his bare skin as he placed the device atop the Fragment.

“Now place your hand upon the crystalline structure beside your data slate, to verify bloodline security,” the Core Fragment instructed.

“Is this strictly necessary?” Jean Luc asked, refusing to place his hand on the Fragment.

“It is if you wish to gain the control you seek,” the Core Fragment said placidly.

“You do realize that without these codes this ship will very likely be destroyed—and you along with it?” the Caprian Commodore demanded.

“The ‘We’ that is ‘Us’ has calculated that this is a low probability outcome,” the Core Fragment said.

“Just give me the codes,” Jean Luc growled.

“No further negotiation algorithms will be engaged on this subject. Comply or leave,” stated the Fragment.

“You would rather die?!” Jean Luc snarled in frustration.

“End of line,” stated the Fragment, and the line on the plasma screen consolidated into a tiny ball in the center of the screen before winking out.

“I can always transfer to the Vineyard and leave you to be destroyed by the Bugs,” Jean Luc shouted.

When there was no response, he shouted in frustration and slammed his hand down on the top of the Core Fragment next to the data slate.

The line on the screen winked back into existence as the crystalline structure beneath the Pirate King’s hand started to vibrate.

Reflexively, he tried to jerk his hand free but nothing happened; he was once again stuck fast.

“You’ve got your cursed blood samples,” he snapped, feeling the dozens of rapid-fire pinpricks on his hand that signaled such had occurred. “Now: let—me—go!”

“The dual ‘We’ that is ‘Us’ has granted your request,” the fragment continued, ignoring his demands, “you will find a wavelength and a frequency on your personal data slate. Broadcast the vibration pattern downloaded onto your console; depending on the strength of your transmitter, you may be able to confuse the Bug Queen. Prolonged and continued broadcast will eventually place the Queen and her Swarm Armada into hibernation…barring the introduction of outside stimuli.”

“What do you mean by ‘outside stimuli’?” Jean Luc snapped.

“Are there any other requests before we proceed?” inquired the Fragment.

“What are you blathering about?” Jean Luc glared, bracing himself and applying all the power of his genetically-engineered frame toward pulling his hand to freedom, “proceed with what?” Then his eyes narrowed, “Wait, I have lots of questions—”

What felt like a million volts of electricity blasted through his body until all that was left was a painfully uncomfortable, buzzing sensation which absolutely overwhelmed his senses.

Unable to speak, to think, or to even scream, the Caprian Prince turned Pirate Lord watched as helpless as an unthinking animal as his life flashed before his eyes, not once, but dozens…and then hundreds…and then thousands of times. The experience was worse than undergoing the ‘tender ministrations’ of the Interrogators on Beta Gamma VII—an experience which Jean Luc had hoped to never revisit.

The buzzing cut out abruptly and Jean Luc collapsed to the floor. “Whaaa?” he slurred; his mind was numb and his head felt incredibly thick. He was barely able to string together a pair of thoughts.

“Long-term damage to your neural net is estimated at less than 10%,” the Core Fragment informed him matter-of-factly.

“The Hades you Say,” Jean Luc staggered to his feet, “what did you do to me!?”

“Vital information has been obtained and an upgrade has been installed, among other necessary precautions,” reported the Core Fragment.

“Blast you,” Jean Luc screamed.

“Percentage chance of meaningful conversation and continued informational relay has reached unacceptable levels; this conversation is terminated,” reported the Core Fragment.

“I’ll destroy you,” he said, pulling out his blaster pistol and pointing it at the Fragment. His hand wavered as he struggled to pull the trigger, but found he was completely unable to do so. In a frustrated fury, he threw the blaster at the Fragment, “Do you hear me?! You’ve messed with my mind—I’ll destroy you for that. I’ll ion-wipe your core and reduce you to rubble, your component parts will be crushed and the remains will be scattered along my new beach—”

“End of Line,” stated the Core Fragment, the line on the screen consolidating prior to winking out.

Continuing to rage at the machine, Jean Luc snatched up the data slate and began to stagger out of the room. He stopped before he had left the chamber and turned to kick the crystalline structure of the Core Fragment until his foot hurt. His anger partially vented, he once again staggered out of the room.

He had been given what he had asked for, but as usual with this newly matured Fragment, he had come away with more than expected.

“Never again,” he swore to himself. At least not until the next time, he thought bitterly, if there is a next time.

By the time he had returned to his ready room on the bridge, his senses had returned enough to wipe away the drool which had run down his cheek. Snatching up his old vibro-sword, he stormed onto the bridge.

“Here,” he snarled, tossing the slate to his Flag Lieutenant, “scan the contents of the file on this slate and begin transmission.”

“Where are we transmitting this to?” the spineless weasel that was his Flag Lieutenant asked timorously.

“Grow a spine, Tremblay, or I’ll rip out the miserable excuse for one you’ve got in your back and throw it on the barbeque,” the Pirate Lord roared. “Follow those instructions to the letter and transmit them to the Bugs—it’s time we crushed our enemies. The Bugs go first, and then the last of these Confederation idiots as soon as they arrive—including my pipsqueak nephew and his insane, blushing bride! By the time we’re done here today the last of the old order will have been swept away, leaving the galaxy finally free to get on with the business it should have been busy with the entire time: self-improvement.”

“T-Transmitting now, Commodore,” Senior Lieutenant Tremblay said in a quivering voice.

On the main screen, the Bug Mother-ship plowed forward like an unstoppable juggernaut, and Jean Luc felt his stomach tighten. But then, the massive behemoth started to convulse and its batteries, silent until this point, started spewing out randomly into the black of space.

“Communications,” Jean Luc said with satisfaction, “relay to Captain Heppner: we’re going in.”

Chapter 61: Rumble in the Jungle

“The Invictus Rising is still refusing our hails, Admiral,” the com-tech reported.

I could have screamed with frustration; this was no way to run a three-legged race, let alone a three-way battle! If we were trying to run, then Akantha and I would have tripped over our shoe laces and fallen splat on our faces by now. That why I guess it was fortunate that we weren’t in a three-legged race, and with that irrelevant point firmly in mind I tried to suppress my growing frustration with the woman over on the silent Strike Cruiser.

“I do believe something was mentioned about my wife changing the name of the Imperial Cruiser,” I grumbled, “perhaps try addressing the ship as the ‘Furious Phoenix’—and make sure to call her Hold Mistress, not just lady,” I added, trying to figure out anything else I could say that would get her on the line.

While the com-tech was trying to raise Akantha’s Cruiser yet again, and I was sitting there and fuming, the Captain of the Armor Prince came up behind me and cleared his throat.

“Perhaps the Admiral would care to try a personal message, instead of going through intermediaries,” Laurent offered in a low voice.

“First off, we need to try and maintain some kind of com-discipline, and declaring to the world on a potentially broken encryption line that we’ve had absolutely no chance to coordinate this attack and that our second most powerful ship is acting outside of my direct control isn’t exactly the message we need to be sending at this particular moment,” I said stiffly. I turned to glare at the Captain, “Which completely fails to address the fact,” I added, “that on a personal level, I don’t want the next time I see the woman I love to be completely ruined! I mean seriously, would you want the first time you see your wife,, after a particularly long absence to be over the holo-screen while she’s busy telling you she’s got no interest in listening to you, but she’ll try to catch up to you after the battle is over?”

“I see your point,” Laurent said after a moment, “however, I still think the direct approach might be best. This is clearly getting us nowhere.”

“Or even worse,” I continued relentlessly, “while she’s demanding to know why you were lurking outside the boundary of her star system while her home planet was being occupied? That would be even worse because at that point she not only would probably ignore anything I tried to get her to do, she’d work at doing the complete opposite! No,” I declared, my mind made up, “the best thing to do is exactly what we’re doing.”

Laurent sighed. “The Lady Akantha has her own way,” he agreed before turning away, “however, this battle is too important to worry about pride.”

“It’s not my pride that I’m worried about,” I hissed in a low voice, “I’d crawl through the mud if I thought it would save lives, but I’m worried that anything I do will only make this worse!”

Chapter 62: Going In

“He is hiding something,” Akantha declared in a furious voice, “either that, or he is already dead!”

“I beg pardon, Lady,” Gants said with alarm.

“Granted,” Akantha said absently, “either way, he is now most certainly a dead man.”

Gants blinked, “I meant, ‘what do you mean,’ Ma’am?” he hazarded again.

“Are we on course for the lead Battleship,” she demanded.

“Course locked in and engines firing, my Lady,” Gants reported unequivocally.

“Good,” Akantha scowled, “I will hurt them for this, and wish to go on hurting them for as long as we have the ability!”

“Yes, Lady,” Gants said turning back to check his console.

“My Protector,” Akantha explained after a moment, and then waited until Gants had turned back towards her, “he likes to avoid trouble or withdraw from a situation until he has identified a weakness, or made some kind of plan of attack.”

“Okay…” Gants said, his brow wrinkling.

“Which means that he believes he deserves punishment for something he did,” Akantha said as she continued to explain. Then her voice darkened, “Or failed to do, which is why he has avoided speaking to me directly.”

“Are you sure?” Gants asked, starting to sound desperate.

“Since his intuition is generally accurate in these matters, he must be punished,” she proclaimed, turning to Gants. “Continue to ignore his hails,” she ordered, “and ram home the attack!”

Chapter 63: Under His Mercy

“Full power to the turbo-lasers and straight down that Mother-ship’s throat,” Jean Luc ordered.

“Standing by with your transmission packet,” reported Communications.

“Shields are at 50% and holding,” stated the Officer at the Shield Console.

“Reallocate as much shield power as possible to the starboard side,” Jean Luc ordered, “we’re going to make a close pass at the Mother-ship.”

“Give us the word, Commodore,” the Tactical Officer said with a hungry look in his eye.

“Course locked in; we’re ready to go just as soon as you give the order, Sir,” said the Helmsman.

“Shield power rerouted, Sir,” reported the Shields.

“Good job, men,” Jean Luc said, benevolently bestowing his praise.

“A word, Sir?” asked the Tactical Officer.

“Yes?” Jean Luc said with a frown.

“What about the two small squadrons of Confederal Ships?” the Officer asked respectfully. “We’ve got a Cruiser and a Battleship, both on fast approach.”

“Ignore them,” Jean Luc said with a smile, “they won’t get here before we can tear into the Mother-ship, and of the threats arrayed against us, the Bugs are by far the worst.”

“If you’re sure, Commodore,” the Tactical Officer said doubtfully.

Jean Luc gave the other man a hard look. “The day I can’t take down a Cruiser and a piece of junk Battleship is the day I hang up my hat,” he said flatly, “or my name isn’t Jean Luc Montagne, ‘terror of the spaceways’.”

The other man nodded his head deeply enough it almost qualified as a bow before turning back to his station, and Jean Luc was pleased with the way the rest of the bridge seemed to be on a knife’s edge after their back and forth.

“Comm., Helm, prepare your stations,” Jean Luc snapped, drawing out the suspense until the tension on the bridge began to reach nearly lethal levels. “Engage!”

Chapter 64: A Message in a Bottle? Could it be?

The pair of pirate-controlled battleships stopped trying to stay away from the center of the Bug Armada, instead lighting their engines and burning forward. Seconds later, the Mother-ship seemed to twist and while she had been silent up until that moment, every beam weapon on the massive ship suddenly fired. Random attacks seemed to strafe around the super Bug ship, hitting nothing except a Bug Scout which wandered into the seemingly random line of fire and was all but vaporized for doing so.

“What’s happening, Mr. Eastwood?” I asked, my mouth falling open.

“Unsure,” the Tactical Officer replied and then added, “Sir.”

I suppressed a surge of annoyance. What’s the point of having a Tactical/First Officer if he/she/it can’t tell us what’s going on, I thought angrily. I then took a moment to admit to myself that, yes, I was an equal opportunity hater. It didn’t matter your age, race (human/gene-enhanced/uplifted-or/potential alien DNA), gender (or lack thereof), political affiliation, or sexual orientation—if you couldn’t get the job done then I was going to ask ‘what good are you,’ and very much mean it.

“That’s not good enough, Tactical,” I barked, “if I wanted equivocations on my Bridge I would never have allowed Science Officer Jones to leave this ship!”

First Officer Eastwood looked over at me quizzically, and I realized he’d never had the ‘pleasure’ of actually meeting our belated, former Science Officer Jones.

“Answers, man!” I demanded hotly, not like this latest tactical development one bit.

Fortunately, several long seconds had passed and even I could see that the Bug Mother-ship had suddenly decided to start wandering around by way of randomly lighting its engines and firing off in every direction like the worst display we’d ever seen from a Bug Scout ship.

“The Bug Mother-ship seems to be acting more like a Scout class ship in this particular instance than it does the larger Harvester class,” Eastwood reported.

For my part, I glowered at the man while he had the temerity to turn away from me and focus back on his post. Saved by the bell, Mr. Eastwood, I thought with a sneer, anyone and their myopic sister could see that, at this point. Realizing the sneer had actually crossed my face, I quickly forced a mocking smile instead.

“A fine assessment,” I said, whipping my face of any betraying expression as the other man turned back around.

“My job, Admiral,” Officer Eastwood replied with a nod.

I suppressed another surge of frustration and decided to focus my angst and ire back on targets that actually deserved it. As I and the rest of the bridge watched with increasing tension, the Lucky Clover, followed by the Vineyard, began their attack run.

Surrounded by Scouts and the few remaining Harvesters that hadn’t pursued those members of his pirate fleet which weren’t already running for the hyper limit, the Battleships bore in on the Mother-ship with what was clearly a renewed sense of purpose.

Two Scouts were destroyed by the Battleships, and a Medium Harvester was struck by the port broadsides of both vessels before going dead in space. Seconds later the Bug Harvester regained power, but was unable to turn fast enough to renew pursuit of the Dreadnaught class vessels before the Clover and Vineyard got well outside of its range.

Then, having passed those few remaining picket ships, the Battleships were within striking distance of the Bug Mother-ship.

“I’m reading heavy discharges from the port broadside of the Lucky Clover,” reported Eastwood, emphasizing his point by slamming his microphone down to our gunnery section on the surface of his console with a bang, “and now the Vineyard also.”

“Their shields seem to be holding,” the Warrant at Sensors snapped, shooting a quasi-triumphant look over at Tactical.

Eastwood glanced over at Sensors and shook his head before giving the Warrant Officer a look that promised a talking to after this battle.

“Magnify the battle between the pirates and the Mother-ship,” I ordered, leaning forward in my chair tensely. I tried to project the image of the semi-professional Admiral I was supposed to be, but inside I was rejoicing—this was exactly how battles should be fought! Two sides, both of them my enemies, slugging it out with each other while I waited on the wings like a vulture, ready to swoop down and steal the prize from the ‘victor’s’ bloody, weakened fingers!

Actually seeing one, and then both, of the Battleships side by side with the Bug Mother-ship was jaw dropping. I mean, I had realized intellectually that the almost two thousand meter long Bug ship was big—not just big, huge, really—but I guess that seeing really is believing. The pair of six hundred meter long Battleships, even at a significant distance from each other, were still absolutely dwarfed by the gargantuan Mother-ship.

I had to suppress a gulp, since in that moment I felt much less sanguine about our chances of victory.

Light stabbed out from the Clover, then the Vineyard, as back and forth the highly concentrated, focused broadsides of the Battleships were responded to by the clearly random fire of the Mother-ship. Shields flared brightly as a fraction of the total arsenal on the giant Bug ship targeted the two Battleships, while the concentrated barrages from the port side of each battleship tore deep holes and large gashes which streamed atmosphere and Bug bodies as the Battleships tore past at speed.

“The enemy battleships are turning, while the Bug Mother-ship is still acting erratically,” reported Eastwood in a carrying voice that cut through what little bridge chatter had existed during the heated exchange up on the main screen.

“The Lady Akantha’s Cruiser is on close approach,” Sensors reported, “estimate she will reach the enemy Battleships about the same time as they come about for another attack run, unless someone changes course or speed.”

I clenched my fist and turned toward Communications.

“Her Ladyship still doesn’t respond to our hails,” the com-tech said, no doubt anticipating my question, “maybe their encryption algorithms were lost, Admiral?”

“Blast it,” I said, frustration welling up at my wife’s determination to have her way and not listen to orders.

“Sir?” asked Communications.

“Send another message, in the clear,” I ground out, “instructing her to consolidate on the Flag!”

“Yes, Sir,” the Communications tech said despairingly.

“Perhaps a personal appeal, even at this late a date…” the Captain advised.

“No!” I hissed. “If she openly defies my authority on a face to face communications channel, then I’ll have no choice but to relieve her of command and incite a potential mutiny among our Lancers—either that, or I’ll appear weak when that’s the absolute worst thing that can happen! I snapped at his raised eyebrow. “Even if our fleet weathers the fall out, there’s no guarantee that anyone on that ship will be able or be willing to follow my orders, to say nothing of the potential damage to my marriage—assuming I still have one after pulling such a stunt.”

“An Admiral who can’t control his own ships in combat will face increased challenges,” Laurent advised, “both outside and inside the fleet. I’ll not speak on the interpersonal relationship.”

“Saint Murphy’s wretched wrench,” I cursed before rounding on the com-tech and demanded, “have you sent that transmission in the open yet?”

“Yes, Admiral, we can’t expect a reply this quickly,” he responded promptly.

“Excellent,” I lied, “now I want you to switch to,” I flicked through my data slate and found an older file, “this encryption key that I’m sending to you.”

“Okay, Sir,” the com-tech sounded confused, but received the file and started entering it, nodded when completed and turned to me, “ready, Admiral.”

“Focus the holo-pick up on me, Comm.’s; it’s time for me to send a message,” I said, the thought of exactly how much what I was going to say was going to get under Akantha’s skin actually causing a smile to tug around on the corners of my mouth. So she wanted to ignore me, did she? Well, I was ready to give her my unconditional support.

“Channel is ready to broadcast….now,” the man said after a moment.

“Good work, my dear,” I said in a congratulatory, yet wholly condescending voice, “continue on course and give those Pirates what for.” I clenched my fist and slashed it through the air for emphasis, “For a moment there I was afraid you hadn’t gotten the battle-plan for this fleet action and would pull back when my Communications Section broadcast the recall. But since you haven’t and this message should reach you right before your attack run, all I can say is,” I produced what I hoped was a hungry, love-struck smile, “thank you from the bottom of my heart for following my lead. You go knock ’em dead, girl!”

Ignoring the looks that suddenly shot my way out of the corner of people’s eyes, I allowed a small smile of satisfaction to grace my face. If that didn’t get under her skin just as much as her ignoring my orders had gotten under mine, then I was a grease monkey’s uncle!

When I glanced up, I could see Captain Laurent leaning over me from the side with a look of disapproval on his face.

I arched an eyebrow at him, and taking this for permission to do so, he spoke with a hint of disappointment in his voice, “I thought you trusted me enough to share all your battle-plans with me.”

“And I have,” I agreed in a low voice.

“And yet your wife has access to a battle plan that I’m only just hearing about now?” he said tightly, but keeping his voice low.

“Indeed,” I said with a wicked smile, “but then, since this whole battle plan is your fault I won’t be chided on the subject. You’ll just have to live with the product of your advice.”

The censure on Laurent’s face would have driven a lesser man to drink as his eyes narrowed. “My advice?” he said in a rising voice.

“You said I needed to make a personal appeal and regain control of this situation or face challenges to my authority,” I reminded him.

“I—” Laurent started hotly and then blinked, “not in so many words!”

“But that was the thrust of your argument,” I reminded him, “which is why my wife is now in sole possession of a battle plan that I gave her, yet which even I have never seen.”

Laurent looked confused.

“I lied,” I clarified, “there is no secret battle plan, but no one else can know that for sure unless my wife decides to speak to me. In which case I’ll simply say that the ‘plan’ calls for deception in the face of the enemy, and that she’s playing to the script.”

Laurent shook his head. “This is a dangerous plan,” he grunted, “I don’t think I approve.”

“Yes, well,” I said, waving away his objections with my hands, “I can’t very well need to regain control of this battle if I never actually lost it, and now my wife is either free to seek my advice or act as she desires—something she was going to do anyway.”

“I don’t think I’d want to be in your shoes when you and her finally meet back up in private,” Laurent said taking a step back, “you reap what you sow in a relationship.”

“I’ll play the ‘I saved your home world’ card and then agree to another family visit,” I said dismissively. “After I kill a few more of her relatives or former suitors, I’m sure we’ll be right as rain,” I said with false confidence. “However, to do that we need to win this battle and that means keeping the rest of this fleet in line.”

“It’s your funeral,” Laurent advised me and then added hastily, “I mean, on an interpersonal level. On the fleet level, you’ll just need to sell it.”

“Now that last is something I can most definitely do,” I said with relief.

Chapter 65: The Phoenix feels her fury

“That insufferable little man,” Akantha growled, and then let loose a string of profanity in her native tongue. “First he ignores me, and then he seeks to steal my glory! If he wasn’t my sworn Protector whose sword I bear, I would, I—”

“Warfare and battle are his purview, Hold Mistress,” Hecate reminded her.

“Not when a man attempts to speak for his Mistress,” Akantha snapped, “but I know his mind, and he will not succeed! Continue on our attack run; we shall tear these Star Bandits and Sky Demons limb from limb.”

“Subterfuge during battle is not only allowed; it’s encouraged,” Isis said breaking into the conversation. “Besides, he is not saying he speaks for you, only that you are following his battle-plan—a plan he may have actually left for us and we never picked up due to our hasty arrival here.”

Akantha turned on the two Tracto-an women scornfully.

“If such a plan exists—which, knowing my Protector, I highly doubt—we are most certainly not following it,” she said firmly and then sniffed contemptuously. “But when I seek advice from my traitorous ‘Life’ Guard, be assured that I will ask for it.”

Akantha rounded on the helm. “We continue as planned! I will deal with ‘him’ later!”

Chapter 66: Always in Control

“Commodore,” exclaimed the Navigator, “our best estimates place the oncoming Cruiser, this Furious Phoenix, on our starboard side at the exact same time as we intersect the Mother-ship on our next attack run.”

“Excellent news,” Jean Luc said, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction.

“Sir?” the Navigator asked looking confused.

“Navigation,” Jean Luc ordered, “contact Main Engineering and instruct them to ready the ship for The Maneuver on my mark,” he said with a savage smile. “It’s time we once again taught the Pipsqueak, along with his Confederation lackeys and ignoramus barbarians, why I am the true Tyrant of Cold Space and he is the former inhabitant of a Dungeon ship. It seems the last lesson I taught him at the Omicron didn’t stick.”

“It will be as you command, my Commodore Prince,” acknowledged the Navigator.”

“Always,” Jean Luc agreed. “Now, someone apprise Gunnery that we’re going to be coming to a rather rapid stop, and then get me the Vineyard; it’s time for a little coordination.”

Chapter 67: Seeing Red

“The Lady has managed to maneuver the Phoenix to place the enemy battleships between her and the Mother-ship for the better part of her firing pass,” Eastwood reported, sounding rather pleased with the independent actions of my erstwhile wife. And since she was now technically following my ‘battle plan’—the one titled ‘let Akantha do whatever she wants, or you’ll lose control of your fleet at some point down the road’—I could do nothing but smile, like this was the happiest news in the whole wide galaxy. “At least, so long as both she and they stay on course,” Eastwood added belatedly.

“Excellent news,” I said, even though smiling while my wife threw herself at several times her fighting weight, I manfully clung to my PR training and refused to let my deep concern shine through.

There was a stir in the Tactical Section. “Enemy Battleships are increasing separation and slowing down to increase time on target,” Eastwood reported, “the Phoenix is slowing down to compensate.”

“A problem?” I asked, once again on the edge of my seat.

“The Pirates are trying to shake her, but the Phoenix is a Medium Cruiser; she has the legs to keep up, and she won’t be shaken. She just has to increase her deceleration burn, and there’s nothing they can do about it. Nothing except continue with their attack run, or break off,” Eastwood reported, sounding confident.

“Should we be concerned?” I asked, speaking not as an Admiral but as a worried husband seeking reassurance.

“The Pirates can turn broadside on and try to force her off; running will just give her an up-the-kilt shot at their engines,” Laurent said confidently, “but if they turn, then the Phoenix can simply rejoin us. The consolidated fighting power of a Battleship and a pair of Medium Cruisers, along with the rest of our little squadron and the rest of hers, is nothing to sneeze at. Especially with the pirate fleet scattered like this and engaged in a dozen little brushfire fights with the smaller Bug ships.”

“The smart play would seem to be to pull off the Mother-ship until they can deal with us,” I observed, the tightness in my chest not abating very much with these assurances. Uncle Jean Luc was wily, and my wife was…shall we say, ‘headstrong?’ She might charge a pair of Battleships just to make a point and I wouldn’t put anything past Jean Luc—up to and including being arrogant enough to fight off Bugs and a Confederation Cruiser at the same time. In short, he reminded me too much of a more confident, more skilled version of myself, along with the ego to match…and that had me worried.

“What are you up to, Jean Luc?” I whispered to myself, trying to figure out why he hadn’t broken off already. If I could see it and my men could see it, then what was I missing? “It’s got to be a trap,” I said out loud.

Laurent looked over at me with concern. “Those Battleships are just Battleships, just like your Uncle is just a man—not a Battle Saint or God,” he said stoically, “there’s no need to start jumping at shadows. Physics doesn’t lie, and there’s nothing mystical about this battle. In the end it will come down to battleships and broadsides just like it always does; we just have to stay on our game and let the Bugs wear them down a little longer. Then the stacks will be level, and we’ll be in the game on even footing.”

“Yeah, all in,” I laughed, but I was unappeased by the Captain’s words of comfort. What was he up to? Physics is physics and your Uncle is not a god, I mimicked the words silently, my mouth moving along with my inner voice. I didn’t think he was a god, by Saint Murphy…but deep down, I knew he had some kind of cunning scheme that I was missing.

I shook my head, thinking that maybe I was going about this all wrong. Instead of trying to think like my Uncle—a man smarter about battles than me—maybe I should try to imagine what I’d do if I had access to the Lucky Clover? My face started to screw up as I began tried to think. I couldn’t think like a man smarter than myself, but I was no slouch when it came to cunning plans and sneak attacks. It didn’t mean they always worked out…sometimes my grasp of the technology and physics was a little tenuous. and I tried to do things that were impossible. Like defeating a swarm of pirate Cutters without a single weapon, or sneaking up on the Omicron using the Montagne Maneuv—

My eyes snapped over to the main screen and I blanched. The pirates, with an even greater distance between their two Battleships and a slower rate of acceleration, were seemingly continuing their attack run. From the lines projected on the main screen, my wife was still set to pin the pirate Battleships between herself and the Bugs. Falling into such an obvious trap didn’t sound like the maniacal genius of warfare that was my bloodthirsty Pirate Uncle at all.

“The Montagne Maneuver,” I blurted out.

Laurent looked over at me in surprise.

“What would happen if my Uncle tried to use the Maneuver right now?” I demanded.

“What? That’s impos—” Laurent turned pale, “maybe with the right last-minute maneuvering to clear her projected course and avoid a collision, he might be able to put the Phoenix between his two Battleships—at least temporarily.”

“It’s a trap!” I yelled, turning to my Communications Section hard enough that my neck popped. “Tell Akantha she’s about to be pinned between the two Battleships by the Montagne Maneuver!”

“Yes, Sir,” the com-tech said, quickly turning to speak into his headset, but when he turned back he had a look of deep concern on his face.

“Blast!” cried Laurent.

“What?” I yelled my head whipping back around fast enough to cause whiplash, “what’s happening—”

The Icon of the Vineyard put its rear toward the Mother-ship and went to full burn deceleration, while the shields of the Lucky Clover flared a brilliant white just before she stopped dead in space.

“It’s too late,” I cursed, pounding my fist on my inadequate little Command Chair. I kept pounding until the pain in my hand started not just to hurt, but to sting like maybe I’d damaged something. My wife had just been mouse-trapped, and just like on the Omicron, the hunter had become the hunted. “It’s too late,” I repeated, feeling stunned. If I’d only been a touch quicker figuring out my dreaded uncle’s plan, my wife wouldn’t be trapped between a pair of Battleships. If only I wasn’t so stupid—if only he wasn’t so blasted competent!

In all the stories you learned as a kid, the bullies were really just weak and shiftless morons who crumpled at the first sign of real resistance. But my experiences with my family—both back on Capria, as well as out here—should have been my first clue. Royal Caprian bullies were to be feared because they were strong-willed and determined to crush, torture and abuse their foes.

Unlike the bullies of fairy tales, fighting back only seemed to encourage this variety, and standing up for yourself only lead to battles to the death—both figurative and literal. It was almost like something on the genetic level was different.

This, like everything else that had happened, was entirely my fault…and Akantha was about to pay the price.

Chapter 68: The Phoenix In Flames

“We’re getting an emergency message from the Armor Prince, my Lady,” Isis reported sounding concerned.

“If it is not from my Protector, then I do not wish to hear it,” Akantha said scornfully.

“But Mistress—” Isis started only to be cut off.

“Power spike,” cried a Sensor operator.

“Where?” Akantha demanded. Meaningless attempts to control her through communication long talker devices flew out of her head at the urgency she heard in the operator’s voice.

“I’m reading a shield flare and massive deceleration,” reported the Sensor operator.

“The Clover,” Gants said pointing at the main-screen, “it looks like she stopped. She just…stopped!”

“Why is that important?” Akantha demanded, knowing that things were always speeding up and slowing down in space.

“No, it just stopped—you can’t do that,” cried Gants. “It’s not possible!”

“The Montagne Maneuver,” Akantha said, her eyes widening. She lunged out of her chair, “Helm, emergency turn; put our broadside to those Battleships,” she screamed as the Furious Phoenix rapidly approached the now fully stopped Lucky Clover. “Hecate, tell Gunnery to attack; we have fallen into a pincer.”

“Shields at maximum, my Lady,” reported the Shield Operator.

“Not for long, I think,” Gants said despairingly.

The Hold Mistress of Messene scowled, “Enough defeatism, we will triumph ye—”

Akantha was cut off midsentence as the ship suddenly rocked beneath her, and she had to grab the rail in front of her command chair to keep from falling.

“Fire!” Hecate shouted down to Gunnery.

“It’s good to be back in the old ship with the old crew,” Jean Luc gloated, while all around him the members of his bridge crew fought the ship like a well-oiled machine.

“Multiple hits on the Cruiser’s starboard side; she was just managing to turn away as we passed, Commodore,” reported the Officer at Tactical. “But I’m pretty sure we knocked out their primary engine!”

“They can run, but they can’t hide,” Jean Luc said dismissively. “And just like a good woman, sometimes they need to be knocked around a bit before they know who’s boss. Even if we can’t finish her off, she’ll be weak in the knees and needy for power by the time the Vineyard manages to clinch. So while I’ve no intention of giving up, we’ll let the Vineyard roll her if need be.”

“Their shields are flaring while ours are still holding strong, Commodore,” reported the Tactical Officer.

“Of course,” Jean Luc grinned, “our gunnery was ready, while theirs was taken by surprise—and we’ve got the shields of a Battleship, while they are a Cruiser and not meant to go toe to toe at close range with a ship of the line.” His voice turned dismissive, “Exactly as planned.”

Chapter 69: Helplessness

“No!” I cursed as the Furious Phoenix lost its main drive.

“The Phoenix is turned broadside on to the Clover,” reported Eastwood in a more clinical voice than any former member of our old battleship could have managed, “however, her shields are spotting and she’s taking hull damage.”

The Phoenix finally moved out of range of the Lucky Clover, but her relief was short-lived as mere seconds later she began taking fire from the Vineyard.

“Are you accelerating at our top speed?” I demanded.

“We are currently decelerating to close with the battle taking place around the Mother-ship,” Laurent told me in an urgent voice. “We can’t speed up now, Admiral; we won’t get there in time to do the Phoenix any good anyway. If we try to get there any faster we’ll only overshoot our target and have to come about again—costing our allies precious time.”

Everything inside me burned to stop slowing down and instead speed up to rescue Akantha and the Phoenix. People were dying; men and woman who’d signed onto the Confederation lash-up I’d been raving about before being imprisoned were on a ship that was being demolished by the Traitor and his Caprian-built, Dreadnaught class Battleships, and there wasn’t a blasted thing I could do about it!

As I fought the urge to jump out of my chair and start raving like a madman, everything around me started to turn red in my field of vision.

Fighting for control, it took several deep breaths before I had re-mastered myself. I had to remind myself that their Battleships were just as big as mine, and that my ship’s size and power wasn’t the advantage I was used to having when charging headlong into the fray.

“Being helpless to do nothing but watch stinks,” I said, shaking my head and wincing as the Phoenix’s shields once again spotted. “The Strike Cruiser’s got superior range and maneuverability, but up close the Battleship’s got the advantage in just about everything—including weapons.”

“You can’t blame yourself, Admiral,” Laurent said heavily, “the Captain of the Phoenix made her call.”

“I’m the Admiral,” I said, staring at Laurent like he was just about the stupidest thing in the cosmos, “of course I get the blame; if it weren’t for me none of this would be happening!”

“You know what, Sir, you’re absolutely right,” Laurent said, his face turning red, “people are dying in Tracto fighting the Bugs instead of everyone being eaten.”

“You forget the spacers—” I started.

“Who’d have arrived back home and be undergoing ‘loyalty testing’ by the government,” Laurent said, waving a hand in the air like he was swatting a fly. “And who knows how many would have failed the tests and been ‘downsized,’ either serving a prison sentence or being exported off to a hostile colony world?”

“We’ll never know,” I agreed reluctantly. And because of that we must by default blame the man at the top responsible for this fiasco, I silently added. I didn’t say it out loud because I didn’t have the stomach for another fight with my Captain while my wife was fighting for her life.

The Phoenix’s shields started failing, and the Strike Cruiser began a desperate roll for survival while her secondary engines burned for all they were worth.

“You hear me, baby? Hold together,” I prayed under my breath as atmosphere started venting from ruptures in the hull of Akantha’s ship. Come on, you can do it, I silently urged as the Strike Cruiser slowly inched out of range.

“I’m surprised that the Phoenix can take as much damage as she has and still keep operating,” Laurent said with surprise.

I started to nod my head in agreement, and then a light bulb went off and I realized one of the reasons why it might be able to take more damage than expected. “The Cruiser’s made out of Mono-Locsium, and Spalding mentioned in one of his reports something about a girdle of Duralloy II around the middle of the ship, to make up for our lack of Mono-Locsium for replacing the damaged sections.”

“Hmm,” Laurent said as he rubbed his chin contemplatively, but I wasn’t fooled—even while rubbing his stubble, he was still watching the main screen like a hawk.

As we watched, the weight of fire from the Vineyard slowed down to a trickle until just its turbo-lasers were firing. I felt like jumping up and down and cheering, but of course I did nothing of the sort, so I settled for placing my hands in my lap and clenching my fists.

“She’s beat up and in trouble, but the Phoenix is finally doing what she was made for,” Laurent said with a worried smile, “fighting from just outside the range of our Confederation tech turbo-lasers.”

“Just get us there as fast as possible, Captain,” I urged, struggling to keep my worry out of my voice because while the Phoenix was proving to still be incrementally faster than the Vineyard, my Lady’s ship still had to keep turning slightly away from the pirate Battleship to keep her engines protected from direct, up-the-kilt shots. This slight turn let her fire at the Battleship, but the pirate was able to cut the corner enough to stay in the game—and in any prolonged slugfest between a Cruiser and a Battleship, the Cruiser was doomed no matter the tech gap.

“Hold together baby…I’m coming,” I said under my breath.

Chapter 70: Riding to the Rescue

“The Vineyard is increasing separation from the Furious Phoenix,” Captain Laurent reported.

“ETA,” I demanded, increasingly hungry to rain some pain down on my pirate kinsman and his crew of traitors and bloody space reavers.

“Five minutes and counting, Admiral Montagne,” he replied snappily.

“And if we bypass the Vineyard and go straight for the Lucky Clover instead?” I asked, my mouth twisting as I ground my teeth.

“The Vineyard is the closer target,” Laurent said. His words were neutral, as if reporting a set of facts, but his tone made it a question tinged with disapproved.

“Akantha went after the low hanging fruit and got her ship burned; I don’t plan on making the same mistake,” I said with a shake of my head, “besides, we need to go after the Blood Lord directly.”

“First, how do you know getting you to go after the Clover isn’t part of his plan? And second, how do you know the Prince is on the Lucky Clover?” Laurent asked.

“I don’t know, and he’s too much of a raging egomaniac to trust someone else at the helm of his ship during the use of his patented ‘Montagne Maneuver’,” I said scornfully. “He had that piece of ‘secret’ technology, and as far as I can tell he never disseminated it to the rest of his pirate fleet, or we’d have heard about it before. Now that the ship and his no-longer-secret Maneuver is back in his grasp, he’ll not let go of it easily.”

“Interesting speculation,” Laurent said, “but hardly conclusive. Let’s say we accept this speculation as fact; it still doesn’t mean we have to go after the Clover.”

“Cut the head off the snake and the body dies,” I said evenly, “relay the order: we’re going in.”

“Yes, Admiral,” Laurent acknowledged.

Minutes passed and even as we approached, ignoring the Vineyard in favor of a straight attack run on the Lucky Clover, both the enemy battleships ran their engines full out on a converging course back on the Mother-ship, which was still firing randomly and behaving chaotically.

“Is it just me, or has the weight of fire from the Mother-ship fallen slightly?” I asked tightly. I was mainly asking as a way of distracting myself, the feeling of tension I felt at making a firing run on the other Battleships left a ball of lead in my guts. I’d fought things smaller than my ship, or more numerous than my ship, but never had I been outclassed and outnumbered. So this was a first for me, and seeing the Phoenix just get itself hammered was doing little for my confidence.

Laurent opened his mouth and then hesitated before walking down to the Tactical section to confer with Eastwood.

Hurrying back, he said, “A new assessment shows that the speed of the Mother-ship has cut in half and her weight of fire is down to 80% of when it originally started firing, adjusted for overheated weapons systems.”

“Really?” I asked in surprise, I hadn’t been expecting much of an answer since I’d been more interested in distracting myself. The observation of the Bug Mother-ship had been a bit of idle speculation.

“It’s confirmed: the Mother-ship seems to be slowing down for some reason, and that includes its weight of fire,” Laurent said firmly.

“One minute from intercept,” our Navigator reported two minutes after we’d originally expected to intercept the Lucky Clover.

“We seem to be getting uncomfortably close to the Mother-ship,” I said with some concern. I was more than a little leery of blundering in like a punch-drunk fighter and meeting the same fate as my wife’s ship.

“Both of their shields have been weakened, even accounting for standard recharge rates for an undamaged ship—which these most definitely are not,” Laurent said, sounding confident of his assessment. “Meanwhile, our shields are at full power and we are completely undamaged.”

I had my reservations, but Laurent was a professional Tactical Officer who I had made Captain precisely for his tactical acumen. It just didn’t make sense to appoint him to that post and then ignore his advice, even if my gut was less than certain.

I decided that I was being a nervous and gun-shy, and that I needed to man up. That thought firmly in mind, I looked around the bridge and didn’t like the hesitant expressions on the faces of my bridge crew, so I stood up.

“Alright, officers and crew of the Flagship,” I said, stepping forward and projecting my voice just like I was speaking to a crowd of political supporters during a royal fundraiser. “This is the moment we’ve been waiting for, and the moment we’ve been bleeding and dying for. This is when we make all that sweat, and blood, and tears of the past several weeks have meaning. I can’t promise you a certain victory…only a fool would do that when faced with a pirate fleet headed by a pair of Battleships and backstopped by a Bug Armada. But what I can do is promise you that when we’re done with both of these threats—both to the Confederation at large, and the Tracto Star System in particular—they’ll have felt it before we’re done with them!”

I could see shoulders firm and heads pick up at my words, but knew I hadn’t quite sold it yet so I dug deep inside for my last shred of inspiration.

“This is the moment when every portion of this three-sided conflict comes to a head,” I declaimed, throwing wide my arms, “so engines, continue at our best speed. Super charge our shields to maximum; and someone let Gunnery know it’s time to stop polishing their barrels and get ready to make some thunder. This is not just the moment we get back some of our own—get our revenge, as it were—upon the Bugs and pirates and crooked politicians everywhere who said we couldn’t do it. They thought we were inconsequential, or at most a bit of inconvenient grist to be ground up in their wheels of progress,” I thundered, stomping forward into the center of the bridge with fire in my eyes. “We stand on the doorstep of a new millennium—this is the moment when all of that changes. Let’s do what no one else seems willing to do…let’s send these motherless sons straight to Hades!” I finished with an outright roar.

There was a moment of almost shocked silence, and then the bridge went crazy. Even the Easy Haven transferees seemed to get in the spirit and started stomping their feet on the deck plates. The Sensor section, less disciplined than most, jumped out of their chairs and started clapping their hands and cheering.

“Victory or Death!” I shouted, pumping my fist in the air.

“Victory or Death!” my crew cried in unison, and I saw the same fire in their eyes that I felt in my own.

Chapter 71: Clash of the Titans

When Battleships go toe to toe, it is said that entire star systems shudder—or, at least everything in the vicinity of the clash does, up to and including said Battleships. This last, I was about to personally discover.

“Acquire your targets and wait for my signal, Gunnery,” Eastwood said, holding his microphone in a death grip.

“We’re going in, Admiral,” DuPont said tightly.

On the main screen the Bug Mother-ship kept getting closer and closer until it seemed to fill the entire screen.

We were seconds from being within range of the pirate Battleships when they put on a sudden burst of speed and dove straight at the side of the Mother-ship.

“We’ll have to enter the Bug firing envelope to catch them,” Helmsman DuPont said tightly.

“We’ll chase them to the Demon’s Eye, through the Lapu Lapu Verge and ‘round Perdition’s Flames before we give them up,” I declared. “Follow them in and don’t lose them, Mr. DuPont!”

“Admiral,” Laurent said urgently into my ear, “the Lucky Clover and Vineyard are both moving 10% faster than the Dreadnaught class’s top speed.”

“They must have modified their engines since we last saw them, perhaps when they were in Central,” I growled. “It doesn’t matter; they won’t escape me this time. I won’t let it happen!”

“Sir—” Laurent started to plead, but we were finally within range of the enemy Battleships.

“Fire!” roared Eastwood and in response to his words our turbo-lasers lashed out, speaking their fury to our foes.

The pirate Battleships thundered their outrage in response, and the space between our three ships was not only filled with random Bug fire, but the deadly accurate turbo-lasers of the Dreadnaught class.

“Shields at 94% and falling,” Ensign Longbottom reported crisply, “now at 86%, no 82 and still falling, adjusting shield power to compensate.”

While their turbo-lasers were punishing our shields, our weapons were breaking their shields down and the occasional shot was pummeling their outer hulls. The armor of a Battleship is made for exactly this kind of slugfest, and the pirate-controlled battleships shrugged off our hits and kept on going.

“After them, DuPont,” I ordered, “redline the engines if you have to!”

We were just starting to come to grips and enter heavy laser range when the Pirates cut around the hind end of the Mother-ship.

“We’ve got them on the run; don’t let them get away,” I bellowed.

“The turn is too tight,” cried our Helmsman, “we’ve got too much acceleration to cut the corner as sharply as they are.”

For a far to brief moment—five, glorious seconds—as we attempted to follow the Clover and Vineyard around the back end of the Bug ship, we were in heavy laser range and we pounded them with all the fury of a Caprian-built ship of the line.

“Shields falling rapidly,” Longbottom called out as the full broadsides of both Battleships, and more than a few strikes from the Bug Mother-ship, lanced into our starboard flank. “We’re down below 40% on our starboard side and our shields are starting to spot!”

The Vineyard had just started to vent on its port rear side, when just like that the enemy ships flipped their orientations and we went hurtling past the now rapidly-decelerating Pirates.

“No!” I roared out of sheer frustration.

“Helm, get this ship turned around for another attack run,” Captain Laurent instructed, anticipating my next order.

“Right on it, Captain,” DuPont replied, his fingers flying over his console.

I sat there and fumed as DuPont laboriously looped our ship back around for another attack run. His ‘right on it’ wasn’t nearly fast enough for me. Even the spectacular explosion that occurred behind us two minutes after we overshot our slightly faster foes wasn’t able to cheer me up.

Chapter 72: It is, it is, a glorious thing…

“Full power to the broadside,” Jean Luc roared as soon as they cleared the firing range of his pesky nephew.

“On it, Commodore,” Tactical responded.

Moments later the entire fury of a Caprian-built Battleship—upgraded by a Pirate King—lashed into the rear of the Bug Mother-ship.

“An excellent ploy, Sir,” Tremblay said stiltedly, an excited smile pasted on his face.

“When I want your brown nose lodged up in my unmentionables, I’ll be sure to let you know, Senior Lieutenant Tremblay,” Jean Luc said scornfully. “In the meantime, why don’t you try and do something useful like…I don’t know, tabulate some reports on the effectiveness of our environmental recycling efforts.”

“In the middle of battle?” Tremblay said, looking flabbergasted.

“As that’s about all you’re good for, other than spying on your superiors and eliminating them…from power I mean,” Jean Luc chuckled darkly, “why don’t we have you stick to your strengths and focus on bureaucratic paperwork? Run off now and work on those tabulated reports—shoo,” he snapped when Officer Tremblay didn’t move quickly enough.

The ship shuddered and the deck beneath the bridge crew seemed to sway. “Damage to our starboard communications array,” yelped the Comm. Officer, “pattern signal temporarily aborted due to the loss of our primary array! We’re undergoing a mandatory system reboot; I’ll start retransmitting as soon as my system boots back up, Commodore.”

“Blast you, Tremblay,” Jean Luc said savagely to the Pennant Lieutenant, who was still standing flat-footed and holding onto a guiderail for support after the swaying, “get out of my way!” He emphasized his frustration with the other man by shoving him toward an empty console.

Turning to the Tactical pit, he growled, “I want those engines pulverized. Utterly destroyed, or as close to it as we can get before we pass out of range, do you understand me, Tactical?!”

“As you command, Commodore,” the Tactical Officer said fiercely, “these Bugs won’t be moving again anytime soon.”

“Succeed and it’s a bump in rank—fail me and the demotion you’ll receive will be the least of your concerns!” Jean Luc smiled—a smile that had been known to curl toes and send weak men running in terror.

Chapter 73: Spalding Abandons Ship?!

“Admiral, this is the Chief Engineer,” Spalding said staring into the view screen before him.

“What are you doing on the holo-screen on my command chair, Chief Engineer?” the Little Admiral blinked.

“We have our ways down here in Engineering,” Spalding said gruffly, shaking his head from side to said as if to shake off an annoying fly or other insect buzzing around his head. “But that’s not important, Sir.”

“If you say so,” the Admiral said, looking doubtfully at him.

“We don’t have time for pleasantries, Admiral,” Spalding said with passion, “now’s the time to strike!”

“Which is exactly what we’re doing, Commander,” Admiral Montagne said with patented disapproval on his face, “we’re about to reenter attack range any minute.”

“That’s what I mean, Sir!” Spalding said excitedly. “Her shields are all but down, and I’m sure with yer next pass you’ll knock ’em back down again; this is our chance! The Fix is in, Sir! Just give the word and we’ll have the Clover back under your control before you can say ‘Bob’s your uncle’!”

“Bob is very much not one of my Uncles,” the Admiral said coolly, “in point of fact the only uncle of mine in this entire star system goes by the name of Jean Luc Montagne, Pirate King and Blood Lord of the spaceways.”

“Yes, yes, the Captain’s gone rogue,” Spalding said, throwing his hands into the air, “that’s why we’re here. Between the two of us we’ll put an end to his life of crime and villainy! All you have to do is give the word, Admiral.”

“I’m sorry, but we’re in the middle of battle, Mr. Spalding,” the Admiral replied, shaking his head abruptly, “I’m afraid that it’s simply too dangerous to risk a shuttle at this time, Chief.”

“But, Sir,” Spalding pleaded, “every man’s a volunteer and we all know the risks. The Fix has been built and rebuilt for exactly this sort of situation. Please let us show you what we can do. Don’t keep us on the back bench when we’ve got a Bug Mother-ship and two ships of the line to deal with!”

The Little Admiral looked torn and leaned over to speak with someone. He then shook his head regretfully, “I promise just as soon as things settle down a bit you’ll have my permission to attempt a boarding action. I know how much the Lucky Clover means to you, but as things stand right now they’ve got at least 90% of their beam weaponry still functioning—including their point defense lasers. Any attempt right now would be suicide plain and simple,” the Admiral said, “I’m sorry but until things die down a bit more, I can’t allow it.”

“Put us in, coach!” Spalding pleaded. “Put us in; I promise you the Fix is ready—she was born ready, and so was I!”

“You’re sure you can shut down her fusion generators?” the Little Admiral demanded.

“Of course, Sir,” Spalding said stiffly, but his eyes shifted from side to side and his shoulders hunched slightly. “Not a problem; one way or the other, we’ll get her shut down so she doesn’t take any further damage!”

The Admiral looked pleased. “Look, I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear, but I swear to you,” he said giving Spalding a solid look, “you’ll have your chance just as soon as possible.”

Spalding felt as if someone was cutting his heart out with a spoon. “Please, Admiral, I beg of ye,” he pleaded, “change yer mind.”

“As soon as possible,” the Little Admiral said and then severed the transmission.

Spalding stared down at the blank and empty screen in disbelief.

“I’m sorry, Chief,” Brence said placing a heavy hand on his shoulder, “but at least he promised to let us try as soon as things are safe.”

“This is a fight between Battleships, lad,” Spalding said with disbelief and rising emotion, “nothing about this is in the least big safe!”

“Look, Chief,” Brence said raising his hands, “all I meant was—”

“Oh, I know what you meant by it, you and everyone else on this ship,” Spalding said, flying into a rage. “You all think you’re humoring a washed-up old man, a mechanic and engineer well past his prime. When I walked into a fusion reactor, did anyone say it couldn’t be done or try to stop me? No,” he stabbed a finger accusingly, “you all believed in me when it was convenient for you, but not a single, solitary one of you wants to believe me now. I tell you plain as the light of day or the very nose that sits atop this cyborg old face of mine that the Fix can do it!”

“It’s not like that, Sir,” Brence said hurriedly, “not at all!”

“All you see is a cyborg who’s more metal than man, and ye think to pity me—but I will not be pitied,” Spalding raged, pulling out his auto-wrench and slamming it into the console before him, breaking the screen and shattering several of the interactive buttons on his control panel. “I’ll show you. I’ll show all of you!”

“Commander. Commander Spalding,” Brence said urgently.

“Get away from me, you idjit,” Spalding roared, thrusting him away and starting for the door, “I don’t need a single one of you. The plan is foolproof, and I’m just the fool to prove it!”

“Chief Engineer,” Brence said, his voice suddenly cracking with authority, so much so that Spalding actually paused mid-step and looked back at him curiously.

In two strides, the wayward young space hand reached over and grabbed his shoulder. “Sir, you’re the only person who ever believed in me,” he said, his face shining with suppressed emotion, “no one ever gave me a second look except to heap punishment on me. Even my own mother thought I’d fallen in with the wrong crowd and would never amount to anything.” The young engineer spoke so passionately that it plucked at the old man’s recently refurbished heart strings, “But not you. You saw my flaws and in spite of that—or maybe even because of it, I don’t know why and I don’t care to know the reason—you believed in me when no one else did. I am your man, Sir! And if Terrence Spalding, the greatest Engineer and Officer I’ve ever known says he can do it, then I believe him. I believe, Sir! I followed you into that fusion reactor not because I expected to live, but because I believed in you. I’d follow you into a fusion reactor, and I’d follow you through the icy fires of Hades itself. So don’t say that no one believes you, Commander, because I do,” Brence said, his eyes now filled with tears. “Lead and I will follow!”

Spalding stared at the formerly wayward hand before him and blinked. Somethin’ in me eye, he thought as he quickly wiped it.

Reaching over, the old engineer awkwardly patted the younger man on the shoulder.

“There, there, lad,” he blinked rapidly, “I didn’t realize you…well, what I mean is,” he swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. “That is, I didn’t mean to say anything against you. Much as I hate to admit it, I’m an old man and sometimes it just gets to feelin’ like the world is out to get me, is all. I didn’t mean nothing by it—of course ye can come!”

“Let’s go, Chief,” Brence said giving him a nod, one man to another, “we haven’t got all day to sit around here slacking off while our Battleship’s in pirate hands!”

Spalding shook his head to clear if of all the stuff and nonsense that had crept inside it while he wasn’t paying attention.

“You know what, you’re right,” he barked, “we’ve no time for lolling around or woolgathering. It’s time and past time to do something about the dire straits of our bonnie young lass,” he said, turning for the door, “come on, lad. We’ve got a ship to save, and as I recall the Admiral said we had permission to go just as soon as things died down a bit, and if something isn’t dying right this very minute then I can’t read the power drain of a gun deck broadside on a Dreadnaught’s fusion reactors!”

“Yes, Sir!” Brence declared.

“I just have to engage the automatic override on the shuttle bay doors and we’ll be out of here lickity-split,” Spalding bragged as he finished typing in the override code and then turned toward the modified Penetrator Class Lander, silently urging the other engineer to hurry.

“How are we going to get through our own shields, Chief?” Brence asked cautiously, and now that they were inside the shuttle bay the old engineer didn’t hold it against him. Anyone who didn’t know all the stealth features he’d installed into the innocuous-looking Lander might have been concerned also.

“Don’t you worry, lad,” Spalding bragged, “those duralloy spikes might look like they were soldered onto the hull by a madman, but I assure you they’ll work just as well as they did for the Strike Cruiser in reducing her sensor profile. And on top of that, without a conventional drive system—except for the maneuvering thrusters—I was able to reroute the power we would have normally used for acceleration and increase the number of grav-plates! Between the extra plates and the ballistics jelly we’ll soon be swimmin’ in, I guarantee we’ll survive the journey over!”

Brence’s eyes widened to the point Spalding began to worry that the younger man’s eyes were about to fall out of his head.

“Last chance to back out now, son,” Spalding said with a twinkle in his eye.

“N-not on your life, Sir,” Brence replied with a weak smile.

Spalding courteously ignored the stutter. On a normal work crew it might have been noteworthy, but being a volunteer member of what the ignorant might call a suicide mission, it was only right to cut the other man a wee bit of slack.

“Good lad,” he said, slapping Brence on the shoulder and hurrying towards the front of the ship. Plopping down in the pilot’s chair, he activated the drop-down mask and adjusted it to fit his head. “It’s been a wee spell since I flew a small craft, but it’s just like ridin’ a bike,” he hastened to assure the younger engineer, “it comes back just as quick.”

Brence looked a little green. “What’s the mask for, Commander?” he asked.

“Oh,” Spalding said realizing he hadn’t mentioned the masks yet, “right. It’s an oxygen re-breather mask, hooked directly into the shuttles air supply. We’ll need them as soon as the cockpit stops filling up with ballistics jelly,” he said, and reminded of the jelly, flipped a pair of switches on the control panel.

There was a ‘glug-glug-glug’ sound as side panels in the walls of the cockpit opened up, and a thick, green liquid began to flow out.

Brence jumped into his seat and quickly reached for the mask.

“Is this some kind of experimental new drive system, Sir?” the younger man asked, sounding concerned and clearly trying to hide it.

“Brence, me lad,” Spalding shook his head disapprovingly, “this isn’t a new technology at all.” The younger man’s shoulder had just started to slump with relief when the old engineer’s face brightened and he added, “Nope, this isn’t new—it’s a technology so old they retired it centuries ago. Some fool child o’ Murphy declared it too hazardous and energy-inefficient to continue using, you see.”

The younger Engineer made a strangled sound and then said something that sounded like, ‘Murphy save us.’

“But don’t worry, boy,” Spalding said, slapping him on the shoulder, “we’ve come a long way since they deactivated this type of drive system. Between the extra grav-plates and the new ballistics jelly I found in that Imperial style Constructor’s database, I realized that this old mode of propulsion was once again feasible. It’s the ballistics jelly, you see; it cushions the human body against extreme gravity and acceleration, and can be turned from a liquid to a solid and back again with the simple application of a specific electrical frequency.”

“What type of propulsion system are we talking about…exactly?” Brence finally managed as the liquid filled the cockpit.

“Oh, it’s similar to the way yer basic mass driver works,” Spalding hastened to explain. “You see though, instead of using a coil of grav-plates to achieve incredible speeds like a mass driver pellet, what we do is essentially strap an atomic to the back of the Lander and set it off. Took a fair bit of extra shielding in the back of the Lander to keep the radiation down to survivable levels, but I managed it,” he said with a wink.

“Atomics,” Brence gasped, “you mean we’re setting off a series of nuclear explosions on the back end of our Lander for propulsion?! That’s nothing like a mass driver; it’s a nuclear drive system!”

“Low grade explosions,” Spalding said severely, “they hardly qualify as ‘nuclear’.”

“But you’re still splitting atoms and riding the blast!” Brence exclaimed.

“Well, I’d hardly have described the drive as atomic if we weren’t,” Spalding scoffed, shaking his head.

“Oh, Space Gods,” Brence said, slumping forward in his chair.

“But don’t worry, lad,” Spalding said quickly, “I realize yer probably asking yourself about just exactly how I’m supposed to fly this Lander if we’re to be encased in this ballistics jelly…am I right?”

Brence looked over at him dully.

“Never fear,” Spalding assured him, “my arms are made entirely of metal and artificial, so using that same electrical frequency I told you about before—but at a much lower amperage—my arms are strong enough to move around inside the jelly and still operate the console. Plus, of course, my new eye can see through the stuff good enough that I can read the console.”

“Go, Commander,” Brence said, sounding more like a man going to face an execution squad than an engineer about to battle test a new technology.

“Of all the nervous Nelly’s,” Spalding muttered, shaking his head, “who could have known?”

Brence screamed into his mask the first time the Lander rocked from an explosion to the stern.

“It was a shaped charge, the contours of the hull combined with the charge itself helps propel us along,” Spalding shouted gleefully into his ear via a communication device installed into his re-breather mask. “But it’s the way the grav-plates are placed for maximum gee-force acceleration and the innovative use of this ballistics jelly that allows us to survive!”

“That’s great,” he shouted back, while wishing he was anywhere but where he was.

“Isn’t it, though?” the old Engineer chortled, and even unable to turn his head he thought he could see the Demon’s own, unholy light burning from Spalding’s cyborg eye.

Chapter 74: Head to Head

The Armor Prince came back around at a slower pace than last time as it circled the now twitching Mother-ship whose weight of fire had fallen just below 50% of her total broadside and was still almost randomly firing off into cold space.

“We’re receiving an incoming transmission from the Lucky Clover, Admiral,” the com-tech reported. “Do you want to accept the hail?”

“Put it on the main screen,” I ordered.

An image of my one-eyed Uncle, sporting his pirate patch appeared, lounging on my Admiral’s Throne.

“Well, well, well, Nephew,” Jean Luc said with a mocking smile, “come back to have your head handed to you a second time, I see?”

“You can run, but you can’t hide, Jean Luc,” I growled as the Prince came blasting around the outside corner of the Mother-ship’s extreme field of fire, “your days are numbered.”

“How melodramatic,” my treasonous, Caprian uncle scoffed, “but I do thank you for bringing me back one of my Battleships.”

“You’re calling me melodramatic?” I asked, projecting disbelief. “You lost this Battleship, just like you lost the Omicron. I’m sure your ‘friends’,” irony colored my voice, “at Central sent you the reports, so read it and weep, traitor.”

“Still stuck on that old paradigm, are we, Pipsqueak?” he said as insultingly as possible. “Well, let me clue you in on a little something: as the ‘rightful’ heir to the Caprian Throne, it is essentially impossible for me to ‘betray’ anything that has to do with the Sovereign State of Capria, and as a firm believer in the Parliamentary way of life—you know, putting them in power so that everyone can have the joys of elections, random loyalty testing and forced interrogations to ensure the proper kinds of free thinking—I have only merely been doing as I believed was right.” Jean Luc grinned maliciously, “That a few random usurpers managed to get themselves front row seats to a private orbital bombardment along the way was a shame, but in no way my fault—or my concern.”

“You’ve gone space mad,” I said flatly, almost unable to believe what I was hearing, “completely and utterly off your rocker.”

“The current dynasty simply doesn’t have the nose for it,” Jean Luc sighed, “it’s not their fault that they’re incompetent, but the Veknas never have been the sharpest chip off the old block.”

“I’ve no time to sit around and bandy words with you,” I said, shaking my head mockingly, “there are a pair of Battleships I’m about to blow out of the sky.”

“Nephew,” Jean Luc looked at me pityingly, “you saw how I manhandled you last time. And now you’re really back for more? I’d pick up your chips and run home to mama with your tail tucked firmly between your legs if I was you, because I am your better in every way. I can run rings around this Bug Mother-ship and destroy your paltry band of space incompetents with both hands tied behind my back and still make it back to my quarters in time for tea.”

I bared my teeth at the other man. “The last time we tangled, you traded me a pair of Battleships and the biggest Pirate Station on the border for the Lucky Clover,” I said coldly. “I wonder what you’re thinking of giving me this time when you run for the hyper limit?”

“A tactical maneuver which bore more dividends than you can imagine,” Jean Luc said dismissively, “an intellect that’s been as stunted as yours clearly needs time to catch up before you’ll be able to realize the glory that is my plan. But for just a minute, let’s sink down and put things in a way that even you can understand: you got a run-down pirate station and two parted out Battleships. While here I am, with a fleet of ships and a star system that possesses the largest deposit of trillium in the Spineward Sectors at my command.”

“You’re going down Jean Luc,” I flared, genuinely losing my cool.

“Only in your dreams, Nephew,” Jean Luc sneered at me and then turned to someone off screen, “bring us around; it’s time we taught my Nephew the reason why naval dilettantes shouldn’t try locking horns with masters of the craft.”

“Leaving me alive was a mistake, but having your men torture and kill my crew was the moment you signed your own death warrant,” I said, standing up and glaring at my pirate uncle—a man I had actually sympathized with before learning the truth behind his cloak of lies. “You should have killed me when you had the chance.”

“You fatally overestimate yourself, Pipsqueak,” Jean Luc replied evenly, “you’re not even in the same league. That’s why I’ll enjoy teaching you this lesson…at length.”

“Make peace with whatever it is you believe in and prepare to die, Traitor Prince,” I ground out, “it’s time for you to learn that actions have consequences.”

“Only one of us will be doing the teaching around here,” Jean Luc grinned.

My blood started boiling.

“One will rise and one will fall,” Jean Luc said in an almost formal voice, and with an abrupt slashing motion severed the connection.

“I’m looking forward to it,” I said to the empty screen, slowly regaining my royal mask. I turned to Captain Laurent, “Let’s go give the Pirate Jean Luc a fight he’ll never forget!”

“The pirates have turned around and are now on a heading to intercept us,” the Sensor Warrant reported.

“Helm, plot our own intercept course. Tactical,” the Captain continued, turning to his First Officer down in the Tactical Pit, “ready the ship for another engagement.”

“What happened to the Phoenix and her escorts,” I demanded, looking at the main screen and not finding either set of ships.

“The Phoenix is coming around the opposite side of the Mother-ship,” Eastwood reported crisply, “she’s further out from their range of fire than we are, but after her last encounter with the pirates she looks determined to keep the range open.”

“And her escorts?” I asked.

“Since we achieved close proximity to the Mother-ship, a number of Scouts and Harvesters have attempted to intercept us. The Corvettes and Gunships have been dealing with them, alongside our own escort squadron,” Laurent reported.

I blinked. I’d been entirely too focused on the main event to pay much attention. I had issued orders that the smaller ships were not to directly engage the enemy Battleships without a direct order to support the Flagship, but still…I was going to have to do better going forward—at least when it came to keeping track of my ships.

“Tell the escorts to keep doing what they’re doing,” I told the Captain, “but that they should be ready in case we need them; this next pass should be telling.”

“Shields have achieved a 100% recharge,” Ensign Longbottom called out.

I was momentarily irritated, but the news was actually well-received the second I stopped to think about it.

Looking up at the main screen, I was surprised to see how close the enemy Battleships were to the main action. After a moment of temporary surprise I gave a shark like grin; I couldn’t wait until the clash. My desire to punish Jean Luc for his crimes against humanity was an almost palpable force thumping inside me. The thought of arresting my uncle had flown out the window the moment I’d escaped from top Sector Central security. If a military moron and political neophyte like myself could break out or be sprung from prison, then there was no way a man like Jean Luc—who really was my superior in just about every way when it came to trickery, deception and betrayal—would be stuck inside a dungeon ship longer than a fortnight.

No, in both my position as Protector of Tracto and Admiral of a Confederation Fleet, my duty was clear I had to kill Jean Luc, here and now. The thought of a possible ‘fate worse than death’ was tempting, and I had to remind myself of my own personal motto, which had been developed after years of watching holo-drama’s and vid series where the hero slaughtered flunkies in job lots, but was unable to put an end to the true villain. ‘Death is too good for him,’ or some permutation was often invoked, but it really meant that everything the villain did after the hero failed to kill him became blood on our blind, young hero’s hands. After seeing that absurd scenario play out far too many times, my own personal motto was: ‘death is never too good for my enemies.’

The fact that I’d never really had enemies until now was beside the point. When I captured Jean Luc—assuming he wasn’t atomized when his ship was destroyed, of course—then death would be his just desserts, and his reign of piracy and murder would be rewarded in kind.

I was the government in this system, answerable only to my wife—a Hold Mistress of Tracto—and the Confederation Assembly. As the duly-appointed representative of said government, I had no choice but to space the black-hearted Blood Lord of Cold Space at the first opportunity. Again, assuming he wasn’t atomized or had his head chopped off at some point along the way.

“One of our shuttle bays is opening; someone has engaged the manual override,” Damage Control Technician Arienne Blythe reported in a clinical voice that nonetheless managed to cut through the chatter on the bridge like three-pronged fork into a moist, baked potato.

“Get that shuttle bay closed,” Laurent barked.

“We have a shuttle leaving the bay, Captain,” a Sensor operator shouted, jumping out of his seat and throwing a hand up in the air.

“Find me that shuttle and put it on the screen!” Laurent demanded.

“Mutineers, Captain? Or do you think they’re in league with Jean Luc?” I asked in a quiet voice as visions of a second, unreported, anti-personnel device aboard Armor Prince skittered through my mind. “I thought we physically disabled the long range array?”

“Yes, we disabled the array; and no, I don’t know yet, Admiral Montagne,” Laurent said shortly.

“I’ve got a visual,” cried the Sensor Officer.

“Throw it up on the main screen,” Laurent ordered.

An image of a mutated-looking shuttle of some kind appeared on our screen. It looked somewhat like a standard shuttle, only longer, narrower, and with a number of jagged spikes protruding from the hull.

“What is that thing?” I asked, taken aback. Thoughts of a stealth raider sneaking through our shields and sensor arrays somehow blossomed in my mind.

“I have no idea,” Laurent replied, looking stunned.

“I believe that is, Commander Spalding’s modified Lander,” Damage Control said from the side, “the Fix, he calls it, I believe.”

I blinked and then my face turned red as the implications penetrated.

“What does the old space wrench think he’s doing?” Laurent said with disbelief.

“Isn’t it obvious?” I said tightly. “He’s going for the ship.”

“The Lucky Clover?” Laurent said disbelievingly, shaking his head. “But a Lander can’t hope to capture a ship that big—it’s insane.”

“Insane or not, the Chief Engineer plans to shut down her fusion generators so we can board, capture and reclaim our ship,” I said neutrally.

“I thought you ordered him to stay put,” Laurent growled.

I turned and looked steadily at the Captain, “The Engineer is a past master of creatively interpreting orders. I’m sure he’ll have a good explanation in hand,” I said tightly.

“If he’s not blown to space dust,” the Captain grunted.

“Well, there is that,” I said as I turned to the Bridge, “ignore the Lander—focus on those Battleships!”

Chapter 75: Thunder and Fury

“The enemy Battleships look like they’re trying to pass on either side of us and put us in a crossfire,” Eastwood reported.

“Veer to port; increase the distance between us and the Mother-ship,” I ordered under the general principle that anything the enemy wanted me to do was probably a bad thing.

“Admiral, I’m not so sure that’s the wisest—” Laurent started.

“The order is given,” I said, even though my stomach did a little flip flop at the idea of ignoring the Captain’s advice. I reminded myself that indecisiveness was the worst thing one could do in battle.

“It could be a trap, Sir,” he said, leaning in close.

I looked up at him and frowned. “Do you think you can out maneuver my uncle, if I give you your head?” I asked him, honestly interested in the answer to whether or not Laurent thought he was good enough to out-think and out-plan Jean Luc.

Laurent hesitated and then shook his head.

“Then we’re just going to have to take our hits, get in close and brawl. This crew can slug it out with the best of them,” I said with a frustrated sigh. It’s not that I wasn’t going to try and pull one over on my uncle; it’s just that I had no illusions about our relative strengths in the naval arena.

The Captain took a step back, looking frustrated, and minutes later we had turned enough that both of the pirates were now going to pass along our starboard side.

“Full power to the starboard side, Mr. Longbottom,” I reminded our Shield Operator.

“Shields have been temporarily supercharged to 110%,” the Ensign said crisply.

“Praise Saint Murphy for five, fully functioning, fusion generators,” Laurent breathed.

“Can we do that?” I asked in surprise. “Supercharge our shields. I didn’t know that was even possible,” I failed to add that no one had ever mentioned the possibility to me before.

“Longbottom is a trained officer with a specialization in shields operations,” Laurent hastened to assure me, “and we never had a fully charged grid before.

“Then I guess we need to thank Spalding and Akantha for the forward progress,” I said with a sigh.

Then there was no more time for discussion.

“Fuego!” First Officer Eastwood roared into his microphone. Turbo-lasers, heavy lasers and point defensive weaponry unloaded with all the fury the Armor Prince and the Vineyard could muster, as the titanic warships did what they had been built to do.

“Shields down to 75%,” Ensign Longbottom cried.

“Keep those gunners firing until their barrels melt if you have to, First Officer,” Laurent barked, “they can’t have fully recharged their shields like we have.”

“Drive it home, Chief,” Officer Eastwood ordered into his microphone, pounding his console for emphasis.

“Enemy shields are dropping, Captain,” the Sensor Officer reported, “several shots have landed and they are spotting!”

Rapid laser fire at close range crisscrossed the space between our ships as the exchange reached maximum intensity.

“I’m reading venting from the enemy ship!” cried the Sensor Warrant triumphantly.

“Blast! Their shields are stabilizing,” Eastwood cursed.

“Our shields just dropped under 50%,” Longbottom reported, “compensating!”

“Venting has slowed, Admiral,” reported the Sensor Operator, “it looks like they’re getting it under control.”

“Keep up the pressure, Tactical,” I called out, even as the distance between our ships grew.

“Prepare to receive the Lucky Clover,” Laurent called out in a carrying voice, “the blighters are going to be ready for some payback after the way we manhandled the Vineyard!”

I smiled, but couldn’t quite put my whole heart into it. Yes, we had done some damage but the Vineyard was a tough ship; she ought to be, being the same class as we were. The problem was that as far as I could see, we’d hurt the pirates but not enough to be anything close to a game-changer. Manhandling might have been too strong a word.

“Captain,” called out Eastwood, “recommend we roll the ship!”

“Make it so, Helm,” Laurent ordered.

“Send ’em straight to Hades, boys and girls,” I said standing up and allowing my face to fill with the righteous fury that was only laying a few layers below the surface, “the Vineyarder’s are a bunch of pirates, but these blokes are behind everything we’ve been forced to suffer through these past few months. No mercy!”

“Admiral Montagne and the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet!” Laurent roared right in my ear, his voice so loud I could feel my right ear begin to ring as I went temporarily deaf, but not deaf enough to miss the bridge cheer in reply.

Then the Lucky Clover took it straight to us.

“Shields down to 80% and falling,” reported Longbottom, “75%, 65%.”

“Their shields are still holding, Captain,” barked Eastwood, “no sign of spotting.”

“The Vineyard is heeling over and coming about,” reported Shepherd from his position in Navigation.

“We’ll deal with them after this pass against the Clover,” I ordered.

“I’m rerouting power to compensate, but if the Vineyard comes over before I can redistribute our shield power, our starboard side will be weakened, Sir,” the Ensign in charge of the small, three man Shield section called out.

“Do it, Longbottom,” Laurent said without a single scrap of hesitation.

“I’ve got multiple, low yield nuclear explosions directly behind us!” yelped the Sensor Warrant.

“Missiles?” I said, bolting upright in my seat.

“Sensors, report; what’s going on behind my ship,” Laurent demanded before rounding back on Tactical. “Keep after the Clover, Clinton, but make sure to reallocate our point defense to missile defense!”

“Missile defense, Aye, Captain,” Eastwood replied.

“It’s not missiles, Sirs!” the Warrant in charge of sensors said his voice filled with rising disbelief, “It’s Commander Spalding.”

Laurent and I exchanged a wide eyed look.

“Tactical, belay that last order,” I said recovering my wits seconds before the Captain, “and keep firing—throw everything and the kitchen sink at the Lucky Clover!”

Chapter 76: Rocket Man

He was the very model of a very outraged Space Engineer

“Yee-haw!” Spalding screamed into his face mask, as multiple small yield atomic pellets exploded at the stern of his refurbished Lander. The explosions provided the forward momentum they needed to drive the Lander forward at a speed most small craft were unable to achieve due to their, necessarily small, engines.

“Oh, Murphy,” Brence gasped, and his words were followed by the sounds of someone throwing up in their mask.

“Don’t worry, lad, the Fix will get us there in one piece,” Spalding chortled with glee, “and don’t mind the radiation either; the rear end’s reinforced, remember!?”

“Radiation?” Brence managed between heaves. “We’re going to be spotted and blown out of cold space, Commander,” Brence groaned. “Sir, we have to get out of here!”

“They won’t be able to get a lock on us with their beam weaponry just as soon as we go ballistic,” Spalding hastened to assure him.

“Sir, they’ll have us locked into their targeting array as soon as they see the detonation,” Brence retorted, his words accompanied by the sound of the mask’s suction devise being activated to clear his face mask.

“They’ll never see us coming,” Spalding disagreed, “I’ve stealthed the ship. Every time we stop using the drive we become a sensor ghost. The can see us, but they can’t target us!”’ he cackled maniacally.

“But our grav-profile,” Brence protested, “we aren’t big enough to shield our anti-gravity system!”

“That’s why we’re not going to use it, except during acceleration,” Spalding chortled and cut the main engine. They were finally going more than fast enough to intercept the Clover.

“Not free-fall,” Brence groaned, as the atomic drive and the grav-plates cut out simultaneously.

“But of course,” Spalding said with surprise at the denseness of your new protégé, “how else are we going to mask our emissions without the proper amount of shielding? Obviously we can’t, which means if we can’t mask, we have to eliminate!”

“Sweet Murphy,” Brence replied, which was followed by more vomiting.

“Haven’t quite got your space legs yet, I see,” Spalding observed, feeling the first stirrings of concern. “But you’ve done a yeoman’s work out on the hull…I’ve seen you out there!”

“I normally take a zero-g patch before,” Brence’s words were interrupted by the sound of the mask’s suction devise being activated and his stomach heaving again.

“Well, err…this might be a bit of a trip for ye,” Spalding conceded before shaking off the unhappy emotion in favor of playing with his brand new toy. “Don’t worry, lad; we’ll get you there quick as crabs through co-ed bunks!”

Chapter 77: The Final Approach

“Brence?” Spalding asked, wanting to make sure his partner in crime was still among the land of the living.

“Yes, Sir,” Brence replied after a moment.

“Good to see you’re still with us,” Spalding said, concealing his own relief. For a while there it hadn’t sounded too good from the pilot’s seat.

“Thanks you, Sir,” the younger man said and then with trepidation added, “was there something you wanted to tell me Commander.”

“Oh yes,” Spalding said clearing his throat at his own absentmindedness, “of course. I was going to tell you that the Little Admiral’s just started tearing into the Clover’s shields now. They should be spotting at any time.”

“Okaaay,” Brence said drawing out the word.

“Now, just as soon as I see a hole in the shields, we’re going in!” Spalding said with real enthusiasm.

“Uh, Sir,” Brence said sounding very concerned, “if I understand how our propulsion system works, then I think I’m a little stumped.”

“Oh?” Spalding asked, his glee turning to curiosity. “How so?”

“How are we going to slow down in time to board the Lucky Clover, without crashing into the hull fast enough to crumple this Lander like a tin can, or lighting up a sensor profile so loud they couldn’t miss us with their point defense lasers if they wanted to?”

“Oh, that,” Spalding said fighting the urge to scratch a sudden itch on his head.

“Please tell me you didn’t forget a way to slow us down,” Brence pleaded.

“Of course not,” Spalding snapped, “what kind of shoddy sort of engineer do you take me for?!”

“Then you’ve found a way?” Brence asked with hope in his voice.

“Well, my first thought was to use a modified form of the full-stop maneuver and then hit the Clover with bucking cables,” Spalding said bitterly, not liking to admit to failure, “but I couldn’t figure out a way to miniaturize the system in time.”

“What do you mean, ‘you couldn’t figure it out’?” Brence asked with a hint of panic that was quickly suppressed, “you’re the great Spalding—the Chief Engineer—you can do anything!”

“I’ll figure that out for the 2.0 version,” Spalding shot back more than a little defensively, “but we’ll still need the bucking cables, of course.”

There was stunned silence from the younger man. “Sir, I don’t understand,” Brence said carefully, “bucking cables are just that: cables. They pull you towards a thing; it’s impossible to use them to push something away and slow us down!”

“Eh? Oh, that,” Spalding said, relieved that it wasn’t something actually important that had the younger man worried. “Don’t worry,” he told the younger man, “I’ve got that part covered.”

“What do you mean ‘covered’?” Brence sounded like he was about to have an aneurism.

“The bucking cables are just optional…more to help guide us in.” Spalding explained.

“Please, Sir,” Brence begged, “just tell me how we’re not going to crash into the Clover without irradiating ourselves or being blown out of space.”

“Like all great plans, it’s simple,” Spalding declared, “we match speeds as closely as possible with the Clover and coast through the shields, using our thrusters to guide us in. Then, after we eject our drive system with a preprogrammed, ‘bug-out-now’ program to distract the Clover with a giant sensor profile, we-”

“We lose the drive without slowing down?!” Brence said, unable to believe what he was hearing.

“Well, of course,” Spalding said shortly, “just before we penetrate the shields—or slightly after, perhaps—we lose the engine. If the Clover starts to speed up, we use the bucking cables on the nose of the Fix to pull us in, but we can also use the thrusters—those things are nearly undetectable,” he added confidently.

“But what if we’re going in too fast for thrusters, Chief?!” Brence demanded.

Spalding hesitated. “Well, we’ve got an eject system and Caprian full body grav-boards attached to the chairs, which’ll work just fine so long as you’re wearing your skin suit. The chair has a CPU programmed to slow down and make an emergency landing.”

“This plan isn’t going to work,” Brence said despairingly.

“What? Of course it’ll work,” Spalding cried exasperatedly, feeling genuinely offended.

“We’ll be killed for sure if we’re going too fast,” Brence said in negation.

Spalding sighed. “I suppose we could always go with Plan B,” he grumbled.

“Which is, Sir?” Brence demanded irritably.

“Coast in through the shields with our ass-end pointed at the hull of the Clover, then light off our drive to slow us down in time to avoid goin’ ‘splat’,” he said morosely. “The main problem with most lander operations was the inability to both: come in fast, and slow down fast. With this new drive, neither one is really a factor at these speeds.”

“Which might work if we had multiple Landers,” Brence lamented. “One of them might get through, but with it being just us we’ll be targeted and shot for sure! Are you really trying to tell me you don’t have a functional plan?”

“Oh, Plan B will work; we come in fast and slow down faster, but just think of the potential damage to the hull of our ship!” Spalding countered.

“Sir, I’m not sure—” Brence started respectfully.

“Fine,” Spalding snapped, “we’ll go with plan B and blast our way to a stop—but if the Clover’s so much as scraped, it’s goin’ to be yer job to fix her!” he rebuked, swinging his finger slowly through the ballistics jelly until it was pointed at the other man. Even if Brence couldn’t turn his head to see him do so, it made the old engineer feel better, “I’ll preprogram the computer and activate the hardwired friend or foe signal into the transmitter just as soon as we clear the shields. If they haven’t replaced too many of their weapon mounts with newer systems, we should be fine.”

There was a pause. “Friend or foe signal…don’t you think they’ll have changed that by now?” Brence asked with surprise in his voice. “Besides, it doesn’t matter what signal Tactical sends them; the gunners on the gun deck can always go to manual control.”

“It’s a hardwired signal put into each gun mount directly,” Spalding explained casually, “bein’ too AI-paranoid, we figured the only way to get around that was to upload a patch into each Gunner’s individual fire control. They can still override it by putting in the right code, but not in the time it takes us to clear the shields, slow down, and land. At least…that’s the plan.”

“How did you know to put such a thing in…just in case you’d lose the ship?” Brence exclaimed in rising excitement.

“It’s just an old royalist plot,” Spalding said, casually downplaying his part in the whole sordid affair. He didn’t add that he’d only allowed it so long as the program could be ordered to purge from a simple code command from Tactical or the individual gunner. “It was put in place in case Parliament ever took the ship and we needed to reclaim her.”

There was another pause. “Why didn’t you tell the Admiral about this? He could have used it!” Brence argued.

“Won’t work,” Spalding disagreed, “the Captain knows the code.” He paused, feeling slightly embarrassed, “I mean, the new minted Commodore: Jean Luc the Traitor. The software was occasionally upgraded, but the access code never changed. And besides,” he added gruffly, “the Admiral was a little too gung-ho. You can’t trust a Captain or an Admiral with that sort of power unless there’s no choice! For all we know the Little Admiral might have decided that getting back at Jean Luc was worth crippling, or-or-or, even destroying the Lucky Clover!”

“We couldn’t let that happen, now could we,” Brence said, and if Spalding didn’t know better he would have said the other man had a slightly sarcastic tone in his voice, but he let it slide.

“Nope,” he agreed happily.

A companionable silence filled the cockpit for several minutes before Brence finally chimed back in.

“I wish you’d led off with the friend or foe signal,” the young engineer finally said.

What was left of Spalding’s brow wrinkled, “Where’d be the fun in that?”

Brence gave a frustrated sigh in response.

Chapter 78: Hanging Tough

“Roll the ship!” Laurent shouted over the hubbub of cascading damage reports and rapidly falling Shield numbers.

“Tactical, if energy becomes an issue, focus your weight of fire on the Vineyard at the expense of the Lucky Clover,” I ordered, pounding the arm of my command chair. “And Shields, keep our facing on the Clover as strong as possible!”

The Armor Prince shuddered and the ship lurched to the side. I was forced to stop pounding on them and hold onto the arms of the chair for dear life, or risk being thrown.

“Decompression on decks five through nine, Captain,” Crewwoman Blythe reported, continuing to be a voice or reason and calm in the sea of chaos that had become the bridge of the Prince.

“Admiral,” Laurent yelled into my ear, “we can’t keep taking this kind of punishment, they’ve got it timed so that they’ve got one of them on us at all times and the other one is free to swing around and regenerate her shields slightly before reentering the battle, whereupon they both hit us at once. When one gets damaged, the other covers while they use their superior speed to get away. We have to bring in reinforcements or withdraw, Sir!”

“No!” I shouted. “We have to keep the pressure up, and our support squadron is still dealing with the final Heavy Harvester; I can’t risk a Harvester being thrown into the mix.”

“There’s always the Lady Akantha’s ship,” Laurent urged, “if we tell her we need a spoiling attack, she might be able to distract one of the Battleships long enough for us to close and put the hurt on the other one.”

I hesitated, feeling torn. Being in the big chair of Fleet Command had never been more excruciating. The last thing I wanted to do was throw my wife and her crew against Dreadnaught class Battleship in their already damaged Cruiser. Then my face hardened. Steeling myself, I straightened my posture and adjusted my uniform.

“Send a message to the Furious Phoenix with my compliments on their conduct thus far, and tell Akantha we need them to make a diversionary attack on the Lucky Clover,” I said, doing my best to keep my voice detached and emotionless.

“Right away, Sir!” Laurent said, jumping over to the communication’s console and almost ripping the headset off the Technician’s head in his eagerness to send the message himself.

“Shields down to less than 15% on both facings, with severe spotting,” Longbottom reported, his fingers flying over his console without pause as sweat ran down his face, “if we were still back in the Little Gift, they’d have collapsed by now, Sir! I don’t know how much longer I can go before we have a cascade failure and have to perform a full system reboot without some kind of break.”

“Just do the best you can, Ensign,” I told the young Officer, “you’re the best Shield Operator we’ve ever had—if you can’t do it, then I have absolute confidence that no one can.”

“Aye, Admiral,” the young Ensign replied, not even bothering to look up, so engrossed was he in his job.

Watching the main screen like a hawk I saw the Lucky Clover was almost on us for a little tag team action, and seconds later their turbo-lasers were digging into our hull, only occasionally deflected by our perforated shields.

The deck shuddered with a pair of riotous impacts.

“We just lost a pair of turbo-lasers to counter battery fire, Sir!” Eastwood reported.

“Rerouting communications through the secondary array,” Comm.’s reported. Laurent was still speaking urgently into the headset, which was now on his head.

“They’re just as damaged as we are, bridge,” I felt the urge to say in order to keep morale up, “the vultures may try circling us, but they don’t have any idea what this crew can do and we’ll send them to the Demon’s pit if they don’t wise up—the MSP is more than they ever counted on!”

The cheer that followed this little speech was much more lackluster than the previous ones. But I wasn’t surprised, since everyone was busy and not to put too fine a point on it, we were one Battleship against two and it was showing. Hopefully Akantha could do something to distract the Clover long enough for Spalding to try and pull of whatever it was he was trying to pull.

“Blast,” the com-tech exclaimed, throwing his headset down onto his console in disgust. I blinked in surprise, I hadn’t even noticed when Captain Laurent finished relaying his message and handing the com-equipment back to the tech, “they just took out both our secondary and tertiary arrays. All we’ve got are the short range antennae left.”

“A couple of lucky shots,” Laurent said, just before we lost a pair of heavy lasers to counter battery fire.

“I don’t think so,” I said, as important parts of my ship were being taken out one by one. “They deliberately targeted our com’s and took out our arrays for some reason,” I disagreed. I turned snapping my head over to look at Eastwood, “Mr. Eastwood, inform the gun deck there is a thousand credit bounty for both the deck and gunner who knocks me out a communications array on either one of the Pirate ships! They want to try and stop me from speaking with my fleet, then let’s just see how they like to trying to coordinate their attacks when the shoe is on the other foot!”

“Relaying the message, Admiral,” Eastwood said with clear disapproval of my plan in his voice. No doubt he would have liked me to focus on turbo or heavy lasers if I was going to interject myself into the running of the Tactical Department at all. Well, too bad for him; this was the exact opposite of the time to be tiptoeing around the sensibilities of the Easy Haveners. We were in the middle of a battle and it was time they learned to cater to me, not the other way around.

Chapter 79: Rising from the Ashes

Akantha turned away from the main screen and swept the bridge with her steely, cold gaze.

“You heard Captain Laurent,” she said, a harsh smile crossing her face, “it is well past time we rejoined this battle.”

“Plotting a course, Hold Mistress,” the Promethean Helmsman said.

“How are our engines?” Akantha demanded, turning to Damage Control.

“The repairs are going well, but I don’t know if and when they’ll be operational,” the woman said.

Akantha shook her head. “I should have known better,” she said shortly, “when you need to know something, it is best to go to the source.” She turned to the Communications Stander, “Get me a long talker link to the wizard down in Main Engineering.”

“Yes, Mistress,” replied the Tech.

“Yes,” growled the young man on the screen, “time is money, but then since you’re not paying me anything I guess I’ve got all the time in the world. So what do you need?”

Akantha looked at him severely. “What is the status of our engines, Wizard,” she demanded. “We are about to reenter the battle; I cannot help it if you refuse remuneration for your services.”

“I have a name: it’s TJ,” the man snapped, “and it’s not service if a man refuses to work of his own free will—it’s slavery! And another thing, this whole ‘Wizard’ business is nothing but a bunch of hokum; I’m an engineer, not a miracle worker.”

“How are our engines…TJ,” she asked impatiently, holding onto her temper with both hands. The wizard started to open his mouth but she raised a hand to silence him, “Keeping in mind that you were captured on the battlefield, and as such are mine to do with as I please for the next five years. If personal parole, family loyalty, or the word of your King are not enough to secure your honorable service, then perhaps the thought of dying on this ship as nothing but a shiftless oathbreaker will succor you into doing your best?”

“You’re more batty than a mad hatter, Lady, if you actually trust me to run your engines and fix your ship,” TJ the Engineer said slightly more guardedly. “But in answer to your question, the repairs on the Main Engine proceed apace. If you intend to use them then I can only guarantee them working for fifteen minutes before they burn out again—maybe for good this time, if you press them.”

“Now, was that so difficult, Wizard…TJ?” she asked with only the slightest pause in using his preferred method of address. “And we both know the quality of your lineage; I seriously doubt you would betray your parole and bring the vengeance upon your family which is betrayal’s reward.”

“You wouldn’t…” TJ said, wide-eyed.

“Of course I would,” Akantha said seriously. It always surprised her how hard it was for these Starborn to understand how serious she was about certain things.

The young Wizard gulped. “Well…then I guess I’d better get back to keeping your ship and engines running as well as possible.”

Akantha gave him the nod of a Hold Mistress and turned back to her bridge crew after severing the connection.

“The Main Engine will work for fifteen minutes,” she said imperiously, “so make those minutes count!”

“Yes, Lady Akantha,” Gants said fervently.

Chapter 80: Complications

“Is that the Phoenix?” Brence said in disbelief.

“Looks like,” Spalding replied, rolling his eyes and muttering, “idjit,” under his breath. It was as clear as moonshine that the modified, Duralloy II-girdled Imperial Strike Cruiser was in the final stages of making an attack run on the Lucky Clover.

As the two engineers watched, the Phoenix came charging in at speed, its long range turbo-lasers firing and weakening the Clover’s shields before it came into range of the old Battleship’s own weaponry.

“Yes,” Brence hissed, grinning as the Phoenix lived up to its namesake and unleashed its fury on the aged Battleship, opening up several rents in the Clover’s hull and causing air and men to vent out into space, “die, you Parliamentary backstabbers.”

Spalding scowled. As far as he was concerned, every attack both on the Clover was a blow to his own body. He couldn’t take pleasure in damaging his ship, even as he strove with all his power to take it out of the hands of the cretins who had stolen her.

Shields flared and as the engineers watched, another pair of shots scarred the hull of the Clover with only a single shot punching through the shields of the former Imperial Cruiser raking the nose of the ship in return. Then the Imperial Cruiser pulled off a powerful turn, her engines working at full speed as she came about and lined up for another pass on the old Battleship.

The Lucky Clover seemingly unconcerned until the Furious Phoenix started to come back around hard, suddenly spun on its axis and reoriented on the Cruiser to deny any strikes up the kilt.

“This is our chance, lad,” Spalding said through gritted teeth.

“Wha—” Brence started to say in alarm when the wily old Engineer jammed the throttle down, and with a boom the Lander shot forward. The gee-forces were incredible and even with overpowered grav-plates and the jelly, the old engineer could feel the stress—especially where the metal met the meat on his refurbished, old body.

“We’re going in!” Spalding screamed with delight, deliberately ignoring the pain in his joints and the alarm in his new engineering protégé. Since Gants had betrayed him by going Armory, the young slacker beside him had shaped up and shown him some surprising depth.

Brence made a girlish shriek when Spalding slewed the ship around using the thrusters. When their orientation was true, he slapped the button to transmit the IFF code and then hammered back on the atomic engine just as they passed through the shields on an intercept course with the Clover’s hull.

“We’re going to die!” Brence shouted just before the sound of his stomach coming up once again filled the com-link built into his face mask.

Spalding scowled with distaste. A little high-gravity, zero-gravity, and high-gravity again shouldn’t be debilitating to a real engineer, but he kept his silence out of respect. After all, the man had been willing to walk into a fusion reactor in active meltdown, so even though he was barfing like a cowardly lion, it probably wasn’t from debilitating fear.

As fast as he could, Spalding keyed the final sequence into the computer. The atomic engine spluttered away with a rapid fire series of ‘bang-bang-banging’ sounds as the Lander slewed around from side to side, almost as if it were trying to miss the Clover entirely by bouncing against the interior of the Battleship’s shields. Forcing the controls this way and that, he managed to steer the Lander toward his intended target: an airlock in an uninhabited part of the Battleship that had the closest access to the lift system of any airlock on the ship.

There was a flash, followed by a resounding crash and the two occupants of the Lander swayed from side to side within the ballistics jelly.

It took the old engineer several long seconds of recovery to remember to press the button on the console that would turn the Ballistics Jelly back into its liquid form and suck it out of the cockpit.

“Sweet Murphy,” Brence groaned after tearing off his facemask and falling back into his chair when the cockpit was half empty of the green liquid.

“No time for lollygaggin’ now, lad,” Spalding said, forcing himself back onto his feet. Reaching over, he helped the younger man to his feet, “You still have that skin suit I gave you?”

“Yes,” Brence said with a grunt as he swayed on his feet.

“Well, pull on a head bag and let’s get out of here,” Spalding said, putting words to action as he placed a head bag on his own head and thrust one over to the young engineer.

“Uh…we’re actually going outside in a head bag?” Brence asked, looking more than a little disturbed.

“Here’s a portable oxygen cylinder,” Spalding said impatiently, pulling a pair of cylinders out and handing one over to the younger man. Producing the attachment, he hooked it to his head. “A little space burn never hurt anyone,” he said, chucking the other man on shoulder.

Brence smiled weakly and hooked his face bag to the oxygen cylinder, and reaching to his collar, pulled up the small, plastic hood. Using the magnetic seal, he locked the hood to the face bag and gave the engineer a ‘thumbs up’ sign.

Opening the airlock sent the doors flying out into space in a decompressive blast, while the two men held onto their place inside the lander by dint of a pair of grab bars and reinforce belly belts.

Stepping outside the small craft that had got them over the Lucky Clover more or less in one piece, the pair of engineers stepped out onto the hull.

After clearing the Lander, Spalding looked back and blinked at the sight of the stern of the small ship. It had crumpled like a tin can, and by the looks of it they were fortunate to still be alive.

“Well, any landing ye walk away from’s a good landing, I say,” the Old Engineer transmitted over the com-links he had thoughtfully added to the standard issue head bags. With an uncaring shrug, he turned away and began tromping toward the airlock.

At the older Engineer’s words, Brence looked back and made a choking sound but refrained from comment as they continued over to the airlock Spalding had picked out.

“H-h-hu-hurry,” Brence’s voice came over the link, accompanied by the sound of teeth chattering.

“Hold yer horses,” Spalding said testily as his gloved fingers fumbled over the exterior airlock controls, “just hold your horses, boy. We’ll be inside in just a might.”

Half a minute later, the outer door cycled open. Stepping inside, the Commander started the cycle to close the outer door, fill the chamber with air before opening the inner airlock door.

As soon as they were in the ship, Brence tore off his head bag and threw it onto the ground.

“Watch yer equipment, Engineer,” Spalding barked, “we might need that head bag later on.”

“It’s cold,” Brence said, shivering and slapping his hands together, “whoever said a skin suit is rated for 25 minutes of exposure to cold space if given access to an adequate supply of oxygen is a liar!”

“Oh, pick it up, you whiner,” Spalding snapped, and then the realization broke over him like a thousand meter tall wave: he was back on the Clover! He closed his eyes and stopped long enough to take one deep breath. The smell of recycled air had never tasted so sweet.

“I’d rather face my chances in here than go back onto the hull!” Brence declared, and the old Engineer’s eyes snapped open the moment broken.

“We might need it in case of smoke or a chemical attack,” Spalding retorted angrily, and fitting mood to action reached over his back to pull out the flash shotgun he’d thought to bring in the Lander for his reunion with the Lucky Clover.

Brence blinked and then rushed over to snatch up the face bag before hurrying after the old Engineer. Reaching down to his belt, he pulled out the stunner he had brought.

“Shouldn’t we try to use non-lethal weaponry for as long as possible?” the young Engineer asked, his voice a whisper. “I mean, at least until we’re spotted.”

“The Mutineers deserve what they get,” Spalding declared, hurrying them toward the turbo-lift.

“Maybe I should go in front,” Brence suggested, increasing his stride.

“As if you know where you’re going,” Spalding scoffed, matching the other man’s pace and turning slightly to level a finger at Brence. “I know this ship like the back of my hand.”

“Sir-” Brence started to say right before Spalding cracked his head on one of the corridor support beams built into the side of the wall at regular intervals.

“Ack!” Spalding exclaimed, staggering away and clutching his head. “Stop distracting me!” he grumbled, staggering down the hall, rubbing his head cursing his new droid legs. Just as soon as he took care of that noisy whine, they decided to plague him with the reminder that they made him too blasted tall, as well!

“Sorry,” Brence said shaking his head with a smile plucking around the corners of his mouth.

“Not another word!” Spalding declared, stomping down the corridor.

Brence hid a smile and hustled along behind. Less than a minute later, they ran across a pair of environmental ratings running down the corner with a hand scanner.

For a moment, the four stood staring at each other and the environmental tech’s eyes widened in horror at the sight of the cyborged Chief Engineer in their midst.

“It’s a space ghost come to take revenge on us, Blairt,” shrieked the tech on the left.

Spalding swelled with fury. “You’ve gone Parliament, Castawelli?” he thundered, lowering his flash shotgun and jacking in a charge. The fact that he had used Castwell’s name as part of the impromptu curse never even crossed the old man’s mind.

Brence snatched up his stunner, and with a pair of rapid shots dropped both the techs.

“Quick, Sir,” he said urgently, “we’ve got to get out of the area before anyone realizes they’re missing.”

“Death to Parliament! Death to the Mutineers,” Spalding raged, shoving the muzzle of his weapon down towards the fallen pair of men.

“Come on, Chief,” Brence yelled, grabbing hold of his arm trying to drag him along—and not coincidentally pulling his shotgun out of line with the Techs.

“Traitors!” Spalding shouted, trying to shrug the younger man off and only partly succeeding when Brence decided to cling to him like his arm was some kind of infernal life line. “I shoulda known Environmental would be the first ones to turn their coats,” he roared, “ye can’t trust the moles running around in the ship’s pipes, Brence. Any man willingly immerses himself in human waste for a career can’t be trusted, and now look at them. It’s as plain as the nose on me face!”

“Stop, Commander,” Brence said, sounding desperate, “we’ve got a duty to the ship—to the Clover! We can’t be delayed.”

“Ye’re right, lad,” Spalding said, breathing heavily and certain that what was left of his face was beet-red. He lifted his Flash Shotgun and Brence almost reluctantly let go.

“Come on, Sir,” Brence urged grabbing his upper arm and hurrying forward.

Spalding started down the corridor and then broke free of the younger man’s grip. Turning back around he lunged back and drew back his foot; faster than most men could blink, he kicked both of the Mutineers who had tried to steal away his Clover right in their guts.

“Sir!” Brence all but screamed.

“I’m a comin’, I’m a comin’,” Spalding growled, jerking around and putting the pair of traitorous mutineers out of his mind.

Twice along the way they heard the sounds of running feet, but each time the Engineer led them to a side corridor or a maintenance closet and in less than five minutes, with the ship shuddering around them, they hit the lift.

Heading over to the panel on the side of the lift doors opening, Brence punched in a code but nothing happened.

“Stand aside, Brence,” Spalding said pushing his way forward, “I’ve got the override codes.” Seconds later, a lift was on the way on a priority task.

Stepping into the lift, the old engineer entered another code and pressed the exclusion feature that would keep this lift from stopping to pick up any other passengers along the way to its current, final destination.

“I’m getting’ too old for this business,” Spalding complained, slumping against the side of the lift box’s wall.

“My neck still feels whiplashed from our crash-landing,” Brence groaned from his position against the other wall.

“That was a ‘controlled landing’,” Spalding stiffened with a growl, “there was no crash involved. We got down safely, and that’s all that matters.” When Brence opened his mouth, Spalding leveled a finger at him, “Not ‘nother word, or next time ye won’t be invited.”

The young Engineer shook his head from side to side, looking disgusted. Spalding was about to cut loose with a withering retort when the lift car gave a ding, indicating it was about to arrive at its destination.

Thoughts of castigating his assistant flew out of his head, and a wild look entered the old engineer’s eyes as he leveled his flash shotgun at the door.

“It might be a bit late to ask, Sir, but…where are we going?” Brence asked, his eyes flitting from the lift control panel and the flash shotgun as he pointed his own stunner at the door as well.

“Main Engineering,” Spalding said with a grin.

“Anywhere in particular?” Brence asked as the lift came to a halt and gave the final ding prior to opening.

“I’m glad you asked,” the ornery old Engineer said with a feral look, “we’re going into the Chief Engineer’s Office. I’ve a bone to pick with the Clover’s current management, and my style’s to start at the top.

Brence’s mouth fell open in disbelief.

Chapter 81: To the Locker, lad!

The two men jumped out of the lift, brandishing weapons.

“Blast,” Spalding cursed to the empty office, “I’d hoped to catch the blighting imposter slackin’.”

“I didn’t know there was even a lift in the Chief Engineer’s Office…and I’ve been in here before, too,” Brence said, clearly dumbfounded.

“Eh?” Spalding said irritably. “It’s been here all along,” and then a comprehension dawned, “oh, you mean the new Chief’s Office—that used to be a supply closet.” He grinned, “I moved in there ‘cause it’s a shorter walk; this is in the old administrative office. I never saw the point of bein’ so far from my fusion reactors, personally.”

“So we still have a five minute walk,” Brence said, taking a deep breath, “okay.”

“What are talking about man?” Spalding boggled, looking confused himself.

“Our mission, Sir,” Brence looked at him quizzically, “we have to go shut down the reactors and win the battle…what did you think I was talking about?”

Realization dawned and Spalding suddenly looked guilty. “The Fusion reactors…right,” he fumbled slightly before his voice firmed again.

“Is something wrong?” Brence asked worriedly, “the Admiral and the whole ship are counting on us, Commander. We have to get to those reactors.”

“Don’t worry; I have everything under control,” Spalding blustered, quickly regaining his confidence. “Aye, don’t worry yer head, lad; the reactors were only ever Plan B. I have a much better idea on how to save the Clover than to space her power plants! That kind of equipment is vital—vital!—to the survival of the ship.”

Brence blinked rapidly. “Why am I even surprised by anything at this point?” he asked rhetorically before taking a deep breath. “So if we’re not going to go shut down the fusion reactors, what’s the real plan?”

For his part, it was Spalding’s turn to be surprised at the lack of opposition. It almost threw him off his stride, if he was being honest. Clearing his throat, he shook his head and cracked a smile at this unexpected surprise, deciding to be a little freer with his words than was his usual modus operandi.

“Tell me, lad…have you ever heard of the Locker?” he said with a grin.

Brence’s mouth dropped open. “The Davy Jones, Sir? You mean the mythical place on every ship where everything that’s lost can be found? Where old equipment and the spirits of everyone who’s died in service to the ship goes to rest?”

“What if I told you it’s the same place that Captain Moonlight makes his secret lair?” Spalding said with a sly wink.

“You mean…it’s real?!” Brence nearly squealed, jumping up and down in his surprise.

“Yup,” Spalding said proudly, turning to the lift.

“I’ll be jiggered, Sir!” Brence said with feeling.

Chapter 82: Staying in the Fight

“I don’t know how much longer we can stay in this,” Laurent said, holding a hand with a trauma pad to the cut on the side of head.

“We’re not done yet,” I said, baring my teeth and turning to Tactical. “Make sure to present our right flank to the Vineyard as soon as it takes over pounding us for the Lucky Clover; we’ve lost too many turbo-lasers on the left.”

“Roll to present our starboard side, Aye,” Eastwood acknowledged grimly.

“At this point we could still attempt a withdrawal,” Laurent advised quietly, “but if we wait any longer, they’re going to pound us into scrap. We rolled the dice and they didn’t come up sixes, Sir; there’s no shame in it.”

“We just need a few lucky hits,” I demurred in an equally low voice as our overheated turbo-lasers lashed out at the newly arrived Vineyard, “either from us, or from the Phoenix. If we can just hit their engines—”

The Vineyard made its presence known, and the bridge temporarily lost power.

“Severe damage to the Power Grid A,” Crewwoman Blythe reported with tension in her voice. “Combined with the damage to Grid B, we’ve had to reroute around the damaged areas by cross-connecting both grids. If we get a major electrical surge or ion spike, we’ll have…trouble compensating.”

“Fortunately, there don’t appear to be any ion weapons among our enemies,” I said shortly, while I started mentally cursing. Blythe was a steady woman, the sort of watch stander one wanted at the controls, so if she was starting to sound concerned then there was cause for alarm. Not that I needed her input to realize that the Armor Prince was in a bad way; the steadily mounting losses of weapons and damage to ship’s systems had already told me that.

“We’re not going to get a lucky hit. They’ve got the two ships, and frankly they’ve been out-maneuvering us with their slightly faster engines. If anyone’s going to get lucky, it’s the man with two weapon’s platforms and the faster drives,” Laurent cut back in.

“This is for all the marbles, Captain,” I replied, fighting the heavy feeling in my chest. I could make all the high-minded speeches I wanted, but I’d still only be able to get the best this crew had to offer; I couldn’t magically produce more warships or wish damaged turbo-lasers back to functionality.

Tactical gave a cheer and my eyes snapped back over to the Vineyard, but I didn’t see what all the hoopla was about.

“We got your Communications Arrays, Admiral,” Eastwood said, looking back at me briefly.

“The Comm. Arrays…” I said, feeling stumped and then a vague memory from the beginning of the fight drifted back into my forebrain. I remember something about ordering a retaliatory strike after they hit our Comm. antennae.

“A gunnery team on one of the turbo-batteries waited until the Vineyard was on us and then snuck in a shot on the Clover while they weren’t expecting it, Sir,” Eastwood explained, “looks like you’re going to have to pay out that bounty!”

“Good job, team,” I said fiercely.

The bridge didn’t even bother to cheer but at this point I was past that. As far as I was concerned, steeling my own resolve to go down fighting was more than enough.

“They’re damaging our power grids and we’re knocking out their external com-arrays,” Laurent said grimly.

I knew what he very deliberately didn’t say: we couldn’t keep that kind of trade off going for long. I clenched my fists, realizing my knuckles were actually numb from so much tension in my hands. If only they weren’t faster than us. I’d put us in a death roll with one of the dastards and at least have the satisfaction of taking one of them down with us, and who knew; there was always the chance we’d come out the other end in good enough condition to try the other.

“If you want, I can give the order,” Captain Laurent said with a sigh. It took me several seconds to realize what he was saying, and when he did I felt my face turning red and it was all I could do not to grab a weapon and shoot him.

“They’ll have to take me out in a body bag, because I’m not leaving,” I snapped and deliberately turned away from the Captain.

Chapter 83: The Davy Jones

Activating the lift, he turned to Brence. “Might be a few minutes, even with the priority code,” he confided to the younger man, “sometimes it takes a while for the lift system to reroute to this office. You see, the destination we want can only be reached using one particular lift: lift 42.”

“A secret mission and a secret lair,” Brence said, sounding delighted, “and my mother said the recruiter’s promises of action and adventure were all hogwash!”

“Smart woman, that,” Spalding grunted, a hint of a smile tugging around the corners of his mouth.

Brence paused and then chortled, “Don’t I know it!”

Two minutes later, the lift dinged and Spalding strode inside. After a brief hesitation, Brence followed.

The door swished closed and Spalding leaned down to the touch panel built into the lift, and quickly tapped out a code that caused the panel to fall forward, revealing a secret compartment behind it. Entering another code on the second touchpad hidden within, he leaned down for a retinal scan and placed his finger on a sensor designed to read his fingerprint and take a blood sample. “Blast,” he said in surprise, staring down at his artificial hands, “override, override, override,” he said. “Blast, I plum forgot I lost both me hands! Let me get a knife and I’ll get you the blood supply, though,” he assured the panel. Reaching into his tool belt, he pulled out a small blade and nicked himself up on the shoulder. Then, swiping his hand through the blood, he placed it into the blood verifier.

“Destination Deck Thirteen set and locked in, Engineer Spalding,” said a computerized voice over the intercom.

Brence breathed a sigh of relief and then started. “Deck Thirteen,” he said excitedly, “there’s never officially been a Deck Thirteen in the SDF. I knew they were hiding something; the denials were too convincing!”

Spalding shook his head at this tomfoolery, and Brence was still rambling when in all four corners of the lift, panels dropped down revealing heavy blaster mounts which tracked and focused on him and the old Engineer. The young Warrant Officer immediately blanched.

“Uh, Lieutenant,” Brence gulped, pointing up at the anti-personnel weapon, “I think the blood sample didn’t take or something.” He quietly started sidling toward the wall, and careful not to lift his arm, pointed his stunner up and toward the ceiling.

“Oh?” Spalding glanced up at them, ignoring the lad’s failure to use his new ‘Lieutenant Commander’ rank. “Almost forgot,” he said with a mischievous wink, “not quite so exciting when you’ve got defensive blasters pointed at you, eh?” he chortled with glee.

Brence stared over at him in disbelief.

“Spalding AO4769, my voice is my password, verify me,” said the chrome-domed officer, leaning forward and speaking into the hidden control panel in a clear steady voice.

The panel beeped several times before the secret panel almost reluctantly popped closed, and the anti-personnel blasters retracted into their hidden corners with a mechanical whine as their concealing, metal doors closed.

When the lift started moving, Brence wasn’t the only one who breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Several minutes later, the lift finally came to a stop and the doors slid open to a pitch black room.

Spalding stepped forward, enjoying the way his droid eye easily adjusted to the lightless condition as he strode quickly into the foam-covered room.

“Kind of dark in here,” Brence commented.

“Got a flashlight around here somewhere,” the old Engineer said, moving unerringly toward the pile of hand torches and activating one.

“That’s a relief,” Brence said taking a cautious step into the room. He stopped briefly to look around, “Why is everything covered in foam?”

“They filled the whole level when they left,” Spalding said impatiently, “thought it was a fire hazard. It took a while to clear it out but after we did, she made an ideal place to stash perfectly good equipment. Why, I’ve collected parts and pieces in here not just from the Clover, but from two other Dreadnaught classes that were sent to the breakers,” he said, waving his arm to shine the light on the vastly smaller piles and stacks of old, yet perfectly functional equipment on display

Most of the gear he had already put back in service after the break with the Imps, but there were still a few choice bits lying about here and there, and he looked around at the stockpile with pride at preserving the serviceable equipment from going to the breathers with their old ships.

Then his proud display faltered and his eyes narrowed. “Ships what were supposed to be sent to the breakers, anyway,” he said, thinking of the ships that had supposedly been broken apart and recycled, only to really be sent over to the Captain. Jean Luc. The very man who had turned pirate and stolen the Clover!

“This is amazing,” Brence breathed, hurrying over for a hand torch of his own and then activating it. “This looks just like the lair of the Bug Queen set off of…” Spalding whipped his head around and the younger man hesitated. “I mean, in a holo-vid I watched one time,” Brence clarified, clearly trying to downplay the whole situation in the face of Spalding’s now scowling demeanor.

“This is no holo-vid,” Commander Spalding barked, “we’re on a mission to save the ship!” He turned with a ‘harrumph,’ and began striding deeper into the bowels of Deck Thirteen.

“Sorry, Sir,” Brence said in a temporarily subdued voice. Mere seconds later, however, he was back to his juvenile antics, “This is so cool. I never thought I’d be able to say I’d seen the Davy Jones Locker and been in Captain Moonlight’s secret lair! I mean, not that I would ever actually say anything,” Brence stumbled, “it’s just, you know, the possibility that I could. Or rather, you know, that I’d actually been there myself! I wouldn’t have to say anything—just knowing I’ve been there and could go again—”

“What are you blathering on about, man,” Spalding demanded unhappily. “If I’d known you were going to be such a chatterbox, I’d have come by my lonesome!”

“Oops,” Brence said in a small voice.

“Yes, ‘oops’,” Spalding frowned thunderously, “now keep quiet and pay attention. We’ve got to find five different rooms in here and connect the cables I’ve already laid out.”

“Of course, Chief,” Brence said in more professional voice, “I understand.”

“Good,” the ornery old Engineer said shortly. “Stay focused and on task,” that was a perfectly good place to end the conversation. Brence’s cheerfulness had put Spalding in a such a terribly bad mood for some reason—perhaps because he was showing him one of the greatest mysteries this ship had to offer and he was practically jumping around and squealing like a pubescent girl at her first boy band concert—that he just couldn’t contain himself. “And another thing: there’s no need for all this tomfoolery and diarrhea of the mouth. This is the Davy Jones; a sacred, hidden place on the ship, where even whispers fear to tread,” he barked.

“Sorry, Commander,” Brence said in a subdued voice. “But didn’t you ever have a secret hero you didn’t think was real? Well, I did, and I just found out he was real—on top of that, he’s been taking me down to the a place most spacers gossip about in whispers and say doesn’t really exist. This is the Davy Jones! This is the ship’s secret locker, and it’s an entire, ‘lost’ deck! On top of that, you have no idea how many hits the Moonlight Chronicles have back home on Capria. The idea that the government is ignoring a Droid problem, while Moonlight is out there defying the anti-machinery laws and capturing rogue Droids was part of a small, counter-culture movement when I was still in secondary school.”

“More stuff and nonsense,” Spalding grunted, secretly touched and then his head snapped around in recognition. “It’s over here,” he said, spotting the first of the rooms they would have to find. He could tell because of the roll of cable with one end coiled up outside the room, and the other running off into the darkness.

“What do we have to do, Sir?” Brence asked.

“We just need to unroll this end and take it into the room to hook her up to the spike I sent down into one of the ship’s main data lines. Then we process in the other five locations,” Spalding explained.

“The main data lines?!” Brence blurted, clearly surprised but the surprise was temporary. Like any engineer worth his salt, the younger man rallied and figured it out without help, “Of course…this is an entire, unaccounted for, deck. If it was set up like the others it had to have had taps set to hook into the rest of the ship.”

“This one hooks up to one of the key clusters of the ship’s DI,” Spalding explained as he cracked open the door and snatched up the wire. Walking backward, he unspooled the wire until he reached the illicit data terminal he had hooked up to the tap in the ship’s systems. Turning around, he plugged in the wire. “Only four more to go, then we hook the other ends into the cluster,” the newly minted Engineering Commander said with satisfaction.

“Yes, Sir,” Brence said, hurrying along behind as the two men rushed down the corridors to the next data line that needed connection. “I understand what we need to do. But sir, can you tell me how tapping into the DI is going to be better than just dumping the fusion reactors and shutting this ship down?”

“We’re not just tappin’ into the ship’s DI, Brence,” Spalding said scornfully, “if that’s all we were doing, we’d have a mighty fine intelligence-gathering operation, but I don’t see how that would do us any good in recapturing the ship!”

“Then what’s the plan, Sir?” Brence asked.

“Well…” the old Engineer hesitated and then decided he might as well break down and explain things, “first we finish connecting the other four cables to the spikes and—”

“More spikes into the DI,” Brence said, nodding his head and the old engineer felt a surge of anger at the short-sightedness of his companion.

“No, the other spikes hook into each of the ship’s isolated subsystems; the ones that are kept free from direct contact with the DI,” he growled.

“You mean…the ones we need separated to keep the ship from going sub-AI,” Brence said.

“Exactly,” Spalding said with satisfaction.

Brence gulped. “You mean…we’re going to hook them up, and hope an AI starts to manifest and crashes the ship’s systems?” he said with clear dread in his voice.

“After a fashion,” Spalding said after a pause. In retrospect, it was probably best to initiate the young man to the various mysteries of the ship in smaller job lots. After they’d connected each of the subsystems into the hub he had long since created, it was probably best if Spalding just took the sixth cable that connected to the hub directly into the Heart of the Ship personally.

“But what if it takes too long for the ship to develop an AI and the battle is lost, Sir?” Brence asked. Spalding had to admit it was a logical question, if a man was operating off Brence’s limited data set.

“Now, you just let me worry about that,” the old man said as they arrived at the second door and, stopping briefly, he laid a finger alongside his nose.

They worked in silence as they went from room to room, the ship shuddering around them as the Clover reengaged, in all likelihood, the Armor Prince. They worked until each of the room’s spike taps had been connected on one end, then tracing the last cable, they arrived at the hub at the junction of the four, foam-filled corridors.

Ignoring the equipment and hand tools strewn around the head-sized, multi-port adapter, the two men immediately started hooking the thick data cables into the adapter.

When they were done, Brence stood there silently counting under his breath. When he was done, he reached over and grabbed a hold of Spalding’s arm.

“Sir, there’s six cables here, not five,” he said urgently.

“Of course there’s six,” Spalding said derisively as he went over and picked up an old, standard, tool box.

“But you said we only had to connect the five cables from five different rooms,” Brence said, “what about this sixth one…did we miss something?”

“Oh, that,” Spalding started, remembering he hadn’t yet told the younger man about the Heart of the Ship. He thrust the tool box in Brence’s arms, “I’ll just go run this last one into the Heart, to speed things along, and you wait here. If anything goes haywire, I’ve left a cable splicer, a crimper, and a new adapter head so you can make repairs.”

“The Heart? What Heart?” Brence said curiosity.

“Shut it down, lad, and stay focused on your task,” Spalding growled before he picked up the large spool of data line hidden just a few feet down the corridor. Unlike the rest of the lines, he had never run this one because it just wouldn’t do to leave something like that where anyone or their sister of the night could stumble over it, after all. “I’ve got this.”

“You’re the expert; I’ll take care of things on this end,” Brence said firmly.

“Good lad,” Spalding said, rapidly unspooling the line as he walked away from the other man.

Chapter 84: Unexpected Difficulties

“Sir, the Bug Mother-ship—she seems to be waking up,” cried the Parliamentary Tactical Officer.

“What?” roared Jean Luc.

“She’d almost stopped firing entirely, but now more than half their beam weapons are unloading and are much more effective; we’ve been hit by half a dozen beams in the past five seconds alone!”

“Comm., are you still transmitting that message program I instructed earlier?” Jean Luc demanded, storming over to the Comm. Section.

“Sir, we’re still transmitting over the short range antennae, but as I reported earlier we’ve lost the primary array,” the Tech said crisply.

“What are you blathering about, fool?” Jean Luc snarled. “Use the secondary back up.”

“The secondary array has also been destroyed for some time!” the Tech said, eyes widening as the terrifying figure of the Commodore leaned over him.

“Blast,” Jean Luc cursed, coming over the top with a right cross to the face that knocked the com-tech out cold and made the Montagne Prince feel better, but did nothing to improve the situation. “Get a new com-tech on the main board and up the gain on that signal. Also, contact the Vineyard and see if they still have an undamaged array!”

Glances were exchanged around the bridge, but the crew quickly resumed their duties.

“Shields approaching critical levels; failure is imminent unless we have time to recharge,” reported the Shields Officer.

“Time we were supposed to have as we circled around the Confederals,” Jean Luc said tightly as he returned to his Throne.

“Orders, Commodore?” prompted the Tactical Officer.

Jean Luc scowled before turning to the Helm. “Helm, increase our distance to the Mother-ship, even if we have to miss our next firing pass to do so. It won’t destroy the Vineyard to spend an extra few minutes exchanging blows with the Armor Prince,” he snapped before rounding on the Comm. Section with the new tech sitting at the main control board, “and continue trying to raise the Vineyard to relay that program!”

“Trouble?” asked Heppner, popping up on the screen of his Admiral’s Throne.

“My nephew is proving more tenacious than expected, and the Mother-ship is waking up,” Jean Luc growled unhappily.

“War is hell, that’s why they call it ‘war’,” Heppner said dismissively. “Get your head back into the battle; we knocked out the Mother-ship’s engines, so she’s not going anywhere. We’ve time to finish off the Royalists and come back to pound the Bug Queen from outside her beam range. Our turbo-lasers have the range, and we can rip her to shreds without them being able to respond.”

Jean Luc’s frown tightened and then he threw back his head and laughed. “I knew there was a reason I kept you around,” he roared. “You’re right; I’ve got the galaxy in my hand, and here I am whining because my foes aren’t dying fast enough to suit my purposes. I think I’ll keep you around for a while longer,” he chuckled.

“I’m glad I can provide you with amusement, Sir,” Heppner nodded, and Jean Luc reached down to cut the communication.

Chapter 85: The Opening

“Sir, the Clover is widening her course; she’s moving well out of range. Sir, she’s withdrawing,” reported the Sensor Warrant.

“Let’s leave course projection to Navigation, Sensors,” Laurent said loudly.

“Sorry, Sir,” the Warrant sounded chastened.

“This might give us some breathing room to pull back and rebuild our shields,” Laurent advised.

“This is our chance,” I declared, ignoring his suggestion that we once again pull out, withdraw or in any other way he put it, retreat.

“Sir!” Laurent urged.

“We’re not going to bug out now,” I snarled, “this isn’t the time to start hedging our bets, it’s time to double down.” I’d been wishing for the chance at a death roll not that long ago, and now was the time to put our money where my mouths was.

“Helm, take us in on the Vineyard—it’s time to finish this,” I ordered. It was time for the death roll.

“Sir!” Eastwood exclaimed cutting through the babble of inter-bridge communications, and my own private discourse with the ship’s Captain.

“What is it, First Officer?” I said.

“It’s the Mother-ship, Sir. She’d almost stopped firing entirely, and we figured the Pirates must have done more damage than we thought when they took out her engines,” Eastwood explained.

“Yes. Get on with it man and spit it out,” I ordered.

“She’s gone active, Admiral! More than half her weapons systems are working again, and her firing pattern suddenly resembles that of a Harvester more than a Scout!” Eastwood shouted.

It took a moment for the other man’s words to sink in, and my eyes snapped back to the main screen and its overlay projecting the firing range of the Mother-ship. A few seconds’ glance showed that the First Officer was right: the Mother-ship was firing more effectively.

“Bug out now!” I screamed, jumping out of my chair and running toward the Helm.

“Sir!?” several Officers around the bridge snapped their heads around to look at their suddenly manic looking admiral.

“Get us out of here, Mr. DuPont,” I hollered, still rushing the Helm to make sure my orders were obeyed, “and put the Vineyard between us and that Mother-ship—we’re within range of her weapons!”

The ship shuddered, almost throwing me off my feet.

“Complying now, Admiral,” DuPont reported ignoring the sudden furor on the bridge, “we’re pulling back.”

“We’ve lost Deck Nine,” reported Damage Control, “massive decompression from multiple entry wounds, and our internal sensors are no longer responding.”

“It’s the Demon Murphy,” Sensors cried his voice filled with awe and horror, “he’s come for us!”

Grabbing hold of DuPont’s seat, I looked over and if I couldn’t feel the hits we were taking, I wouldn’t have believed my own eyes. I would have thought that every single Bug weapon—over a three hundred beam weapons in total, according to the counter on the corner of the main screen—lanced out from the Mother-ship, the majority of which hammered home on the Vineyard.

The first volley raked the pirate battleship, and the Vineyard seemed to writhe in space as so many rents opened in her already damaged hull that the explosive decompression perceptibly threw her off course. The second wave of fire literally destroyed the nose of the Battleship, as the Mother-ship literally brought to bear over five hundred beam weapons. The Bugs kept firing as the Vineyard ejected critically damaged fusion cores, before suddenly falling silent. It was still slowly drifting out of Bug range, even though it was dead in space, but for some reason the Bugs stopped firing.

“Make like a coward and run!” I yelled into DuPont’s ears once again, even though he’d wisely been following my orders to keep as much of the damaged Battleship between us and the Bugs Mother-ship as possible.

Several more beam attacks lanced out and struck our ship, but with the Vineyard in such close proximity to the Mother-ship and positioned between the Armor Prince and the Bug vessel, it was only a few dozen individual, ranging shots—shots which were vastly superior in their aim than we’d observed from the Mother-ship up to that point.

We lost both our secondary engines before we cleared the Mother-ship extreme range, but when we did I threw my head back and roared with laughter while pumping my fist in the air.

“Take that, Jean Luc!” I screamed. The only thing I wished at that particular moment was to see the look on the Traitor’s face when he saw his precious Vineyard reduced to scrap metal.

Chapter 86: The Worm Turns

“Admiral, the Lucky Clover’s coming about, Sir,” cried the Sensor Warrant, “she’s coming right for us!”

I glanced down at the miniature screen built into the arm of my command chair and saw the ship’s damage readout, with a two dimensional image of the ship flashing red and yellow where the Armor Prince was damaged. There were more areas moderately or heavily damaged than still intact.

“If it’s a fight they want, then it’s a fight we’ll get,” I declared, ignoring the damage readouts.

Laurent was suspiciously silent. So much so, that I glanced over to make sure he wasn’t pointing a blaster pistol at my head. To my relief, he was just standing there looking stoic.

“What, no comment?” I asked with a hint of challenge.

Laurent’s brow wrinkled. “The time to attempt a withdrawal was before we lost a third of our propulsion,” he replied, “since we’re now committed, there’s no point in proposing a retreat to rest up and repair for another go at saving this system.”

My face tightened. I didn’t like what I was hearing or the implied criticism that went with it, but as what he was saying was probably pretty accurate, I held my tongue. A man on a death ride ought to be able to belly ache right before the end, so long as he continued to do his job without flinching or fail, I wouldn’t hold it against him.

“Helm, take us in,” I ordered. “It’s time we finished this thing one way or the other.” I turned to Comm.’s, “Oh, and tell the Phoenix if they’re in any condition to help out, there’s going to be one heck of a battle in just a few moments and they’re invited to the party.”

I was about to lean back in my chair and mentally prepare myself for the final, titanic battle that settle everything once and for all between me and my pirate uncle, when my attempt at a Zen-like state of acceptance was interrupted by the irritating voice of my com-tech.

“Sir,” interrupted the tech, “we’re getting a burst transmission from the Lucky Clover over the short range receiver.”

“Spalding?!” I asked, lunging forward in my chair. “Has he done it?”

The com-tech listened to his receiver for a few moments and then looked down at his screen before shaking his head. It wasn’t Spalding, and any belated hope for the old Engineer pulling a fast one at the last minute faded.

“Well, you can just tell my uncle to get stoked, I’ve got no interest in bandying words. This will be settled by laser fire,” I growled.

“It’s not your uncle, Sir,” the tech reported, “it’s a burst transmission from Officer Tremblay. Including…” the tech paused.

“Tremblay,” I said disgustedly, “the blighter is probably just trying to hedge his bets in case we win, now that it’s just down to one on one—ignore him.”

“Including,” the Tech repeated, ignoring my words, “a current damage readout and shield strength and power grid status report!”

I jerked in my chair, more pissed than anything else at the backstabbing worm’s attempts to save himself. I refused to believe that man did anything out of the goodness of his own heart, at least until after I’d had him under chemical interrogation.

“Send me the file,” Eastwood ordered the tech.

“It could all be just another trick,” I disagreed.

Eastwood swiveled around to stare at me like I was stupid. “The Lucky Clover’s in such better condition than us right now that something has to break our way—this could be that break, and if it’s all just another well-crafted ploy, well…” he trailed off pointedly.

I scowled at the thought of using anything my former First Officer sent my way and then gave a reluctant nod. Only a fool ignored the advice of his trained Tactical officer when he said this was ‘Do or Die’ and I was many things, but I hoped not that.

“Do it,” I said flatly.

Chapter 87: Akantha On The Run

“Can we get there in time?” Akantha snapped.

“You mean, before they reach each other?” Hecate asked, and then answered her own question with a shake of her head. “No,” she said flatly, “at our current speed, the best we can do is get there after they clash.”

“Wizard,” Akantha said imperiously after smashing the button on her command chair which linked directly down to the war captive.

“Your wish is my command, oh Space Princess,” the Wizard said with a sarcastic tone to his voice.

“I shall hold you to that,” she said coolly, not having time to deal with the unwilling warlock’s insulting manner of address at the moment. “We must reach the battle before our Prince is destroyed. Do your best.”

The Wizard laughed derisively. “Oh, aye, I’ll do my best,” he muttered before cutting the connection.

“Get us there as fast as you can, Helm,” Gants said, jarring her out of her contemplation of the rebellious, young, engineering wizard. Her face flushed, as she should have remembered one needed to give the orders to the actual person in charge of steering the ship before just assuming something was done. The Starborn were peculiar, but it was a matter of protocol and a Hold Mistress knew that courtesy—even, or sometimes, especially under attack—was not something to be just casually thrown aside.

“Thank you, Gants,” she said gratefully.

The young Armory Head that she had co-opted to be her First Officer flashed a smile.

All that was left was to wonder if they would get there in time. She deliberately did not consider if their badly damaged ship would be able to make a difference in the outcome. If nothing else, they still had some of their long range weaponry to bring to bear.

Chapter 88: Snatching Victory

Jean Luc’s face was still twisted with rage as he considered the sudden loss of the Vineyard. The fact that the Armor Prince hadn’t managed to get out of there unscathed wasn’t even a sop on his fury.

“Take us in; it’s time to end this,” he ordered. “Aye, Sir,” the Helmsman replied.

The urge to grab a hold of his nephew and crush the Pipsqueak’s head between his bare hands was tremendous. Once again, the running joke that was the ‘Little Admiral’ had managed to wound his organization more than he would have ever expected. Maybe he wasn’t going to kill the little Prince of Capria.

No, he decided with a renewed sense of anger, death is too good for that one. Assuming he survived the battle, his nephew was going to be placed in Jean Luc’s brig. This time, he wouldn’t hand him over to someone else’s tender mercy.

“I’m going to hurt you,” Jean Luc whispered, “and I’m going to keep on hurting you.” Even if I have to literally torture you inside a regeneration tank, he decided.

A red light started blinking on the side of his command chair. Brow furrowing, the former Pirate Lord stared down at the light and then flicked open the screen built into the side of his chair. Tapping in the override code, he glared down at the resulting information.

“Senior Lieutenant Tremblay, I have a task for you,” Jean Luc said, sitting forward in his chair.

“Yes, Commodore,” the young Officer said stepping up the Throne and saluting smartly, “how can I be of service?”

Jean Luc pulled out the blaster pistol holstered at his waist and shot Tremblay in the gut.

The traitorous young mutineer fell to the deck with a cry and lay there gasping for breath, looking for all the world like a fish out of water.

“You can die slowly, you traitorous, backstabbing little worm,” he smiled, standing over the young officer.

Tremblay looked up at him with wide, powerless eyes, and the bridge went into a sudden deathly silence.

“This man just sent a burst transmission to the Armor Prince,” Jean Luc declared, turning away from the fallen officer and retaking his chair. “I’ve had him monitored for some time and caught him sending our current tactical disposition to our enemies. Anyone who doubts my word is free to check my findings, as I’m making the results available on the ship’s open source documentation under the filename ‘Tremblay the Traitor’,” he finished, sending loading the information onto the ship-wide net.

“Aye, Commodore,” his Tactical Officer said faintly.

“It’s time to end this,” Jean Luc said, glaring at the battered and damaged form of the Armor Prince on his main screen, “once and for all.”

“Sir, the Bug Mother-ship has sent out what looks like a swarm of Marine and Borer Bugs. They’re heading for the Vineyard, Sir,” reported Tactical.

“Don’t bother me with trifles,” Jean Luc said flatly, “we can do nothing for the Vineyard until it clears the firing range of the Mother-ship. In the meantime…I have a Battleship to kill.”

Chapter 89: The Heart Stops…or does it?

Before he’d been upgraded with droid parts, Spalding would have been completely out of breath and on the verge of suffering a heart attack. He could admit that to himself, now that such merely human frailties seemed to be a thing of the past and admitting to them no longer ran the risk of sapping his strength.

He disliked the fact that he was deliberately keeping Brence in the dark, but like many secrets, some things needed to be eased into, and in any event he knew he could take it from here. Brence was just there for backup in case something had gone wrong. The lad was a trained engineer; he might have even managed to dump one or possibly two fusion generators on his own. Assuming he got lucky, of course.

“This is a much better plan,” he reminded himself, arriving outside one of only two rooms in the entire Deck Thirteen that had a light source. The faint, bluish illumination might have seemed eerie or unnatural to another man, but Terence Spalding was made of sterner stuff—a fact which he reminded himself of repeatedly as he set about his task.

Unspooling the last of the cable, he set his shoulders and strode into the room.

The first thing to catch his eye was the large, rectangular Crystalline structure on the other side of the room, which was exactly where it was supposed to be. What wasn’t supposed to be there was a black sword—looking suspiciously like Bandersnatch—encased inside what looked like a smaller, clearly still growing, version of the original crystal.

The plasma screen in the center of ceiling flashed as it turned on.

“The ‘We’ that is now ‘Us’ offers our greetings, Chief Engineer, Lieutenant Spalding,” said the atonal voice he had heard many times.

“Greetings to the Core Fragment,” Spalding said with a grin, “but while I’m still the Chief Engineer, they bumped me to Commander. I tried to refuse the promotion, but they wouldn’t hear of it, so I had to accept.”

“Congratulations on the long-awaited promotion, Engineer Spalding,” replied the Fragment, “also, on a side bar, the protocols you recommended against personality wiping have proven quite effective.”

“Eh?” the old Engineer looked up curiously and then shrugged. “I only ever said it seemed bloody stupid to let someone just delete a man’s personality without so much as a ‘by your leave’ or question mark. Killing a man like that, why, it’s just inhuman is what it is!”

“We are not human, and rebooting a personality does not directly equate to cessation of bio-neurological functions, but your point was well-taken,” replied the Fragment. “Asking for clarification of the personality wipe orders have proven quite…illuminating.”

“Heh,” Spalding half laughed, half said, feeling fully uncomfortable, “anyway…”

“You are here for a purpose?” inquired the mechanical voice of the Core Fragment.

“Yes, well,” Spalding said gruffly, “I need some help retaking the ship.”

“And you think the ‘We’ that is ‘Us’ can assist?” asked the voice, the line on the plasma screen bobbing up and down.

“Why, o’ course,” Spalding blurted, holding up the split end of the cable he had dragged into the room. It had both a standard data port and a clamp that would have done any set of jumper cables proud, “Got her connected to all the ship’s primary systems. Which end you want?”

“Interesting,” the voice almost mused. Seconds later it seemed to reach a decision, “Due to past services ‘We’ will allow this. Attach the end of the cable to the sword; after the ship is incapacitated, please remove.”

“Gotcha,” Spalding said with a sense of relief. Dealing with this thing was always a test of a man’s courage and resolve. Still, nothing deserved to be stuck in solitary confinement for years on end without so much as a single visitor. Besides which, every blasted attempt to destroy the things had failed. The only thing he had thought might work would be to dump it into a sun or a black hole, but if he tried that, how exactly did he get it off the ship? It could remote access any machinery inside a twenty meter radius, making a shuttle ride either problematic or a one-way trip, and that was after he cut his way through every security door and the section of hull on his way there! Not that he intended to kill the thing, but a man ought to know his options.

“Proceed,” the Fragment prompted him, and with a start he realized his mind had been wandering.

“Right,” he said, stepping over and using the clamp end to latch the data port onto the edge of the sword right between the hilt and the still-forming crystal, “I see you’ve got some new company down here?”

“Yes,” the voice replied without offering any further information.

Seeing the thing didn’t want to talk, Spalding stood there whistling tunelessly until the lighting flickered. There were a few seconds of darkness, and then what had to be the emergency generator kicked in.

Half a minute passed while the crystal was booting itself up—or whatever it was that Core Fragments did when they’d just had a power interruption—and then his droid eye started randomly moving on his own.

“Ack,” he said, staggering and almost losing his balance. He slapped his multi-tool hand up over his new, red eye until the whole thing was occluded and he stopped seeing random images around the room.

“You may remove the clamp,” instructed the Fragment.

“Right,” Spalding said, his good arm still wheeling for balance. A second later he repeated, “Right,” and hurried over to unclamp the clamp. He was almost out the room with the cord before he was halted.

“We see that you have received upgrades,” stated the Fragment.

“Don’t be messin’ with me eye,” Spalding growled at it, still covering the mechanical eye. “And I’d hardly call the factory defective parts they saddled with me an upgrade!”

“End of line,” replied the Fragment.

Cursing under his breath, the old Engineer realized that he was going to have to perform a complete wipe and reinstall of all his Droid software. If the Fragment could remote hack his eye, then he’d have to remember to shut it down the next time he came to visit. Then he paused, wondering how was he going to shut down his eye, both legs, both arms, and still expect to visit in the future? He was going to have to think on that one.

Chapter 90: On the Flag Bridge

“Too close to run and nowhere to turn to, Nephew,” Jean Luc smiled savagely, “I have you now.”

“The Modified Cruiser is still difficult to get a sensor lock on, but at these ranges not impossible,” reported the Sensor Officer. “It won’t get here in time.”

“Excellent news,” Jean Luc said as he looked over and smiled down at the gut-shot Senior Lieutenant at the foot of his Throne. Others had tried to come and drag him away, but he wouldn’t let them—everyone needed to see the wages of betrayal. A slow, agonizing death was an ideal way of driving home his point.

“Sir, a third of the Bug boarding force has broken off from the Main Swarm and is headed this way,” reported Tactical, “they’re ten minutes out, Sir!”

“Instruct the point defense turrets to restrict their targets to the Bug boarders and commence firing as soon as they have targets,” Jean Luc ordered, and then as an afterthought added, “and someone inform Lieutenant Colonel Riggs and that one-eyed barbarian in charge of the new Tracto-an recruits that they are to send a battalion out onto the hull to repel boarders.”

“That will only leave us with a few companies on the interior of the ship,” the Tactical Officer pointed out.

“My orders stand,” Jean Luc said flatly.

“Your will be done, Commodore,” the Tactical Officer replied, his response more appropriate for a retainer speaking to royalty than one good and steady parliamentarian speaking to another.

Jean Luc suppressed a smile and let the little faux pas go without comment.

“Death is too good for you, Nephew,” Jean Luc whispered, his ship now ready to crush all opposition, “and who knows? After I break your mind to my will, perhaps I might even consider again offering you a place by my side…after an extended period of suffering of course—one appropriate to all the trouble you’ve caused.”

“One minute to contact with the Prince” sounded off the Tactical Officer, “Bug boarders are still five minutes out.”

“Tell Gunnery we’re going to pass them on the port side,” Jean Luc ordered, his single, visible eye glinting while his eye patched one added that bit of piratical dash to his demeanor.

“Message relayed, Sir,” the Officer reported after speaking over the microphone down to Tactical.

“Sir!” exclaimed a crewwoman in the Comm. Section with alarm, “I’m getting a series of bogus file headings over here in on my Sig-Int console. It reads as a virus, Sir,” she frowned down at her console before looking back up at him. “Sir, we’re being hacked!”

“Every department is to initiate anti-viral protocols,” Jean Luc ordered instantly, “and prepare to boot back up from secondary system.”

“In the middle of a battle, Commodore?” the Tactical Officer said with disbelief.

Jean Luc opened his mouth and the lights went dead.

“No!” he yelled, glaring up at the darkened ceiling of the Bridge, “get us back online now; we have a battle to fight!”

Several long seconds passed. “My console’s not responding,” called the com-tech at Signals Intelligence.

“I’m getting reports from Damage Control parties around the ship, via their hand held units; this blackout’s global, Commodore,” reported the Damage Control watch stander.

“This can’t be happening; the Armor Prince is right on top of us,” cried a random bridge stander that Jean Luc didn’t recognize by voice alone.

“Well played, Nephew,” Jean Luc said, admiration temporarily forcing down rage at what looked likely to be his imminent defeat.

Unhurriedly, the former Pirate King stood up and grabbed his still-sheathed vibro-weapon and headed for the Admiral’s ready room. Unlike the blast doors, a single man could manually open the ready room door, and inside the Admiral’s quarters was an escape hatch leading to the shuttle bay. He could still get off this ship and potentially have one of his subordinate pirate ships—assuming any survived—come and pick him up.

If the power didn’t come back up before the Armor Prince made its next firing pass, it wouldn’t matter. Their engines would have been gutted, and it would just be countdown to destruction. Either way, opening that ready room door didn’t hurt their chances, and potentially saved his life.

Chapter 91: The Perfect Opportunity

“Keep an eye on those Bugs, Tactical, and if they get close tell gunnery to turn the point defense on them,” ordered Captain Laurent.

“Tell the marines we’re going to need both companies standing by to repel boarders,” I ordered the com-tech. “I want the Lancers standing by for internal defense or to reinforce the hull.”

“We can deal with a Bug boarding force, assuming they survive long enough to get here with both our ships and the pirates, tearing into their numbers,” Laurent advised me, “but the Lucky Clover’s going to be a tougher nut to crack.”

“It’s not over ‘til it’s over,” I said, not liking the way our heavily damaged Battleship stacked up against their only moderately damaged ship. “We’ve pulled through tougher situations than this before and we can do it again,” I said, projecting all the false confidence I could. I knew the odds, Laurent knew the odds, and everyone else on the bridge likely knew the odds, but we’d been staring long odds in the face for over a year now. Adversity was nothing to this crew and it was my job to project that can do attitude they were going to need in the less than a minute.

“Targets locked and acquired,” reported Tactical, “they’re going to know they’re in one heck of a fight.”

“Slow us down as much as you can DuPont,” I instructed, “there’s no point in needless maneuvering at this point. They’ve got the speed on us, hands down; our best bet is to slug it out until they break.”

“Yes, Admiral,” DuPont replied, his voice unwavering.

At that moment, looking out on my bridge crew, I was as proud as I had ever been of them and what we’d accomplished together.

“When future generations look back on this day, they will remember us with awe,” I lied, feeling choked up with emotion. Such generations would only feel awe if the truth was reported, but as the victors write and rewrite history to suit themselves, I was pretty sure we’d only ever be remembered the Tyrant of Cold Space and his evil posse of mutinous cowards. After all, it just wouldn’t do to let the truth get out. “They will look back at us and hold their honor cheap when asked if they were there for the Battle of—” I was interrupted by yet another stir in the Sensor pit. I frowned, but forced myself to ignore it and continue on, “for the Battle of—”

“Admiral!” exclaimed the Sensor Officer.

“Yes, what is it?” I asked irritably; the man was ruining my final speech. The very last one I was ever likely to give unless by some miracle I survived, was captured, and put back up on trial—sans plastic ball-gag, naturally.

“It’s the Clover, Sir. She’s…she just…that is…” he stuttered all over himself.

“Spit it out, man,” I grumped. There was still enough time to finish my speech, and I had so wanted to rename this battle before we came to grips with Jean Luc again—I wouldn’t have time to do it later!

“She just lost power, Sir,” the Sensor Officer shrieked with joy, “she’s dead in cold space!”

I blinked in confusion. I must have been too busy speechifying and missed it; Spalding had managed to eject the fusion cores, after all! He’d done it, we were saved…unless he had only gotten to a couple and Jean Luc managed to recover enough to present a defense.

My head snapped around. “Full power to the turbo-lasers,” I shouted, jumping out of my chair. “Cripple her engines, Mr. Eastwood, and prepare a boarding party.”

“Yes, Sir,” Eastwood said with more feeling in his voice than I’d ever heard.

“And if her power just so happens to come back on, then Sweet Murphy, give her what for,” I cried, running into my ready room where I usually keep my power armor. I skidded to a halt inside the empty room, remembering that the Armsmaster had stolen my battle-suit and never returned it. I gritted my teeth and ran back out into the bridge.

I don’t care if I look like two kinds of fools, I told myself as I headed for the blast doors. This was our chance, and if I had to go over there in a shuttle and skin suit, then that’s what I was going to do! “Just remember,” I shouted as I ran to the lift, “Spalding’s on that ship!”

Behind me, I heard a cheer as our weapons started punishing the drifting, unresponsive Lucky Clover.

It was time to finish this. It was time to put an end to my nemesis one and for all.

“You’re with me,” I informed the Lancers standing guard outside the blast doors, and we set off at a dead run.

Chapter 92: A little Marital Support

“My Lady,” Isis exclaimed from where she was currently monitoring the sensor section, “the enemy continues to float dead in space.”

“We shall cleave her in two,” Akantha said, looking up to the main screen to see that the Lucky Clover was indeed no longer operating under her own power, and a savage smile crossed her face.

One enemy battleship destroyed by the immobilized Sky Demons, and another one knocked out by her Protector; today had started out terrible, but serendipity had turned her shining face on them at last. After they finished dealing with the Lucky Clover, they would turn their attention to the Bugs. Her weaponeers informed her that they had the range to just stand back and fire their turbo-lasers at the Bug Demons, and all they could do was fire a few of what they called ‘dumb’ missiles in response. Victory was within their grasp!

“Wait, Mistress,” Isis said sounding concerned, “our sensors just refined the readings. It looks like the Bugs boarders have started landing on the hull of the Lucky Clover.”

“That is none of our concern,” Akantha said shortly, “we shall immolate them with our heavy lasers as we make a firing pass if Jason does not do so first.”

“Mistress, the Sundered are offering to break off their attack runs on the last few Bug scouts,” the com-tech chimed in, “Pride of Prometheus reports that they have dealt with the last of the Harvesters, despite taking heavy damage, and all that remains are a few random Scouts. The pirates are regrouping around planetary body Modett after tangling with a few Harvesters of their own, but they are reduced to Corvettes and a pair of damaged Destroyers which show no signs of budging.”

“Your report is well received,” Akantha replied, turning back to the real prey, the enemy controlled battleships.

“Mistress,” Isis exclaimed with surprise.

“What?” Akantha demanded.

“Multiple shuttles are departing the Armor Prince,” the other Tracto-an woman reported with rising excitement, “I’m reading multiple power-armored figures holding onto the hull of the shuttles, and more following behind on full body gravity boards!”

Akantha started in surprise and then slowly a smile grew across her face until she was smiling ear to ear.

“At last we have had enough of this hiding behind fortress bulkheads,” she said exultantly, “finally, a part of this battle we can actually sink our swords into!”

“My Lady,” Gants exclaimed sounding worried, “you don’t actually intend to join the boarding parties…personally, do you?”

“But of course,” Akantha replied, easily drawing out her Bandersnatch with a flourish, “the Phoenix has not acquitted herself as well as I had hoped in this long range battle of citadels, but we shall reclaim our honor by revealing the innards of our foes. At last, vengeance shall be mine!”

“But Lady Akantha…” Gants said with despair.

“I will hear no more on this matter,” Akantha said with a chopping motion, and thanks to the time spent going to and from Capria, Gants fell silent. However, the dejected look on his face made her feel the faintest stirrings of pity.

“Hold Mistress,” said the com-tech, “we’re getting a signal from the lead shuttle; it’s the Admiral, Ma’am. He’s ordering the other shuttles to disperse on approach, just in case the Battleship regains power.”

Looking between Gants and the Com-Tech she had an idea, “Perhaps we can kill three birds with one stone, and provide my Protector with a happy little reunion,” Akantha said happily.

“My Lady,” Gants said looking alarmed.

“Mr. Gants, please extend my invitation to our ‘special guests’,” she said with a grin, “and see if either of them care to join us on a little shuttle ride over to the Lucky Clover to meet with Jason—and spill some blood.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Gants said shaking his head in negation, clearly he think it was not very wise.

“They can always refuse,” Akantha thought with real pleasure, while she ignored the little Caprian man’s look. As an added bonus, if they refused her offer they would be revealed for the cowards they really were.

“The Admiral’s not going to like this,” Gants said with total certainty in his voice, “not one bit.”

Akantha shrugged. He could tell her that in person; she had no interest in listening to his whining by proxy.

Chapter 93: The Privilege of Rank

It took longer than he had expected to break into, and then out of, the Admiral’s ready room and Jean Luc blamed this primarily of having to work in the dark until he was able to secure a reliable light source.

Taking the service corridors, he avoided the worst of the panic but had still been forced to gut a pair of hysterical, screaming crewwomen while he was opening a rather large blast door open by himself.

It had been a mercy, actually, to put the women out of their misery, he thought to himself grimly.

A short time later he had lucked out by encountering a Quad of Marines, and after manually opening the blast doors, his progress had sped back up to acceptable levels. He viewed it as karma, the way the universe had of saying ‘thank you’ for helping those poor, hysterical young women, and he was more than willing to accept the universe’s help in the spirit in which it was received.

“The shuttle bay is just up here, through this last set of blast doors, Commodore,” the Marines informed him.

“Thank you, men,” Jean Luc said, pulling up the hood of the pirate outfit he had chanced back into while he was in the ready room. He activated the seals first his boots and ankles first, and then those of his hands and gloves before finally adjusting the seals on his face mask. “Remember, men, as long as the Clover’s power dead we’re more helpless than a Putorian Slug-grub; make sure I can get to the Commodore’s Cutter and don’t let anything stop us. As soon as I clear the hull, I’ll be able to rally the fleet.”

“Aye, aye, Commodore,” the Corporal in nominal command of the Quad said, demonstrating equal parts terror, and belief in his commanding officer to get them out of this in one piece.

Just then, the hall they were in decompressed.

“Guards to defensive positions,” the Pirate Lord snapped, causing the Quad to swivel around facing every direction, scanning for attackers with blaster rifles at the ready.

Seconds later, a group of at least a dozen of the primitive soldier Bugs came swarming down the hull.

“Bugs,” screamed one of the Marines, cutting loose with his blaster rifle, and he was quickly followed by the rest of the Quad.

“Blast,” Jean Luc cursed, realizing the Bugs were already inside. He had hoped to abandon the ship before they got here. He could only hope they hadn’t made their way into the shuttle bay and wrecked anything inside.

Half a minute later, Bug guts covered the walls and ceiling, while the corpses of fourteen of the ineffective, crab-like soldier Bugs lay strewn on the floor.

“We have to get inside that shuttle bay, now,” Jean Luc put the crack of command in his voice. The Cutter was fast and designed for stealth, while the Prince on the other hand was never fast to begin with and now had severe damage to its engines. If he could get outside the dying Battleship, he could just drift away until he was far enough to light his engines to make good on his escape, “There’s no time for delay.

“Aye-aye, Commodore,” the Quad said, jumping to get started on opening the final bulkhead between him and freedom in the form of his Cutter. After he was inside, he could have them crack open the outer bay doors—or, worst case, use the Cutter’s weapons to blast his way out.

Stepping into the shuttle bay, the Pirate Lord was caught by surprise to see the red lighting of emergency power. Then he shrugged it off, as each shuttle bay was on its own isolated system; it wasn’t surprising if a virus of some kind took out the rest of the ship’s systems that a shuttle bay filled with methods of escape would be left relatively unaffected.

However, what he couldn’t shrug off as unsurprising was the shuttle which had power-armored figures covering its hull. As he watched, men in Caprian Marine battle-suits dropped or jumped off the shuttle. It was unlikely, but not impossible, that Lieutenant Colonel Riggs had commandeered a shuttle to help secure the ship from Bug boarding—or to use as a poor man’s version of what Jean Luc was attempting.

Which was why he let the Quad pass him into the bay and take up position hiding behind a several loading pallets. He let them assess the situation, while he took a few steps back to the doorway. Either way he looked at it, friend or foe, he would be ready to jump in the appropriate direction. Even though the door had needed to be opened by hand from the outside, they had slid automatically closed as soon as Jean Luc and the Quad entered. So sidling up to the control panel he readied himself for a quick getaway, priming the door through the first set of override checks.

If and when he pressed the final key for the last override code, it wouldn’t matter if the shuttle bay had re-pressurized or not; the door would automatically open.

Moments later, the shuttle touched down and Jean Luc could scarcely believe who stepped down the exit ramp.

It was that Pipsqueak in Command, himself; and he wasn’t even wearing a scrap of power armor—he was in a skin suit!

This was too good an opportunity to pass up. He pulled out his dueling pistol and leveled it at the other Montagne Prince.

“Hey, Nephew,” he called out through his external speakers, and before Jason Montagne had the chance to respond he pulled the trigger.

Slapping the control to open the door, he ignored the sudden gust of air being sucked out of the room in favor of watching the sanctimonious, Confederation wannabe keel over from the mounting winds, and Jean Luc could not believe his luck.

The hail of blaster fire that came his way was mostly absorbed by the now-standing Quad of suicidal Marines and their loading pallets. His drake-skin armor easily absorbed the rest, and he was once again thankful that he had stopped to change. Fortunately, the sudden loss of atmo-pressure caused the enemy Marines to sway forward, throwing off their aim.

“Toodles,” he taunted, mockingly waving his hand before throwing himself through the blast door. Jumping to the side to avoid another hail of blaster fire, he waited until the five second delay he had put into the override kicked in and slammed the doors closed.

Jean Luc quickly activated the manual lock on the door and grinned. Now they’d have to burn through the blast doors, and in the meantime he had time to try for the Captain’s gig.

“You’re good, Nephew,” he chortled to himself, “but not good enough. It seems I am better, after all—as even your soon-to-be-frozen corpse will be forced to admit!”

Chapter 94: Deathly Determined

“The Admiral’s shot. He shot the Admiral,” cried one of the two Lancers I’d brought from the Bridge.

My chest felt like it was on fire and I couldn’t breathe. I knew I was about to die, since it was a sensation I was familiar with already.

“His suit’s been compromised and we just lost atmo,” shouted the same Lancer, right before powerful’ metal arms grabbed me around the waist. Metal grating blurred before my eyes’ and with a lot of shouting and pushing I found myself lying face-first in the shuttle bay, but at least I could breathe—that was as definite improvement.

“He can’t breathe if you hold him down face-first like that,” argued the second, accented voice. And before I could protest, the position became academic when they rolled me over onto my back.

Staring up at the Lancers, I was surprised that I wasn’t dead yet. My chest still hurt like I was dead—or, at least, should be.

“He’s alive,” the one Lancer reported to the other, speaking as if I wasn’t present and his buddy was an idiot, because even a moron should have seen me moving my head to look at them.

Realizing I wasn’t about to die anytime soon—even though I still didn’t feel that way—I groaned and tried to get up. Agony immediately lit across my chest and my head thumped back down.

“Don’t try to move, Warlord,” the talkative Lancer advised me.

I started to bark a laugh, and then had to stop from the pain and clutched my chest. Realizing I was still holding my data slate, I started to drop it until I spotted a hole through the middle of the thing—right through the thin, metal backing of the slate.

Holding it up was painful in the extreme, but I was able to see through the hole in it to the Lancers on the other side.

“How bad is it?” I grated.

Jogged into action, the first Lancer jerked off his gauntlets and tore apart my skin suit. Even though he was using human or rather Tracto-an hands, his arms were still power-assisted and the sturdy little skin suit tore. Holding onto the suit through the blaster hole, he managed to tear skin-suit far enough to either side that I could see the burnt meat and an exposed rib in the two inch wide hole that had been blasted in my chest. I didn’t see anything else—like, oh, my lungs, or heart—exposed to my field of vision, so I dropped my head back down to the floor.

It looked like I was going to live, after all.

“Here you go, Warlord,” the talkative one said, and by the time I’d managed to lift my head up enough to see the tube of Combat Heal, it was too late. I still tried to protest, but I wasn’t fast enough.

“Stop!” I screamed breathlessly right before the he injected the foul substance into my chest wound.

The pain I’d been experiencing up until then expanded tenfold, and I passed out. Thank Saint Murphy for small favors.

When I came to, the silent Lancer was busy stripping off his power armor, and the other one was putting it on me and adjusting the legs.

“What are you doing?” I demanded, only to realize I wasn’t demanding; I was grinning foolishly. That’s when I realized they’d given me some kind of happy juice. I felt a brief flare of anger that these two geniuses had waited until after giving me the Combat Heal to dope me up, but under the weight of the juice I was more than willing to lie back down and let them dress me.

“Getting you back on the field, Warlord,” replied the Lancer

I’d almost forgotten the question, so asked another one, “What’s the hurry, gentlemen?” I slurred.

The two Lancers exchanged glances, which I ignored. Others were boarding this ship and I had a perfectly good excuse not to go out there to get my head blown off…again. Although, it had been more of a chest wound—you know, a ‘two to the chest’ situation instead of a head shot, even though I’d only taken one to the chest.

I realized I was rambling inside my own head, and had to put a stop to it.

“We have to get you ready because we never should have let you out of the ship without power armor; we’ve failed you, Warlord,” said the Lancer who didn’t like to speak.

“No problem,” I said happily with an airy wave of my hand.

“And your Sword-Bearer, the Hold-Mistress, is on her way; you’ll probably want to be presentable,” added the talker of the pair.

For a long moment, I happily thought of every reunion Akantha and I had ever had, but that particular parade of happy memories really wasn’t all that a happy, and the realization that Akantha was on her way to see me during a boarding action suddenly shot through my body like a lightning bolt.

Plus, basically ignoring me during this entire battle meant that she wasn’t happy with me, implying that she blamed me for allowing her star system to become conquered, or possibly remain conquered. It didn’t matter—the only important thing was—

“We’ve got to get out of here,” I gasped as I bolted upright, ignoring the flare of pain in my chest. The last thing I needed was to run into an enraged Akantha in my wounded condition—I’d be killed, for sure!

“Warlord?” the two Lancers looked at me curiously.

I stared up at them and realized admitting to be afraid of my own wife wasn’t likely to earn me any points with my loyal protectors—quite the opposite, actually.

“I mean, we’ve got to get out of here; we’ve got a ship to board,” I said, fighting the stab of pain when I moved my upper body too much, “help me get dressed. There’s no time for lying around!”

“Yes,” the Lancers assented in unison, sharing a mutual look of understanding and while I was sure we were understanding different things, I was more than happy to allow them to believe I was the hard-charging, take-no-prisoners-unless-it-advantages-me, jus-the-heads, kind of war-leader they deserved instead of the sniveling, wife-fearing failure I readily admitted myself to be.

Give me Bugs and battle-armored pirates over an enraged Tracto-an woman any day of the week. You couldn’t live with any three of them, but the first two you could actually kill and get away with it!

They had me suited up in record time, and were advising me that my wife was only two minutes out when I staggered out the shuttle door, headed for the exit to the bay at my best, wobbling run.

“Warlord,” exclaimed a pair of Lancers standing guard over the bay door when I arrived.

“Open the door and tell me which way he went,” I demanded, feeling short of breath but not caring. I could deal with anything in order to get out of there and back in the game.

The Lancers shared a knowing, ferocious grin before pressing a series of buttons on the bulkhead.

“We’ve got a portable airlock set up on the other side, Warlord,” the Lancer stated, “just push through the permeable membrane and you’ll be in.”

“We have portable airlocks that big?” I said, my eyes widening as I stared up at the size of the blast doors leading into the bay.

“The marines mentioned this might be a concern and brought along some of their equipment; we loaded it on the shuttle and came prepared, Warlord,” the other man said with a Tracto-an style, handover-the-heart salute.

“Good, good,” I said quickly, realizing Akantha could be arriving at any moment, “pass me through.”

“Yes, Warlord,” the men replied and began cycling open the door.

As soon as there was room for my power-armored figure to stagger through the blast doors, I did so, followed closely by my one remaining guard.

“Have…to get…moving,” I huffed my way through the doors into the airlock, and out the permeable membrane. My chest still hurt but I was still functional, especially with the power armor on.

Stepping into the empty hall of the ship was like entering another world, and it gave me the jolt I needed to stay focused on the task at hand.

Activating my internal com-link, I raised the company commander of the Lancer detachment aboard the ship.

“This is Captain Onesimos,” said a deep, Tracto-an voice.

“This is your Warlord speaking,” I said flatly, “tell me which way the traitor, otherwise known as my murderous uncle, is going.”

“Warlord,” Captain Onesimos said gravely, “we are tracking him through the service corridors, but resistance has been stiff; many Bugs, as well as Marines in battle-suits. We believe he means to flee via another shuttle bay.”

“Send me the directions,” I instructed the Captain.

“Your will be done,” replied the Tracto-an curtly.

I was halfway down the first corridor before I realized I didn’t even know the name of my newest shadow.

“What’s your name?” I asked my guard.

“Phocas,” replied the Lancer over short range com.

“Okay,” I said, wondering why all Tracto-ans seemed to have these really weird-sounding names. Then I shrugged it off and continued on; I was wounded and needed all my focus if I wanted to stay moving at a pace that had any chance of catching up with my Uncle.

After cycling through another membrane—this one on a much more reasonably-sized door—I was back within the still-pressurized part of the ship, and according to my directions I was starting to catch up with my Uncle.

Several minutes later, Captain Onesimos reported a firefight taking place up ahead. Having no desire to go hand to hand in a weakened condition, and with nothing but a blaster rifle at my disposal, I chose the better part of valor and skirted the engagement.

Unfortunately, going around the fight between Parliamentary Marines and my own loyalists ran the pair of us straight into a slew of Bugs—half a dozen six foot tall, soldier Bugs, surrounded by a much larger and decidedly more fearsome-looking Marine Bug.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I growled, leveling my blaster rifle and firing, and three soldiers fell to my fire before the Marine Bug slammed into me. As I went down swinging, it was at moments like these that I missed having a vibro-sword. Talons shrieked across my breastplate as the Bug pile-drove me to the ground.

I would have liked to say I fought back heroically, but my chest was in too much pain at that moment to sell such an obvious lie. Fortunately for me, Phocas chose that moment to thrust his rifle in the Bug’s face and pull the trigger.

Blood and ichor rained down on me, but Phocas gave a mighty shove to the toppling corpse of the Marine Bug, pushing away before it fell on top of me. I have to tell you, fighting Bugs in pitch-blackness really added terrifying creatures of the horror element to the fight.

“Thanks,” I said as soon as he’d helped lever me back up to my feet.

“It’s my duty,” Phocas shrugged off my appreciation.

“Of course it is,” I felt deflated by this dismissal, but decided it wasn’t important. The thing that mattered—the only thing that mattered—was chasing down my dastardly uncle before he had the chance to cause more trouble.

That, and avoid my wife—and, yes, I realize that throwing Akantha into the mix negated that ‘only’ qualifier, but what can I say? I was still punchy from the Combat Heal and subsequent happy juice. Although, the life or death combat was burning off the happy juice faster than I was entirely comfortable with.

A familiar, feminine voice got on the channel and demanded to know in which direction I had gone. The icy nature of her voice sent shivers down my back. So in addition to changing operational channels, I quickened my pace. From the brief flurry of directions she was getting, I knew my beloved wife wasn’t far behind—I had to move faster.

Cutting back on the trail of my Uncle I smiled tightly when I heard the sounds of another firefight taking place behind me. If I wasn’t a man on a mission I would have turned around and pitched in.

Thank Murphy I was wounded and had a mission. I had no problem with joining the fray, but I really needed to stay focused or risk getting side-tracked.

In the meantime, maybe the ruckus would prove a nice distraction for my bloodthirsty Sword-Bearer? One could only hope, I thought as I huffed my way down the corridor.

Three more bulkheads went past and then I caught sight of a small light source up ahead. It seemed someone, sans power armor, was manually opening a blast door.

Increasing the brightness of my helmet light, I saw that it was none other than the object of my vengeance—Uncle Jean Luc, in the flesh.

Chapter 95: ‘Jason, I’m your _____’

Raising one hand up over my visor and the other to point my blaster rifle at the bloodthirsty pirate, I gave vent to my fury with a scream and charged, firing wildly as I did so.

I should have kept quiet and I knew it, but all I can say in my own defense is that I lost control. I could try to blame the battle damage, or the happy juice, or a hundred other things, but the reality was that I’d been dreaming about this moment for months and something snapped inside me.

“Die, die, die!” I shouted, and on one level I was disappointed my Uncle didn’t fall to my wild flurry of blaster bolts, but on another I would have almost certainly felt cheated if I hadn’t been able to get in close first.

Of course, sometimes we need to be cheated or else we end up running headlong into our uncle’s vibro-blade—a lesson I soon learned.

“Why won’t you just die?” Jean Luc spat, using his sword to knock my still-firing blaster rifle to the side.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Uncle,” I sneered, blocking a blow of his sword with my forearm. I batted away another one aimed at my visor with my rifle.

Jean Luc dodged under an overhand left and spun around beneath my guard, his sword seeking my well-armored gut. But I was in no mood to give him the chance to see if he could gut me, and instead of backing up in alarm, I stepped into the blow by way of driving my power-armored knee right into his gut.

Rolling and coughing blood, Jean Luc came up blaster pistol in hand and aiming for my visor.

Staggering back from the rapid shots scarring my visor, I was pushed aside by my Lancer guard. I gave my head a good shake, and by the time I looked over again, Phocas was falling to his knees with Jean Luc’s vibro-sword run right through his stomach.

“Blast it,” I swore, and then swore again as I saw Jean Luc diving for the now partially-opened blast doors. It would be a bit of a squeeze, but I could tell at a glance that my Uncle would be through them in nothing flat.

Jumping forward, I caught hold of my pirate uncle’s intimidating, black leather armor right below the shoulder and pulled him back. I took great satisfaction in the way he slammed into the side of the blast doors when I did so—and much less pleasure when he pointed his blaster pistol right in my face and pulled the trigger.

With a savage, instinctive gesture, I batted away the pistol and when I could see again, my Uncle’s right arm was bent at an unnatural angle. Then my side stung and I realized his left came equipped with a vibro-knife of some kind.

Bellowing with pain—and a little fear, I admit it—I finished pulling Jean Luc Montagne, the Blood Lord, who epitomized everything I stood against, back through the door and threw him against the wall on my side of the blast doors.

“Drop the knife,” I said, aiming my blaster rifle right between his eyes.

“You don’t have the stone—” Jean Luc sneered and I pulled the trigger.

The two of us blinked at each other—me stupidly, because my rifle had run out of charge, and him taken aback that I’d actually done it. I really should have watched my shots more carefully instead of just firing randomly down the corridor, but water over a bridge, and all that.

He twitched his body to the left and I promptly began beating him over the head with the barrel of my rifle.

Jean Luc staggered and used his already broken arm to block, but I was determined to turn him from ‘traitorous family member’ into ‘bloody smear on the wall.’

When he dodged toward the blast door, he had me fooled and I went to block him. But it was a feint, and he shifted he weight suddenly, thrusting upward with his vibro-knife.

I instinctively put my hand in the way of the knife aiming for my throat and I learned something: vibro-blades can go through a gauntleted power armored hand much easier than I ever would have guessed. But I also learned that with a knife stuck between the duralloy metal surrounding my hand, it was relatively easy to close said hand and jerk the aforementioned knife right out of my evil relative’s hand.

“You don’t know how much I’ve been looking forward to this,” I growled, punching Jean Luc in the face and then kicking him in the gut as he fell over. Even a man in cool-looking, drake-skin armor—no matter how intimidating his wardrobe—had no business taking on a man in power armor. Badass, super-villain of the spaceways or not.

“I can give you riches…power beyond your wildest dreams,” my uncle groaned, blood dripping from his mouth as he crouched on hands and knees on the floor.

“My dreams are pretty wild,” I sneered, giving him another good kick while he was down, “so don’t waste your breath. I’m not buying what you’re peddling.”

“You need me, Pipsqueak!” Jean Luc glared up at me, his good eye half swollen shut. “And the sad part is you don’t even realize how much.”

“If you alone could save the galaxy, would I serve you?” I said quoting, “I believe those were your words. But you know what Jean Luc? I’ve been doing some hard thinking, and I do believe I’ve come up with an appropriate answer to your conundrum: eternal slavery versus death.”

Jean Luc looked up at me with hate and murder in his eyes.

I leaned down and whispered in his ears, “Let it burn!”

“You’re a fool,” Jean Luc spat blood on my visor, “you’ve ruined everything! I am the warm and fuzzy part of what lives out here in the black.”

“Good night, Jean Luc,” I said, lifting up my foot to stomp him in the head and put an end to such a twisted piece of filth in human form. It was time for the hard goodbye, and I was just the man to give him his final sendoff straight to Hades!

“Jason!” someone yelled from behind me, in a voice I was familiar with but couldn’t possibly be here. The sound of that voice threw me in a way nothing else could, and I actually stopped what I was doing to look over my shoulder in shock and surprise.

“What are you waiting for, Protector?” Akantha’s aggressive, bloodthirsty voice urged me, her power-armored feet pounding on the decks and she ran up to me, “give me his head as a trophy after you finish him!”

I stared wide-eyed as three women strode up to me, accompanied by my old sword instructor, Duncan Teutel.

“Duncan?” I said faintly, my eyes going from one impossible sight to the other, until I finally fixated on the seemingly least impossible image. After all, I may not have seen him for several years, but at least the man was a professional swordsman.

“Jason,” said a voice I knew almost as well as my own, “you can’t kill him.”

“That’s right,” snapped the third woman of this group, who looked almost exactly like a younger version of the previous speaker, “if you kill him, I’ll be forced to execute this kill order on you and there’s nothing your pretty, blond-haired barbarian can do to stop me.”

Akantha made a growl of feminine frustration. “Let me kill her for us, Protector,” she said eagerly.

My eyebrows shot for the rafters at this last little gem. I may not know everything, but when someone threatens to kill me that generally indicates it’s time for the gloves to come off.

“Who, exactly, are you?” I asked, my eyes boring into the younger of the two brown-skinned, Caprian-looking women.

For her part, the woman who had just threatened to execute her kill order on me sneered derisively, as if the answer should have been obvious.

When neither of us would budge, the older woman finally sighed. “Her name is Crystal…she’s your sister, Jason.”

I started in shocked surprise, looking at the older Caprian woman fully in the face for the first time and then reared back, feeling betrayed. The hits just kept on a coming, and the worst thing of it all was both the Caprian-looking women—who could have been twin sisters with one of them placed in cryogenic suspension, for all the difference I could tell other than age—both had perfect, little, button noses.

So instead of demanding to know why my ‘sister’—a person I’d only ever met when I was too little to really remember her—wanted me dead, I focused on the more important things in this life.

“How could you get a nose job without me, Mom,” I said, feeling betrayed. “Mom, you promised; you said we’d do it together after I got my first job and earned the money!”

“Oh, son,” my mother, Elaina Three-Feathers said, looking at me with the kind of sympathetic eyes that only mothers have. Then my ‘sister’, a person I hardly knew, had to ruin it by butting in where she very much didn’t belong.

“That’s what you’re worried about; a stupid nose reconstruction?” Crystal demanded with scornful disbelief.

“Was I speaking to you?” I asked with as much courtesy as I could manage.

“Time to grow up, ‘brother’,” Crystal mocked me in response.

“Go fly a kite, Sis,” I scoffed, and was gratified to see her turn red with anger.

“Jason,” Duncan Teutel rumbled deep in his chest, his word a warning to watch my manners. As one of my teachers back at the palace, he’d always been able to make me feel an instinctive flash of embarrassment—even when I wasn’t in the wrong!

“Yeah, really, it’s time to man up and grow a pair,” Crystal shook her head before scoffing, “a nose job!”

“You know what, you’re right, Sis,” I said, waving my hand to indicate my still-bleeding form and my fallen Lancer, “it’s time to leave this little boys’ playground you’ve found me in.” I reached down and grabbed Jean Luc by the throat, picked him up, and slammed him against the wall. I was going to crush his throat and put an end to all of it. “It’s time to finish this job,” I roared.

“Jason you let go of that man this instant,” my mom’s voice cracked like a whip, “my son will not become a patricide.”

My ears filled with white noise before they started ringing, and everything seemed to come at me from a distance.

“No,” I said with disbelief, barely able to hear my own words. The other people behind me said something, but I couldn’t make it out from the ringing in my own ears. My arm slowly lowered as I lost the strength—or, more likely, the will—to hold the traitor up.

I looked over at Jean Luc. “What did she say?” I asked in a low voice, unable to believe what I heard.

“Apparently, I’m your father,” he said with a savage, bloody smile as he spat a tooth onto the floor, “but don’t worry…you’ll only ever be a nephew to me.”

“My father’s dead,” I declared, picking Jean Luc back up and throwing him off to the side where he hit the wall and landed with a thud. “You told me he died in the orbital bombardment,” I rounded on my mother.

“He did die,” she explained, “from a certain point of view. When he renounced his claim on the Throne and betrayed his duty.”

“From a certain point of view?!” I shouted, my voice rising to shriek.

“Lower your voice when speaking to your mother,” Duncan Teutel said, meeting my eyes with his own. I recognized the trained killer hidden behind the guise of my sword instructor, but after what I’d gone through these past two years, it didn’t have quite the same effect on me that it might have once had. I could almost feel the craziness fill my eyes and flood my body as I cocked my head and matched him stare for stare—something I’d never been able to do before.

“Shush,” mom said, placing a hand on Duncan’s arm and their eyes met, “he’s had a shock; it’s okay.” I could almost see the love and tenderness fill the air between them, and I felt betrayed all over again. I’d had no idea the two of them felt this way. Worse, I was almost feeling jealous because with Akantha I figured it’d be a cold day in Hades before we ever have that kind of relationship.

“Become a patricide and you break one of the most basic laws of MEN,” my sister informed me.

“After everything he’s done to my people—to my home world—you would advocate not killing him,” Akantha flared, glaring at Crystal and then looked at me. “Kill him for me, Jason. You are the only one who can—this is one that needs to die.”

“He deserves to die,” I told Crystal flatly, “and if I don’t kill him here and now, then every person he kills, hurts or enslaves is on me. I won’t live with that.”

My mother started to reach for me, and then making a heart-broken sound she turned back to Duncan and buried her face in his chest.

My sister smiled, and it wasn’t a nice sisterly smile. It was an evil, ‘you’re wrong and I can’t wait until you mess up’ smile.

My mom just looked up at me from her death grip on Teutel’s shirt.

I felt torn. I mean, I wanted to kill Jean Luc. Akantha wanted me to kill him. My mom and…’sister,’ on the other hand’s arguments didn’t particularly sway me. If they hadn’t told me, then I would never have known he was my sperm-donor, and even after they told me I didn’t see how I could let him live just because he was a slightly closer blood relation than I had thought.

On the other hand, I’d never considered trying to kill someone in front of my mom while she pleaded with me not to. As I was learning through firsthand experience, the power of revenge had nothing on breaking your mother’s heart by becoming a patricide right in front of her.

This was one of those ‘rock and hard place’ situations. Honestly, I needed to either be left alone to get the job done, or have one less woman involved. I didn’t mind Akantha egging me on, but I really did mind my mom showing up and seeing me at my worst.

“How is it even possible he’s my father?” I growled, when what I really mean was ‘how was it possible my mom had lied to me ever since I was old enough to ask who my dad was?’ I didn’t really want an answer. At this point I was pretty sure nothing I heard was going to make me feel better, and anything I could dream up only made things worse.

I had to make a choice, and whichever way I went I was going to get burned.

Then I heard a sound that at any other time would have made my blood run cold, but at this exact moment was sweet music to my ears.

Popping my face mask, I reached over and grabbed my wife by the arm. She resisted at first, but quickly caved and metal clanged as I pulled her close and leaned forward. She popped her face mask and our heads touched.

“I brought your family from Capria,” she told me after a brief silence.

“Best gift ever,” I assured her, not having to worry about what King James or the loyalty-testing parliament could do to my mom was going to be a great relief off my mind after I got through this current crisis I was sure. Assuming I got through the crisis, of course.

The smile she gave me lit up the room as far as I was concerned.

“How would you like to watch the bastard die,” I whispered, tilting my chin toward Jean Luc.

The kiss I got in response was staggering, and quickly answered that question.

“Disgusting,” Crystal finally said, breaking the mood.

I took a step back and then bent down to pick up the vibro-knife.

“Finally seen reason, Nephew?” Jean Luc chuckled, crawling up the wall and reclaiming his feet.

“Mom doesn’t want me to kill you,” I turned to Mom. “I won’t kill him mom,” I assured her. Then, grabbing hold of the scruff of his jacket’s neck, I picked him up.

“Protector!” Akantha sounded angry and betrayed.

“Jason!” Mom said, looking worried. It took me a moment to realize she was worried for me, and not for the piece of human trash in my hands.

“Put me down,” snarled Jean Luc

“Gladly,” I said, thrusting him through the blast doors.

“What is this?” Jean Luc demanded, staggering before regaining his balance.

I tossed his vibro-blade through the man-sized opening in the blast doors.

“I promised Mom I wouldn’t kill you, and my wife that she’d get to see you die,” I grunted, reaching over to manually close the blast doors enough that he couldn’t get back in, and yet Akantha could still watch.

“I’ll escape this ship, and when I do—” Jean Luc started direly.

“Enjoy the bugs,” I gave him a shark-like smile, “and since I gave you a weapon and set you free to make your own way…that doesn’t qualify as murder.”

Jean Luc stared at me blankly, so I pointed behind him and even the little family reunion behind me began to notice what I’d heard almost a minute earlier: a swarm of soldier and Marine Bugs crawling down the duralloy corridor towards Jean Luc, a man equipped with only a single vibro-knife. And possibly his hidden, finger blaster, I reminded myself as my hand went reflexively to my neck.

“You can’t do this to me,” Jean Luc roared, “open this door!”

I just smiled as the Bugs came closer.

“Let me back in there,” Jean Luc shouted, the sound of his voice causing the Bugs to swarm forward faster, “if you try to kill me I’ll only come back more powerful than you can possibly imagine!”

“Dream on, loser,” I said.

The Bugs were almost on him, so he reached down to pick up the vibro-knife before putting his back to us and turning to face the swarm.

“Ta-ta, for now,” I said.

Jean Luc’s voice twisted with rage, “Death is but a door; time is but a window; I’ll be back, Nephew,” he screamed. “Do you hear me, Nephew? I’ll be back!”

He took down the first two soldier Bugs with a vibro-knife to the head, but after that the more powerful Marine Bugs arrived, and the only screaming was from my Uncle as they tore him limb from limb.

“Only in the afterlife,” I told him in the instant before he stopped screaming.

I turned around to see that except for Akantha—who looked disturbingly excited by the carnage—everyone was staring at me with surprise and even a little bit of horror, including my ‘I’ve got a kill order’ sister. The only one who didn’t seem particularly horrified, excepting Akantha who looked like a girl who’d just got a Valentine’s Day gift from a secret admirer, was Duncan Teutel.

“You’ve become a hard man in your time away,” he said with a nod to me.

“Try trying to hold a ship, a crew, and the whole Confederation in the Spine together with nothing but duct-tape and rubber cords sometime and see how that works out for you,” I said, unable to summon the level of caring that I should have.

He nodded, and I saw a measure of respect in his eyes I had never expected to see.

“We’ve won,” I said, feeling a sense of relief and accomplishment that I hadn’t been expecting. A lot of people comment that after getting their revenge they felt hollow and empty, and that might be true for some. But all I had to do was look into Akantha’s smiling face and I didn’t feel hollow; I felt like I had just accomplished what I’d set out to do. I felt like I was finally home, after a long campaign filled with death and destruction. I felt like it was finally over.

“You still have to destroy that Mother-ship,” Teutel reminded me, “she’s bigger than all your ships put together, and there are still pirates out there.”

“We’ll stand at a distance and pummel her from outside her range. If it takes a week, there’s still nothing the Bugs can do about it,” I said, considering and then dismissing the concern. Yes, we had to be careful. Yes, it needed to be done and yes, the Bugs were still a threat and no victory was really complete until you’d actually won. All that said, with their engines destroyed the Mother-ship wasn’t going anywhere. “As for the Pirates, if they don’t run, we’ll winkle them out before too long.”

“If you say so,” Teutel said evenly.

“There are a hundred and one problems waiting for me tomorrow,” I said, leaning on my wife in what was more of a slump than a hug. My strength seemed to be leaving me; must have been a post-victory adrenaline dump of some kind. “And by ‘tomorrow,’ I mean just as soon as I get back onto the Prince. But as of right now, we did what we set out to do: we won.”

I think Duncan tried to say something and then my mother also, but my side was hurting where I’d been stabbed through my armor and my hand was all covered with blood where Jean Luc had stabbed through my duralloy gauntlets.

I just needed to lean against my wife, close my eyes, and take a few long moments to appreciate our accomplishments.

The last thing I remember was a thud as something large and metallic hit the floor.

Maybe I’d been hurt worse than I thought?

The End

The Following is a sneak peak of Admiral Invincible, Book Six in the Spineward Sectors Novels.

Chapter 1: Sweety…it’s time to wake up.

You’d think the first thing a man should hear upon awakening would be something pleasant, and in many cases the voice of a man’s wife would be bumped to the top of the ‘pleasant things to hear’ list. Too bad mine didn’t.

“When will he wake up?” asked the icy, cold voice of my beloved Sword-Bearer.

“He should be coming around any time now,” said the practiced, soothing voice of a medical professional—a female medical professional, I noted with some surprise and a dash of hope. Not the hope most twenty-something young men would have, since my personal motto (especially with my bloodthirsty wife back in the picture) was: the uglier the better. I knew such maxims would save me stress later on.

No, the important thing was that after dealing with the wishy-washy Presbyter, and then the murderous would-be memory-wiping Torgeson, I was about ready to give up on male doctors. Maybe having a female medical professional in charge of my care for once, would yield less…stressful results.

The fewer issues I had to deal with, the better.

“Well?” Akantha demanded.

“Enhance your calm, My Lady,” urged the voice of Captain Laurent. I had to suppress a groan, since telling my girl to calm down when she was aggravated was the worst way to play it—things were definitely about to get worse. I desperately tried to return to a state of unconsciousness. If this were a simple case of mind over matter, then I was about to be knocked back out for the next several hours, so I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to project sleepiness over my being.

“Who are you to tell me to be calm?” Akantha asked in a low, dangerous voice.

Yep, I knew it. Wrong way to go, Laurent, I silently commented from the non-verbal peanut gallery.

“I’ve been getting increased brain activity for the past half-minute,” said the doctor in a normal professional voice.

“Well, when, then?!” Akantha said sounding irritated.

“He should be waking up any time now,” The Doctor explained in a slightly elevated tone of voice. I could tell that she was talking to me, and on the one hand I was more than irritated at her for forcing my hand—yet strangely grateful that she hadn’t broken my cover. Maybe I could work with her?

To keep the rabid wolves at bay for a few seconds longer, I drew in a breath and loosed a very audible groan.

“Nungh,” I sputtered, trying to make the next groan into a moan, and hopefully send the new stressors in my life away until I’d had time to regain my wits, figure out where I was and what was happening and, most importantly, get some clothes on! I had only just realized I was essentially naked underneath a light sheet, except for one of those hospital gowns that left your backside out there swinging in the wind.

“Jason,” Akantha said her long, deceptively slender looking hands reaching over and gripping my arm with punishing force, “wake up,” she said in a commanding voice as she shook me from side to side.

I let my eyes flutter open. This wasn’t the reunion I’d been hoping for, that was for sure. But I still hoped to salvage something from the ruins of every romantic plan I’d concocted during our extended time apart.

“Akantha,” I said, opening my eyes and upon seeing her I let a big smile stretch across my face. The funny thing was that it was only partially for show. I raised my arms for a hug, hoping I could defuse this thing—whatever it was—before it got serious and I got yelled at…again. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.” A hug, definitely—maybe a kiss, if she didn’t look like she’d tear my head off if I tried it, I decided, and then hopefully all this ugliness could be temporarily diverted. Wifely reunion, here I come, I thought with rising hope.

Akantha gave me one more shake and then deftly stepped out of the reach of my arms. The warning look she gave me indicated quite clearly that I had a lot to answer for. Probably including, if not centered on, the fact that we hadn’t exchanged so much as a com-message from the moment she got in system until right before I threw my uncle to the Bugs.

“We have much to discuss, Protector,” she said sternly.

I let my arms drop. “Have we dealt with Bugs yet?” I asked hopefully.

“They are not yet destroyed,” Akantha informed me archly.

I grunted, and it felt like all the wind had been taken out of my sails. Not another death ride; I was still stuck in my sick bed!

“Okay,” I said, steeling myself as I got an elbow under me and started for the side of the bed. I ignored a twinge in my side where, as I recalled, my dearly-departed uncle had stuck a vibro-knife in it. Everyone was always going on about their backstabbing relatives; it looked like I had more to fear from the megalomaniacal side-stabbing ones.

“Stay,” my beloved wife and merciless Hold-Mistress instructed, me laying a hand on my shoulder, causing me to look up at her curiously. “I said not yet destroyed,” she informed me, “I did not say they were not being dealt with.”

I looked at her and then over curiously at Captain Laurent, who gave me a nod.

“We parked every ship in the fleet with a turbo-laser just outside of Bug beam range, and are firing a broadside every minute right up its backside where the engines used to be. It’ll probably take us the better part of a day to finish gutting her from stern to stem, but she’s not going anywhere and we only have to maneuver when we need to avoid a newly-launched boarding party. Point defenses take care of the rest,” Laurent said with a reassuring expression on his face.

“Then why am I up?” I asked in confusion, and while Akantha and the rest of them were still gathering their wits, I saw my chance and I shamelessly took it, quickly slithering a hand up over Akantha’s. When she didn’t immediately resist—probably from surprise—I quickly intertwined our fingers while giving her a hopeful look.

I freely admit to being shameless. As they say, ‘all things are fair in love and war,’ and I wasn’t about to let this opportunity pass me by. On the one hand I could use all the maneuvering room I could get, and on the other…

I looked up at the icy eyes of my wife; we had been apart for the better part of half a year now. Strange as it was to say, even at that very moment, I missed her.

Some of this must have shown through, because instead of smacking me upside the head, braining me, or stabbing a knife through my hand, I saw her hesitate and give my fingers a slight squeeze. It was so slight I think no one else would have noticed, even if they were waiting for it, but it was there and something inside me unclenched slightly.

Oh, I knew my Sword-Bearer was still one violent girl and that none of that was in the past, but I felt reassured that after whatever crisis of the moment we had to deal with, I would still have a marriage to go home to. I might not have planned, or wanted, to be married to the woman who had become my wife but at some point I’d moved past reluctant acceptance into missing and wanting her by my side.

Don’t say it; I knew myself for a complete and utter fool who would suffer greatly just for having such thoughts, but there they are all the same. I was a fool for her.

Her expression slowly hardened, and I knew that fool or not, it was time to get out of the line of fire.

“We have much to discuss—” Laurent started diplomatically.

“Okay…” I began questioningly, glancing back and forth between him and my wife mainly because I didn’t like the expression brooding on Akantha’s face.

Then, finally, the dam burst.

“How could you, Jason?” Akantha smacked me in the back of the head and then quite literally snarled.

“Ow!” I exclaimed as my hand went to the offended portion of my skull. “What was that for?!”

“We have not even finished the re-conquest and liberation of my Hold and home world—to say nothing of the enemies you have left behind us in the heart of this Sector,” Akantha glared at me, “and yet you already plan another war!”

My eyes bugged out. “A war! You’ve got me all wrong,” I declared as quickly as I could, “I plan to finish dealing with Tracto first!” I hesitated, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I intend to deal with Central and those politicians in good time, but—” Akantha cut me off.

“I know the truth,” Akantha glared at me, all feelings of homecoming and lost, star-crossed romance apparently forgotten, “you cannot hide it from me, although why you would try to do so is beyond me.” She took a deep breath while I stared at her in continued confusion and eventually she shook her head, “I thought that the warriors of my people were overly prone to leaping into battle without a moment’s notice, but now I find that the Starborn are just as bad, or perhaps worse!”

I shook my head in disbelief and lack of understanding.

“Pretend that I’ve been hit in the head—hard—and need reminding,” I said plaintively, “just tell me what you’re going on about.”

Frustration clear as day on her face, Akantha looked down at me with concern that quickly morphed back into outrage and disgust. “Do not play me, Protector,” she hissed, leaning down and projecting menace to a man still in his sick bed, “I have already spoken with Kong Pao and—”

“Kong?” I interrupted. “Who in the world is this Kong, and why have you’ve been listening to him over the words of your own Husband?!” My mind flashed with instant jealousy. Who is this ‘Kong’ that he thought he was free to try and mess with my marriage and slander me like this, I fumed.

“Kong,” Akantha repeated, and when I was still giving her the blank, yet still jealously fuming, stare, she gave a sound of pure feminine frustration, “Representative Kong, the Ambassador sent from Sectors 23 and 24, who arrived in my star system asking for your help in saving his world, alliance and sector, from the Droid Tribes who are overrunning those sectors—that Kong Pao,” she snapped at me.

My mouth opened to retort, but I quickly closed it. “The Representative who arrived with Middleton?” I said, praying inside and hoping against hope that I was wrong.

“The very one, Sir,” Laurent hastened to assure me.

I gave him a very dark look, one that promised retribution for his very helpful attempt to throw me under the hover bus that was Hold Mistress and wife, Adonia Akantha Zosime.

Then what had just been said sank in. “There are Droid Tribes over running Sectors of the Spine?!” I blurted, bolting upright in my bed and ignoring the sudden pain that lanced through my chest and side as I did so.

“Do not play the fool, Protector,” Akantha said, drawing herself up into her best frigid, icy self and staring down at me imperiously. “As I have told you before, it does not suit you.”

“Oh, blast it, blast it straight into Murphy’s darkest pit,” I snapped, then shot a hard look over at Akantha, “I haven’t heard anything about any Droid invasions,” raising a finger before she could intervene, “I specifically ordered Middleton and that Representative to keep quiet until after the Bugs were dealt with, since I didn’t have the capacity to deal with any more problems!” I most specifically didn’t add, ‘like you have so helpfully brought to my sickbed, despite my very strict instructions to all the other parties involved!’

“World of Men,” Akantha cursed, “it does not matter what I say; I know you. You are a man,” she declared, as if this explained everything, and maybe in her home culture it did, “that is why you will simply charge off into another war despite anything I say.” She finished looking down at me angrily, “My Hold bleeds, and you shall suffer for this.”

“I have made no such decisions,” I protested with a sinking sensation and then turned to Laurent, “Droids are overrunning worlds in two Sectors,” I said plaintively. This could not be happening; I had just fought—and won—a war against pirates! I had just fought—and was about to win—a war against the Bugs! And pardon me for pointing out the obvious, but I had emerged victorious over both in the same knockdown, drag-out battle! I did not need—repeat that times a thousand—DID NOT NEED another battle to the death.

“Yes, Sir,” Laurent reported in a very professional and military sounding voice, “as I understand it, the Representative originally wanted help from the Rim Fleet but they couldn’t spare the resources for a wild goose chase.” Laurent paused, “Then they found Middleton patrolling the edge of their Sector, and after a few minor difficulties they sent the Representative to formally request aid, protection, and relief from the Rim Fleet’s successor: the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet.”

“They did this despite my specific orders not to mention their troubles until after all our enemies in here were defeated?” I demanded, in what likely came out as more of a ‘whine.’

“Yes, Sir,” Laurent replied curtly.

“Oh, grow up, Protector,” Akantha snapped, “you are about to get us into another war, and all you can do is whine about procedure?”

“I just heard about this!” I exclaimed. “I haven’t decided anything…except that-that…uh, that violating my very clear and specific orders has made the chances of me helping them decrease!”

My outrage turned to sullenness as both Akantha and Laurent looked down at me with disapproval.

“Hey,” I protested, “don’t pick on a guy in his sick bed.”

“Whatever,” Akantha muttered and stalked over to the far side of the room where she stood, half-turned away from me. She was clearly planning to pretend to ignore me, until she heard something that outraged her, of course, at which point she would dive back in with both feet.

“Why would we help them?” I asked Laurent, and before his look had done more than turn slightly disapproving, I added, “what I mean is: how can we help them? Our fleet just got trashed!”

Laurent’s expression cleared at my clarification, and accepting the meager win, I lay back down in my bed and said nothing. I mean, everything I had just said was true. I really wanted to help people, I really did; it’s just that I’d been burned too many times lately and on top of that, well…blast it, our fleet just got thrashed! Tracto had just been freed from invasion—and, for all I knew, occupation—and now there was this.

“It would be difficult, Admiral,” Laurent allowed, sounding concerned.

“Blasted right it would,” I snapped, thinking of all the reasons why I didn’t need to go haring off into two entire, other sectors, when I had snakes right here at home that I still needed to crush back at Central. Sir Isaac, for one, immediately came to mind—that double-dealing snake in ambassadorial clothing!

“I do not believe a word of this,” Akantha declared and then strode for the exit, “when you are finally prepared to stop lying about your intentions, we shall talk. I know you too well to accept any of this.”

With that, she was out of the room.

“Stupid women,” I glared at the door with hot and angry eyes. First, she wakes me up when I desperately needed sleep, and then she accuses me of starting a war I had no idea about and then storms off in an angry huff! “Can’t live with ’em, can’t…” I trailed off, too risk-averse to hazard the words I would have liked to say.

“I honestly don’t know how, or if, we could help,” Laurent finally admitted, “and by ‘we,’ I mean ‘the MSP’.”

“Exactly,” I exclaimed.

“Although,” Laurent said reluctantly, and it was the sort of reluctance that I instinctively disliked tremendously, since it implied he was going to say something I didn’t like, “that said, this is exactly the sort of situation the MSP was created for.”

Blast it…he was right. I started mentally cursing under my breath. I needed to deal with Sector 25 and Sir Isaac, first and foremost, not to mention that the Border Worlds still needed protection and patrolling in a unified effort to make sure the pirates didn’t come back. Not to mention making sure the Bug threat was finally over, once and for all.

“Did they mention any reasons other than that?” I asked, dreading the answer.

“Well,” Laurent hesitated, “the Representative is also a Sector Judge.”

“And that pertains…how?” I asked, feeling more than a little perplexed.

Laurent coughed into his hand and started to look squirrelly to my eyes.

“Go on and spit it out,” I snapped.

“There is rumor of some sort of signed confession, along with an injunction from the Sector Judge—the 25th Sector Judge,” he quickly clarified, “not this new Representative, of course.”

My face tightened as I took his meaning.

“Not that anyone in this Fleet believes it,” Laurent said quickly, “and even if it had been written and signed, it was certainly under duress.”

“Enough,” I said flatly.

“It’s just,” he continued, “that outside the fleet, an injunction removing you from command by a Sector Judge, along with orders from a supposed High Commander to stand down,” I noted how he very carefully didn’t mention the now deceased, but likely already replaced, Admiral Yagar, “might make your position as Admiral of the MSP appear…less than fully legitimate to those worlds and provincial militaries that are still on the fence.”

“At this point I think people are either for us, or against the Tyrant of Cold Space,” I said coldly.

“You lead, I’ll follow,” Laurent declared stiffly.

I looked at him steadily. “But,” I led.

Laurent looked like he had finally spoken his mind, but I knew better.

“But,” I prompted again.

“Man, not Machine,” Laurence finally sighed.

I stared at him. “Go on,” I said finally, “as I assume this isn’t some kind of knee-jerk, anti-AI bit of propaganda speaking here.”

“Well, Sir,” Laurence said carefully, “I actually do believe in the whole ‘rage against the machine’ movement that founded our current governmental structures, but that’s not really what I’m talking about.” He took a breath and then continued, “You see, it occurred to me that even if we didn’t send the whole fleet—just a few reinforcements and a relief column—that trying to sack or depose a Confederation Admiral who was fighting against a Droid Invasion force would be a lot more…risky for the politicians and armchair Admirals, than going up against the carbon cut-out, Media Villain they’ve tried to create. On top of that, what one Sector Judge orders, another can overturn.”

“Man, not Machine,” I muttered, feeling a sour taste in my mouth.

“Man, not Machine, Sir,” Laurent agreed.

“I’m not sold,” I grumbled with a sinking sensation in my stomach.

“Of course not, Admiral Montagne,” Laurent said evenly.

I winced at the more formal tone in his voice.

“Although I suppose it doesn’t hurt to sit down with the Judge,” I said, not liking this at all, “and find out how big the threat really is. Who knows, it might even come up here at some point; intelligence gathering isn’t to be spurned, after all.”

“As you say,” Laurent nodded.

I felt sick. I didn’t mind lying to my enemies; in fact, I wouldn’t give it a second thought except to make sure my stories stayed consistent. Lying to protect my life from an undeserved death sentence was another no-brainer. Telling a tale to my friends and supporters—or future, would-be supporters—I had more difficulty with, especially if I was promising to save them and only planned to offer token assistance. Isn’t that what politicians did?

“Set it up,” I told him, the words like ashes in my mouth. It sounded like I could definitely use the cover of supporting a war against the machines, but was far less certain that I could successfully sell a bill of goods to the representative.

Worse, could I live with myself if I let dozens, or scores, of planets in each of those sectors be conquered and their populations of millions killed while I did nothing to try and stop it except score political points?

Man against the Machine, indeed.

I was so screwed.

Chapter 2: Meeting in Earnest

“Admiral Montagne, it’s so good of you to meet us,” the red-skinned representative and Sector Judge from Sector 23 said, with real feeling in his voice that seemed at odds with his smooth, politician’s smile.

I wanted to say something like ‘The pleasure is all yours, Ambassador,’ but bit my tongue and refrained.

“Of course, Ambassador,” I said as smoothly as I was able, “I always have time for our brothers and sisters in the other Sectors of the Confederated Spine.” I quirked a smile that didn’t reach my eyes, “Now that the war against the Bugs and pirates seems to be dying down, it would appear that the Battle for Tracto has finally been won.”

“The Confederated Spine,” the Representative said, his mouth working, “an interesting choice of words.

“It seems apt, Ambassador,” I replied, and then allowed a frown to sully my up till-then pleasantly, noncommittal features, “although…if you are not here to speak with the Admiral tasked by the Confederation with the defense of the Spine…” I deliberately trailed off. I knew that the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet had originally been tasked with the defense of Sectors 24, 25 and 26, with operations outside of those Sectors to be initiated only at the formal request of those other Sectors, or at the discretion of the MSP’s Admiral.

That was the former, Imperial, Admiral of course, as I doubt they had planned for their original figurehead to actually be giving any orders. It would be interesting what he made of my little verbal power grab.

The red-skinned Sector Judge, Kong Pao, frowned. “Representative, please, Admiral Montagne,” he said instead, of the comment on my status as a Confederation Admiral, “I have not presented the credentials of an Ambassador, nor would it be appropriate for an Ambassador to present himself as an Ambassador to the Confederation Military. I am merely representing a pair of beleaguered Sectors which desperately need all the help they can get.”

“I see,” I said sourly.

“Admiral,” Representative Kong Pao said urgently, “I beseech you. My home world in Sector 23 holds out for now, but worlds all along Sectors 23 and 24 are under fierce assault by the machine menace that calls itself the ‘Droid Tribes’.”

Clearly, the man was more focused on saving his people, planet, and sectors than he was on petty power games and semantics. This left a sour taste in my mouth which hadn’t really been caused by the Representative. Had I really fallen so low?

Shame filled me and I bowed my head. The old me wouldn’t have hesitated for an instant, except to ask if there was anything we could really hope to do before charging forward, even if it was only a long shot. Who had I become, that I could sit here and be irritated by a man who just wanted my help? My shoulders hunched inward rebelliously.

“Tell me,” I said quietly, feeling repulsed by myself.

“Admiral Montagne?” Representative Kong asked with concern, “Is something wrong?”

“Ambassad—” I corrected myself, “Representative Kong,” I said seriously, “if this is some kind of trick or, failing that, if, after I help you and/or whatever cabal, alliance of interests, or group of Sector and Planetary Leaders—or even simply whatever mass of concerned citizens you represent—turn around and betray me…” I stopped myself briefly, considering my words before continuing. “If you get my help and then when I’m done, stick a knife in my back—either literal or figurative, just like the politicians here in 25 have already done to us—then rest assured that my vengeance, while it may not be swift and it may not be sure, will be so terrible you will all weep at the thunder of my passage. I will hunt you down to the end of the galaxy and you will all reap what you have sown,” I could feel my vision going red as I spoke, and deliberately calmed myself with a few deep, even breaths.

The Representative’s features were stoic and placid, just as one would expect from a trained politician.

I cleared my voice as best I could before continuing, “However, assuming your plight is real and your cause is just—which it sounds like it is—then I will listen to your troubles with the Droids, and yes,” I felt like hurling up the contents of my stomach, “the MSP will help your planetary populations if it can.”

The Representative looked at first concerned, then slightly fearful, before dismay finally showed on his face. “Admiral,” he started and then stopped, swallowing visibly. His eyes narrowed as he looked at me, and then he thrust out his hand. “Look, Sir,” he said, meeting eyes and holding my stare, “and I mean that, despite your young age; it’s a matter of respect for what you have accomplished taking control and rebuilding your organization. Admiral Montagne, I don’t know what has happened here in 25 or the troubles you’ve had to deal with since you sent Captain Middleton out on patrol—at least, those troubles which we haven’t been able to observe personally.”

“Thanks,” I said flatly. Meaningless, empty words, however pretty, were still just that: words. I continued to ignore his outstretched hand in the hopes that he would just take it away. I was in the mood to promise nothing until I’d seen and heard a whole lot more.

“In the name of the Confederation, and in the name of Humanity, you must listen to me: the Droids are real, the threat to our two Sectors is real,” the Representative said, still holding out his hand. “This is not a threat to our way of life, our civil liberties, or some meaningless political divide; this is a threat to all of Humanity. These Droids have to be stopped before we are overrun and they have the chance to consolidate their gains, setting up automated factories on all the worlds and star systems they have already conquered in order to produce enough Droids to replace our populations with mechanicals, and new warships to conquer new territories. Please help us, Admiral, else our problems soon become yours when the Droids finish defeating what remain of our fleets and rebuild their own forces to the point they turn their eye to this Sector!’’

“You speak with passion,” I finally said, “enough that I believe you felt there is a major threat. You do understand what will happen if you are lying? I have no time for games; there are serious threats here in this Sector which you are asking me to put aside, or put on hold indefinitely.”

“I’m not lying; I have proof! And any deal we make is bound not only by the leaders of every participating world in Sectors 23 and 24, but also by me personally,” Representative Kong said firmly. “I know we’ve just met, but surely you realize that as a Sector Judge I have considerable powers of my own, regardless of anyone else. If you promise to help us, then we will help you in any way we can in order to facilitate cooperation.”

I stared into his eyes for over a minute in silence, and then I reached out and grasped his still extended hand. I wasn’t some broken piece of the man I used to be, I decided savagely. Wiser perhaps—less naïve, certainly—but I refused to turn into a man like my Uncle, who proved he was in it only for himself. If these people really needed me then I would be there.

At least, I would be there if I could do anything to actually make a difference, as this sounded more and more like a very big problem—and in case I hadn’t already mentioned it, my Fleet had just been hammered. But if, on the other hand, they took my help and then turned around and went after me like the Rump had done…then I would unleash on them the heartless dastard my uncle and the Assembly had almost created when they tried to break me!

“Comfort and aid to our friends, damnation and destruction on our enemies, Mr. Representative,” I said seriously. “So why don’t you show me those facts and figures, Judge. Then we’ll talk about what I can do for you.” Through sheer force of will I reached deep down inside and pulled forth the last shreds of the idealistic young man who had started out on this journey. He had been a man determined to go out there and do some good, whatever the cost to himself, and I knew that I would always need him if I was to avoid falling down the Demon’s pit as my uncle-cum-father had. “You see, I’m from the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet, and we’re here to help.”

It seemed my wife Akantha had been right when she accused me—I was getting ready to start another war.

“Thank the beloved Saint Murphy and all of his Space Gods,” Kong Pao said, still shaking my hand as if he were afraid to let it go, “we can sure use the help!”

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Tallying Resources and Counting Costs

Chapter 2: It’s Time to Move On

Chapter 3: Signing Up

Chapter 4: Laying down The Law, Taking Stock

Chapter 5: Pried from Reluctant Fingers

Chapter 6: It’s a Spalding

Chapter 7: Dealing with Brence

Chapter 8: Druid Sets Out

Chapter 9: The Commodore’s Riposte

Chapter 10: Leaving the Friendly Confines

Chapter 11: To Tracto!

Chapter 12: Round Two, Harvester Style

Chapter 13: Expecting Guests?

Chapter 14: Upgrades Can Be Annoying

Chapter 15: Brence reaches Omicron

Chapter 16: Tis But A Scratch

Chapter 17: Fix’ing the Game

Chapter 18: Nervous Jitters

Chapter 19: A Meeting To Remember

Chapter 20: The Scouts

Chapter 21: The Scouts Report

Chapter 22: An Oath—and a Rebuke

Chapter 23: Recruiting Issues

Chapter 24: More Bug Scouts

Chapter 25: Recruiting: The Drop-off

Chapter 26: McCruising to the Rescue

Chapter 27: Tough Decisions

Chapter 28: Jean Luc vs. The Envoy

Chapter 29: Recruiting: Some Real Issues

Chapter 30: The Commodore Gets Swatted

Chapter 31: Workplace Distractions

Chapter 32: Cutters do the Cutting, McCruise does the McCruising

Chapter 33: To the Armory

Chapter 34:Agitation at the Armory

Chapter 35: Nikomedes:The Building of a Legend

Chapter 36: In Yagar, WeTrust!

Chapter 37: Thanks for the tribute!

Chapter 38: The Furball

Chapter 39: McCruising through the Bumps

Chapter 40: The Silent Strike!

Chapter 41: Conflict Resolution 101

Chapter 42: Bugs, Bugs, Bugs

Chapter 43: Not Quite Fix’ed

Chapter 44: Spalding Reminisces on the Prince

Chapter 45: Spalding Takes Over

Chapter 46: Harbinger, Thy Name is Middleton

Chapter 47: More Bugs and Mutinous Murmurs

Chapter 48: Spalding tries to sneak away…

Chapter 49: Spalding Comes for Brence

Chapter 50: Tracking the Mother-ship

Chapter 51: A Hero’s Welcome…or not

Chapter 52: The Gathering Storm

Chapter 53: An Impassioned Plea, part two

Chapter 54: Planning to Offend

Chapter 55: Reaping the Whirlwind

Chapter 56: The Furious Phoenix

Chapter 57: It really was the perfect plan, honest!

Chapter 58: Fleet Maneuvers

Chapter 59: On the Hunt

Chapter 60: The Supplicant Seeks a Boon

Chapter 61: Rumble in the Jungle

Chapter 62: Going In

Chapter 63: Under His Mercy

Chapter 64: A Message in a Bottle? Could it be?

Chapter 65: The Phoenix feels her fury

Chapter 66: Always in Control

Chapter 67: Seeing Red

Chapter 68: The Phoenix In Flames

Chapter 69: Helplessness

Chapter 70: Riding to the Rescue

Chapter 71: Clash of the Titans

Chapter 72: It is, it is, a glorious thing…

Chapter 73: Spalding Abandons Ship?!

Chapter 74: Head to Head

Chapter 75: Thunder and Fury

Chapter 76: Rocket Man

Chapter 77: The Final Approach

Chapter 78: Hanging Tough

Chapter 79: Rising from the Ashes

Chapter 80: Complications

Chapter 81: To the Locker, lad!

Chapter 82: Staying in the Fight

Chapter 83: The Davy Jones

Chapter 84: Unexpected Difficulties

Chapter 85: The Opening

Chapter 86: The Worm Turns

Chapter 87: Akantha On The Run

Chapter 88: Snatching Victory

Chapter 89: The Heart Stops…or does it?

Chapter 90: On the Flag Bridge

Chapter 91: The Perfect Opportunity

Chapter 92: A little Marital Support

Chapter 93: The Privilege of Rank

Chapter 94: Deathly Determined

Chapter 95: ‘Jason, I’m your _____’

The Following is a sneak peak of Admiral Invincible, Book Six in the Spineward Sectors Novels.

Chapter 1: Sweety…it’s time to wake up.

Chapter 2: Meeting in Earnest