Admiral’s Spine Rejoined - A Spineward Sectors Novel: Book Six

by

Luke Sky Wachter

Copyright © 2014 by Joshua Wachter

All rights reserved.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental. Respect my electronic rights because the money you save today will be the book I can’t afford to write for you tomorrow.

Thanks to all the other beta readers—Sandra did the heaviest lifting this time around!—for all your contributions. We’re getting better as a team, and I can’t thank everyone enough for their help.

Enjoy!

Other Books by Luke Sky Wachter:

As of 08-04-2014

SPINEWARD SECTORS NOVEL SERIES

Admiral Who?

Admiral’s Gambit

Admiral’s Tribulation

Admiral’s Trial

Admiral’s Revenge

RISE OF THE WITCH GUARD NOVEL SERIES

The Blooding

The Painting

RISE OF THE WITCH GUARD NOVELLAS

The Boar Knife

Books by my Brother: Caleb Wachter

SPINEWARD SECTORS: MIDDLETON’S PRIDE

No Middle Ground

SPHEREWORLD NOVEL SERIES

Joined at the Hilt: Union

SPHEREWORLD NOVELLAS

Between White and Grey

SEEDS OF HUMANITY: THE COBALT HERESY SERIES

Revelation

Reunion

COLLABORATIVE WORKS BY LUKE SKY WACHTER & CALEB WACHTER

SPINEWARD SECTORS NOVELLAS

Admiral’s Lady: Eyes of Ice, Heart of Fire

Admiral’s Lady: Ashes for Ashes, Blood for Blood

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Join www.PacificCrestPublishing.com if you want to be a beta reader for upcoming books.

Be sure to stop by the blog at blog.PacificCrestPublishing.com for updates.

And we still make the occasional post over at blog.admiralwho.com.

Table of Contents

Prologue: A Rude Awakening

Chapter 1: Meeting in Earnest

Chapter 2: The Devil in the Details

Chapter 3: Meeting in the Middle

Chapter 4: Diplomacy, Interrupted

Chapter 5: The Laurent Report

Chapter 6: Taking it Easy

Chapter 7: Matrimonial Harmony

Chapter 8: A Restful Repast

Chapter 9: Fond Farewell & Man Talk

Chapter 10: Are you Insane?!

Chapter 11: Center of Power

Chapter 12: The Emancipation Proclamation

Chapter 13: Family Discord

Chapter 14: The Girls are Back In Town

Chapter 15: The Recruits

Chapter 16: Casting Off

Chapter 17: Spalding Eyes a Tool Belt

Chapter 18: Jason and Spalding on Gambit

Chapter 19: Operation: Evacuation

Chapter 20: Spalding vs. the Voters

Chapter 21: Back to Tracto

Chapter 22: Tremblay-ing at the thought of a New Mission

Chapter 23: The Service I need is one only you can provide

Chapter 24: Spalding vs. Spalding

Chapter 25: The Lost, the Forgotten, and the Lame

Chapter 26: Leaving Tracto

Chapter 27: No Respect

Chapter 28: Akantha Hatches a Plan

Chapter 29: Breaking the News

Chapter 30: Close Encounters of the Droid Kind

Chapter 31: In the Clinch

Chapter 32: Spalding vs. Persus

Chapter 33: Surprises at Aqua Nova

Chapter 34: There’ll be no Tremblay-ing here!

Chapter 35: The Battle for Aqua Nova

Chapter 36: On the Gun Deck

Chapter 37: The Hand Over

Chapter 38: The Aqua Nova Blitz

Chapter 39: No Escape in the Escape Pod

Chapter 40: It’s a Spalding

Chapter 41: For all the Aqua-colored Marbles

Chapter 42: A Princess Never says ‘Die’

Chapter 43: Shifting Blame

Chapter 44: It’s a Spalding…or is It?

Chapter 45: Hitting them Hard

Chapter 46: Multiple Attack Vectors

Chapter 47: Battle for the Moon I

Chapter 48: On the Hull

Chapter 49: Jazz to Moon Base II

Chapter 50: Fleet against the Swarm

Chapter 51: End Run

Chapter 52: Akantha’s Inferno

Chapter 53: Feel the Burn

Chapter 54: The Gratitude of Planetary Leaders: Here’s your Hat

A Sneak Peek at Book Seven: Admiral Invincible

Chapter 1: Tremblay, Bethany, self-expression…and Bubble Gum?

Chapter 2: Druid sets out from Gambit with the Power

Prologue: A Rude Awakening

You’d think the first thing a man should hear upon awakening, after being injured, should be something nice and pleasant and in many cases the voice of your wife would automatically be bumped up to the top of the pleasant list. Too bad mine didn’t even make the list.

“When will he wake up?” it was the icy cold voice of my beloved, Sword-Bearing wife speaking.

“He should be coming around just about any time now,” said the calm, soothing voice of a medical professional as she unknowingly betrayed me to someone with more ability and desire to damage my hide than any enemy. Enemies could be killed or otherwise gotten rid of, after all, but alas…

However, eternal optimist that I was, I did note with some mixture of surprise—leavened with a dash of hope—that this particular medical professional was female. But this wasn’t the hope that would usually spring into the mind of a young, twenty-something man with a modicum of natural desire upon awakening to the sound of a pretty voice. Far from it in fact, and personally I’ve held to the axiom ‘the uglier, the better’ (especially with my bloodthirsty young wife back in the picture and standing over my bedside). Beauty was on my current list of extreme detractions, and frankly—at least in the privacy of my own mind—the homeliness of said professional would only save me a great deal of stress later on.

Which was a longwinded way of thinking that the important thing here was that after dealing with the wishy-washy Presbyter, followed by 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 would for once, yield less…stressful results.

The fewer issues I had to deal with, the better.

“Well?” Akantha demanded breaking the blessed silence wherein I’d begun to believe that maybe, just maybe, I could play possum until she left and thus avoid a reunion until after I’d composed myself.

“Calmness, My Lady,” urged the voice of Captain Laurent. I had to suppress a groan; telling my girl to calm down when she was aggravated was the exact wrong 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. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to project sleepiness upon myself.

“Who are you to tell me to be calm?” Akantha said in a dangerous voice.

Yep, I knew it—wrong way to go, Laurent, I silently commented.

“I’ve been getting increased brain activity for the past half a minute,” said the doctor in a normal, professional voice.

“Then when will it be?!” Akantha said sounding irritated.

“He should be waking up any time now,” the doctor said 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 at the same time I was 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 said trying to make the next groan into a partial 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 important, get some clothes on.

“Jason,” Akantha said, her long, deceptively slender looking hands, reaching over and gripping my arm with punishing force. “Wake up,” she demanded, shaking 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. Upon seeing her I let a big smile stretch across my face, and the funny thing was that it was only partially for show. I raised my arms for a hug. Hopefully I could defuse this thing, whatever it was, before things got serious and I got yelled at…again. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.” A hug was definitely in order—maybe even a kiss, if she didn’t look like she’d tear my head off if I tried it. 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 clearly indicated that I had a lot to answer for. Probably including—if not centered around—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 the 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 in my sick bed, dag blast it!

“Okay,” I said steeling myself as I got an elbow underneath me and started for the side of the bed. I ignored a twinge in my side, where I vividly recalled my dearly departed uncle had stuck a vibro-knife. Everyone was always going on about their backstabbing relatives, but it looked like I had more to fear from the megalomaniacal side-stabbing ones.

“Stay,” my beloved wife and merciless Hold-Mistress instructed laying a hand on my shoulder and pushing me back down.

I looked up at her in confusion.

“I said ‘not yet destroyed’,” she informed me, “I did not say 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 working turbo-laser 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 day to finish gutting her from stern to stem, but she’s not going anywhere in the meantime. We’ll only have to maneuver to avoid previously launched boarding parties lying doggo; point defenses can take care of the rest,” Laurent reported with a reassuring expression on his face.

“Then why am I up?” I asked curiously and while Akantha and the rest of them were still gathering their wits, I saw my chance and I shamelessly took it. I quickly slithered a hand over the other arm and placed my hand on Akantha’s. When she didn’t immediately resist—probably from surprise—I quickly entwined 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 several months at that point and, 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 with her fist, or stabbing a knife through my hand, I saw her hesitate and then give my fingers a slight squeeze. It was so slight I think no one else would have noticed, even if they were looking for it, but it was there and something inside me unclenched slightly. Maybe our reunion didn’t have to go completely sideways after all, I thought, amorous visions dancing through my brain.

Oh, I knew my Sword-Bearer was still one violent girl and none of that was in the past—it was still, and always would be, very much in the present—but I at least felt some reassurance 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 now even wanting her back in my life.

Don’t say it; I knew myself for a complete and utter fool. I would suffer greatly for such thoughts as these, but there I was all the same. I was a fool for her. And then, of course, her expression had to harden 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 said 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 snarled.

“Ow!” I exclaimed more in surprise than pain. “What was that for?!”

“We haven’t even finished the re-conquest and liberation of my Hold and home world—to say nothing of the enemies you’ve left behind us in the heart of this Sector,” Akantha glared at me, “and yet you’re already planning 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 wondering what events had ‘mistakenly’ forced my hand, “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 home coming and lost star-crossed romance apparently forgotten, “you can’t hide it from me, although why you’d try is beyond me right now.” She took a deep breath while I stared at her in continued lack of understanding as she shook her head, “And I thought that the warriors of my people were overly prone to leaping into battle without a moment’s notice,” she said as her face turned hard, “but now I find that the star-born are just as bad, or even…worse!”

I shook my head in disbelief and continued lack of comprehension. “Pretend that I’ve been hit in the head a little too hard and need reminding,” I said plaintively, “and 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 with me, Protector,” she said leaning down and projecting menace to a man still in his sick bed, “I have been speaking with Kong Pao and—”

“Kong?” I blinked. “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 was this Kong person that he thought he was free to try and mess with my marriage and slander me like this, I silently fumed, getting angrier and angrier by the second.

“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 even now overrunning those very Sectors—that Kong Pao,” she snapped at me.

My mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.

“You mean…the Representative who arrived with Middleton?” I asked meekly, 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 less-than-helpful attempt to throw me under the hover bus that was the rampaging Hold Mistress, my wife, Akantha.

Then what had just been said sank in.

“There are Droid Tribes overrunning Sectors of the Spine!” I said, bolting upright in my bed and ignoring the sudden pain that lanced through my chest and side as I did so.

“Do not play dumb. This can’t be the first you’ve heard of this; he came in one of your medium cruisers, Protector,” Akantha said drawing herself up into her best frigid, icy self and stared down at me imperiously, “as I have told you before, it doesn’t 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,” I said, and then raised 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 every single other of the parties involved.

“World of Men,” Akantha cursed, “it doesn’t matter what I say; I know you. You are a man,” she declared, as if that explained everything—and maybe in her home culture it did. “That is why you will charge into another war despite anything I say.” She finished looking down at me angrily, “My Hold bleeds; you will suffer for this.”

“I have made no such decisions—in fact, you know what, since you seem to have a strong opinion on the subject then just give the word and I’ll say ‘Let ’em burn!’ I mean, where were they when we needed help? But the second—I mean the very instant—we’re back on top, they come whining for me to fix all their problems with our blood, sweat and tears,” I protested with a sinking sensation. I turned to Laurent, still trying to take in all the implications of this new revelation, “Droids are overrunning worlds in two Sectors?” I asked 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, all in the same knock-down, drag-out, to the mats battle. I did not need—I did not want—in fact, let’s repeat that times a thousand, did not need another battle to the death! Idly I wondered if the droids would be satisfied keeping those two Sectors or if, no matter what I did, I was going to have to deal with this new threat sooner or later—emphasis on ‘later,’ if it would put me back on track for the romantic interlude I figured we ‘both’ deserved after all the Hades we’d been through lately.

“Yes, Sir,” Laurent reported in a very professional and military sounding voice and not incidentally breaking up my lustful train of thoughts, “as I understand it the Representative originally wanted help from the Rim Fleet when reports of droid ships were spotted in the border worlds, but the Fleet 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 back here to formally request the aid, protection, and relief of Rim Fleet’s successor: the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet.”

I could tell from the flinty gleam in my Sword-Bearer’s eye that she was finding this complete and utter truth completely unpalatable. She’s probably still blaming me for my Uncle’s invasion of her home world and the loss of our flagship, the Lucky Clover, I thought morosely.

“They did…and more importantly, they said all this despite my very specific orders not to mention their troubles until after all our enemies in here were defeated,” I raged, pounding my fist on the side-rails of my hover-bed. My self-pity turned to sudden anger as this new target presented itself. When I got my hands on Middleton and this loose-lipped Kong, I was going to…

My hands clenched and unclenched on top of my sickbay bed’s blankets as I plotted my revenge. ‘Loose lips sink battleships’ was the saying, but in this case it was going to sink entire Sectors when I was done with them!

“Yes, Sir,” Laurent replied.

“Oh, grow up, Protector,” Akantha snapped, “you are about to get us into another war and the only thing 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 significantly! Besides, I just told you to give the word and I’d let the billions of innocents in those Sectors die at cold, mechanical…droid…hands…” I ground to a stop as what I saying started to sink in.

My outrage turned to sullenness as both Akantha and Laurent looked down at me with disapproval.

“Hey,” I protested weakly, “don’t pick on a guy in his sick bed.” Even I—who did not want to—could see that something had to be done.

“Whatever,” Akantha glowered and stalked over to the far side of the room and half turned away from me. She was clearly planning to pretend to ignore me until she heard something that outraged her more. Then she would no doubt dive right back in with both feet.

“Why would we help them?” I said to Laurent and then before his look had turned more than slightly disapproving, I hung my head. Apparently the image they had of Jason the Invincible Dunderhead, who heroically threw himself on grenades for people he’d never met before—all so his wife could beat him over the head for being an idiot—wasn’t living up to his reputation. So I reluctantly added, “What I meant is how can we help them? Our fleet just got trashed!”

Laurent’s expression cleared at my clarification and, accepting the win, I lay back down in my bed and accepted this change of expression without saying anything. I mean everything I had just said was true. I really wanted to help people—I really did—it was my first, kneejerk, go-to response when I saw an injustice or innocents under threat. It’s just that I’d been burned too many times lately, and on top of that…well, blast it, our fleet did just get thrashed! Tracto had only now, this very day, been freed from invasion—and, for all I knew, an occupation—and now there was this new mess to deal with.

It wasn’t fair.

“It would be difficult, Admiral,” Laurent said, 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, I thought, deliberately ignoring all those execution happy, kangaroo court-loving, politicians back at Central. Sir Isaak, for one, immediately came to mind. That double dealing, two-faced, snake in ambassadorial clothing! He would be the first to die.

“I don’t believe a word of this,” Akantha declared and then strode for the exit, “when you are finally ready to stop lying to yourself about your intentions, we will talk. I know you too well to be taken in by any of this; men are all stupid that way. Even if you promise otherwise, you’ll find some way to get involved in this mess. It’s in your nature. ‘By hook or by crook’,” she said, clearly making sure she got the line right, “and blaming everything on the opposition, you’ll do what you want whether I like it or not. So just be thankful I am not accepting your word because, when you broke it, I would be forced to do something we would both regret.” She shook her head almost imperceptibly, “And I cannot bear that, not after being shriven from you for so long.”

With that she stormed out of the room.

“Stupid women,” I glared at the door with hot and angry eyes. On one level it was almost touching; she actually seemed to have missed me. But on the other, she had gone too far! First she wakes me up and then she accuses me of starting a war I had no idea about, and then when I tell her I’ll do whatever she wants she accuses me of lying and storms off in an angry huff. All because ‘she knew’ what I was going to do before I even knew what was going on. To my mind, she had just wanted to make sure to get her verbal licks in first, “Can’t live with ’em, can’t….” I trailed off, too risk-averse to hazard the words I would have liked to say getting back to her, if spoken in an open forum.

“I honestly don’t know if we can. And if we could, then when we could help,” Laurent said finally before adding, “and by ‘we’ I mean ‘the MSP’.”

“Exactly,” I exclaimed forcefully, “we might be physically incapable of helping! But never let the truth of an actual inability to do something—or your promise to follow her wishes on a subject—get in the way of a woman with her mad on!”

“Although…” Laurent said reluctantly, and it was the sort of reluctance that I instinctively disliked tremendously; it implied he was going to say something I didn’t like, “this is exactly the sort of situation the MSP was created for.”

Blast! He was right. I also noted the way he completely ignored my marital grousing as it regards women in general and started mentally cursing under my breath. I needed to deal with Sector 25—our sector—and Sir Isaak, first and foremost.

Not to mention the Border Worlds needed protection and patrolling if I was going to build a powerbase to counter balance Central and their infernal plotting. Along that line of thinking, and just plain because it needed doing or innocents were going to die, I needed to establish anti-piracy patrols and a unified effort to make sure they didn’t come back. Not to mention making sure the Bug threat was finally over once and for all. Nor was I too pleased with some of the ‘mercenary’ forces out there taking money to protect border worlds while running at the first sign of trouble—or worse, actively selling out to the pirates. The list went on and on.

“Did they mention any other reasons why I should help them?” I asked, dreading the answer.

I already had my hands full with all the shenanigans going on over here in 25 and just when it looked like I was finally in a position to start doing something about it, disaster strikes.

I needed good reason to go out and help other Sectors facing invasion Fleets like I needed a hole in the head. Sweet Murphy, I would have slept so much easier not knowing there were people out there needing my help. This would have all been so much easier if I’d had time to clean things up here at home first. As it was this was threatening to throw a real monkey in the wrench.

Was this Murphy’s way of taking his revenge for relying too much on luck?

“Well,” Laurent hesitated, pulling me back into the present. “the Representative is also a Sector Judge.”

“And that pertains how?” I asked, feeling perplexed and also a little hopeful. As far as I knew, Sector Judges weren’t something we actively needed right then. Maybe I could live with myself if there was no actual advantage to walking away other than ‘doing the right thing’. I mean, my uncle made his career out of looking out for number one and look how successful he’d been?

Laurent coughed into his hand and started to look squirrelly to my eyes.

“Go on; spit it out,” I sighed.

“There is a rumor of some sort of signed confession and an injunction from the Sector Judge. The 25th Sector Judge,” he quickly clarified, “not this new Representative slash Judge.”

My face tightened.I should have known the moment I thought about being like Jean Luc, Murphy and the Space Gods would smack me upside the head. This was all Akatha’s fault!

“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, I didn’t need to hear anymore. The Space Gods had tested me to see if I was turning into a Montagne like my Uncle and thanks to my wife’s accusations I’d cravenly tried to take the low road and leave the innocents to rot before even checking if I could do anything about their plight. Now I was being punished.

“It’s just that,” he continued, “looking at things from a perspective outside this fleet. An injunction removing you from command by a Sector Judge and orders from a supposed High Commander to stand down,” I noted how he very carefully didn’t mention the name of the now-deceased—but probably quickly replaced, and supposedly our Sector’s appointed High Commander—Rear Admiral Yagar, “might make your position as Admiral of the MSP appear…less than fully legitimate, at least 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. Yep, I concluded, this is my divine punishment for trying to take the easy way out.

“You lead and I’ll follow, of course, Sir,” Laurent declared.

I looked at him steadily.

“But…” I said leadingly.

Laurent looked like he’d finally said his piece but I knew better.

“But,” I prompted again, this time more forcefully.

“Man not Machine…it could be a problem, Admiral” Laurence finally sighed.

I stared at him. “Go on,” I said finally, “and I’ll assume this isn’t some kind of knee jerk, anti-AI bit of propaganda or bigotry speaking.”

“Well, Sir,” Laurent said carefully, “I actually do believe in the ‘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 that was fighting against a Droid Invasion force…Well, it would be a lot more politically risky for politicians and the armchair Admirals back in the Core than going up against the carbon cut-out media villain they’ve tried to create. On top of that, legally, what one Sector Judge orders another can overturn. I hate to say it, but that might help as much inside the fleet as it will outside what with all the new recruits we’ve got in the pipeline—recruits whose presence we have Druid and Warrant Officer Steiner to thank for.”

“Man not Machine,” I muttered, feeling a sour taste in my mouth.

“Man not Machine, Admiral. It’s a philosophy to live by—on more than one level,” Laurent agreed.

“I’m not sold,” I said with a sinking sensation in my stomach. Was I now to embrace unthinking, kneejerk bigotry as my shield against corrupt politicians? This couldn’t be what Murphy and the Space Gods wanted me to do!

“Of course not, Admiral Montagne,” Laurent said diffidently but behind it all I could see a level look in his eyes that belied his words.

I winced and felt myself waver. “A token force you say…I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to simply sit down with the Judge and ask questions,” I sighed not liking this primrose path any more than the others I’d heard about. “And finding out what’s really going on over there, as well as how big the threat actually is, could be important. I mean…it might not even be as bad as we’re all thinking,” I finished lamely.

“As you say,” Laurent nodded stoically.

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 tall tale to my friends and supporters, or future would-be supporters, I had more difficulty with—especially if I was promising to help save them, and even then only offering token assistance more for my own benefit than theirs. I mean…isn’t that what politicians do?

“Set it up,” I told him the words like ashes in my mouth. Was I to be saved from the well thought out and preplanned bigotry slash media blitz attack of the political class by the un-thought-out knee jerk bigotry of the masses against all thinking machines? It sounded like I could certainly use the cover of supporting a war against the machines but even if I wanted to I was far less certain that I could successfully sell a bill of goods to the representative.

Plus, could I really live with myself if I let dozens or scores of planets in each of those Sectors be conquered, and millions of people killed while I stood by and did nothing to try and stop it except score political points? On the other hand, if I did go in, could I spurn the political cover Laurent suggested I needed?

Man against the Machine, indeed.

What a wonderful way to wake up on your sickbed. Truly the only thing worse than a battle lost was a battle won.

I was so screwed.

Chapter 1: Meeting in Earnest

“Admiral Montagne, it’s so good of you to meet us,” the red-skinned Representative and Sector Judge from 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 I 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 and the Battle for Tracto has been won, that is.”

“The Confederated Spine,” the Representative said his mouth working, “an…interesting choice of words.”

“It seems apt, Ambassador,” I said and then allowed a frown to sully my, up till now, pleasantly non-committal features. “Although,” I let the word draw out, “if you’re not here to speak with the Admiral tasked by the Confederation to defend 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 request of those other Sectors or at the initiative of the Admiral. The former Imperial Admiral, that is, as I doubt they’d thought 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 commenting 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 the representative of a pair of beleaguered Sectors which desperately need all the help we can get.”

“I see,” I said sourly, disliking this man’s verbal jiu-jitsu skills just as much as I had expected I would.

“Admiral,” Representative Kong Pao said urgently, “I beseech you. My home world in 23 holds out for now, but worlds all along Sectors 23 and 24 are under fierce assault by the machine menace that calls themselves 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 another sour taste in my mouth, one not caused by the Representative as I asked myself a question: 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 and then charge 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.

“Tell me,” I said quietly, feeling repulsed by myself.

“Admiral Montagne,” Representative Kong asked with concern, “is something wrong?”

“Ambassador—” I corrected myself, “Representative Kong, if this is some kind of trick…Or, failing that, if after I help you and/or whoever sent you—whatever cabal, alliance of interests, or group of Sector or Planetary Leaders, or even simply whatever mass of concerned citizens you represent—turn around and betray me…” I locked gazes with him and said the next words as congenially as I could manage, “Say whatever you need to 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—but 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 several deep, cleansing breaths. “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, “help your planetary populations if I can.”

The Representative looked at first concerned, then fearful and then dismayed in turn. “Admiral…” he started and then stopped and swallowed. His eyes narrowed as he looked at me and then he thrust out his hand, “Look, Sir,” he said meeting my eyes and holding my stare, “and I mean that; despite your young age, it’s a matter of respect for what you have accomplished by taking control and rebuilding your organization. Admiral, 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 that which we haven’t been able to observe here personally in this star system.”

“Thanks,” I interjected 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. I was going to catch enough grief as it was—and not only from my wife—if I went all-in for these people. And with the current state of our Fleet, that was what it was going to have to be: all in with every undamaged unit we had.

“In the name of the Confederation and 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 or our civil liberties, or some meaningless political divide; this is a threat to all of humanity and life itself. These droids have to be stopped before we are overrun and they have the chance to consolidate their gains, set up automated factories on all the worlds and star systems they have already conquered, and then produce enough droids to replace our populations with mechanicals and sufficient warships to conquer new territories. Help us, please, Admiral. Else our problems become yours as soon as the droids finish defeating our fleets and rebuild their own forces to the point they decide it’s time to come over here.’’

It seemed awfully rehearsed, but there was the ring of truth to his words that I simply couldn’t dismiss out of hand. “You speak with passion,” I finally said, “enough that I believe you believe there is a major threat. You do understand, though, what will happen if you’re lying…or worse. I have no time for games; there are serious threats here in this Sector that 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 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 power all on my own. If you promise to help us then we will help you in any way we can to better facilitate that help.”

I stared into his eyes for over a minute in silence. Then I reached out and grasped his still extended hand. I’m not 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. So 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 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, 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, “why don’t you show me those facts and figures, Judge, and 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’d started out on this journey. A man determined to go out there and do some good whatever the cost to himself, “You see…I’m with the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet and we’re here to help.”

It appeared my wife Akantha had been right when she accused me; I was getting ready to start another war. And I had never felt so relieved in my life. I almost smiled at the ten kinds of Hades I was going to reap over this sensation. Once again I was riding to the rescue…and it almost felt good.

“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, Admiral Montagne!”

Chapter 2: The Devil in the Details

“The droids consist of three main forces, or Tribes as they call themselves,” Representative Kong said, getting down to business and eagerly inserting a data-chip into the holo-projector. “As you can see on the screen, this is a map of the two Sectors I represent and here,” he flicked a button changing the color of the various star systems in his sectors, “we have all the original inhabited star systems colored in white and now,” he suddenly added more colors to the chart, “we change the stars to represent red for the Tribes, Green for all the worlds we have contact with and leaving those worlds and systems we can’t reach or communicate with but do not believe conquered by the droids in white.”

“That’s a lot of conquered worlds,” I said, leaning back in my chair with surprise.

“Just under 40% of the worlds in my sector and 20% of Sector 24,” Kong Pao said heavily, “as you can see the situation is dire. The droids have taken most of the border worlds in both Sectors but the original plague started in 23 and they’ve made inroads into even the Core Worlds—or what passes for such worlds out here in the Spine.”

I stared at the screen and mulled things over for a bit, “You mentioned there seem to be three forces, not one unified droid front?” I asked.

Representative Pao hesitated and then gave a nod. “The droids call themselves by different group identifiers—they call them Tribes—and while they can and do work together, they have three different fleets and distinct ship types. They also seem to pursue different goals,” he informed me, “as such our analysts have reluctantly decided to allow that they are not one homogenous group but in fact three separate, although allied, forces.”

“Give me the breakdown,” I said wondering even as I said it if there was any point in learning the difference between the different droid factions. I mean every human I knew was pretty much agreed on ‘Man not Machine.’ Even giving the droids the benefit of as much sentience and individuality as humanity—something I wasn’t willing to do—it seemed logical to me that the droids in turn would most likely follow some kind of Machine not Man doctrine, which might make anything I learned here pretty pointless. Still, no information was completely pointless and allowing him to ramble on about the various droids would give me the chance to recover from the sight of so much of his two Sectors already conquered by the droids.

“I’m not sure the point of that for our purposes here,” Kong Pao said unhappily, but after that little protest seemed willing to get down to brass tacks, “the largest force consists of one type of droid and calls themselves The Unification through Conformity. The second most powerful group consist of three separate droid chassis that we have been able to identify so far: a Warrior Type, a Technician or Worker droid, and the Overseer Droids. If there are more types we haven’t seen them. This second group calls themselves Harmony through Specialization. And finally there is the smallest of the three droid Tribes. This group seems to consist of vastly different varieties of droids all working together, and they call themselves the Automated Sentient Assembly Tribe.”

“How much Fleet power are we talking about here, for each of the Tribes,” I interjected, “both as a whole and broken down Tribe by Tribe? I mean what I need to know is how many warships and what kind of firepower we’re talking about here. Both up in space and on the ground.”

“They have more battleships than we do,” Kong Pao said unhappily, “having been at peace for so long and with the certainty of an Imperial-Confederated Rim Fleet out there patrolling our borders and paid for with local tax credits, most of our politicians decided to put those larger SDF units we did have into moth balls. A series of deep strikes against our core worlds damaged or destroyed most of those units beyond repair…” he ground to a halt.

“We have our fair share of idiots who can’t see past their next election over here as well,” I said impatiently. “And while I understand the enormity of the losses you’re talking about, most of your heavy units were taken out while still in the yard—meaning they knew what to hit and where to find them. What I need to know isn’t yesterday’s spilt milk!” I paused, fighting the urge to pound the desk and instead took a deep breath, “What kind of fleet strength can I expect when we go in and just how big are these enemy fleets you’re talking about?” I asked more evenly.

Kong Pao sighed, “My own world of Harmony had two battleships active on the Day of Infamy, when our entire Sector was attacked simultaneously and when the Droids struck. Our other battleship was lost but those survived. Luoyang, our closest Core World to the border, had six but those were all in mothballs when the droids came and they only saved four of them from destruction by the heroic defense of their SDF,” the Representative said.

“Oh?” I asked with interest, sensing a story here.

“They only had smaller units activated at that time and acting upon orders of the Provincial Government, those units that were currently functional and within range of the Yards. Most of their defense fleet,” he said meeting my eyes, “activated the self-destruct in their fusion cores to take out the stealthed attackers,” Kong Pao bowed his head, “many Luoyang citizens died to save those ships.”

“They did this voluntarily?” I asked with a disbelief tinged respect.

“Sector 23 was settled predominantly by members of the Asiatic League,” Kong Pao said as if this explained everything, “our people have always believed in the good of the many over the needs of the few, or the one. So when asked, yes, they did this of their own free will. However they lost most of their trained manpower that day and after a crash refit program, only one of their ships had been put back in service before I left for Tracto with the Captain.”

“And the rest of the Sector?” I asked leaning forward.

“Mostly smaller units,” Kong Pao replied heavily, “a couple squadrons of Heavy Cruisers tasked with the Defense of their respective Core Worlds. I have a list of those cruisers, destroyers and corvettes provided to the member worlds of the Mutual Defense League by the provincial governments.”

I quickly scanned the list; it looked quite impressive to me but then I supposed that spread out over the half dozen core-worlds and thrice that in less developed worlds it was actually far less.

“What about Sector 24? According to your information,” I indicated the screen, “they are the least affected of the two Sectors in your…I think you called it ‘Mutual Defense League’?”

“Unification through Conformity—or ‘Conformity’ as we’ve taken to calling it—captured our Sector Central in 23 with a droid assault. Almost a month later, Harmony through Specialization annihilated 24’s Central Sector Government with punitive asteroid strikes after drawing off their defenders and defeating the smaller force left behind. Since then it’s been chaos, with every world for itself; it’s only recently that we’ve been able to form the MDL. Many worlds have been lost.”

“I feel for your losses,” I said after a moment. I realized these Droids were no joke if they knocked out each Sector’s Core Worlds’ major units and then launched decapitation strikes on both the Sector Capitals in fairly quick succession. “However, as I said, what I need is to stay focused on what we have today—not on past defeats however instructive.”

“I apologize,” the Representative said after taking a moment to gather himself.

“Sector 24 has maybe a dozen battleships between their dozen and a half still-free Core Worlds, with about half that many heavy cruiser squadrons. Everything else is an assortments of smaller units,” the Representative said bringing up the lists of fleet strength on each side, “which other than the planetary and system fixed defenses, are all that stand between those worlds and annihilation.”

“And the Machines?” I hazarded the most important question of them all. It was important to stay focused on the big picture.

“Conformity only seems to utilize a single ship type: a twelve sided dodecahedron which seems to be scalable in size. They use the twelve-sided ships for everything from freight hauling to ship combat. Each ship is somewhat versatile and thus able to fight. It can attack and defend itself but they only seem to have the one configuration for their ships: the twelve sided. Even their fighters, slow and ineffective as they are, come in the dodecahedron shape…ineffective as the fighters are individually when they come to our systems they do so in significant, some would say overwhelming, numbers. With the Specialization Tribe we’ve seen—or rather, we’ve observed—three different main types of attack ships, each with a different function, ranging from small to large sizes. But generally their larger units are no bigger than Heavy Cruisers. As for the Automated Assembly…” Kong Pao paused as if to gather his thoughts.

I made a ‘take your time’ gesture and poured him some water to soothe his throat.

“Thank you,” the Representative from the Mutual Defense League said with a smile before continuing, “they seem to be based out of at least one Settlement ship-sized constructor type ship.”

“A Constructor?” I asked with surprise. “How does that make any sense; one good hit and it’s annihilated along with their Tribe. Those ships aren’t designed for offense, or even proper defense.”

“I did say ‘constructor type’,” the Representative clarified, “if it wasn’t a droid creation from the beginning, this one’s been intensely modified to the point its original origin ship is completely unrecognizable.”

I felt a chill as I tried to imagine a settlement ship-sized warship that could build like a constructor and fight like a supersized battleship.

“What kind of combat power are we talking about here?” I had to ask.

“Unlike our constructors, which have partially extendable wings for scaffolding, this thing seems able to expand to triple its jump capable size,” he said and I felt a chill go down me. That was huge! “Essentially, when it unpacks it’s able to fulfill all the duties of an orbital factory and medium sized shipyard all rolled into one, with a small orbital smelting operation. From what we’ve seen they have a number of jump-capable carriers their mining ships are based out of. Although I suppose they could just build more mining units at need on the main ship, if necessary.”

“A completely mobile, industrial base,” I said, grappling with the concept. For all that they were lauded as an evil race of AI servants, common holo-culture had shown Droids as either based on their own hidden mechanical worlds or else launching surprise attacks to take hold of human built ships and technology. The idea of a supersized droid constructor ship able to pick up shop any time it was threatened by the simple expediency of fleeing to hyperspace was…disturbing. Even a nominally ‘dead system’ of no use to humanity would serve them just fine, and it explained a lot about how these Tribes had survived humanities persecution all these years. Finding such a ship would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack…unless you could make them come to you.

“For a species of machines reviled and hunted throughout known space, it explains a lot about how they survived for so long,” Kong Pao said, apparently following my train of thought, “fortunately for us it only appears to have the armament of medium or heavy cruiser. This is according to our best scouting reports, and while it has shield generators this droid mother-ship’s very nature as an extendable ship that unpacks into a mobile industrial node means that its armor is almost nonexistent.”

An image appeared on the screen of the ship at its extended and un-extended forms. “This is what it looks like in both of its observed configurations,” the Representative explained. “If it has other forms we don’t know it. What we can say for sure is that this thing is highly modular and modifiable by the droids.”

“Right,” I said after a moment of reflection, “their main ship has cruiser level fighting power, but what about the rest of their fleet?”

The Representative shrugged, “So far they seem to be the weakest of the three groups and the most elusive. We haven’t seen anything bigger than a large destroyer or small cruiser. We know they have a few squadrons and have taken control of a few star systems but our main focus has been on the other two more aggressive droid fleets.”

“So what you’re saying…is that you have absolutely no idea of the enemy’s true strength,” I said shortly.

“Far from it,” Kong Pao said rising from his chair with growing alarm, “I’ve just presented you with a report on every ship type we’ve ever seen the enemy produce! As well as estimated force level projections.”

I snorted and leaned back in my chair, physically distancing myself from Kong Pao and his report.

“We are heavily outnumbered!” the Ambassador exclaimed before catching himself and furrowing his brows at me. “Please…I beg you; we need your help.”

“You say you have a half-a-dozen battleships in your home Sector alone, and something on the order of twice that in Sector 24,” I said scathingly, “even if I’m to believe this fairytale of yours, I still fail to see why you need me at all.”

Kong Pao blinked and his face went blank. “I don’t understand,” he said carefully.

“Concentrate and annihilate, man!” I said, throwing my hands in the air and wondering if every civilian was as clueless when it came to naval affairs as this former Sector Judge…although, since he was still a sitting Sector Judge, it wasn’t proper to consider him a former one. “It doesn’t matter the number of hulls the enemy has, that’s why they Pearl Harbored your battleships while they were in the yard,” I explained in the face of his apparent continuing lack of comprehension.

“Pearl Harbor?” Kong Pao asked with a lift of a single brow.

“You never saw the holo-vid?” I asked with surprise. “It was all over the Sector a few years back! Supposedly based on real life events, genetically-engineered humans—operating under the command of their AI masters—launched a series of suicide attacks against an entire fleet of human resistance vessels and…” I trailed off, feeling mildly embarrassed as I once again tried to make a military point using my extensive holo-entertainment knowledge. “You know what, that’s not important. What is important is that a single battleship can take on any number of smaller, lesser warships and a whole fleet can really rain some pain. You don’t need me at all; what you need is to find the droids and send a fleet of your battleships out there to destroy them.” I paused as I considered my proposed plan, “Or, better yet, lure them to you and get them deep inside a gravity well and crush them.”

“It’s for these very sorts of insights that the Mutual Defense League so desperately needs your help,” Kong Pao said quickly.

I couldn’t help myself, at these buttery words I lowered my brow and gave him the hairy eyeball.

“Help…and leadership,” the Representative tried again, “that only you can…” he trailed off, visibly stopping himself.

I scratched an ear and then shook my head sadly. “Don’t try and sell me a bill of goods, Mr. Ambassador,” I said as sympathetically as I could manage, considering he’d just tried to stroke my military ego by trying to make me out to be some kind of genius. Barely competent I could probably accept—insanely lucky at times, I would own up to in a heartbeat—but I was under no illusion that I was the second coming of Julius Caesar or Roger Light-Blaster, “I don’t think that’s a tact that will work out well for either of us.”

“Again, it’s not Ambassador but,” he sighed and then calmly walked around the table and sat down in the conference chair closest to mine. He seemed to pause a moment to gather himself and then looked at me with penetrating eyes, “Let me be frank.”

“I really wish you would,” I said with a nod, my eyes assessing his every move, gesture and facial expression, wondering if this time we would finally get down to the truth. He opened his mouth but I held up a hand to stop him, “My patience is wearing thin and it would be best if this time we get to the truth.”

“What can I do to retain your services?” Kong Pao asked evenly, meeting my eyes and holding them.

“Let’s try this again,” I said leaning forward, “why exactly do you think you are in need of my services?” I then suppressed an eye roll, “And if it’s because of my large—currently shot-up—fleet, or a reputation as a budding tactical genius who’s uniquely able to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat, I hope you’re prepared to stay sitting down.”

“A large fleet and a tactical genius would be most welcome,” the Representative allowed gravely and then leaned forward, “but not as important as a unifying figure from outside the Sector; a Confederation Admiral perhaps who, after sending a single patrol into our besieged star-space, decided to come here personally to take command of our defenses and organize, then lead, a strike deep into what is now droid space. A man who can legitimately claim the auspices of the old Confederated Authority, is without a dog in any of our strictly local politics, and has a growing reputation as a terrible foe to cross. I could use someone who has taken on both the pirates and the local Sector authority, and come out on top in both cases.”

It was my turn to blink, taken aback by his presentation of the information. “I’m not sure the man you’re looking for even exists,” I said dourly. I could feel my head start to swell and what was worse, finding that I was actually liking the sensation. That was before my rational brain kicked back into gear, of course.

“Legends are a series of terrible events that happened to someone a longtime ago, and heroes are people who died,” Kong Pao agreed, “by definition legends and heroes cannot exist in the present.”

“So what exactly are you looking for from me, Judge Pao?” I asked, feeling mildly relieved and more than a little unsettled at his, mostly accurate, description of heroes and legends.

“I believe we could save ourselves if we could just all get out and push in the same direction for once, instead of looking out for our own provincial interests first and foremost all the time. With both our Sector Capitol gone and no spare battle fleet in sight to ride to the rescue what I need is a symbol,” he took a deep breath, “what I need, Vice Admiral Montage, is a Confederation Admiral with a Confederation Fleet, and as many ships as you can spare, to help sell the idea back home,” Kong Pao said. “And I need them as soon as possible. Fleet size is negotiable, but it needs you present and it needs to happen as soon as possible. Time equals worlds lost and people dead, Admiral.”

I suppressed a flinch, wishing he had somehow come to me before everything went in the pot and I was set up to be executed by my own government. I wasn’t the same carefree young man I’d been back before almost being killed in my own office. Near-death, a trial ending with a guilty verdict, and the battle with my Uncle Jean Luc for control of Tracto had changed me.

“When will you need an answer?” I asked calmly, hiding the great turmoil that raged inside me.

“As soon as possible,” Kong Pao replied, meeting my eyes with a level look.

This time I was the first to break his gaze and for a long moment I stared at the floor thinking. “I need to confer with my officers and the Government of Tracto before making a final decision and before knowing just what kind of force I could bring to the table at need,” I said heavily, my mind drawn to the thought of helpless women and children being ground under the metal boot of a droid soldier model. An invasion like this one was the second worst nightmare of known space, coming in behind only a return of the vicious AI Masters of old and their dreaded cost/benefit model. Personally it didn’t get much worse for me than being eaten alive by Bugs. But for many people, the Machine threat was the be all, end all, of worst nightmares come to life.

I quirked a smile, figuring that for those near the Gorgon Front that alien invaders figured just as prominently in their restless nights as Bugs did in mine.

“I will eagerly await your answer then,” Judge Pao said serenely, his tone of voice sounding at odds with his choice of words.

I stood. “My men can get you a shuttle back to Captain Middleton’s ship, or we can assign you temporary quarters here,” I informed him.

“If it’s all the same to you, I prefer to stay where the action is; this ship will do fine,” Kong Pao stood and bowed in a strange fashion.

It wasn’t all the same to me; I would have preferred the damage to the Armor Prince throw him off his desire to stay at my proverbial side. I would have preferred he took a liking to the idea of returning to the medium cruiser, but there we were.

“The damage here has been extensive so I can’t promise the kind of quarters you’re probably used to. With that in mind, so long as you’re willing to stay, I’m sure the quartermaster can find you a place to lay your head,” I said, turning and gesturing toward the door.

“Thank you, Admiral Montagne,” the Sector Judge started for the door.

“Just one thing before you go, Representative Kong,” I said.

Kong Pao turned fully around until he was facing me. “Yes, Admiral?” he inquired.

“As you will become aware, if you aren’t already, I already have certain obligations in this Sector—obligations that I would be forced to leave untended while I mustered a relief fleet for 23 and 24.” My gaze sharpened as I looked at him, “We’ve spoke much about the threat to the worlds in the lower Spine will face with or without my assistance, but we never got around to what your Sectors were prepared to contribute to the MSP and the rest of the Spine.”

“Contribute?” Kong Pao said with open alarm. “We are heavily pressed at the moment…what would you have us do? Not that we are unwilling,” the man’s serene exterior broke and he looked concerned as he added hastily, “I’m simply speaking in a practical concern.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” I said, feeling nonplussed. This man was supposed to be an ambassador to the MSP, and after an extended voyage across two Sectors he hadn’t bothered to think of what he could do to sweeten the pot and entice us to help?

“As I’ve mentioned before, any legal entanglements you are currently mired in can be dealt with, what one Sector Judge can order another can undo—” Kong Pao started.

“I wasn’t thinking of anything so crass as my own personal needs,” I said, drawing back as if offended while on the inside I was willing to consider any bribes or incentives he might have to offer. I was willing because such incentives weren’t going to impact my ultimate decision. I’d either do the right thing or I wouldn’t because I found myself without the resources and literally unable to help in any meaningful fashion. Either way, whatever kickbacks came my way was just fine with me; I just wasn’t going to go out of my way looking for them. It was the Caprian Way, after all.

Still I was much more interested in how helping these sectors now was going to tie them back into the rest of the Confederation in the Spine. I know I was thinking big and trying to build a structure, a…multi-sector government perhaps, out of a molehill and a bunch of wishful thinking but there it was. Anything I could do to help save these people and weld them back into an overarching Confederation governmental structure I needed to do, or at least appear to do.

“Then…what are we talking about, Admiral Montagne?” Kong Pao asked cautiously.

“You’ve come here asking me what I and the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet can do for you,” I said with a shrug and a shark like smile, “now I’m turning the question back upon you, Judge, and I’m asking: what can you and your people do for the Confederation?”

“What did you have in mind?” the Sector Judge asked cautiously.

I smiled and it was smile with a very hard edge to it. “As you will recall, at the beginning of these…difficulties, your worlds withdrew the warships they’d forwarded to the MSP,” I observed mildly.

“Worlds of Sector 24 may have done so, as they were one of the three Sectors that originally agreed to contribute ships to the MSP as it began to replace the Imperial Rim Fleet. However, I don’t have that information yet nor am I aware if any of those worlds are a part of the MDL as of the time I left on Captain Middleton’s cruiser for here,” Kong Pao verbally backpedaled, “as you know, I’m originally from Sector 23.”

“I don’t hold you to blame for something you yourself weren’t involved with, and I am prepared to let bygones be bygones,” I hastened to assure the nervous looking Representative.

Kong Pao looked relieved.

“However,” I said, and just like that the tension was back, “for a start I’m going to want all those ships—or at least their tonnage in different ships—returned to the MSP, along with a similar number of new warships from Sector 23,” I flashed him the patented Royal smile. “After all, if we’re going to be defending you we’re going to want the official nod from 23 welcoming us for now and going forward. To wit, I’m going to want both Sectors—but most especially yours in 23—to sign a binding agreement similar to the original charter endorsed by the founding sectors of 24, 25 and 26…but with a few modifications.”

“What modifications?” the Representative asked, having recovered himself by this point.

“We are an at-will organization and I have no intention of changing that,” I explained, “however the…overly hasty ‘recall’ of every vessel but my Flagship when the Empire withdrew has pointed out a flaw in allowing for immediate recall. That’s why, in addition to requiring the officers and crew of each ship to swear an oath to the Confederation and the MSP, I’m going to have to insist that each ship be forwarded to us for the duration of upheaval in the Spine and place a six month waiting clause so that these ships cannot be withdrawn by their home governments until after we’ve had time to adjust our patrol routes to compensate. I’m also going to have to insist on allowing our internal personnel department to assign and transfer personnel around as needed for the good of the fleet. We’re a rapidly growing organization with lots of fresh faces, and we need to be able to shift people around at need.”

“I can understand why you feel that way…and, barring a few complaints about the personnel transfers which you may need to be involved with later, I think it’s safe to say that my government, as well as the League itself, will be more than willing to draw up and sign any such documents,” Kong Pao allowed.

“Good,” I said with a nod.

The Representative started for the door.

“Oh and there’s one more thing, Mr. Ambassador,” I said, deliberately ignoring his much-repeated line that he wasn’t an ambassador.

Kong Pao once again turned to face me.

“Battleships,” I said simply.

“I’m not sure I follow,” the Representative said after a moment.

“Think on it for a while; when you have, get back to me,” I said.

“Are you asking for more ships?” the Representative asked.

“We’ll talk again,” I said, neatly sidestepping the conversation. I wanted him thinking on this and to be ready for me the next time we talked, “Good day, Mr. Ambassador.” At the same time I didn’t want to push too far and have negotiations blow in my face.

“Good day, Admiral,” Kong Pao said faintly.

I watched as a troubled looking man left the conference room, clearly wondering how much more deeply I was going to try and get into the pockets of his government and the MDL.

He was darn-blasted-right that I wanted my hands on some more battleships! Among other worlds desperately in need of our assistance, he’d just mentioned a world named ‘Harmony’ currently in possession of a number of extra battleships and no crews to run them. If it was a choice between my green officers and crews and their green officers and crews, I wanted to get my bid in early. But if not, I was sure there would be other opportunities for an ambitious, young—and most importantly, growing—operation like ours. I just had to keep my ears open and my wits about me.

However, I had other appointments to see to today.

Which was why as soon as the Ambassador left, I activated the conference table’s com-link.

“Please send in my next appointment,” I told the com-tech on the other end of the line.

“Right away, Admiral,” the man said moments before the door swished open.

In stepped Captain Middleton. Upon reflection, I decided that even though it was less politic I maybe should have spoken with the Captain before I spoke with the Ambassador. Unfortunately, Kong Pao had been waiting for me ever since I woke up in medical while I’d had to have my wayward Patrol Captain shipped over here by shuttle.

My eyes narrowed as the door closed behind him and he strode into my office with his head held far higher than it had any business being—this man had risen to the very top of my own personal list of problems, and I intended to deal with him appropriately.

Chapter 3: Meeting in the Middle

“Thank you for seeing me, sir,” Captain Middleton said professionally as he entered my office.

“The pleasure is mine,” I replied, gesturing to the chair opposite my own, “after all, it’s not often the dead come back to life and I get the chance to speak with the captain of a ship that’s been missing for the better part of a year!”

Middleton barely even flinched, and I saw that he held a data slate in one hand and a data crystal in the other. He separated the two items and slid them across the desk toward me.

I steepled my fingers and glanced down to the two objects before meeting Middleton’s eyes and holding him with an assessing gaze for several seconds before saying, “Now, if you’d be so kind as to tell me just what the blazes happened that caused a simple one month border patrol to turn into an almost one year odyssey, I would be most appreciative!” I said with an emphatic thump of my fist against the desk.

Captain Middleton nodded, swallowing the quickly-formed lump in his throat. “Yes, Admiral,” he replied, gesturing to the data slate and crystal. “The complete details are listed there—“

“To the Demon with your details,” I snapped. “You’ve brought a storm of trouble on your heels, Captain,” I stressed the rank pointedly, “and I’m not sure I can handle any more crises at the present moment. I need officers who contribute to the removal of obstacles, not those who add to the seemingly endless supply of troubles the universe seems determined to hurl our way!” I leaned forward and said hotly, “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t strip you of your command and put you on the first ship to Capria.”

“In truth, Admiral,” the man said gravely, “I’ve had a similar conversation not long ago, where I asked a man for just such a reason. I hate to borrow another man’s words,” he said evenly, “but in this case I can’t think of a better way to make my case.”

“By all means—parrot this other man’s words,” I said, leaning back in my chair and flipping a languid hand at odds with the iron in my gaze. “This should be good.”

“I’ll leave it for you to judge,” Middleton said neutrally as he took the data slate into his hands and entered the password, which populated the screen with a series of shifting shapes and colors that were frankly nauseating to look at for more than a few seconds. With the visual representation live, he turned the slate over and pushed it toward me and I irritably snapped it up without breaking eye contact with the errant Captain.

I held the slate in my hands for several seconds before finally glancing down at its contents for just a few moments and seeing a swirl of shapes and colors blending into and out of each other hypnotically and I felt my guts tighten. “A screen saver?” I demanded as calmly as I could manage. “I expected something a little more…I don’t know,” I said, doing my best not to leap across the table and strangle the man, “substantial? Backside covering? Filled with mystery and innuendo perhaps?”

“That,” Captain Middleton said, “is a representation of the raw data stream for the local, Sector 25 branch of a certain communications system which, until recently, was believed to have been rendered inoperable around the same time as you assumed command.”

My eyes widened ever so briefly before I took back rigid control of my face and looked back down at the data slate’s contents more intently. This time when I looked I saw a series of numbers on the lower left border of the screen, which were constantly in flux, I vaguely recognized them as the ComStat network’s date-stamp.

Captain Middleton leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “Admiral, despite reports to the contrary, that Comm. system is still very much intact and in operation throughout the Spineward Sectors. If you allow us to resupply and make a few much-needed modifications to the Pride…I can give you the ComStat network.”

My eyes flicked back and forth from the data slate as I considered the possibilities of such a remarkable statement, and wondered if I could actually trust anything the man said at this point. If I couldn’t, he’d soon be serving a stint on a Tracto penal colony on the other side of the world from the single inhabited continent, but if I could…then this new information would definitely put the fat in the frying pan.

“Captain Middleton,” I said eventually, deactivating the slate and leaning back in my chair as a polite media patented smile came over my face, “you have my complete and undivided attention.” I let the silence linger for a few seconds before adding, “Make it good and you might even walk out of here in command of your cruiser.”

“Admiral,” Captain Middleton said, leaning forward in his chair and pointing at the data slate, “the details are going to border on the absurd—Murphy knows even I have a hard time believing what we stumbled onto during our tour out there—but I have a technician on board the Pride of Prometheus who has already uploaded a program onto a ComStat hub in Sector 23 which, while we were in the vicinity of that hub’s immediate operation, granted us the ability to capture any data that passed through it. He assures me that if we upload the program to several more hubs—believe me,” Middleton said as I opened my mouth to ask just how many more hubs would be needed, “I’ve tried to pin it down, but the truth is he doesn’t know. He says it could be two, or it could be ten; the ComStat network is just too foreign technologically even for him. But after we’ve uploaded it to enough hubs, we will gain the ability to both receive and send transmissions across it.”

“How, exactly, did you manage to secure the services of a technician who is capable of cracking the least accessible system in the galaxy?” I asked, still not entirely convinced of this farfetched tale but at least willing to hear the man out. Too bad Steiner was out on assignment since she was my ‘go to’ girl when it came to top-secret communications department work. Her and that system analyst of hers, that Mike…I wondered if he was still onboard ship or if he’d taken off with her on the recruiting drive. I made a mental note to remember to check; I needed this information verified one way or the other as fast as possible.

Middleton shook his head slowly and took a breath—never a good sign, in my experience. “Admiral, as I said, the details are likely to strain belief,” he began tentatively, but under the weight of my gaze he relented, “we took significant casualties just a few weeks after entering Sector 24, Admiral. It became necessary to secure replacements, and my options were limited.”

“I don’t like where this is going, Captain,” I said in a dire tone which very much reflected my actual feelings on the matter, “repeating yourself and telling me how much I’m not going to believe something do little to add to your case.”

“I didn’t like it, either Admiral,” the other man said, intelligently ignoring my second point in favor of desperately clinging to my first, “but it was either that or tuck tail and run. You didn’t send me out there to come running back at the first sign of trouble, so I made an executive decision—the first of many,” he added with what I took to be a weary tone as he rubbed the back of his neck. “The technician—and roughly half of my remaining crew—are from a planet called Shèhuì Héxié in Sector 24.”

“I’ve never heard of it,” I said dryly, hoping to speed the conversation along. Before this meeting started I’d had half a mind to promote Senior Lieutenant Archibald to Lieutenant Commander and put him in command of Middleton’s ship, but now that didn’t look like that was going to happen any time soon.

Blast this man! First he brings me a Representative from Sector 23 demanding I ride to the rescue and save the day once again, and then he doesn’t even have the decency to let me tear his head off properly and threaten to demote him before pulling a rabbit out of his hat. I was the one who pulled rabbits, not this headstrong officer who made ‘executive decisions’ that left me short a medium cruiser for the better part of a year!

Blast and curse it; I could have used that cruiser! If I was forced to pin a medal on this man’s chest instead of stripping him of command as I had intended, he was going to suffer. I didn’t know when and I didn’t know how, but my revenge would be swift and it would be certain.

“Well, they were…reluctant to offer more than technical support and equipment replacements,” the Captain explained, clearly oblivious to the mental turmoil his words had caused me. “I made my case to the best of my ability, but they wouldn’t have it. So with a little creative thinking—and some helpful advice from a young smashball player from that world who wanted nothing more than to become a Lancer—I managed to convince them to grant us access to a certain segment of their population which they were unlikely to miss.”

I closed my eyes. This just keeps getting better and better, I thought to myself, feeling certain I had already deduced his meaning. “Was it prisoners or mutineers you took on as crew?” I asked, wondering exactly just how much trouble this man had gotten himself into out on what was supposed to be a simple ‘wave the flag’ run, along the border of 25 and 24—I’d said nothing at all about patrolling Sector 23, seeing as it was on the other side of Sector 24!

“Prisoners—and I had no choice, Admiral,” Middleton replied without a hint of apology in his voice, and I was equally pleased and angered by the man’s assertion.

It was good to have officers who believed in what they were doing and would stand up to me when necessary, but those officers became dangerous to everyone when their judgment became impaired. Like, for example, when they started to patrol along the wrong border of a border patrol assignment on their own ‘executive decision’ authority—which was looking more and more the case with Captain Middleton. I was the executive, and which border he patrolled was my decision—as was the duration of said patrol!

“It was either that or abandon the mission,” he continued, either unaware or unwilling to risk commenting on the stormy thoughts boiling behind my angry eyes, “and I’d already uncovered what would turn out to be a full-blown conspiracy which was crippling the military strength of Sectors 23 and 24. I couldn’t turn back, sir, not without more information.”

“Conspiracy?” I demanded angrily. “You mean you knew about the droids for these last six months and made no effort to come back here and report?!”

“No, sir,” Middleton said quickly, “we didn’t learn about the droids until several months later. I’m talking about the Raubachs.”

“The Raubachs?” I repeated, vaguely recognizing the name from its affiliation with the Cornwallis family. A consortium of their two houses manufactured the CR-70 series, Corvette-class, ships which were highly favored by SDF’s throughout the Spine for their adaptability and ease of maintenance.

“Yes, Admiral,” the other man acknowledged, “they staged a highly-coordinated series of mutinies and attacks against local military assets spread across Sectors 23 and 24. One of these mutinous officers, a Captain Meisha Raubach, had seized a pair of Corvettes and was guarding a gas mining facility which they had converted into a bioweapons manufacturing facility. We managed sneak in and deal with her—“

“Wait, hold on,” I interjected sharply, “a bioweapons facility?”

“Yes, Admiral,” he said with a quizzical note to his voice, “it’s all in the report, sir.” When my eyes narrowed dangerously, he cleared his throat and continued, obviously doing his best to stay with the report, “As I was saying, we neutralized Captain Raubach before purging the mining facility of the hazardous equipment, materials, and other contraband. But I suffered roughly 50% losses to my crew when the pirate captain hit us with a Liberator torpedo armed with a virus, rather than the usual ship-busting charge. I’m guessing they wanted to field test the weapon’s efficacy,” he said darkly, “and we provided an optimal target. I’d like you to review that particular report, Admiral,” he added heavily, “I’m well aware that my firing on a surrendered vessel is against most conventions, but I believe I was justified in doing so based on the presence of the bioweapon and its willful deployment against my crew—“

“Wait,” I interrupted, stiffening rigidly in my chair and feeling my stomach twist at the man’s report. Bioweapons and firing on surrendered vessels were both beyond the pale as far as I was concerned, “Just tell me how far into your mission this took place?”

“Three weeks, Admiral,” the other man replied evenly.

I closed my eyes and gestured for him to continue, mortally certain that I would be including ship’s counsel in analyzing Captain Middleton’s illfated mission logs to prepare for the inevitable actions against him—and the organization of which he was a part.

This was exactly the headline that I didn’t need: The Tyrant of Cold Space Strikes Again! Shooting down surrendered warships and, by the time the media got its hands on things and twisted it all to Hades, they’d have me personally launching the bioweapons—not the other way around.

“With such heavy losses it became necessary to replenish the crew, as I said before,” Middleton explained. “After we had done so, we set out to continue on our patrol. We uncovered a scuttled weapons depot disguised as a research colony, which had been bombarded from orbit by a powerful ship of as-then unknown design—a ship which we later learned belonged to one of the three, primary droid tribes operating in Sectors 23 and 24. We engaged that vessel as it made to leave the system, and were it not for our robust forward shields and my Chief Engineer’s fastidious nature, I have little doubt we would have been destroyed before they point transferred out of system.”

“You engaged the ship as it was making for point transfer?” I asked. “How could they fight you off while diverting most of their energy toward the jump?”

“That’s one of the primary points of my tactical assessment, Admiral,” Captain Middleton nodded. “My people don’t have the expertise to provide a complete breakdown, but it became obvious that the droid vessels don’t exclusively employ conventionally-powered weapons,” he said before leaning forward with a grim look on his face. “They’ve managed to build and deploy antimatter-fueled weapons which are capable of generating incredible power on short notice and don’t drain their other systems whatsoever.”

“Antimatter weaponry is supposed to be impossible,” I frowned at the conference table. “The radiation generated by them is completely incompatible with life—“ I caught myself as the word left my lips and breathed a short sigh.

“I had the same thought, Admiral,” the other man offered. “But they’ve obviously managed to shield their sensitive components, because a Destroyer-sized vessel appears capable of using an antimatter-fueled weapon twice—and likely no more than that—during an engagement and a Battlecruiser was seen to fire three times. Those weapons hit harder than anything in the Spine, sir. Even the Pride couldn’t withstand multiple strikes in rapid succession.”

My eyebrows rose in surprise, “You engaged an enemy BC armed with antimatter weaponry, and lived to tell about it?”

Captain Middleton shook his head hesitantly. “No, sir…they, the Droid BC, provided cover for us to escape from three other droid destroyers. Admiral, we had a Hades of a run out there. I’m frankly amazed we made it back at all.”

I shook my head in barely-concealed bewilderment. “Continue, Captain; you were going on about this antimatter weaponry.”

“Yes, Admiral,” Middleton replied readily, “my people agree that the constraining issue for the droids’ use of antimatter isn’t one of containing the reaction, but rather transporting the delicate stuff through point transfers. The mechanisms required, and sensitivity of the containment systems used, would necessitate huge storage chambers with large power draws. You should have your people look at the data, but it looks to me and mine that only a few of their ships are likely to be armed with antimatter weapons.”

“I’ll have my people examine your data,” I agreed darkly. “But about that technician of yours…” I prompted. I was trying to divert the conversation back toward something semi-innocuous, while I tried to grapple with the idea of bioweapons, attacking surrendered ships and, the cherry on top of it all, usable antimatter weaponry. It was like something out of my worst nightmares.

“Sorry, sir,” the other man apologized, “he was actually placed on board my ship under a false identity, which was created by his government in an attempt to quietly get rid of him. Long story short, he’s one-in-a-billion in terms of brainpower but otherwise he’s a fairly normal sixteen year old kid who, prior to his incarceration, had been planning to hack the ComStat network as the defining masterpiece of his computer hacking ‘career’. He wrote the very program we uploaded to the ComStat hub, and personally installed it into the hub’s mainframe…I lost a few good Lancers during that op, sir, but we managed to install the program. We don’t have full network access yet,” he said warningly, “but my technician assures me his program will grant us precisely that after we’ve uploaded it to enough separate hubs. I won’t even try to explain his reasoning, sir, since I don’t understand it myself. But I’ve got no reason to doubt his assertions at this point.”

“Back up to the Battlecruiser,” I said after rolling the man’s words around in my head a few times. “Why would one droid ship actively seek to defend you from another of them—let alone three?”

“That’s…complicated, Admiral,” Captain Middleton said tensing momentarily before slumping his shoulders in resignation, the fight seeming to go out of him as his eyes closed, “and I accept full responsibility, sir.” He shook his head for a moment before opening his eyes, “A member of my crew who we picked up from the aforementioned gas mining facility provided a means of communication with the droid Battlecruiser, and I ordered my people to utilize it even without verifying the contents of the transmission beforehand.”

“Your technician worked out how to communicate with the droids?” I asked evenly, more incredulous at the notion than anything.

“No, sir,” Middleton replied, “it was…my ex-wife.”

“Really,” I said fighting to keep my incredibly out of my voice. What was this, the Love Boat in Space? “From shooting down surrendered vessels, to recruiting under-aged criminal technicians, to recruiting your ex-wife into your crew so you could communicate with the machines if the urge took you. I really must ask,” I said my eyes boring into his, “is there a regulation you didn’t decide to discard as inconvenient on the good ship, Pride of Prometheus?”

“Sir,” Middleton said as he went red-faced, “I accept full responsibility for the incident and have since confined Doctor Middleton to her quarters and placed her on constant surveillance, pending your review and final determination regarding the matter. She apparently had some degree of contact with the one of the droid tribes previously when they saved her life following an attack on her colony by a rival tribe. Again, Admiral,” he said, clearly uncomfortable with the subject, “it’s all there in more detail in the report.”

“Break it down for me, Captain,” I said as neutrally as I could manage. So, the bastard thought he could needle me back by once again referencing the report, did he? He must either really hate me or be firm in his convictions…or maybe both. Either way, he was made of sterner stuff than I was used to encountering in my subordinates. In a way, it was almost nice to meet with someone who didn’t think I walked on water.

“She sent them a transmission which said we were potential allies,” Middleton replied after a brief pause, “and that was enough to turn their guns off us and onto the enemy. That Battlecruiser went down in the fight, Admiral,” Middleton said, his voice almost a plea, “I can’t believe they would sacrifice such a powerful vessel for the sake of deceiving us. They told us, through her, that they knew they were no match for the three Destroyers and urged us to flee while they covered our escape.”

“Let me guess,” I blinked and then my eyes narrowed as I tried to figure the angles both human and mechanical and also I think finally getting a feel for the way the man operated, “you didn’t flee?”

“Of course not, Admiral,” Middleton said stiffly. “We had weapons we could lend to the fight and an enemy in our sights who had previously tried to destroy us. And after seeing how the MSP’s Flag Officer charged into the fray against pirates without even a single weapon to fire at them, I knew we couldn’t back down just because it looked hopeless.”

The man was either cleverer than I thought in using verbal jiu-jitsu to turn my own actions against me, or else he was finally losing his nerve and trying to be a suck up…but I had to admit that he had a point. Under my leadership, the MSP had exuded a decided ‘can-do’ attitude from the top-down, and it seemed my actions had spawned some unforeseen consequences further down the chain of command.

“I suppose I can’t castigate you for a failing which I, myself, have been found guilty,” I finally allowed. All the while I was mulling over the apparently very real notion that maybe when they talked about three different droid tribes, there really were some actual differences between the mechanicals. There even seemed to be enough difference between them that they could be turned against one another if the situation was right. This idea would definitely bear further thought…I mused silently.

“Failing, sir?” Middleton asked with a cocked eyebrow. “If you hadn’t done that I wouldn’t be here today. I, and those under my command, can only hope to emulate your forthright approach—“

“Enough, Captain,” I waved him off. I needed his tongue polishing my backside like I needed a blaster to the head, “How about the rest of the high points—if they can be called such?”

“Yes, Admiral,” Middleton said with a brief, confused look before taking the data slate and opening the report, which he proffered for my perusal. “That should cover the second tier of events.”

I scanned the report, which included a handful of more engagements with pirate vessels—including one in which Captain Middleton had employed an antiquated missile platform known as ‘Starfire’ missiles to disable half of an enemy flotilla. He then, with the help of a nearby SDF force, captured a pair of Destroyers while chasing off a third destroyer and surviving pair of Corvettes.

“I’ve got to hand it to you, Middleton,” I grudged, “you take the ‘go big or go home’ philosophy to a new level. I don’t know if I should suspend you or promote you.” Although personally I’d much prefer to give him a verbal reprimand and a thankless job to occupy his time. Perhaps running a trillium mine and overseeing Belters in Tracto’s recovering space mining industry?

I gave a reluctant sigh. Whatever else he was, the man was clearly competent and the number of competent officers—let alone Captains—I had in my organization could be numbered on one hand. I’d make him my Flag Captain just to make sure he didn’t go haring off again, except that might look too much like I was condoning the destruction of surrendered vessels. Or worse, it could appear that I had actually given the orders to fire on such a vessel personally.

No, I couldn’t afford to work that closely with the man, even if it would have been the perfect reward for turning a one month cruise into a one year odyssey.

“Just following your lead, Admiral,” the other man said evenly, and I couldn’t tell if he was mocking me or genuine in his espoused sentiment. He bit his lip for a few moments, clearly torn as to whether he should say something.

“What is it, Captain?” I asked, hoping against hope that he hadn’t ‘accidentally’ set a Core World’s primary to supernova before beating feet—and the ensuing shockwave.

“It’s my wife, sir,” he said after a lengthy pause and I had to fight an inappropriate chuckle.

“I hear that,” I eventually sighed in agreement, recalling the myriad times Akantha had stuck my feet in the coals without so much as a warning she was doing it. “Can’t live with ‘em, can’t out-maneuver ‘em because they’ve been genetically designed to be better than you at pretty much everything you’d like to think you’re good at.”

“Sir?” Middleton asked with a worried look.

“Nothing, Captain,” I said with a dismissive wave of my hand. “You were saying?”

“Actually, I meant to say ‘ex-wife,’ sir,” Captain Middleton corrected. “I was hoping I could get you to make a ruling on what to do with her; I’m afraid my own judgment is compromised when it comes to the subject. Her particular case is covered in the final addendum.”

I flipped to the indicated addendum and read through it, soaking up the pertinent details, as well as the visual log of her entry onto the bridge of his ship just prior to the transmission which essentially saved the Pride of Prometheus from certain destruction.

I thought long and hard about the matter, but the truth was I could see why he was in such a quandary. The woman had probably been secretly sending transmissions to a group which, according to the MSP’s best information at the time, was overtly hostile to humanity in general if not her specifically. But if her word was to be believed—always a stretch with ex-wives, or so I’d been told—then she had actually been sending a message that had actually been helpful to our organization. It had saved me a medium cruiser from destruction at the very least.

“I’d like to step in on this, Middleton, I really would,” I lied through my teeth, yet again grateful for my years of training in the field of double speak, “but I’m afraid my hands are tied.”

“Sir?” Middleton asked warily, clearly bracing himself for the worst and I could tell that despite whatever he said or thought he thought about the matter, the man didn’t want his ex-wife to be executed for a spy.

I paused in contemplation. It’s not like I could really cast too many stones; my own First Officer had been both a traitor and spy, yet I’d knowingly kept him onboard my ship—and in the second most powerful position in the chain of command! I’d even gotten married and then had my wife living in my quarters with me while advising me on the bridge during battle. Plus, if I was going to keep this officer, I needed a way to bind him closely to me…

“Yes, well, you see,” I said dramatically as I picked up a data slate of my own and flipped it through the air into his lap, “it seems the MSP is now woefully short on trained officers—including medical personnel of any stripe. Meanwhile your ship has not one, but two qualified doctors on staff. I was going to inform you of this after the meeting,” I gestured to the data slate, glad to finally be skirting the edges of truth as I continued, “you see I’ve already decided to reassign Doctor…”

I drew a blank, having failed to actually check his personnel logs, so I called the roster up on my console and scrolled down until I found it. “Ah, yes, ‘Doctor Cho’ is reassigned to the fleet’s general personnel pool, effective immediately. With the general dearth of qualified officers and the influx of pirate hulls in need of officers and crew, I’m afraid I simply I can’t afford to reassign another Chief Medical Officer to your ship at this time. I’m not entirely sure what to do about your ex-wife, other than to order her confined to her quarters except when directly authorized by Captain for interrogations or, say, the performance of duties vital to the survival of the ship that can’t be carried out by any other member of the crew. Needless to say, she’ll need to be monitored by that tricky technician and escorted by armed Lancers wherever she goes,” I said with a false sigh of disappointment. “So you’re just going to have to get creative in this matter.”

Captain Middleton breathed a sigh of obvious relief. “Thank you, Admiral,” he said with feeling as he briefly bowed his head, “I’m sure I can come up with a solution.”

“Good man, Middleton,” I said evenly, certain he would be far less receptive to my next overture, although in truth I wasn’t sure what he was thanking me for. I’d just put his career in the hands of his ex-wife and neatly insulated myself by ordering her confined to quarters, “In fact, I’m afraid I’m going to have to raid your entire chain of command to crew our newly-repaired ships.”

“Admiral?” the Captain asked in surprise before he visibly set his jaw and forced himself to relax. “What exactly are you after?”

“Everything,” I said, waving my hand at the data slate I had given him, “as you can see there, a roster that amounted to ‘woefully inadequate’ across the board would be a vast improvement from our current status when it comes to experienced officers. Your crew’s been out on active duty for over half a year, which is more than can be said of just about any other crew in this fleet,” I said pointedly as he made to protest, “and I’m going to need several of your highest-ranking officers to transfer to new postings immediately—just like Doctor Cho.”

“Admiral,” Middleton began, taking in deep, measured breaths, “I lost half my original crew three weeks into the tour, and just a few weeks ago I lost a quarter of the barely-trained crew we’d built back up to—including the only other officers with more service time than myself. I’ve got a crew full of kids over there,” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder sharply. “It’s like herding cats as it is,” he exclaimed before belatedly adding, “sir!”

“I’m going to ignore the thinly-veiled dig at my age,” I said, leaning forward and threading my voice with iron, “and chalk that little outburst up to battle fatigue, Captain.”

Middleton opened his mouth to reply, but snapped it closed before saying anything and fixing me with a hard look that I frankly hadn’t expected from the man. He looked nothing like the man I had sent out on patrol six months earlier…but then, I suppose he would have said the same of me.

“You’re the Admiral,” Captain Middleton said stiffly, “but I’ve got a short list of essential personnel I’m going to need to keep.”

“I’ll take your requests under advisement, and on a case-by-case basis, Captain,” I said coldly. “But the needs of the fleet come before your own personal comfort level.”

“I’m only thinking about my mission, Admiral,” the other man replied evenly, and his tone suggested that he actually meant it. “My ship’s a rusted out, underpowered relic of a bygone era; I’ll need my Chief Engineer, my technician, my Lancer Sergeant—along with his top people, who are already specializing into mission-specific units to better deal with the droids—and my new XO.”

“If your Lancers have experience against the droids, then they’re near the top of my transfer list,” I countered easily. “That kind of intel and training needs to be disseminated immediately.”

“I specifically told you about their tactics and training, Admiral,” he shot back, “when I could have kept silent on the matter. I’m willing to let you have all but the three primaries he’s designated as essential to the unit, as well as a handful of former Lancers who are no longer combat-ready due to injuries sustained in the line of duty. They can impart what my people have learned throughout the fleet—seeing as I’ve already ordered them to be ready to do so,” he added in a hard voice. “But I will need fresh bodies to fill my ship’s complement afterward.”

It was a reasonable concession, so I nodded in approval. “That part can be arranged painlessly enough,” I agreed, since there was now an essentially unlimited number of available Tracto-an crew on my wife’s planet. “So long as your Sergeant doesn’t carry some bigoted attitude toward Tracto-ans,” I added with a knowing look.

“That won’t be a problem, sir,” Middleton replied confidently, meeting my look with an unyielding one of his own.

“Good,” I said then my voice grew hard as space rock, “however I’d think twice and three times before telling your superior and the commanding officer of the MSP what he can and cannot do, if I were you. Balk at my orders and you might or might not find yourself reassigned, but if I find you hiding information from me to better your own position at the expense of the rest of the MSP, you’ll find yourself short a head or breaking rocks on a penal colony on Tracto. Do we understand each other, Captain?! You’re not out on patrol any longer, mister; you’re a part of something a lot bigger than one man or one ship or even one Sector and this is the home office. Do I make myself clear, Lieutenant Commander?”

“Crystal, sir,” he bit out.

“Now, is there anything that suddenly leaps to mind that you feel the urge to tell me about your extended pleasure cruise?” I demanded.

“No, Sir, Admiral. Like I said, it’s all there in the report,” he snapped, “and I resent the characterization! People died out there in the black from pirates and droids and bioweapons, and to call it a pleasure cruise is beyond the pale…sir!”

“Finally, some fire,” I exclaimed, meeting him glare for glare. “Alright, I believe you.”

Middleton opened his mouth, emotion still on his face but I cut him off.

“Take the win and move past it, Captain,” I growled, “I’m sure you don’t want to say whatever’s burning a hole on the tip of your tongue.

The other man looked like he had an acute case of indigestion but he actually didn’t explode on me. Which was why I felt compelled to grudgingly change the subject at the same time.

“Now, before we got sidetracked with this other issue, we were talking about crew. I’ll do my best to keep your short list on board your ship. But I’m only granting this concession because of your last particular mission’s importance—and I hope it goes without saying that said mission must remain completely on the down low?” I said, wondering how it’d come about that instead of consigning this Captain to the footnotes of MSP history, I was contemplating putting what could be the fate of our next mission—the liberation of 23 and 24—right back in the hands of a loose cannon like Tyrone Middleton. “I don’t want what you’ve learned to spread across the fleet’s information vine.”

“Only a handful of my people know about the ComStat network, sir,” he assured me. Still, I felt anything but assured, considering the amount of trouble this man had collected and dropped squarely in my lap like a steaming pile of Bug excrement. “I knew that kind of intel’s dissemination was way above my pay grade, so I kept the lid on it as tight as I could.”

“A rare display of unassailably sound judgment, Captain,” I said with a smirk before shaking my head and sighing, knowing that regardless of my own personal opinion of how he had conducted himself on tour, you can’t really judge someone until you had walked in their shoes for a while. “But seriously, it sounds like you had quite the ride out there. I’m glad you managed to make it back to the barn…even if you haven’t exactly soothed my nerves in doing so.” I stood from my chair, and the Captain did likewise as I offered my hand. “Go change the fluids, pound the dents out, and get the Pride of Prometheus back out on the road. Barring any more surprises,” I said, careful to keep my features even as I was mortally certain there would be at least a few buried in this holy grail of a report of his, “your orders are to put in for those repairs and be prepared to continue your mission. Gaining full access to the ComStat network would amount to the single largest tactical advantage we could hope for, and in my judgment that’s probably the best use of your ship and your crew. Show me you can be a team player while you’re back here and I’ll probably see my way clear to sending you back out. You do have the only technician that’s succeeded in not only finding, but actually co-opting a fraction of the enemy’s ComStat network. We’re going to need that asset before this is through.”

I silently didn’t add that if Lisa Steiner and her team had been here, I’d have seriously thought about reassigning Middleton’s tech under her and that system analyst she’d worked with—and I’d have likely sent them out under a different Captain. But needs must when the devil drives, and my current devil in the details seemed be named Tyrone Middleton. So for the moment I had to smile and bear up under it—at least until I could review my options.

“Thank you, Admiral,” Middleton said, grasping my hand and shaking it firmly but not challenging me as I had expected.

I returned his grip and nodded curtly. “Good hunting, Captain; I’ll have your roster reviewed and will send over the transfer orders as soon as possible.”

Middleton nodded. “Admiral,” he said, turning to leave the ready room.

“And Middleton,” I added before he reached the door, prompting him to turn, “act as if you just received the tongue-lashing of the century on your way out. Since your new mission is almost certainly to be an essentially an intelligence op let’s get things off on the right foot with a little deception, shall we?”

Middleton quirked a grin and nodded, “Will do, Admiral.”

Chapter 4: Diplomacy, Interrupted

“Sir we’re reading increased activity in the outer system,” reported the Sensor Officer on the Aqua Novan SDF Corvette Invincible Fire.

The Captain, Lieutenant Commander Donald Quark, turned his head sharply. “What kind of activity?” he demanded.

“The Shaanxi Fleet are abandoning the perimeter of the system and falling back on Planet Liang,” reported the other officer.

“Which ships?” the Captain of the Corvette demanded.

The Sensor Officer paused. “All of them, sir,” he answered in a dread-filled voice.

“Does anything on your screens show what has them all up in a bother?” Captain Quark asked.

“We can’t see out that far with the eyes on this warship, sir,” reported the Officer.

The Captain turned to his Comm. Officer, “Get me a line to the Ambassador. Now!”

“Yes, Captain,” said Mr. Sylvan, the Comm. Officer.

“This is Select Folsom, Ambassador to the Shaanxi,” the potbellied man who appeared on the screen announced importantly, “what seems to be the problem, Lieutenant Commander Quark?” he asked in a voice that made it clear he found the interruption of whatever he’d been doing extremely irksome. “With the Prime Minister and Foreign Minister of Shaanxi, negotiations are in a delicate place and I need not remind you that Aqua Nova stands at a critical junction point with in the Sector, thus it is imperative to convince our good friends—”

Quark knew that anyone who conquered or crippled Aqua Nova opened up at least three other key systems within the Sector to immediate attack with seven more less key planets after them. All of this was old news and as it didn’t look like Ambassador was going to stop speaking anytime soon he decided it was time to interrupt.

“It is with my deepest regret that I inform you the Star System of Shaanxi is under attack, presumably by a Droid Fleet,” the Lieutenant Commander said calmly, interrupting the other man as politely as he could.

Irritation and condescension turned to a flash of outright fear and the façade of a busy bureaucrat in control of at least his little piece of the galaxy crumbled before the Lieutenant Commander’s eyes.

“Do we know how big the Fleet is?” the Ambassador Select Folsom asked with honest alarm.

“No, sir, we have nothing on scans yet,” replied Captain Quark.

A look of relief settled upon the Select’s face. “Then we have no firm knowledge of an enemy attack?” said the Ambassador. “I understand your concern for my safety but there’s no need act the alarmist, Lieutenant Commander—”

“The perimeter defense squadrons are pulling back and the inner system flotilla is being mobilized, Ambassador Select,” Quark said with forced patience. “I’m afraid this is no drill, sir.”

Ambassador Folsom blinked rapidly before nodding several times. “Send a shuttle for me at once, Quark. Do you hear me, at once!” he ordered frantically before turning away. “Get my things and be ready to leave!” the Select shouted at someone off camera, probably one of his aids. “This is an outrage. Why wasn’t I notified by at least Foreign Minister the moment they knew they were under attack?”

A moment later the feed went dead.

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

“I can’t shake ’em!” cried the Helmsman.

“Dear gods; were all going to die!” shrieked the Select.

“Shut up or get off of my bridge, your Excellence!” shouted Lieutenant Commander Quark.

“Helmsman, adjust heading by twenty eight degrees and make for a slingshot maneuver around the Shaanxi VII’s moon. Your best speed, Mr. Waanx,” he ordered sharply.

“Aye, Captain,” replied the Helmsman right before the ship shuddered, throwing everyone on the bridge against their seat restraints.

“And someone tell gunnery to do something about those fighters!” he ordered.

On screen a diamond formation of rakishly thin fighters, which according to the intelligence dump they’d received from system command, somebody in yet another system had dubbed the Needle Class, were in hot pursuit of the ADF Invincible Fire. A powerfully-built Droid Destroyer following along behind at full burn was waiting in the wings to finish them off just as soon as the fighters crippled their engines.

“I sure wish we were facing an equal number of those mass-produced Unification Through Conformity bunch,” said his First Officer, a Lieutenant Jethro Hammer, “the data specs show that they’re the least effective, militarily, of the droid Invasion Fleets.”

“You might as well wish for the moon while you’re at it, Mr. Hammer,” Quark said growled, “the reports show that Conformity always show up in overwhelming numbers.”

“Blast the Harmony, and may the Space Gods burn their cold, mechanical, soul,” cursed the First Officer, referring to the Harmony Through Specialization Droids to which the ship and fighters chasing them owed their allegiance.

The ship shuddered again.

“Shields are fluctuating. I don’t know how much longer they’ll hold out,” reported Junior Lieutenant Irksome.

“I think that’s a theological point that many would disagree with you on,” the Captain told his first officer as he grimly watched the Needle Class fighters rake his stern with their dual mounted light lasers. It was a stream of low-level blaster fire that would normally be used by the enemy fighter for anti-missile duty, but in this case those weapons were being used to harry the Invincible Fire.

“What?” the First Officer looked at him, his face scrunching up and then his expression cleared. “Yes, they are a bunch of soulless blighters aren’t they. Well then in that case—”

“Enough, Lieutenant,” Quark commanded and then turned to his Tactical Officer, “blast it, Ensign, why hasn’t gunnery picked off at least one fighter by now?”

“They’ve got some kind of stealth coating like we’ve never seen before; between that and the Destroyer behind us using active jammers, our targeting computers are having a hard time getting a good lock,” replied the Ensign.

Why he had an ensign in charge of his Tactical section and Junior Lieutenants or higher in every single one of his other departments on the bridge, when his ship was escorting a Select on an Ambassadorial mission to another world in a potential warzone, was something the Captain of the Invincible Fire was quite eager to take up with someone back home. Assuming the ship made it back home, of course—something that was very much in doubt at that particular moment.

“Well, do better, Ensign, or if the Droids don’t get you I will,” Lieutenant-Commander Quark threatened. Then, figuring he would put as much of the fear of the gods into the Ensign as was safe while they were still taking fire, he turned over to the Communication’s Officer, “Get back on the horn and see if you can’t distract them and buy us some time.”

Lieutenant Pierceson nodded. “Mayday, mayday, mayday; this is a flagged diplomatic vessel calling any and all ships in the vicinity. Stand off! I say again: stand off! This is the Aqua Novan chartered diplomatic starship Invincible Fire. We are on a diplomatic mission to Shaanxi,” the Comm. Officer said urgently. “Firing on a diplomatic mission carrying a credentialed Ambassador is against galactic conventions. To the pursuing fighters and destroyer, I say again: stand off! And to any ships in the area that can render assistance, we call upon you to perform your galactic mandate and provide an escort out of the warzone.”

For a brief second, fighters twitched away from the Corvette and Quark almost hoped they’d get a small bit of breathing room before they came back at them twice as fierce.

He wanted to curse until one of the Invincible Fire’s few medium lasers lanced out and struck one of the Droid Fighters, causing it to explode.

The bridge gave a relieved cheer. But moments later the fighters were pouring laser strikes into their shields, and the bridge was back to the grim business of power management and evasive maneuvers.

“Prepare to spin the ship, Helm,” ordered the Captain.

“Spinning ship, aye,” replied the Helmsman.

“Tell gunnery to be ready, Ensign Croft,” he told the Tactical Officer.

“Ready and waiting, sir,” the Ensign said.

“On my mark…now, Helm!” he cried.

The corvette spun on its axis, slowly at first but with increasing speed and the Lieutenant Commander could tell the move had thrown the fighters off their game. The two explosions that quickly followed as lasers lanced out from the corvette to blast two more of the fighters out of the sky was even more gratifying to the Captain.

“Scratch two fighters!” crowed the Ensign at Tactical.

“Main engine is fluctuating,” reported the Helmsman, the report almost lost in all the hubbub over the destruction of another pair of fighters, bringing the number of those they faced down to only two.

But Quark’s blood ran cold.

“How much can we safely reduce our output and still keep ahead of that Droid Destroyer?” the Lieutenant-Commander asked, standing up.

Silence spread like a ripple across the small little bridge.

“We can safely go down by 14% right now, sir,” reported the Helmsman, “more than that and I’d have to run the calculations.”

“Back it down, and you,” ordered the Captain who then turned to the Navigator, “run those calculations.”

“Sir?” asked the First Officer.

Quark ignored him. “And someone get me the Chief Engineer on the line!” Quark exclaimed just before Gunnery managed to tag another Fighter, causing the last Droid Needle to back off and return to a position in formation with the Destroyer.

However, even such a victory tasted like ashes in his mouth because the Fighter’s primary mission might just have been accomplished. If their engines failed them before they could clear the hyper limit, all their efforts and successes in getting the Ambassador back from the surface and making a run for the System’s border while avoiding being intercepted would be for naught.

Moments later the Chief Engineer linked up to him and confirmed his worst fears: the engines needed to be stepped down a lot more than a mere 14%, and the Captain realized he was going to have to do something a little unorthodox if they were going to make it out of here with their skins intact.

“Take us around the moon, Helmsman,” Captain Quark ordered, “at best speed and prepare to cut our engines as soon as we’re out of line of sight of the Destroyer,” he added.

“Cut our engines, Captain?” the First Officer asked with concern.

“You would leave us helpless and unable to move in the face of the mechanicals?” the Ambassador demanded in a rising voice.

“Don’t worry, Select,” the Captain said with a confident expression he wasn’t feeling right at the moment and then he turned to the Engineering Officer on the bridge, “as soon as the Helmsman cuts the engines I want the ship taken to silent running and the fusion generator shut down.”

“Stepped down, you mean, sir,” the Engineer said after a moment, his eyes wide.

“I said ‘shut down’ and I meant it,” the Captain said grimly, “we can’t outfight that Droid warship and we can no longer out run it. Our only hope now is to hide and hope it can’t find us; we will run the stealth systems off emergency power.”

The Ambassador made a strangled sound and looked like he was about to have apoplexy.

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

“I can’t believe the Destroyer just went right past us without seeing us…and then didn’t even turn around,” said the First Officer.

“I think the Squadron of Shaanxi SDF had a little something to do with the fact it didn’t come back around the moon for another pass,” the Captain said sardonically, “that and the fact they eventually destroyed it.”

“The Chief Engineer has affected emergency repairs on the Main Drive; should we consider attempting to aid the system defenders?” asked the First Officer.

Lieutenant Commander Quark opened his mouth, but was cut off.

“No!” exclaimed the Aqua Nova Ambassador, “our mission has failed and the Droids arrived before we could effect a treaty. Our first and only priority is…it must be, to report back home and tell them of the invasion which is practically on our doorstep!”

“So because the ink is not yet dry on the treaty, and there are no signatures, we are not legally obligated to do our duty…is what you’re saying,” Quark asked wryly.

“I don’t like your tone, Captain,” Select Folsum glared, “check your orders. The safety of this diplomatic mission is your only concern here. Just follow your instructions and let me follow mine.”

“Of course, Select,” the Lieutenant-Commander grated and, with one last look at the screen, saw where forces of the Droid Fleet were overrunning the remnants of the SDF Fleet. It was only a matter of time before this System was conquered. Even as he watched, a squadron of droid cruisers and two of destroyers surrounded this system’s single remaining mixed squadron of cruisers and destroyers like a pack of lions around a herd of gazelles.

That squadron was the single most concentrated mass of human warships in the system; everything else was down to just isolated singletons. If and when they went down, the rest of the star system would be swept up quickly.

“Continue with stealth protocols and get us out of the system at the best speed we can manage,” he said, hating the fact that he had to limp out of Shaanxi at less than 20% their top speed almost as much as the fact they were running away instead of continuing the fight…almost, but not quite. The knowledge of what humans had faced in the past from the Metal Plague sat like a solid lump of lead in the pit of his stomach.

However he had his orders and even if he hadn’t there was very little a small corvette like his could have done anyways. Now, if he’d been the Master and Commander of a Battleship when this system had been invaded, Ambassador Select or no Ambassador Select, he would have stayed—at least until his ship was too damaged to be effective.

Chapter 5: The Laurent Report

I watched with narrowed eyes as Middleton, Captain Tyrone Middleton walked quickly out of the conference room, passing Captain Laurent who was on his way in at the same time he was walking out. I had a lot to think about.

As soon as the door slid shut I turned to the Captain of my Flagship.

“Everything go well?” Laurent asked with a lopsided grin, “I see that there are no blood or body parts; that’s always a good sign.”

I gave the other man a flat look.

“That man sure stepped in it,” I vented, “taking a relatively simple patrol and turning it into a one man, one ship, crusade across multiple sectors and then dragging it back home to roost! I did not need this…not today, of all days, Laurent.”

“A one man, one ship, crusade…now where have I heard a story like that before,” my Flag Captain all but smirked. No, on second consideration, he was definitely smirking!

“You say that like this is some kind of joke,” I said dangerously, “but it’s not—not by a long-shot. Thanks to that joker out there we’re now about to become embroiled in a droid invasion.”

“If that’s all we’ll have to deal with it’ll be a nice change of pace around here…just to have one enemy to fight I mean,” Laurent added, reaching over and pouring himself a glass of water while I huffed with outrage. “I mean, over here we have to deal with pirates, Bugs, genetic uplifts and our own Provincial and Sector Governments all at the same time. Dealing with just one enemy at a time might almost be like a vacation,” he finished looking and sounding half serious.

“Well don’t get your hopes up,” I snapped angrily, “according to Middleton, in addition to the three different Droid Factions we’re going to have to deal with, he already encountered Pirates financed, operated by—or with ties to—the Imperial House of Raubach. And did you know that he found a rogue ComStat network that’s at least semi-functional.”

Laurent’s eyes widened. “I hadn’t heard that part. A ComStat network, you say?” he asked with disbelief.

“Yes, but keep that part to yourself,” I warned him, “apparently he’s also got some kind of wunderkind, teenage, Asiatic hacker that helped him pull some ECM tricks on some missiles and penetrated the ComStat network—a network that pirates, but nobody legitimate, seemed to have access to.”

“Pirates had ComStat access…” Laurent said with disbelief.

“It was limited access; who knows who the ultimate owner of the thing is,” I said dismissively, deciding not to share everything I’d learned from Captain Middleton just yet. It was always wise for an Admiral to have a few cards up his sleeve after all.

Laurent gave himself a shake.

“You said something about the House of Raubach,” he pressed, “I can’t say as I’ve heard about them before.”

“Apparently they are, or at least they were, a big cheese in the lower Spine: Sectors 23 and 24,” I grumbled.

“Is that important, I mean other than the fact they’re Imperials of course?” he asked quizzically.

“There are indications they might have had links to the Pirates, as well as the Demon only knows what else,” I paused and took a deep breath then released it through my nostrils. “Besides, have you ever heard of the Cornwallis-Raubach drive?”

“Well, I’ll be jiggered,” Laurent said making a fist of his hand and then dropping it on the table.

“My feelings exactly,” I said darkly. We were at the point of conjecture here, but it didn’t take a genius or a rocket science to know that the House of Cornwallis had been behind, either directly or indirectly, a lot of the troubles we’d been having lately. As a Caprian I’d known about them, and then later on as an Admiral I’d had to directly deal with their scheming destructive ways personally.

First, then-Captain Janeski, now an Admiral and now-Senator Cornwallis had personally orbitally bombarded my home world, giving power back to Parliament in an orgy of blood and destruction.

The now-Rear Admiral Janeski had pulled Rim Fleet right out from under our noses and then hatched a plot with a Security Officer on the Lucky Clover to eliminate me, hijack the Lucky Clover, and then pin everything that went wrong in the Sector that they possibly could on me. Who knew what Arnold Janeski was up to?

I’d also had to deal with a rather irritating Captain Cornwallis, the nephew of Senator Cornwallis. The Captain was a man who had tried to nationalize all of our native built Constructors that he could get his hands on and, no doubt with the intent of leaving our Sector high and dry while he and his men went on their merry way.

I’d turned the tables on that man, not only reclaiming the Constructors he’d tried to pirate but also taking his ship, our very own Furious Phoenix (although back then it had been called the Victorious Solar Flare) right out from under him when we stormed his ship. Personally I hoped the Captain was rotting in some Imperial prison for losing his ship, but I knew that with his family connections that was probably too much to hope for.

Because of all that, when I heard of another Imperial House—with links to the Cornwallis House—up to its shadowy hands involved in a sector filled with pirates and Droid invasion, I automatically assumed the worst. As I’d painfully learned over the past year or so, where there was smoke there was almost certainly a fire.

“Any other bombshells in the Captain’s report?” Laurent finally asked.

I sighed. “The Captain wasn’t entirely remiss in his duties while on patrol. He captured a couple of pirate ships, as well as liberated one of our former MSP warships that was under pirate assault and returned it to its former owners,” I said sourly.

“Ho-ho, are you sure he’s not trying to give you a run for your money?” Laurent asked with a lopsided grin.

I looked at him flatly. “I hardly think a couple of corvettes and armed pirate freighters compares to battleships and an Imperial cruiser, do you?” I asked dryly.

Laurent grinned and the tense moment of before, while we had contemplated Imperial machinations, was broken.

“I heard they had to deal with a destroyer and corvette squadron as well,” Laurent remarked.

“They had help,” I started to say dismissively but then realized how churlish that might seem. It’s not that I wanted to be deliberately dismissive of the other man’s accomplishments or, Space Gods forbid, was actually jealous. It’s just that I had bigger fish to fry right then with this whole ‘droid invasion’ nonsense. “Not that they knew help was coming,” I added with painful honesty, “so I guess rather than dismissing him, or at least giving the man some kind of reprimand, I’ll have to give him and his crew some kind of medal.”

“Probably best,” Laurent agreed.

“And on that sour note, we might as well turn some lemons into lemonade and have a ceremony for the rest of the Fleet as well,” I said and Laurent looked at me questioningly, “I mean we just fought a murdering big space battle—multiple space battles, for those of us who had to deal with keeping those Bug Harvesters away from Tracto until we were ready to strike,” I explained and Laurent nodded in agreement, his face taking on a serious cast. Which wasn’t surprising; he’d been there right along with me as we got the Heavy Cruiser from Easy Haven that we’d been using all but shot out from under us.

“Yes, the whole fleet’s fought hard. From those of us in the warships all the way back to Gambit and Easy Haven where they got us outfitted and back out the door and ready to fight in record time,” Laurent said, pursing his lips.

I was surprised at the mention of Easy Haven. Gambit I might have expected but Easy Haven hadn’t been on the top of my Christmas list lately after the stunt they’d pulled back in Sector Central, letting me wait to be executed until the last possible moment—and then only acting because Spalding had pulled out all the stops and forced the situation.

“McCruise and her people have done well,” I agreed.

“I wasn’t just thinking about the Captain,” Laurent clarified, “but also all the techs and repair workers who got the Little Gift and McCruise’s destroyer squadron ready.”

“There’s more than enough credit to go around, that’s for sure,” I agreed mildly, fighting for all I was worth to keep my teeth from clenching and my hands from fisting. I knew I wasn’t at my most rational when it came to the Easy Haven contingent and that I needed to let bygones be bygones.

I mean when it came right down to it, they’d never refused me anything I’d asked of them. And under LeGodat’s command they’d sent the lion’s share of their firepower out to back me up against Jean Luc and the Bug threat.”

“I think a reward ceremony where their Admiral personally congratulates them and pins a metal or unit commendation on them will work wonders to help boost morale,” Laurent said judiciously, “a fine idea, sir.”

I looked at the other man impassively, not all that pleased with my off handed comment about needing to give Middleton a medal being turned into the need for me to become the ring master to a great big dog and pony show but not able to find anything wrong with the suggestion either. Our men had fought and fought hard, never once failing when asked. That sort of courage and loyalty needed to be rewarded and if a few medals recognizing this fact needed to be handed out by me personally, well, it was the least I could do.

It didn’t make me any happier about getting all tricked up, having to memorize speeches, and then stand in line for hours on end handing out medals. But such was the life of an Admiral, and as I’d rather be an Admiral than be dead, I honestly had nothing to complain about.

“Check our schedule and set it up,” I said with a sigh, “our men deserve nothing but the best, so if our hydroponics section is up for it,” the Captain and I shared a sly look in remembrance of a time not that long ago when the ship we were on wouldn’t have been able to handle it, “let’s try and have a bit of a party—including cake and some decent food.”

“I’ll get on it, sir,” the Flag Captain said. He looked at me seriously, “Is there anything else I ought to be aware of?”

I shook my head, “You’re free to make your escape,” I said glumly, “I’ve spoken with the Representative, Captain Middleton, and now you. After this I get to track down my wife and find out what all’s been going on in my absence. I’m sure that after this meeting there will be more to tell, but until then we’re good.” I pursed my lips and then frowned at him, “Unless there’s anything you had that I needed to know?”

“I wanted to give you the casualty lists and go over a few field promotions I’d like to hand out to cover the holes that have opened up, but it’s nothing that can’t wait if the Lady Akantha needs you,” Laurent stated.

I closed my eyes, reading a tally of the dead and hospitalized wasn’t exactly my idea of a great way to spend your first few hours out of sick bay but what I wanted usually didn’t tend to enter the picture.

“No, that’s alright,” I said wearily, “we can go over the casualties now.”

“Only if you’re sure, Sir,” Laurent said slowly, “I know I speak for all of the men when I say that you’re just out of sick bay and we want the Lady kept happy.”

“That second part more than the first, eh?” I shook my head at the obviousness of it all.

Laurent ducked his head, trying and failing to hide a smile. “I didn’t say that, Admiral, you did,” he chuckled.

“I’d say ‘get out of here’ but we have those lists to go over,” I said with a smile of my own, but one that slowly faded.

“Right then, sir,” Laurent said his face getting serious, “let’s just go over this now, so you can get some rest afterwards.”

“Nice thought, but I’m afraid there will be no rest for the weary. What peace I can find around here is generally found in a hospital bed and there’s been precious little to be found even there lately,” I said sourly.

Laurent winced and then shook it off. “The burdens of command, Sir. So how about those lists?” he said activating his data slate and squirting me over the file. “As you can see, they are broken down both alphabetically and by ship. But why don’t we start by ship and go from there?”

I suppressed a sigh and tried to focus on the list of dead and wounded. The least I could do was acknowledge each and every man and woman who had given the ultimate sacrifice on my orders and those that were still in sickbay deserved consideration as well.

Chapter 6: Taking it Easy

After stepping outside the conference room, I stopped and cracked my back.

“Ye Space Gods,” I sighed, knowing I could use a break. Then my face brightened as I remembered that despite what both Ambassadors and my own officer’s seemed to think, I was still in charge of this lash-up.

My stomach growled, offering its own encouragement as the door behind me cycled closed and then open again.

“I think I’ll just head on down to the mess hall,” I said out-loud and to no one in particular.

“Did you say something, Sir?” Laurent asked following me out of the conference room.

I suppressed a frown. “Nothing at all,” I assured him.

The smirks appeared as if by magic on the faces of the quad of lancers posed in a box like formation: one on either side of the conference door and another pair standing opposite them against the blank duralloy wall facing the conference room.

Laurent glanced at the Lancers and back at me before shaking his head. “As you say, Sir,” the ship Captain said clearly not believing a word of my denial but just as clearly with other tasks he’d rather be about than pinning down his superior officer caught in a little white lie.

“Carry on, Cedric,” I shook my head and then before I could be dragged back into any more conference room business I turned and hurried off down the corridor.

Behind me I heard the clunk-clunk-clunk of my battlesuited bodyguards. I almost gritted my teeth, disliking the idea of being followed around everywhere I went. The whole reason for getting out of that room had been so that I could be alone, but ever since I’d been almost killed—twice—by the Pirate King, my happily belated Uncle Jean Luc, they’d been almost fanatical in following me around. As I thought this I very deliberately didn’t think of that other title—one that my ‘Uncle’ most definitely didn’t deserve.

Mother! How could you?! I seethed silently

Blast that man; I hoped his spirit rotted in cold space for an eternity, all alone in the night. I mean he’d already been eaten alive, so I figured a few millennia of essentially solitary confinement among the stars…

“The lift, Warlord,” the lancer just behind me to my right said.

“Wha—” I cut myself off, realizing I’d just stepped right past the lift without even seeing it. Forcing a smile I thanked the Lancer before turning on my heel and entering the lift.

Upon arriving in the mess hall I was once again taken in by its size. Even though it was a different mess hall on a different ship, it was strikingly similar to that of the Lucky Clover. Which of course it would be as the Armor Prince was a sister-battleship of my old ship.

Stepping into the hall was like stepping through a barrier of sound; one moment all was relatively quiet, and the next the yammering voices of off-duty spacers filled my ears.

Normally I took my meals in private, but after nearly dying and then being accosted by everyone who thought it was a sweet idea to shake the tree that was me, the Admiral, in hopes of shaking something loose while I was still recovering…I very deliberately didn’t think of either the Ambassador or my lovable wife, but right now I wanted to make an exception.

I’d nearly died after all and just won the biggest battle of my life. For some reason I just wanted to take a moment away from all the pressures of high command and just surround myself with a sea of humanity.

My stomach grumbled again.

And fill the yawning chasm within my belly at the same time of course. Maybe it was too much to ask but I figured I was entitled.

Just a quick meal, I told myself, stepping up to the beginning of the line of hungry men and crew women and grabbing a plate.

Following after the crewman in front of me, I happily loaded up my plate on anything that looked half way edible. It’s not quite up to what I’m used to eating, I thought critically. Our long patrol outside the system destroying Bugs had cost us all but one of our hydroponics gardens, and that had really cut into the good-food-o-meter.

I was about half way down the line, humming happily to myself and feeling part of the team when I realized there was a growing circle of silence around me.

I looked up and saw more than half the eyes of the mess hall had been turned my way, with even more being jostled by their friends and comrades to turn and gander at the Admiral eating with the regular crew.

“Carry on, men!” I said cheerfully ignoring that a good quarter to a third of the people in the hall were, in fact, women.

Unfortunately, no one ‘carried on’ like I’d instructed. And while they quickly stood aside as I meandered my way over to an empty bench to put my food tray down, heads continued to turn and follow me.

Uncomfortable with the scrutiny, when I’d come down here specifically to feel like part of the group, I pasted on a confident smile and sat down to eat.

I hadn’t gotten the first bite of food past my mouth and down into the belly when a crewwoman stood up from her own seat and walked over purposefully.

Not knowing if she was going to leap on me, or if I was about to be called upon to verbally defend myself I and hastily swallowed a mouthful of only half eaten food.

“Yes, spacer?” I inquired, cocking an eyebrow at her politely.

“Sir, I—” she said her jaw muscles bunching. Then she hesitated and stopped to take a breath.

I continued to meet her gaze, trying for my best to appear confident and yet non-confrontational.

“It’s okay, crewman,” I assured her when the pause started to grow uncomfortable and then added, “I don’t bite.” Not unless I’m under attack and lacking a better weapon on hand, I silently added, in that case all bets were off. Still, I always figured that a little disinformation among the masses never hurt.

“I just wanted to say,” she looked to either side of her for a moment, “that is, I mean…we’re glad you’re alright, Admiral. A lot of us were worried when we heard you were sent over to sickbay. It’s good—really good—to see you up and about,” she ended on a feverish note.

“You are?” I said taken aback. “I mean, thank you, spacer.” I finished, feeling almost blown away by the words, “I know we lost a lot of good people, and frankly I wouldn’t have been upset if there was more than a little unhappiness about that. But we only did what I thought was right and—”

“Some of us wondered, Admiral, especially after losing the Clover and then fighting wave after wave of Bug Harvesters,” the young crewwoman burst in. “But we did it, sir,” she said, her eyes glowing, “and now the Pirates are dead or on the run and the Bugs are finished. Finished, Admiral! We did that, all of us, and you were the only one who believed we could do it, Sir.” She stopped and colored, “Except for those of us here, of course—I mean it was rough at times and we wondered, but we knew you’d carry us through in the end. It’s all those Core Worlders, and secret pirate sympathizers, and stupid politicians, who think they’re dashing and handsome and, as if they were like a holo-vid, who didn’t think we could do it, that I’m talking about. But with you at the helm and the Border Worlds behind us, like you’ve said, even they can’t stop us any longer!”

“Err,” the word felt strangled even as I said it. I tugged on the collar of my uniform to get some air. This was turning out to be far from the relaxing little piece of camaraderie I’d been expecting but I told myself to buck up and smile.

“An Admiral’s work is never done,” I said smoothly—or at least as smoothly as I could. My words had an intended double meaning in this particular instance, and almost instinctively my back straightened as my training kicked in, “We’re making links with worlds all over the place,” I continued, being as deliberately vague as possible, “it is, however, an unfortunate fact of life that new threats always seem to be cropping up.” I finished with a touch more emotion in my voice than I’d intended.

“Like I said: it’s good to see you back on your feet,” the crewwoman said awkwardly.

I nodded and then feeling as if this somehow wasn’t quite enough, I drew myself up and snapped off a salute.

When it seemed like half the mess hall stood up to return it, I knew I’d made the right call.

With a smile and a wave I casually dropped my napkin over my uneaten food, palmed a bread roll and headed for the door.

Mentally I tallied up my time in the mess hall; Increased Morale: check; Admiral’s Empty Belly: still a raging black hole in need of filling.

Plastic media smile in place, I hurried out of the mess hall as fast as dignity would allow, consoling myself that at least I’d snagged a roll.

With a sigh I looked down at the roll and knew without a doubt that it wouldn’t be enough.

Chapter 7: Matrimonial Harmony

Striding into what passed for the Admiral’s Quarters on this ship, I paused after the doors slid shut finally able to finish my roll. Savoring this short moment where I didn’t have to worry about the eyes of the crew, ambassadors, Lancer bodyguards, or pretending to be a great—or at least not incompetent—leader, I wolfed down the roll in nothing flat.

Then I heard a sound that reminded me I wasn’t alone after all. Instantly suspicious, my mind leapt to Parliamentary assassins in the pay of my late uncle. Then I heard a word in what I used to think was my mother and my own secret language, but which it turned out the entire planet of Tracto used—and I suddenly remembered that I had a wife.

A wife who, naturally, would invade my private quarters. After all, where else would a husband and wife sleep and live if not in the same room and quarters?

Pasting on a smile, I walked the rest of the way in.

“Akantha, my dear,” I said, seeing my wife sitting at my work desk. It was clear she’d commandeered it and was now industriously tapping away on the screen, “It’s been far too long but finally we are together again.” Surreptitiously I wiped bread crumbs off my jacket.

Akantha’s jaw bunched and I could see her shoulders tense as she held up a single finger.

“So now you have time for me, do you?” she said shortly, her face still turned toward the screen as she continued tapping away and ignoring me, “I’ll speak with you after I’ve finished with this message from the doctor.”

With a start, I noted she had a com-link attached to her ear and then sternly took myself to task. It wasn’t surprising that in the months that we’d been apart, my ‘Sword-Bearer’ had become more familiar with modern technology.

“Doctor…is everything alright?” I asked mildly, not wanting to open myself up to any criticism for the way I’d high tailed it out of sickbay earlier this morning.

But of course Akantha just shook her head and pretended to ignore me.

With a quickly muffled sigh I turned to my bed to sit down and wait. I’d seen this sort of attitude before, mostly from my female cousins at the royal school—and mostly when they wanted to punish me for being…well, me. I mean, I wasn’t exactly sure that’s what she was doing. After all, this was a girl who generally preferred pulling out her sword and waving it around before resorting to physical violence, but in either case the best policy was to either beat a hasty retreat or suffer through it. And since I wasn’t feeling particularly ready to run and hide inside my own battleship, I just stayed where I was and crossed my arms.

As I sat there I wanted to say something to ask questions and find out exactly where we stood, but I remembered some advice my mother had given me. ‘Better to be silent and thought a fool, rather than to speak and remove all doubt,’ she had said, and when it came to women in general—and my beloved wife in particular—a truer saying had never been coined. Like a ship lost in cold space without a navigator, I would do better to study up and learn what I needed to know over time rather than trying to jump around randomly.

Pulling out her com-link and setting it on the table, Akantha took a deep breath and turned to me. I suppressed a wince; my Ice Maiden was back and in full form.

“Akantha,” I said, trying for a winning smile—one that slowly wilted after a few seconds of her silent regard.

“Jason,” she replied coolly.

“So…how was your day?” I said floundering and even I winced at how lame my words sounded. In addition to being a fool when it came to the female half of the species, it appeared my ability to make small talk that didn’t relate to the work of running a ship or a fleet was also less than ideal.

“You want to know how my day was?” Akantha repeated with disbelief. “You, who seemed quite eager to ignore me in favor of non-stop meetings and the mess hall for food, now want to rattle on like a prattling woman too long cooped up indoors?” she said with rising disbelief.

“Hey now,” I protested, “there’s no need to be mean about it! I was just asking a simple question.”

“Perhaps you think me too ‘simple’ for a real discussion then?” she said icily, clearly implying that by the word ‘simple’ I thought her stupid.

I opened my mouth to verbally explode and then forcibly clenched my jaw. I’m not here to start a fight, I reminded myself. I was there to speak with my wife and, hopefully, mend a few fences along the way.

“I don’t want to fight with you,” I said a hint of plaintiveness creeping into my voice despite my best efforts, “we’ve just gotten back together,” I added with a sigh when she didn’t immediately melt from a frozen Ice Princess into a real life flesh and blood person a man could actually relate to.

“You have a strange way of showing it,” Akantha said coldly.

“How so?” I demanded hotly, my dander finally starting to rise. There’s only so much badgering a man can take before he loses his cool.

“We’ve been apart for the better part of two seasons, but instead of speaking with me about that—or the great battle we just partook in—the first thing you think to ask about,” her words turned to a hiss, “after running away from me from morning to noon,” she now looked like she wanted to throttle someone—probably me, “is an asinine question about how my day has been!” By the time she finished her icy demeanor had been replaced with red-faced, growing anger.

“This is coming from the woman who woke me up from my bed in sickbay to give me accusations of starting a war and lying to her about it?” I shouted. “Ye-Space Gods, it’s no wonder I don’t want to speak with you about the past!” “Well if the shoe fits, wear it,” she snarled. “Or are you trying to deny that you are going to launch yourself into another deadly contest the very moment we are both returned to my war-torn home? Perhaps you are trying to leave me behind—again?!”

“What are you raving about, woman?” I said, throwing my hands in the air, determined to stay focused on the main point at hand. “I gave very specific orders that I was not to be accosted with that Representative’s,” I gave that last word scornful emphasis, “outrageous demands, as I had no time to deal with them during the heat of battle—which battle I went from fighting, to literally waking up in bed being accused of lying to you about something which I had absolutely no knowledge!”

Akantha glared at me.

“If there’s a place for that proverbial shoe, then it’s atop your head because you hadn’t a leg—or foot!—to stand on,” I said, returning her glare.

“So you aren’t going to start another war?” Akantha demanded, and like a dog with a bone she just wouldn’t let go.

“That’s beside the point,” I growled.

“So you are!” she exclaimed, and as that was actually now my intention after listening to the Representative’s tale of woe, I couldn’t exactly deny it now could I?

“That’s beside the point,” I riposted defensively.

“No, it is precisely the point.” Akantha stood up and slapped a hand against the wall of our quarters, “I know you, and I knew exactly what you would do before you did it. That is why I roused you: to explain yourself!”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” I blustered with disbelief, “are you some kind of prophet, seer, or revelator now—one so lost to the strands of time that she can’t be bothered to wait until an event actually happens before reacting to it?”

“Are you mocking me?!” she cried clenching her fists.

“I’m more than half serious,” I flared.

“You-you-you,” she advanced on me with outstretched hands.

I took an instinctive half step back, my knees catching on the bed. I had just regained my balance and focused back on my girl when her hands landed on me. I had to force myself not to fall into a defensive crouch—when angered and on the advance my beloved wife looked alarmingly similar to many of the people who had tried to kill me in the not-too-distant past.

“Okay, maybe that last was going a bit too far,” I said hastily, all the while reminding myself that one did not pull a pocket blaster—even one hidden up his sleeve for nearly that exact situation—on his Lady wife, no matter how much she looked like she wanted to kill him.

Her hands bunched in my uniform and then I was lifted off the floor.

“What—” I got out, curling my fist and drawing it back.

Then her mouth landed on my own and there was no more room for talking. At first I was too tense but then, realizing what was happening, I relaxed into it and for an endless moment I just enjoyed.

“You are the most insufferable man,” she sighed, pulling back slightly and resting her head on my cheek.

“Err,” I said my scrambled brain unable to process what exactly I should be saying. “Thanks?” I heroically tried anyway.

From her little growl of frustration, I knew I’d somehow picked wrong. I’d always thought you couldn’t go wrong complimenting a woman? Live and learn, I guess.

“I’m sorry,” I said with concern, “should I have said—”

She tossed me on the bed, where I landed on my back with a thump.

“Be silent,” she instructed me, “I have been imagining this moment for a long time, and even you will not be allowed to ruin it by opening your mouth.”

“Right,” I said, my teeth closing with an audible click.

Akantha glared down at me for a long moment and then her expression softened and she clambered into bed with me.

For the longest time she plundered my mouth but there’s only so long a man whose been without his wife for an extended period could survive such torture. In a sudden move I rolled and reversed positions.

Then it was my mouth—as well as my hands—that began to wander, and for the longest time we talked about nothing at all.

Chapter 8: A Restful Repast

“That was nice,” I said, rolling onto my back and stretching out with a contented sigh.

“Nice?” Akantha asked mostly pleasantly but with the slightest edge to her voice.

“I meant awesome,” I said jerking with surprise, “the word I was searching for was awesome and incredible and—”

“Do not strain yourself, Protector,” Akantha said with amusement and placed a finger on my lips to silence me.

“Protector?” I asked when she finally removed the finger, I struggled for a light tone but couldn’t help feeling a bit of hurt, “What happened to using first names?”

“Jason, then,” she corrected with a snort.

“That’s better,” I said once again settling back with a contented feeling. Everything was, for a short time, once again right in the world. Intellectually I knew that I was probably still just basking in the afterglow since the world was never right or easy, but for the moment I was just content to be at least minimally optimistic.

Akantha repositioned herself until her leg lay over the top of mine, weighing down like an iron bar so I had little—no, strike that, I had ‘no’ chance of escaping.

“Blast my Uncle anyway,” I muttered, glad that he was dead, “just the thought of all we’ve suffered thanks to that bastion of evil makes me want to feed him to the Bugs all over again.”

“He was not your Uncle,” Akantha stated in a dispassionate voice.

“Oh, Hades yes he was—and by all the Blazes will forever remain—my uncle,” I said, jerking in bed but unable sit up with a woman that weighed almost…or possibly just as much as I did, still wrapped around me. After all she couldn’t possibly be bigger than me; she was just taller, I told myself, my mind skirting around the elephant in the room and latching onto the inane realization that I was going to have to increase my workout routine now that the reality of Akantha back in my life held me pinned to the mattress with little more than a languid leg.

“Some women might take exception to their son killing a still powerful, former lover in their presence,” I went rigid as her voice slowly faded, “but I think your mother took it all quite well…” Akantha went on, heedless of the fact her voice had started fading away shortly after she uttered the words ‘former lover’.

White noise filled my mind as she continued to natter on and I blinked rapidly. After a while her words started to make sense again and my brain reengaged.

There was no way in all of creation that that man—who had shot me in my own conference room, left me for dead, tried to kill my wife and, after I survived, sent me off to be tried and executed when I wouldn’t join him in whatever insane plans for galactic domination flitted through his skull—was in any way a closer relation to me than the distant Uncle he himself agreed with me he should be! I took deep rapid breaths, the thought of him, a murderous, slaving, piratical piece of scum and my mother together in a room like me and—

Once again white noise drowned out my senses.

A sharp pain followed by cramping muscles in my arm where Akantha had just hit me with her fist brought me back to the present.

“You were saying?” I said, turning to look at Akantha and reaching over to rub my arm.

“You have not been listening to a thing I have said, have you?” Akantha demanded, posting up on her elbow and glaring down at me.

My eyes were arrest by the movement of something much more appealing than my mother and-and-and…I gave myself a shake.

“Men,” she huffed, seeing the direction of my gaze and pulling up the sheet to cover herself.

Disappointed, I turned back to look at her with a sigh and seeing the look on her face knew I needed to change the subject quick or my arm wouldn’t be the only thing smarting in a couple of minutes.

“Sorry,” I apologized, “let’s please not talk about my mom right now,” I said, delicately skirting the ‘subject which would not be mentioned.’ I mean, it was one thing to think of my mom with someone in that way—yuck!—but the idea of her, and that Pirate, and…me?! Feeling my blood pressure begin to rise once again, I desperately refocused on what was important: a wife who packed a mean punch and the willingness to use it! “I mean don’t get me wrong, I want to know how she’s been doing but…,” a flash of inspiration struck and though it felt like a good idea now I knew I was going to suffer for asking but as that was going to happen anyway. I took a breath, “Why don’t you tell me about what happened to you after we got separated at the Omicron? Besides, I’m more interested in hearing about you anyway,” I added.

“There is not much to tell,” Akantha said dismissively, and while I silently applauded to hear it, I knew that as a supportive husband I couldn’t show that I felt this way. What was more, as a son I knew I was desperate to avoid the previous subject. A bit of heartburn now was better than…ugh! “We went to Capria to express our displeasure over their betrayal at the Omicron Station, and to exact an appropriate price. I believe James got the message,” Akantha said, her voice turning smug.

“King James, you mean?” I asked, freezing in place. “What did you do?” I asked with a sinking sensation.

“James of Capria,” Akantha corrected me, “that little slive is hardly a proper King. As for what I did, I sent him and that pestilent Parliament a message they’ll not soon forget!”

I brought a hand to my forehead and started rubbing it. “You mean that in a metaphorical, long-distance sense, I hope, and settled for shooting a few things up as ‘payment’?” I said, knowing even as I said it that for my girl that particular ‘hope’ was little more than a short-lived fantasy.

“What do you take me for?” Akantha sounded offended. “I was quite proper, and the Kingling and I sat down and hashed things out like proper women.”

I blinked to cover my bulging eyes; it was at times like this that I was reminded that back where she came from, the planet of this system in fact, women tended to run everything except combat.

“That sounds good,” I said cautiously.

Akantha got a thoughtful expression on her face. “After we destroyed most of his orbital defenses, stormed his palace, and seized one of his battleships as our own for good measure, of course,” Akantha said triumphantly, and then she looked at me expectantly. From the look in her eye she clearly thought she had done good—or better than good—and was ready to hear me praise her.

“Of course,” I wheezed, feeling a coughing attack about to overcome me, “that was very…restrained.”

Akantha nodded, as if agreeing that she’d been the very soul of restraint and, almost despite myself, I reached out and slowly traced the scars running down her face from her eyes to her jaw almost like tear tracks.

“Gants was quite concerned for his family,” she said, leaning into my hand, “and wanted me to promise not to orbitally bombard his home world during the attack,” Akantha finished quite seriously.

My fist which had been tracing the scars on her face clenched.

“Clearly he still feels some strong attachment to his former polis,” Akantha continued contemplatively. “But he has done a worthy job as my First Officer and I am more than willing to retain him, but it might be best if he rejoined you for a time.”

“I can see that,” I said in a carefully controlled voice and then felt I had to ask, “you didn’t…?” I trailed off not certain of the best way to ask someone you love if she’d just launched a genocidal attack upon your home world from orbit.

Akantha looked offended. “Why in the name of MEN would I have to make war upon citizens?” she asked as she gave me a hard look.

“I know; it’s crazy, right?” I said and then sighed with relief.

“Although I was tempted to drop a stone on the Bunker holding your Parliament, after the way their men were party to an attack by your Uncle that would have killed everyone onboard the Armor Prince during the siege of the Omicron,” for a brief moment Akantha almost seemed to sag, but then her face hardened. “Only Hansel Suffic’s sacrifice to save the rest of us warded off that attack. An anti-mutiny device, or ‘bomb,’ I believe they called it.”

I grimaced, figuring that now probably wasn’t the best time to mention Operations Budget Balancer or Rounding Error, and the fact my Uncle had admitted to working with, and for, Parliament since before his exile from the home-word.

“Understandable,” I agreed finally, “but your restraint does you justice.”

Akantha frowned and shook her head dismissively. “There wasn’t time,” she said with a shrug that did strange things under the sheet, which sheet I also notice had started to slip, “the rest of Capria’s SDF Fleet was on the way and if we were to take our prize with us we needed to leave.” Then she noticed where I was looking, “My eyes are up here,” she said a cool note to her voice, but when I looked back up I saw a hint of satisfaction that quickly left her face as soon as she saw me watching.

“Sorry,” I mumbled more than a little unrepentantly, all the while fighting to keep a smirk off my own face.

“I admit I was somewhat driven,” Akantha continued in a tone of voice that made it seem as if this was some kind of great admission from her, “but I don’t know why he…all of them seemed so concerned.”

I made a non-committal sound.

“It is not as though the citizenry of Capria attacked us!” Akantha laughed.

“Uh…what do you mean by that?” I asked hesitantly. “I mean, hypothetically, suppose for some reason they did; what would you have done? They’re just average people, not warriors, after all.”

Akantha looked contemplative, as if the thought had never occurred to her before. “I guess it would depend on what they had done…probably nothing. Being attacked by militia or a citizen with a weapon is just war,” she shrugged then something seemed to occur to her, “of course…there is always the example of Isis the Great.”

“What did she do?” I smiled.

“She was pulled from her riding beast by the Citizens of Denegan during the middle of a diplomatic visit,” Akantha said a hard glint entering her eye such that I was afraid to ask—but, of course, I had to.

“What happened?” I inquired as mildly as I could, trying to keep tensions low.

“It is one thing to be attacked and killed by your enemies, but it is another entirely to assault the dignity of a sitting Hold-Mistress and drag her through the streets. They should have simply killed her,” Akantha said baring her teeth, “but they didn’t and now there are no more Citizens of Denegan—and thus, no more Denegan.”

I winced, hoping that nobody got the sweet idea of dragging my girl through the street. I might be forced to stave off an orbital bombardment of my own—and that’s assuming she didn’t want to take the sword to a bunch of civilians, all up front and personal style.

“Let’s try to avoid situations like that,” I said diplomatically and wondering if some day in the future I was going to have to make a decision to jettison my wife or cover up her massacring a town, major city or entire planet because a bunch of non-military idiots took it into their heads to ‘teach her a lesson’. I suppressed a shudder.

Akantha proceeded to give me a withering look, which in her mostly unclad condition was probably not quite as effective as she thought it was.

“I’ve missed you,” I said, pasting on a smile and deciding that I was just going to have to make sure such a conflict never arose. I was the highly acclaimed Tyrant of Cold Space, after all!

“Right, well now that you are finally back home, you can take some time and go down to visit your family in Argos,” I said, my mind racing as I tried to figure out how I was going to get everything that needed doing done with Akantha glaring over my shoulder, ready to gut anyone who looked at her crosswise or me crosswise. That is, so long as she wasn’t angry or upset with me at the time—in which case it would likely be me she was looking to gut.

“Looking to pawn me off already?” Akantha asked coolly.

“Not at all,” I protested vehemently, as only someone caught in the opening maneuvers of an only half thought-out plan can, “I can’t believe you’d say something like that!”

After giving me a look that clearly said she didn’t believe me, Akantha slowly nodded. “I have been away for quite some time,” she finally agreed before her face brightened, “and my people will need me, not just my family in Argos.”

“That’s good,” I said cautiously, despite my initial almost misstep things seemed to be going my way. It felt too easy…something was bound to go wrong.

“This would be the perfect opportunity to spend some time with your sister and mother outside,” she said happily, but there was a certain glint to her eye that I mistrusted.

“Haven’t you just spent the better part of several weeks with them?” I asked, starting to backpedal. Not only did I not trust the look in her eye, but blast it I wanted to spend some time with my mom too. Akantha had already had her for weeks. I mean, she could have my sister for all I cared, but…

My eyes darted back to her face as I recalled the last words out of my sister’s mouth right before I’d passed out. I must have been hit harder than I’d thought, because I had completely forgotten about my Sister’s threat to kill me if I fed my…uncle, to the Bugs.

“Akantha, my family is important to me,” I said, searching for and finding a stern voice to go along with the words.

“Family is always important,” Akantha declared, but as this was coming from a person whose family member had tried to kill me the moment I showed up—and who had failed to shed a single tear for the death of said family member when he had failed—I wasn’t exactly sure we were on the same wavelength here. She could treat the rest of my family—the royal part of my family anyway—just like hers for all I was concerned. I mean, yes, I’d get outraged and stomp around and figure out some way to make her pay if she just started going after them, but that was different from the way I was willing to see my mother treated!

My sister was tentatively in the same spot as my mother—at least for the time being. I would have liked to say firmly in that spot but as the first words I can remember her ever saying to me included a death threat if I did something that I went ahead and did anyway, I felt I had to keep my options open. It killed me a little bit inside but there you go. Life was full of tough choices for the Tyrant of Cold Space.

“Mom’s just a high-end chef,” I made sure to point out, “sure, she raised me and worked in the palace but she’s not really a member of the royal family. I don’t want you to confuse my mother for someone like Cousin Bethany.”

“Your mother is more than just some ‘high-end preparer of food’,” Akantha informed me as if I were somehow at fault for simply relaying what my mother’s job was.

“That’s not what I meant,” I protested, “I’m just saying that—”

“Nonsense; she is a poised, knowledgeable woman with an important position,” she cut me off. “And I am certain she needs to get out of rooms that are nothing more than a series of four walls of varying length inside this metal box and would enjoy a voyage to Argos by way of Messene,” she declared.

I looked at Akantha strangely. Mom was one of a kind and I loved her, but poised and knowledgeable with an important position? That last bit seemed a little much, but then again what did I know? Tracto-ans, being a matriarchal culture in many ways, were still strange to me and they probably had a different way of looking at things and valuing them. Maybe where she came from poisoning was a serious concern, and thus a Chef was a particularly revered position?

“If she wants to go I’m not about to stop her,” I said pursing my lips, “however, I’m not sure she or my sister understand the particular…dangers of mixing with Tracto-an Society.”

“I’m certain a pair of strong, forceful women, like your mother and sister will do just fine,” Akantha declared, “and besides they will be with me. They will be fine.”

“Yeah, and I was with you the last two times as well,” I muttered under my breath, distinctly remembering my previous visits, where each time I had been attacked and almost killed.

“What was that?” Akantha demanded, giving me a piercing look.

“Just recalling my last couple visits,” I replied unrepentantly.

Akantha lifted her brows at this but I was unfazed. Multiple attempts on a persons’ life had a refreshing way of making them immune to marital pressure, so I lifted a single brow in return.

She huffed but chose not to pursue it further—at least, not directly.

“I’d hate to learn that something had happened while I was on the bridge standing next to a Tactical station,” I said, gritting my teeth.

Akantha scowled. “Let us talk about that sister of yours,” she said flatly.

“How about we don’t,” I retorted not wanting to open that particular can of worms right now.

“She wants you dead; that is not something you ignore simply because she’s family,” my wife replied in full-on, Ice Maiden mode.

“It was a stressful situation, when my fa—I mean, uncle, died right in front of them and I realize that wasn’t my finest moment,” I allowed, my face coloring at the verbal stumble. “So I’m not prepared to condemn her for a few harsh words. I mean, even if he was a lowdown, dirty, no good piece of pirate filth!” by the end of my description of Jean Luc my voice had risen and I could feel myself getting red in the face. I had to take several breaths to calm down.

My Sword-Bearer gave me a level look. “If that is all it was, I might be more sympathetic than I am,” she said, meeting and holding my gaze.

My eyes narrowed but I wasn’t ready to give her the satisfaction of a question on this one…yet.

“Then again, maybe not,” she added honestly, she stopped and took a deep breath, “however…she was talking about killing you before we entered this star system.”

“What?!” I exclaimed, almost more concerned about the fact that Akantha had brought her here if my sister wanted to kill me than I was at the fact that, well…that my sister wanted to kill me! “Why?” I demanded, wondering what kind of life I lived where everyone and their sister wanted me dead.

Akantha’s eyes became hooded and she almost seemed to draw away from me, her eyes looked past me. Then she refocused. “Apparently there is some kind of, I suppose you might call it, ‘governmentally sanctioned death order’ for you,” she finally said.

“Those dastards,” I fumed tossing aside the sheet and getting up to pace, “it would be just like them, too. It’s not enough that I was taken to Central to be tried and executed; they’re trying to get rid of me any way they can—including using my family against me!”

Akantha grimaced and shook her head. “How close are you to this sister of yours?” she asked, bringing her expression under control.

I looked at her closely at this odd behavior and then shrugged it off. My knowledge of the ways of women—and most especially, women of Tracto—was limited. But I decided to answer the question anyway; it’s not like there was any percentage in lying about it.

“Not very,” I admitted, “I guess she must have left shortly after I was born because mom never really talked about her. In fact,” I said feeling perplexed, “I’m not sure if I ever remember mom mentioning her before. She must have told me back when we were young. It was always just her and me while I was growing up,” I blinked, realizing how stupid that sounded. How could I not know if I had a sister or not?

“Then, given her attitude, you will likely be unable to convince her to change her ways before she does something that cannot be ignored,” Akantha said, and when she did so it sounded like she was almost happy at the prospect.

“Blast it, Akantha,” I said, turning to face her, only then realizing I was still in my birthday suit and starting to feel ridiculous.

“First your Cousin, then Jean Luc, and now your sister and your Cousin-Uncle King James,” Akantha shook her head sadly, “what is it that makes you so popular with all the relatives in your life?” she asked in bewilderment. “And how did you survive to adulthood with all of these threats?”

I was stung by that, so I snatched up my trousers off the floor and angrily started to put them back on.

“No one gave two figs for me before I had to take over the Clover. Now that I’m an Admiral—a real Admiral,” I emphasized the fact that my rank was no longer merely an honorific, “they’re coming out of the woodworks, believing I’m some kind of threat to them!”

Akantha nodded in understanding. What exactly she understood, I wasn’t sure. “Although many are damaged, the number of ships you’ve assembled here is quite formidable,” she said slowly, “if I were a spineless schemer in their positions, I would be worried also.”

“What in the world, Akantha?” I snapped, throwing my hands in the air. “You of all people should know that I’m too busy trying to hold this sector together with both hands—not to mention keeping this ugly mug atop my shoulders—to have time to waste pursuing some ancient vendetta!” I said motioning to my no longer horribly scarred head. Then I did a double take, “And ‘spineless schemer?’ I know you hate her but, as I recall, dear Cousin Bethany went after you with a pair of hair chop sticks while you were armed with Bandersnatch. Whatever you call that, I doubt the word ‘spineless’ enters the equation!”

Akantha stared down her nose at me, which I was pleased to note took more effort than usual while I was the one standing, and she was sitting on the bed.

“Someday I will kill that woman,” she said, speaking with icy precision.

“Ha!” I gloated, happy that she had no comeback and I’d won that part of the argument anyway.

“Insufferable,” she muttered.

“Oh, that’s rich,” I scoffed back, “you ask why everyone wants to kill me, and then start throwing names about.”

“And to think I actually missed this,” my Ice Maiden in human form said wearily and then added, “missed you.”

I felt myself start to puff up before blurting, “You did?”

She gave me a disgusted look that said if she had, in some brief moment of insanity, felt that way that she didn’t anymore—but I wasn’t buying it.

“I missed you too,” I said with a smile.

“Well I can see clear as clear that you refuse to be proactive about this,” she held up a hand to halt me, but as I didn’t know exactly what she was talking about there was no need. I hadn’t been about to say anything and when she saw that, she just looked irritated with me, “Despite this, I suppose that with your sister’s attitude the problem has a good chance of solving itself,” she said with evident satisfaction at relaying this information.

“If anything happens to my sister…” I said in a low, dangerous voice.

“I cannot guard her from herself each and every moment of every single day. Besides, if she attacks someone I am not going to tell them they cannot defend themselves,” Akantha snarled.

“That sounds real convenient,” I growled, images of my sister thrown into some kind of blasted challenge circle swimming across my vision, “fair warning though: I’m not nearly as tolerant about attacks on others as I am when it comes to myself. Denegan’s fate might be considered merciful after I’m done with them.” When I stopped, I realized that my hands were clenched as if around an invisible neck and I quickly lowered them, opening and closing my hands to increase circulation.

“You know…not every Hold-Mistress would be as understanding about what could be considered a threat,” Akantha said, also standing up.

“Do any of them have a battle fleet to back up their outrage?” I asked archly.

“Oooh! Should I be scared?” Akantha mocked me with a fake shiver, clearly unimpressed and maybe even a little contemptuous.

I gave her my best unhinged look, which to my surprise wasn’t as hard as I’d thought it would be, forcing a crack in her mockery for the slightest second. Most people might not have caught it, but then I wasn’t most people.

“So says the man who was captured while positioned in the very seat of his power,” she scoffed, stepping up to me.

My face twisted and although anger and rage flooded through me what she was saying was the gods’ honest truth.

I opened my mouth and then closed it before I said something I couldn’t take back before finally opening it again, when I was more or less sure I wasn’t about to explode into a fit of rage and high dungeon. After all, even if I was stupid enough to ignore my political reality wherein most of my Lancers were Tracto-an, there was the little minor matter that her sword was propped up closer to the bed than the shirt holding my hold-out blaster was. And when it came to my girl, if it came down to a conflict she was certain to go for her sword first and foremost.

“I didn’t exactly come out of that encounter covered in glory, did I?” I said, pursing my lips and trying for a wry tone. “You, on the other hand, purloined a pair of battleships and held our boarding crews together despite losing just about everything. Well done, my Lady,” the words tasted like a bitter pill in my mouth but while I might be guilty of many things, I was determined that failing to give credit where credit was due wasn’t going to be among them.

My Sword-Bearer blinked, looking taken aback at this admission of failure on my part. She had clearly been expecting another sally in our growing fight, not a compliment thrown her way.

“No, you didn’t,” she grunted.

“So, counting your newest capture what is that, three battleships you’ve taken a-prize?” I asked, already knowing the answer and feeling depressed.

“The Parliamentary Power,” she interjected and then nodded, “although I have considering changing the name; I thought it best to wait until after speaking with you.”

“Really?” I said in surprise. It wasn’t often my girl tended to ask my opinion. Normally she just went off half-cocked and did any blasted thing she wanted, regardless of the consequences.

“Unlike with the Phoenix, this ship was originally from your home world,” she said archly. “It is important in cases of civil war not to run roughshod over the sensibilities of your own people.”

My eyes bulged. “Honey,” I said, trying to tread softly but at the same time get my point across as firmly as I knew how, “we aren’t in a civil war.”

Akantha looked at me like I was a struggling student who had just handed in a paper that secured him the failing grade.

“You now have more Caprian-built battleships than your King does, and you refuse to follow his commands or swear fealty,” she held up a forestalling hand. “You also claim to be the highest military authority in this region, answerable to nothing and no one.”

“This is not a civil war I’m leading,” I said explosively, as if by repetition I could convince her. “I’m not claiming the throne of Capria, nor am I refusing to acknowledge civilian authority! It’s just that there is no legitimate civilian authority. Maybe when they vote in a legitimate Assembly in the Spineward Sectors, or the old Confederacy bothers to remember we exist and sends empowered officials along with a war fleet, we can get things back to the way they need to be!”

Akantha shook her head sadly. “In addition you have been repeatedly attacked by both Caprian and Sector authorities with the intent to kill you,” she continued, ignoring my protestations. “How is this not the very definition of a civil war? A powerful military leader with a strong dynastic claim refuses to acknowledge higher authority, and wields the most powerful army in the region,” she scoffed and then added. “Sorry I meant most powerful ‘fleet’.”

“I have never laid claim to the throne,” I spluttered.

“Well perhaps you should have—maybe then we would not be in this mess!” Akantha shouted.

“I don’t want the blasted throne!” I exclaimed truthfully. “Paint a target on my back and return to a planet filled with people who want to kill me? Thanks but no thanks!”

“Pitiful,” she shook her head.

“What!?” I couldn’t believe my ears.

“I never thought I would see the day when you back down because of fear,” she glared at me.

My mind scrambled for balance as well as an argument that would resonate with the Tracto-an Hold-Mistress.

“Honestly, Capria is small beans compared to being an Admiral in the Confederation. What’s control of one war-ravaged Core World compared to dozens or hundreds of worlds all supporting a powerful Fleet organization,” I interjected quickly, trying to frame things in their rosiest, best case, scenario. “Besides, all that being King of Capria would do is paint a target on my back, place me within easy reach of everyone who wants to kill me, and probably make me ineligible to continue as a Confederation Admiral.” I could still see skepticism but the disappointment wasn’t there anymore, so I decided to throw a bone, “A moving target is harder to hit and, if I need a home base, Tracto would be my first choice.”

“Even still,” Akantha said, obviously not yet ready to let it go entirely.

“Capria’s the low hanging fruit I can always reach for,” I lied like I never had before, “I mean, my claim to the throne isn’t going anywhere as long as another Montagne isn’t sitting on the throne. But if I misstep I could lose my position as Admiral—a position which is far more important right now.”

“Focusing our efforts on Tracto right at the moment is something I can fully support,” Akantha said begrudgingly, and I could see that she still wasn’t entirely convinced I was making the right move but the benefit to her own world was too great to risk just then.

I just hoped the day never came when the stars aligned and she once again started agitating for me to become the planetary ruler of my old home world. I didn’t relish the thought of invading Capria. It would turn every hand against me and I would not only have to overthrow Parliament, but the Royalist faction as well. It would literally be both ends against the middle and I wasn’t sure if Akantha fully grasped the reality of that situation yet.

“I’m glad you feel that way,” I replied, and almost despite myself I found myself glancing at the bed and then back at my wife with a speculative eye. “Now…where were we?” I asked hopefully.

Akantha narrowed her eyes.

Chapter 9: Fond Farewell & Man Talk

I stood in the shuttle bay and gratefully stopped waving and lowered my arm as the shuttle ignited its engines and blasted out of the bay.

“Thank the Maker,” I groaned,

Laurent looked at me with concern. “Are you sure it’s safe down on the planet for your family, sir?” he asked with a frown. “I’ve received reports from the colony that the pirates made their presence felt while we were gone.”

“Duncan is with them,” I said firmly, “I have every confidence.” It was important to project certainty when the women in your life do something you have no control over even—or perhaps especially—if you weren’t exactly feeling that particular emotion.

There was an awkward pause. “Even one man, however skilled he may have once been…” Laurent began.

“He’s a Tuttle, and you know what they say: once a Royal Armsman, always a Royal Armsman. They’re like the Marine Corps only much more intense,” I said wondering if I was trying to convince him or myself, “besides, what was I going to do? Lock them away in the brig until they came to their senses?”

“There are multiple alternate destinations,” Laurent pointed out, “and even now that shuttle could be diverted to any number of them.”

“And make myself the target of all three of their wraths?” I asked with disbelief. “Once the Lady Akantha put her oar in, my mother and sister latched onto it and there was nothing I could do to stop it. Believe me; I’ve tried!”

“A drive or thruster malfunction could be manufactured,” my Flag Captain pointed out edgily, “they would never have to know.”

I paused in consideration, my mind rapidly calculating the odds of shifting the blame and after a moment I shook my head sadly.

“My mother might believe it was a genuine accident…but my sister would blame me if the moon eclipsed or the mess hall ran out of bread, and with her right there singing my scorn Akantha would become suspicious. It’s not far from there to everything blowing up in my face and then I’m the bad guy,” I finally said. “It’s better if my finger prints aren’t anywhere near this if things go bad,” then I had a thought and looked at him with concern, “you were able to get the two companies of Lancers down there like I asked?”

“Yes; each of them has a 50% non-Tracto-an makeup and has received your personal instructions,” my Flag Captain nodded.

“That’s a relief,” I said with a sigh. As much as I trusted my Lancers to do what they thought was in my best interest, letting my family be attacked over some point of honor was right out as far as I was concerned. That’s why I’d made sure a number of steady men and officers were assigned to their protection unit—and by ‘steady’ I mean ‘non-genetically engineered super freaks.’ The Tracto-ans might stand by but, with my personal orders to follow, a large number of Promethean and Caprian Lancers would not. At least, that was the hope.

Fortunately I’d been able to find a number of such men with an easy excuse for their assignment to the protective detail. A ‘reward for their behavior above and beyond the call to sanity,’ I’d called it when Akantha sent them to Capria as an advanced recon team. I may, however, have not used those exact words.

These were also the very same men who had got to my family and whisked them back up to the Imperial Cruiser on a shuttle, making it doubly hard for my girl or my mother to find a reason not to take them. My sister was a different case but then again, seeing as she objected to almost anything I said, it was fairly easy to ignore her.

“You’re the Admiral, sir, but if it were me…I’d want to know all my options,” Laurent said with an unhappy expression, breaking into my train of thought and causing me to startle. I had all but forgotten he was still there I’d been so lost in my own thoughts.

It took me a moment to gather myself and when I did I shot the man a penetrating look.

“Is there a specific concern you have failed to mention; why all this sudden concern?” I asked in a lowered voice, my eyes searching for the truth, as if it would mysteriously appear on his face just because I wanted it to.

Captain Laurent looked startled at the insinuation. “Nothing like that at all, Admiral,” he said hastily.

“Then what is it?” I demanded sharply.

“It’s just that there have been reports of pirate forces cut off and left on the planet during the attack,” he reminded me.

“Yes, I’ve seen those reports; our forces took out the main concentrations,” I said.

“I’m just concerned, sir,” he said pursing his lips, “one lone crazy with a blaster rifle could do a lot of damage to an unarmored woman.”

I winced at the reminder that my mother—who had been agreeable in most all things, up to and including a full two companies of Lancers for a protective detail—had put her foot down to tramping around the planet in a battlesuit.

“We can’t control everything,” I muttered under my breath and then looked over at him and growled, “besides, a group might be a threat but a few lone pirates aren’t likely to last long on the surface of that planet. Tracto is inhospitable to standard humans in more ways than one could count, and I’d say that goes double for pirate scum like my Uncle’s former men.”

“Not all of his men were pirates,” Laurent observed, reminding me of the mutineers who had helped steal our ship at the Omicron and their Marine allies, “and there is another possibility.”

I looked at him strangely.

“This is a planet of warring city-states, and both Argos and Messene have enemies. Assassins indigenous to this planet don’t need to have ties to Jean Luc in order to want high value targets—like your family—dead. But,” he paused and my heart started to drop, “that doesn’t rule out both groups hating you more and uniting in common cause. Locals equipped with high tech weaponry, or pirates hidden in an outwardly peaceful delegation, or—”

I cut him off, all of this speculation making me feel ill. “I know there are risks,” I said, grinding my teeth at the impotence of it all. I was the so-called Tyrant of Cold Space and even I couldn’t just wave my hand and order things how I wanted them. Some terror of the space ways I turned out to be. “But what I need are solutions, not more problems.”

“Perhaps if the Admiral decided to head down himself,” he took a short breath, “you do have a great deal of influence among the people of Tracto…perhaps more than you know,” Laurent said carefully.

“After raising a number of these very same concerns himself, the Admiral was very firmly disinvited,” I scowled at all this talking about myself in the third person. “So making myself a target in order to focus the attentions of any assassins went right out the airlock a few hours ago.”

“Then I suppose we’ll just have to hope that two companies of Lancers are enough,” Laurent sighed, splaying his hands.

I gave myself a shake both literally and figuratively. Determined to put the situation with my mother, my sister and my wife all heading down to a planet of genetically engineered warrior people I turned to head out of the shuttle bay. For half a second I almost turned around; I was the Admiral after all! I didn’t need anyone’s permission to head down to Tracto at the same time but then I shook my head.

“This window without feminine interference could be a blessing in disguise,” I mulled the words out loud even as I said them.

“How so, Admiral?” Laurent looked at me sharply.

“We have much work to do, Captain,” I said, being deliberately mysterious as we passed through the hatch doors leading out of the shuttle bay. My eyes narrowed as I considered what needed to be done and a long pause ensued, “Whether or not we’re going to ride to the rescue of Sectors 23 and 24, we can do nothing until we have set our house in order here first.”

“There is a lot to do,” Laurent agreed after a moment of consideration, “and frankly I’m not sure if we can both take care of everything here and launch a major campaign into another Sector—let alone two Sectors.”

“We may have to,” I said grimly imagining the fate of millions or even billions of humans as they were ground under the relentless metal heels of the droid invasion fleets, “and that being the case, we must move with all haste. Which is why this foray to the world of Tracto may in fact be a blessing in disguise; there will be no distractions to keep us from doing what we must. We’ll start by getting our fleet of captured and damaged ships on the move into repair slips, and most importantly out of this Star System until they have crews on board that can turn those ships from easy prey into fighting warships of the MSP!”

“We captured over twenty vessels in varying condition,” my Flag Captain reminded me, “and that’s in addition to our own losses, which were not inconsiderable. The repair slips on the Belter’s space stations can handle some of the lesser work, but even with the expansion effort Jean Luc put into them it won’t be nearly enough.”

“No,” I clarified, “I don’t mean fix them up here; I mean get them the heck out of this system. We’ll leave the Corvettes and Cutters that were originally assigned to Tracto in whatever condition they are in now. Let the repair slips fix them up here, but the rest of our Prizes and damaged hulls need to get gone. We can’t risk some SDF or Sector Assembly Fleet swooping in and trying to pick the low hanging fruit while we’re distracted—or even gone from Tracto. Let’s get them out of here, Captain.”

Laurent hesitated. “That’s a task that may prove impossible, sir,” the Captain informed me levelly, “at least, impossible in the sort of time frame we’d need to turn around and launch a relief fleet for 24.”

“Why the blazes not?” I snapped, coming to halt in the middle of the hall and rounding on him. I was Admiral Montagne, the commander of the MSP and the man who personally took down Jean Luc. Why did everything have to be so blasted difficult? All I seemed to face was obstacles and obstinacy all the way through!

Under the weight of my angry eyes, Laurent’s hesitation hardened into a steely eyed counter gaze, “Frankly, sir, we don’t have the navigators—not even just for those ones with intact power plants and jump engines.”

I rocked back on my heels in the face of this latest news. “Navigators?” I asked as the news hit me like a forty pound sack of potatoes right upside the head. All my plans were about to be thwarted from a lack of trained navigators to move my ships?

“Yes, sir,” Laurent nodded, “even if we were willing to take into our confidence every assistant navigator in the squadron sent by Commodore LeGodat, we’d still come up too short.”

My hands clenched and my eyes hardened. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way, Captain,” I said grimly and started walking again. “Identifying problems is part of your job but what I need now are constructive solutions.”

Laurent was silent until we hit the turbo-lift.

“We could check and see which of the damaged battleships are still capable of independent maneuvers, and try to have them tow some of the ships without functional hyper-drives along with them back to the yard in Gambit for repair,” he said finally.

“Does Gambit have the slips to handle all the ships?” I posed the question, even though I was all but certain that it didn’t.

Laurent shook his head, confirming my worries.

“So our problem is twofold,” I narrowed my eyes, “we don’t enough navigators to move the ships all at once and between Tracto and Gambit we don’t have enough repair slips.”

“Well put, Admiral,” Laurent said and my eyes cut over to him sharply.

“No need to stroke my ego, Captain,” I said biting out his rank for emphasis.

“Do you have a solution?” the Captain asked bluntly, forgoing my rank or courtesy. “Because even if we could move them all in one haul, I don’t see how anything’s going to be ready for an extended campaign even if we do somehow manage it and get repair crews started working on them immediately.”

The shark-like smile I turned on him was an answer all on its own but for the sake of clarity I would elaborate. “We don’t have enough repair slips but the MSP isn’t just Tracto and Gambit—it’s bigger than that,” I grinned.

“Much as I understand the philosophical argument you’re making—” Laurent started a little pedantically—if I was any judge—but I interrupted.

“Whether or not they’re considered an integral part of the Multi-Sector Patrol fleet is, I suppose, debatable,” I interrupted sternly. “However you can’t deny that elements of the Confederation Fleet currently control any number of empty repair slips.”

“Whereabouts? I don’t follow, Admiral?” Laurent frowned. “Where are these Fleet elements and the repair yard we need?”

“Why, back at Easy Haven of course, Captain Laurent,” I said with satisfaction.

The Captain started. “But…” he paused to collect himself before throwing himself back into the breach, “it’s an intriguing idea, sir, however not only is Easy Haven almost completely undermanned—and that’s when it’s not literally unmanned,” he scowled at me, clearly not as intrigued by my ideas as he claimed, “meaning they don’t have the personnel to undertake a repair effort of this magnitude, sir, and that doesn’t even touch on the fact that most of those slips and the factories to build replacement parts have sat unused for going on fifty years or more!”

“Much of the machinery there has recently been upgraded by the Constructors we left at Wolf-9, including the military factories,” I said, waving my hand in the air as if to shoo away a bad wind. “So the equipment angle isn’t as big a concern as it might otherwise be.”

Laurent made a strangled sound, “If all you want is to get ships in slips, we’re getting closer. Repairing them, on the other hand…” he shook his head as if I were a normally high functioning student who had just spectacularly failed an oral presentation in front of the entire class.

“Everything in its own time,” I said sharply.

“But even using Captain McCruise’s navigators…we still come up short, Admiral,” Laurent said patiently.

“You’re still stuck thinking inside the box, Captain. The reason I’m the Admiral is because I’m not limited to a box,” I didn’t add that I wasn’t limited to thinking inside the box because half the time I hadn’t a clue what was in the box—and I had decided a long time before that was probably for the best—so deliberately working for my most pompous affect, I cocked an expression that could under certain circumstances pass for a smile, “That’s why we’re going to conscript as many of the captured pirate navigators as it takes to point transfer the rest of those ships back to Gambit, and use our larger ships to haul anything with drives to tow anything without a working hyper drive.”

“P-p-p-pirates!” Laurent looked like he was about to have a stroke, “we can’t give Easy Haven navigators the location, but we’ll hand the nav-coordinates over to a double handful of pirate scum the first chance we get?!”

“They’ll just have to be indefinitely detained,” I said with a steely gaze, “I promised they wouldn’t be killed, but I said nothing about where they wouldn’t be killed at for the rest of their miserable, murderous lives.”

“Ye-Space Gods,” Laurent said, reaching up and running a hand through his hair.

“Easy Haven has the slips we need, and the pirate navigators not only know their own ships, they can get them where they need to go. Problem solved,” I said, pinning my Flag Captain with my eyes.

Laurent looked as if he were suffering a bad case of ingestion.

“Besides, after what they’ve done for us, I suppose it would be uncharitable to try and keep our hands on every single pirate hull we’ve captured,” I added, working to hide my sourness at this prospect.

“I can almost wrap my head around that part,” Laurent said after a pause, “McCruise and her squadron have come through better than we could have hoped, I’d say.”

“LeGodat sent us his best,” I observed neutrally. Because despite my reservations—deep reservations—about the motives of the Easy Haven contingent and their willingness to leave me to hang, the Commodore had come through with flying colors when I’d asked. Destroyers and a functional Heavy Cruiser, basically all the mobile firepower the Commodore could spare—and probably more than what they could safely spare if I was being honest—had been given to me. Not only that, but we couldn’t have done this without them. That had to count for something didn’t it?

Well, I was the Admiral and I said it did. So that was all there was to it.

“Even so, trusting pirates and handing over a large number of warship hulls to Easy Haven aside, that won’t change the fact that the manpower we’ll need to first fix all those ships, and then get them crewed, simply isn’t available,” Laurent sighed.

I gave him a perfectly poised lifted eyebrow. “That’s why we have a recruiting drive,” I said, ignoring the fact that for all I knew the recruiting drive under Commodore Druid and the former com-tech Lisa Steiner had been lost with all hands in space, for all I’d heard from them, “besides, I didn’t say that everything needed to be fixed simultaneously.”

Laurent’s face tightened fractionally, he was clearly expecting more of what he considered bad news. Well hopefully he’d change his tune after I explained further, although personally I gave him less than fifty-fifty odds of being reassured by my words.

Pausing outside the conference room I activated the door before stepping inside.

“With our focus on repair slips and getting ships there, I thought that repairs were the priority before deciding whether or not to tackle a Droid Invasion, Sir?” Laurent said formally.

“No, the important part is getting our damaged, crewless prizes somewhere other than here where anyone and their weak sister could become tempted to come swooping in to steal them,” I said patiently. “After that we only need to focus on those ships which can be repaired and crewed rapidly. The rest we’re going to have to leave behind.”

Laurent choked.

“If we ultimately decide to go for it,” I said with a false smile. Somewhere in the back of my mind already knowing what my decision was…what it had to be. I wasn’t like him; I would never become like him, not in a hundred years. If it killed me first and if that meant bellying up to the grenade right before it exploded then so be it. Jean Luc could rot in the Hades of his own creation.

“Admiral—” Laurent protested and then stopped and pulled himself back short, before starting again. “What are you thinking, Admiral?” he said finally and then sat down with a thump in his chair.

I eyed my Flag Captain with the barest hint of approval. It looked like he was going to follow my lead, even if it killed him to do so. Good, I thought as I, too, sat down.

“Everything here is hammered, so let’s be honest about this, at least amongst ourselves,” I said firmly.

“I wish you would,” Laurent said fervently.

“We have to go,” I said, “if we don’t, everything we’re trying to do here will be for naught.”

“That’s not true,” Laurent exclaimed jumping back out of his chair, “we need time to pull things back into order and then we’ll come back out of the gate stronger than ever. There’s a difference between not helping because you literally can’t and because you’re a lazy, uncaring blighter who can’t be bothered to risk his skin. We’ve risked it already—and by the bucket load, Admiral—don’t throw that all away, I urge you!”

“I don’t intend to throw anything away,” I said, taken aback by the vehemence in his voice before leaning forward and thumping the table with the flat of my hand, “look. We both know that we can’t raise enough of a battle fleet to settle these droids all by ourselves. Not now, and maybe not even if everything we’ve managed to get our hands on these past few months was in working order. So sit back down.”

“We finish repairing that new fleet out there and you just watch us,” Laurent muttered rebelliously before dropping back into his chair.

“Be that as it may, I don’t think the worlds of those Sectors have time for us to start singing hymns around the campfire and hoping for the best while our ships are repaired and crewed up to regulation before we do something,” I said with a patented royal smile to break the tension with.

Laurent placed both elbows on the table and then ran a hand over his face. “What’s the plan, Sir?” Laurent said fatalistically.

“Half the problem over there are, of course, the droids, but the other half is that they don’t seem to be able to pull together,” I said with a confidence I hoped wasn’t unjustified, “what they need is something we can actually provide. What we can do that none of them has managed to do yet, is provide a unifying banner under which to rally the worlds of those two Sectors by offering them something greater than themselves and their petty squabbles.”

“And what’s that?” Laurent asked leaning forward unhappily.

“Why, the Confederation of course,” I thumped the table with my fist for emphasis. And I felt like a fraud while doing it, but they say ‘you dance with the one that brought you,’ and for me that was my commission as Confederation Vice Admiral. “We just have to get them all pulling in harness and in the same direction and with a little bit of luck things will start slotting into place before you know it,” I said, projecting confidence with every bit of my royal and on-the-job training as a fleet commander over the past year.

Laurent took a deep breath and then nodded. “Alright…I can see it,” he said slowly.

I was surprised. Did he actually think this plan had a real chance of success? Because as far as I could see, showing up and waving the Confederation flag at a bunch of previously feuding SDF’s and world governments didn’t seem to be a recipe for success—assurances from Kong Pao aside.

“You do?” I asked with a lifted eyebrow.

“There’s an outside chance of it working,” Laurent admitted, tapping his finger on the table while thinking.

“An outside chance,” I blurted without thinking, wondering after the fact if I should be more outraged at the lack of faith or amused at the idea that he actually thought I could just show up and win everyone over to my way of thinking by sheer force of personality.

“You’ve shown you can bring people together even when you start out from a heavily disadvantaged position. Take this crew for instance,” he said, alluding to the fact that even as a Montagne I’d been able to turn a group of crewmen and women who had no reason to trust an untrained naval novice like myself from a disparate group of Montagne-distrusting individuals into a loyal crew who would follow me through fire and beyond—half of which had already done so more than once.

“Thanks,” I said, feeling genuinely touched.

“As well as slip the noose when they’ve got you dead to rights and every hand seems turned against you,” he added, serving an unhealthy portion of reminder regarding my capture at the hands of the infamous Blood Lord. A capture followed by imprisonment and a farce of a trial by the Sector Assembly, in turn followed by my eventual escape from a literal death sentence, “so…yes, I think we have a chance. How many ships are you planning to take?”

My mood instantly soured I had to work to keep my face cleared of the half a dozen emotions that wanted to escape my control.

“I figured the Phoenix could be repaired fairly quickly if she were given priority,” I put forth, surprised at the sullenness welling up inside me, at the question. I have to stay focused here, I reminded myself.

“A good choice: she’s fast and powerful. What else?” asked my Flag Captain.

“I figure we bring everything else that’s working, minus a small system defense force for Tracto and whatever LeGodat decides to do with his destroyers. We can’t send him damaged warships without a proper escort; that wouldn’t just be foolish, it would be stupid as well, but not sending McCruise and her squadron back just so we could hold onto her would look suspicious,” I frowned pointedly. “Not that I haven’t considered it—to the blazes with the consequences—but that’s not a decision I’m ready to make here and now…at least not yet.”

“So a handful of ships based around the cruiser—unless the yard tells us one of the battleships isn’t as badly damaged as we feared,” Laurent said looking unsettled.

“That about sums it up,” I agreed unhappily, “the way I see it we have to go or lose our moral stand. The entire reason for the MSP is to be a Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet, and how can we do that if we don’t patrol our signatory Sectors and come running when there’s an invasion? On the other hand…” I paused and then shrugged, “if we show up with our best faith effort and they turn us away, at least we did our duty and showed up to the party. After that, anything that happens is on them.”

“A task force built around an Imperial Strike Cruiser,” Captain Laurent said skeptically.

“The Pride of Prometheus might have brought us back an edge or three when they brought the representative here,” I said, my mind racing as I tried to calculate all the possible angles. Captain Middleton and his harebrained lost patrol had, for all their faults, brought back a few startling bits of intel in addition to the Sector Judge cum Representative for their Mutual Defense League, “I think we can use that to our advantage.”

“The decision to get involved or not is above my pay grade,” Laurent said, “however, before we can start counting our chickens there’s one person we’ll need to speak with before we can have an accurate estimate of what ships are space and battle worthy.”

“Who?” I asked.

“Chief Engineer Terrence Spalding,” Laurent replied, “no one knows Gambit’s repair capabilities like the Chief.”

I closed my eyes and then nodded. “I should have known,” I muttered.

Chapter 10: Are you Insane?!

“Are you insane?!” Spalding shouted as soon as I asked him the question.

I blinked, this not being the answer I had expected from my normally gung-ho engineering expert. “Which part of it do you feel will be too difficult to carry out?” I asked calmly.

“You’re out of your bleedin’ mind, Admiral!” Spalding exclaimed. “There’s no way we can fix up the entire fleet in a less than six months—at a minimum! Just no way.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I said, looking over at the Chief Engineer and frowning, “all I wanted to know was how many of the capital ships you could…”

“Capital ships; you mean battleships,” Spalding cursed, winding back and kicked the duralloy wall with his cybernetic feet. The clang as he connected almost caused me to jump and unlike the rest of his burgeoning tirade sent a jolt of adrenaline through my body that sent my heart rate temporarily skyrocketing.

“All I want to know is how many of these ships we can fix up so I can take a fleet over to liberate the worlds of Sector 23 and 24 and repulse a droid invasion force,” I said mildly—as soon as my heart rate had settled.

“Are ye possessed, lad?” Spalding asked, peering skeptically into my eyes with the solid red light that was his cybernetic eye. To call it disconcerting would be an understatement; it was something more like what you would have expected from a machine or a droid than a living, breathing—fuming—Chief Engineer, “those quacks down in Medical didn’t let you out too early, I hope?”

“Not at all,” I glared.

“Well then,” Spalding said in a reasonable tone before suddenly turning beet-red, “if one of Murphy’s imps didn’t crawl into yer head while ye weren’t looking, then what the blazes are you goin’ on about? It can’t be done,” he declared, throwing his hands in the air and walking off.

I stared after him flabbergasted. I knew—Saint’s mercy, everyone knew—that Terrence Spalding was eccentric but the man had never just told me ‘no’ and then walked off like this before.

The sight of his retreating back about to round the corner jumpstarted my brain and I started after him before I lost sight of the gleaming metallic back of his head.

“Wait up,” I called after him in vain and finally, heedless of what anyone would think of seeing their Admiral running down the corridors when he didn’t respond other than to shake his head, I broke out into a sprint.

“Most people can say, ‘at least I’ve got me health’ if things go sour, but what do I have?” the Chief Engineer was muttering under his breath when I caught him. “Droid legs and an evacuation port on me front side, that’s what!”

“Which part can’t be done?” I asked, slowing down to match his pace and catch my breath.

“Or they say ‘well at least they left something behind in this rotten, cruel old galaxy,’ but what the blazes have I left behind?” Spalding snarled, ignoring me in favor of slamming the wall of the corridor with a fist and then apparently when that wasn’t satisfying enough he activated his fingers one by one and started burning lines in the wall with his inbuilt mini-plasma torches as we walked.

I stared nonplussed at the damage he was doing the wall as he continued to walk. The only sign he was even aware of my presence was the way he moved over fractionally to make room for me to walk beside him.

I opened my mouth and Spalding snapped the tips of his artificial fingers closed cutting me off.

“We took everything that was space-ready and ran her through the grinder for this last one, Admiral, and until we have a few months,” he rounded on me before leveling a finger accusingly, “not days, not weeks, I said months—there’s nothing to be done about it!”

“Surely—” I stared with dismay.

“The Prince’s been pounded, the so-called ‘Vineyard’—what used to be properly called the Queen Anabella—has been pounded so hard she’s good for nothing but scrap and salvage metal. Maker only knows how we’re going to haul her broken back through hyperspace so we can part her out good and proper back home. Might could extend the lives of a few of our other torn-up battleships and save factory time we can’t afford to spare,” he said, and then his breath hitched and a tear glistened in his single remaining biological eye. “And then there’s the Clover,” he drew in a deep, shuddering breath, “I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done. The old girl,” he broke down into open weeping that appeared so suddenly I reared back in surprise, “she’ll never be the same again—and it’s all my fault!”

If you’ve ever seen a grown man openly weeping in the middle of a transit corridor then you know how utterly helpless and uncomfortable I felt right then.

“There now,” I said awkwardly, patting the bald, borged-out Chief Engineer, “you did everything you could. And the initial reports all indicated that the Clover was actually less damaged than the Prince, so whatever hidden structural damage you discovered, I’m certain we’ll get her back into space and into fighting trim again—probably before you know it.”

Spalding stopped shuddering long enough to glare at me. “She needs a complete rebuild, I tell ya,” he snapped, “there’s no way she can fight like this. If we put her back out there she’ll be cut down in her prime for sure! She needs a total and complete rebuild before we can put her to the hazard again, or the first time she faces anything over her fighting weight she’ll be lost with all hands!”

I raised my hands in a surrender gesture and backed away, not really sure what ship we might encounter that would have more throw weight than the 600 meters of a fully-fledged, Caprian Battleship—but I was also unwilling to tell the Spalding he was wrong.

“You’re the engineer; we’ll do it your way,” I assured him hastily.

“Darn blasted right ‘we’ll do it my way’,” Spalding said angrily, wiping his cheek and corner of his eye with the back of his utility sleeve. “I’ve already got the initial plans worked up.”

“Okay…but even if both the Prince and the Clover are too clobbered to be put back into action right now, what about the Rage?” I pressed, determined to run down the entire list before giving up. “From all the reports I’ve seen say she was moved into the repair slip as soon as the Prince was moved out.”

“That bucket of bolts?” Spalding looked at me with disbelief. “Those pirate blighters parted her out right good—and hard. One look from me and it was clear we were going to have to replace all her major systems as well as the majority of her hull armor. I ordered new internals fabricated—upgraded to Imperial specs, o’ course—and enough Duralloy II to replace a few of her internal struts and bones and re-sheath her hull. Soon as the Armor Prince moved out that’s what they started working on. That baby’s not getting out of a space dock for months, but boy when she does,” and unholy glint entered his eye as he declared, “she’ll be twice the ship she ever was before!”

I clenched my fists, because while having a more powerful battleship would be good and wonderful news for the future, what I needed right then were hulls that could fight—preferably battleship hulls, which seemed in short supply right then.

“Well then, how about the Phoenix? What’s it going to take to put her back to rights in time…?” then something occurred to me. “And I was talking with Akantha; what’s this I heard about the Parliamentary Power? Do we have an ETA on that ship being ready to take on a crew?” I asked, chewing on my lips. I knew I was grasping at straws but I couldn’t show up in another sector in a destroyer. I mean, I could, but the message I would be sending by doing so had to be worse than just not showing up at all. What I needed was just a little additional firepower—then we could put the MSP on the map!

If Spalding’s face had been red before, now every part of it that wasn’t metal—or sytha-skin that bordered that metal—literally turned purple.

“If you want to know the status of the Phoenix then you’ll have to speak with the bleeder they put in charge as Chief Engineer over there,” the old Engineer seemed to swell up to almost half again his normal size, and I could hear as each individual fingertip flipped back on his artificial hand, “I’ve got no time to deal with traitors and Parliamentarians with mush for brains, and democratic homilies and odes to the elected order spewing from their lips instead of honest engineering updates!” by this time spittle was flying from his mouth, and I was afraid the old man was about to have a coronary.

I stood there mouth agape at this unexpected response to what had seemed like a fairly straightforward, non-controversial question about the status of our most powerful—or, potentially powerful—still-functioning capital ship.

“They put a Parliamentarian in charge of engineering? I mean, an openly patriotic one?” I asked, briefly flabbergasted. I then took myself to task by reminding myself that it was Commander Terrence Spalding I was talking with, and if ever there was a man given to exaggeration, it was him. “What do you know about this guy?” I inquired, knowing I was going to need further clarification, such as why exactly the Lady Akantha would put such a man in charge and why he didn’t deserve to be swiftly demoted to somewhere relatively harmless.

“You mark my words: that blighter’s not to be trusted,” Spalding declared, stabbing a finger at me and still in a fit of high dungeon. “Why, if it were up to me he’d be sent back to that democratic hell he came from on the first ship to Capria and put us all out of our own misery it would.”

Or perhaps a nice penal colony on Tracto’s largest uninhabited continent, I wondered silently. For all his histrionics, I’d learned that when the Chief Engineer got all fired up like this, wiser men than I needed to take notes and listen. Now that’s not to say that the crazy old engineer was necessary right but instead that he always had a point.

“Perhaps a new job description would be in order,” I muttered, thinking that if a penal colony was a little excessive, ‘chief engine wiper’ one of our pirate corvettes as it was laid up in one of Tracto’s small belter repair bay’s might not be too far off.

“That’s up to you and her ladyship who put him there,” Spalding bit out.

My eyebrows rose but then I did my best to put the matter aside. Clearly Spalding had it out for whoever was in command of the engineering department on the Furious Phoenix.

“Forget the Phoenix for now,” I said, “what’s the word on the Parliamentary Power?”

“You’ll have to talk to Junior about that,” Spalding snarled, slapping a data slate against my chest and leaving it there for me to scramble to catch before it fell, “and tell him his main engine’s out of alignment with his secondaries!”

This time when he stomped off, leaving an opened-mouth Admiral behind him, I let him go.

“Well…that went well,” I said to an iron empty corridor, “I came to see how many ships I could pull for a new expeditionary fleet and…I actually know less now than I thought I did coming in.”

Shaking my head, I decided to go to the bridge. Maybe there I could actually get some work done.

Chapter 11: Center of Power

Laurent and I conferred in the bridge’s ready room, working on getting as many of the ships sorted for repairs as possible. Things would have gone smoother if I could have looped in our Chief Engineer…but then again, considering his somewhat colorful history, maybe not.

Having roughed out a preliminary plan, at least for what ships went where, I was finally ready to relax before diving into trying to come up with crews and navigators for the ships both those staying and those leaving Tracto.

Just putting skeleton crews on all of those ships for transit to a repair yard was going to cut our crews on everything else to the bone. Which was probably why, instead of calling another meeting—this time with a much more understandable, but probably somewhat less effective Engineer Officer than Commander Terrence Spalding, like I really should have—I fired up my desk panel and contacted the Communications Department instead.

“Com-Tech Bernard, Admiral,” said the man who appeared on my screen, seeming all business, “what can I do for you?”

“Get the Chief Engineering officer for the Phoenix on the horn, Bernard,” I instructed. Spalding had never actually answered my questions about our Imperial cruiser or the battleship she’d captured, so I figured ‘why not go straight to the horse’s mouth?’ Also, if there was a potential Parliamentarian placed in a critical position—by Akantha or not—I wanted to know about it.

“I have Lieutenant Spalding on the horn, Admiral,” the Com-Tech informed me, breaking me out of my reverie.

“Lieutenant, he’s a Commander now,” I corrected pointedly. After all, I was the one who had promoted him, but by the time my eyes had followed my voice the Com-Tech was no longer on the screen. Instead, a young man in engineering work utilities looked out of the screen at me with a hostile gaze.

“Who is this,” the man demanded more brusquely than I was used to receiving lately, almost as if he thought he had larger and more important things to deal with right at the moment than a mere Admiral.

I lifted an eyebrow. “Admiral Montagne,” I said coolly, “and I’m looking for the Chief Engineer of the Phoenix,” I let my gaze visibly rake over what I could see of the man on the screen, “I presume you are he?”

At the words ‘Admiral’ and ‘Montagne,’ I learned that if I’d thought his first gaze was hostile then the look I was receiving now should have been powerful enough to strip paint of a bulkhead.

“This is T.T.,” the Engineer bit out in response, clearly thinking this borderline insolent response was an adequate reply.

Since my eyebrow was already lifted I decided that harsher measures were called for. “I am not used to repeating myself, Engineer” I said, putting a large measure of the frost I was currently feeling into my voice.

I could almost see his thoughts as fire flashed across the back of his eyes. “I’m listed as the Chief Engineer on the roster,” he replied clenching his jaw and then his face twisted, “and the Lady says I am, so I guess that makes me the Chief.”

“You don’t sound as if you’re happy with your current position,” I said, deciding I would happily fix that for him at my earliest convenience.

“Is that a threat?” he asked harshly.

“Moderate your tone, Officer; I won’t say it again,” I warned, my brows lowering.

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘Montagne’ and ducked his head which I decided to ignore—at least temporarily. After all, it was always important to give this sort enough rope to hang themselves with.

After re-mastering himself, the Engineer looked back up to meet and hold my gaze.

“I would be more than willing to change my current posting, Montagne,” he said, and from his choice of words it was obvious where his sympathies lay. Spalding had been right: this guy was one die hard Parliamentarian. Which begged the question of just how he’d ended up in command of the Phoenix’s Engineering Department?

“Then why not put in for a transfer, Parliament?” I shot right back at him, challenging the man to back up his political leanings..

The engineer looked at me in disbelief and then threw back his head and laughed. Not caring for anyone who laughed at me, my face hardened.

“You honestly don’t know, do you?” he blurted, a half laugh escaping his lips.

“I’m not used to being laughed at. Stabbed, shot at, sent up before a kangaroo court for a predetermined sentence, and threatened with torture, sure—but being the butt of a joke isn’t one of those things,” I said my lips peeling back.

After a second chuckle, the man looked back and me and grinned. “I’m not here because I want to be, Montagne,” he said with a grin that bordered on a smirk.

“Then why?” I demanded.

“The charitable version is that I’m a conscript,” he replied, shaking his head as if at my foolishness.

I just looked at him, struggling to keep from doing something rash—like ordering the Lancers onboard the Phoenix to clap him in irons and escort him down to the brig for an intense round of non-chemical interrogation.

“You were conscripted, and that’s the charitable version,” I said finally and then feeling like I was just playing Pete and re-Pete got in a boat and wanting to take back control of the conversation, at least in some small way, I latched onto the one sure fire way I knew to get an engineer’s dander up. “You know, my engineers over here took a look and they say your engines are out of alignment,” I said as blandly as I could manage.

The reaction to my little engineering jab, while successful in provoking a response, was more than I expected.

“My engines are out of alignment?” the Phoenix’s ‘conscripted’ Chief Engineer said scornfully, and then a look of dawning comprehension surfaced on his face. “Oh I get it, it’s from him. Well you know what? You can tell that meddling old busybody that I didn’t care for his lies when I was younger, and I sure as all the blazes am not interested in them now! You tell him to stuff his concern, and that these engines will be back in trim after I’m done straightening out the housings on the port secondary.”

I paused as it dawned on me that I’d somehow become caught in the middle of an engineering feud, and I quickly blanked my face, “How exactly do you know my senior engineering staff, Mr…?” I asked in a leading voice.

“Spalding,” the man said flatly, “Terrance Tiberius Spalding. And I know your ‘senior engineering’ staff because the old fogey’s my father.”

The news was so unexpected I was nearly bowled with a coughing fit. The very man Spalding had warned me was a diehard Parliamentarian who we needed to get gone fast was in fact his…!

“You’re Spalding’s son?!” I managed to wheeze.

“I’m a Spalding,” Spalding Junior said bitterly, and it was no wonder my Chief Engineer had made that that offhand remark about telling ‘Junior’ his engines were misaligned right before he stormed off for the last time! “But yes.”

“I wasn’t aware he even had a son,” I finally managed.

“Why am I not surprised?” he replied tightly.

“So should I call you ‘Junior’ then?” I asked.

His face hardened. “You can call me ‘T.T.,’ ‘Tiberius,’ or ‘Lieutenant Spalding’,” he said harshly.

“Uh huh,” I smirked unwilling to restrain myself, “it’s nice to see I’m not the only one with an aversion to the family name and upholding its tradition.”

“I am nothing like you, Montagne,” Tiberius Spalding hissed at me.

“Oh?” I mocked, this last just too good to be true. “Dislike your family tradition of royal service, possibly hate your father, and have an unhealthy need to shake your fist at the establishment? Seems a pretty close parallel to me—so long as you exchange the word ‘Royal’ for ‘Parliamentarian’,” I said scornfully—almost gleefully if I’m being honest. I know it was pretty petty of me but after getting verbally kicked around by the media and guys just like this chode right here for my family name, it felt really nice to be able to turn the tables on one of my former mockers.

“Smoke you, you blighter!” Tiberius, the Parliamentarian, all but yelled at me. “You know the other word for what you’re people have forced me into isn’t ‘conscription,’ it’s ‘slavery’!”

“Hogwash,” I sneered, “just be man enough to admit your faults are the same as mine and move on from it. There’s no need for dramatics.”

“Your own wife has taken, and keeps, war-slaves on the bridge of this ship. Yes, that’s right,” he said at the surprise and alarm that leaked onto my face, “she calls them ‘war-slaves’ right out in the open like that and there are a number of other ‘slaves’ that work on this ship—some of them even in engineering!”

“That’s…” I wanted to call it insane…but she was a barbaric one, my sweet wife. Even still, slavery was beyond the pale.

“I was captured when your ‘wife’,” he sure seemed to get a lot of satisfaction over using that last word, “sent over her Marine Lancers to pirate my last ship right out from under us while still in the space dock. And then I was held at gunpoint and informed the lives of my work-crews were contingent on my continual service that started with fixing up this ship’s cracked hyper-dish! So while the exact word hasn’t been used in my presence, its either involuntary conscription or out-and-out slavery like others of this crew currently suffer under!”

“I doubt this situation is as cut and dried as you are trying to make it,” I said evenly, my royal training kicking in as my back straightened. I could literally feel the weakness of my position but I couldn’t risk letting him know how badly this self-righteously delivered news had just shaken my world view of both Akantha and, to a lesser extent, myself. I’d never thought I was a person who could ever have the words ‘slave taker,’ even tangentially associated with his name.

“If it walks like a duck and it quacks like a duck then it’s probably just another Montagne ‘Tyrant of Cold Space’ that everyone and their brother’s been raving about all over the intergalactic Cosmic News Network,” Tiberius Spalding said savagely. “So that’s why no matter what you might try to say we are not alike in any way.”

“Whoever these so-called ‘slaves’ are, I’m certain that they won’t be such for much longer,” I said fervently. Forget the morality of the situation; the PR nightmare that would ensure if I or my Wife were suspected—much less proven—slave-takers. It would do more than cripple any chance I had of digging my way out from under the Tyrant label; it would sink my unification efforts cold, “I’m sure they’re more like prisoners or…or…indentured serv—,” I paused not liking the sound of indentured servant, “indents. Anyway men or women who’ve given the choice between a short term of service in exchange for their parole and accommodations out of a prison or penal colony.”

“You can keep your sophistry to yourself,” the Engineer said with satisfaction.

For the longest moment I didn’t know what to say and then I did. “Well you know what? You can say all the terrible things you like about me and my people. Call us all the bad names you can come up with, even,” I finally said, “but in the end when there are pirates on the border, or a droid invasion of the nearby Sectors, you don’t see Capria or the Sector Assembly getting up off their duffs and doing anything about it. Nope, it’s those ‘slave-taking Confederals and that Tyrant of theirs’ out putting paid to the threats to galactic peace.”

Young Spalding looked at me mulishly and snorted.

“Go ahead and laugh,” I shrugged, “when my wife was in the middle of assaulting the Omicron—a major pirate black station—your Parliament, in cahoots with our beloved King James, ordered a mass mutiny and withdrawal. That order stranded my people to fight the pirates while they pulled out with our only ship, and a good portion of the marines they’d supposedly sent to help us. Then while they bugged out and took me back to Central for trial, my people continued fighting for their lives until they’d overcome all pirate resistance.”

“Must not have been that difficult then,” Tiberius said easily.

“On the way to prison at Central you hear the darnedest things,” I said, feeling the embers starting to light inside me, “such as Operations ‘Rounding Error’ and ‘Budget Balancer/’ and how my own father—a man I never knew until he shot me in the neck and left me for dead—had become Parliament’s roving troubleshooter. Assassinating those elected leaders that hewed too closely to the royalist cause and were foolish enough to leave our planet as well as their personal privateer. Raiding independent shipping in order to balance our planetary budget and pay for all those social welfare programs the royalists were too ‘corrupt’ to pay for.”

“You Montagnes really will say or do anything, won’t you?” the Engineer said, shaking his head at me as if with pity.

“Read my fax,” I said, typing a few buttons, “then we’ll talk again.” And then, before I could stop myself I hit send, forwarding the files to his terminal before closing the connection.

I took a few deep breaths, wondering just what exactly I thought I was doing, handing out classified information like it was party favors and to someone who it was clear would be actively working against my interests if only he could figure out how.

I guess the notion that Spalding—that undyingly loyal bastion—had produced such a rabidly Parliamentarian son was a little hard to take in. That, and the fact that there were slaves on the Phoenix.

In retrospect, it was that last that probably hit the hardest.

Yes, I decided forcefully, something is going to have to be done.

Chapter 12: The Emancipation Proclamation

“What in the blazes is going on over on the Phoenix, Mr. Laurent?” I demanded, pounding the table in my briefing room.

“Sir?” he looked at me with surprise. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“There will be no slaves in my fleet, Captain,” I declared, standing up and thrusting my index finger down on the table.

“Uh…” my Flag Captain looked to be at a complete and utter loss, “slaves?”

“I have firsthand reports from an unreliable source that my wife is taking slaves and forcing them to work onboard our ships, and I will have none of it, do you understand me?” I demanded, thumping the table repeatedly with my finger for emphasis.

“Well…quite…I mean, of course, sir,” Laurent flailed, and it was obvious that declarations of anti-slavery intent had been just about the last possible thing he could have imagined having to deal with when walking into this room.

“Excellent. Then I’m putting you in charge of sweeping this problem under the rug and getting rid of it before it blows up in our faces like a poorly-timed plasma grenade!” I barked.

“But, sir…what do you want me to do about it,” Laurent said and then his face flushed, “I mean specifically?”

“Pardon them, execute them,” I paused, “by all that’s holy, shove them out of an airlock or set them free if that’s what they deserve. Murphy knows I can’t imagine what would possess Akantha to enslave people, but I’m fairly certain they couldn’t have been acting the boy-scout troop at the time. No,” I said decisively, “this Fleet—and more importantly, this Admiral—will not tolerate slavery within its ranks, no matter what the cost. Get it done, Captain, and report back when you’re finished.”

Captain Laurent reached up and started scratching his right cheek with all four fingers of his right hand. “An unreliable source, you say?” he asked cautiously.

I waved his questions as well as his caution as far away from me as I could manage with a simple hand gesture. “I can’t reveal my sources at this time other than to say that while he had every reason to lie, the eagerness with which he lambasted me for being the husband of a slave taker could not be faked. And no, I won’t tell you who he is,” I flared.

“Have you possibly broached the subject with her ladyship yet?” he asked after a short pause.

“No I have not! And I’m not about to—at least not while she is down on the surface,” I snapped, “by the Space Gods if I have to issue an Emancipation Proclamation and sign it with my own blood, that’s what I’ll do. Do you understand me?”

“Crystal clear, sir,” Laurent nodded firmly.

“Good,” I said settling back into my chair and now that I’d had the chance to vent my spleen and put someone competent on the case I’d settled down enough that the faintest twinge of caution started to assert itself, “look. Don’t kill anyone—the slaves, I mean. Segregate them if you have to, at least until I’ve had the time to speak with my wife. Just put a stop to it.”

“I’ll look into this…irregular situation and see what can be done,” he assured me.

“Yes,” I nodded firmly, “change the name of whatever it is that’s actually going on over there. Prisoners! Yes,” I continued as the thought formed in my head, “we can call them prisoners if we have to, or indents, or serfs, or whatever other ghastly thing we have to so we can smooth this thing over…although personally I’d prefer prisoners,” I added as the thought rolled around between my ears. “Anyway, if they’re not from Tracto then set them free and make them prisoners. Oh, and add some kind of sunset clause if there isn’t one already. I don’t believe in life imprisonment. You might be able to pursue life and happiness while imprisoned for life—although I personally doubt it—but the pursuit of liberty is right out unless as a people we are forced to take a moral stand in support of escape attempts.”

“I’m not sure exactly what you mean, but I have no objections,” Captain Laurent replied then he paused, “but what should I do if any of these…er, prisoners are Tracto-ans?”

I threw my hands up in the air. “Send them back to the surface in a space shuttle,” I exclaimed, “do I have to think of everything? I’m no planetary pirate to force my culture upon non-signatories of the galactic accords. But they will certainly not be allowed in any of my ships or space stations until their legal status is cleared up. Cleared up do you hear, Laurent?”

“I’ll get it done, Admiral,” Laurent replied firmly.

“Good,” I paused, “oh and while you’re about it, knock some heads together, will you? Find out just what is going on with the Phoenix and the Parliamentary Power. We’re going to need some firepower if we decide to get involved in our neighboring Sectors and I need to know what to base a potential operation around. I can’t do that if I don’t know which blasted ships are available!”

“I’ll have that report to you within the hour,” he said professionally.

“Then carry on, man,” I said, waving a hand in the air and as soon as the door cycled shut behind him slumped back into my chair.

Once again alone, I placed my head in my hands. What had I gotten myself into when I didn’t run screaming at the first indication I was about to be married to the beautiful Ice Maiden? What’s a little attempted murder between in-laws? I’d told myself when her uncle had tried to gut me. Or a few repeated attempts to slay me and take the hand of the Pit Viper that was my wife by the stooges sent by her mother on my next visit.

Clearly I was either stupid or in love…or quite possibly both.

Space Gods I was such a fool.

Chapter 13: Family Discord

Akantha walked through the halls of Argos, proud for the chance to show these foreign sisters the lifetime’s work in sand and stone that was Argos. Just as Messene was a testament to what could be done with a melding of foreign arts and Tracto-an hard work and ingenuity, her mother-polis of Argos, to Akantha’s mind, showcased the unflinching determination of a people to excel and overcome any foe. Be it enemy warriors, demon Bugs from the sky or even the very ground itself as it tried to slay them.

“I can see that your people must have spent many years building this fortress,” Elaina, her Protector’s mother, said with a smile.

“It is the work of generations,” Akantha said with satisfaction over a job well done, knowing that stone walls couldn’t compare to those made of duralloy. And the battle armor of even one of her Protector’s space citadels far outstripped the protection afforded by the proud, stone edifices, but to her the ability to look and be able see the blood, sweat, and lives lost to raise and maintain those walls through the generations said something deep about her people. They would always rise and overcome, no matter what the cost, “Of course, the construction is ongoing. The building never stops,” she added more practically, for if one ever ceased to repair the stone walls, ramparts, and halls, they would fall apart far more quickly than they had risen. Incessant effort was the price of continued existence.

There was a snort behind her, and Akantha stiffened.

“You have something to add?” she asked, frost entering her voice.

“It’s nothing, really,” Ishtaraaa, her kin-sister through her Protector said as if it were of little moment and then added with an edge to her voice, “I was just thinking how these surroundings suit you so well.”

Akantha’s back went rigid. Even though she felt entirely comfortable in Argos—it was where she grew from girl to woman, after all—it was obvious to all that the words were intended quite otherwise.

“I take your words in the spirit in which they were given, Sister,” she replied coldly.

“Girls,” Elaina interjected, trying for calm.

“No, it’s quite alright, Elaina,” Ishtaraaa interjected before Akantha could, “I’m sure our planet-bound ‘Sister’,” her voice was laden with irony, “was only thankful for the great compliment I gave her.”

“Do you actively wish to die?” Akantha stopped and asked her with disbelief. “Neither this world nor its inhabitants are kind to those who cannot hold their tongue.”

“Think you’re woman enough to do the job?” Ishtaraaa asked acidly, her body tensing.

“I need not lift a finger, for you are digging your grave quite well already,” Akantha snapped.

“The first Sister to draw a blade catches mine as well,” Elaina said pushing an arm between the two women.

“Stand off Elaina; I will not be threatened,” Ishtaraaa cried.

“You have no mother-respect, Sister Ishtaraaa,” Akantha mocked, even as her hand touched the hilt of her Dark Sword of Power. “Like a beast of the field you paw the ground, throwing up dirt and dung with your feet. Then, when you have sullied the grounds with your petulance, you cry ‘what a foul and wretched place I have come to’!”

“So you consider me a beast, do you?” Ishtaraaa sneered. “This coming from someone who acts more like one than I.”

“Motherhood—” Akantha started holding onto her temper for what felt like the half-dozenth time.

“Which you are not, so do please hold the lecture,” Ishtaraaa sneered.

“—is a Holy Duty,” Akantha continued doggedly.

“Which is why DNA recombinant cloning and uterine replicators were created; there’s nothing ‘Holy’ about laying down with a male!” Ishtaraaa cut back in savagely.

“Who says I was ‘laying down’?” Akantha arched her brows in outrage.

“Oooo!” Ishtaraaa screamed in frustration.

“Contain yourself, Sister,” Akantha mocked, “else some here might consider you jealous, which would be an embarrassment all its own, seeing as the male in question is your own brother.”

“I share less DNA with him than I do with you, Sister,” Ishtaraaa said hotly, lacing sarcasm through the word ‘Sister.’ It should have been considered a double kinship, as both religious and, eventually, blood ties would bound them together as sisters in MEN, “Just because something is temporarily allowable under the exceptions list doesn’t mean—”

“From a rib of the King Line and the Data God’s holy combinations, the Brides of Three did open their hands until they were closed no more,” Akantha recited icily, “created for this holy duty, Sisters still but now of Two, the purpose for which they were recreated, to become the Mothers of a proud warrior’s race!” her voice took on a singsong quality as she recited the ancient histories she had re-familiarized herself with for just this sort of occasion, “and with the passing of the last Kings did Mother become Mistress, tasked to lead and guide her sons away from the many paths of self-destruction so that when once again called to duty—”

“For this your leaders scorned the stars?!” Ishtaraaa said with disgust. “Giving up advanced technology and accurate data files in exchange for holy limericks, oral histories, and a savage life of rolling around the mud and fighting?” she shook her head, looking completely repulsed.

“Let the Closed Hand look to its own affairs and leave us to ours,” Akantha hissed furiously and then, afraid of what might happen if she looked at her new sister any longer, spun on her heels and stalked down the corridor.

There was shuffling in the stone corridor behind her but Akantha was done with Ishtaraaa and her barbs. They could follow or spend their time wandering lost and miss the Conclave—she no longer cared.

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

Beneath the bowels of the castle, twenty one cowled figures waited in the most holy of Holy rooms in the fortress and Akantha felt herself swell with pride. To get so many lead priestesses of the land, in addition to the traditional thirteen of Argos, was a great honor. At the same time she felt the troubles and trials of the day, if not recede, then at least be overtaken by the sense of reverence one always felt upon entering a Chapel of Men.

The rolling tile floors a tapestry of colors that appeared inexplicable or merely decorative to one uninitiated in the mysteries of the God glistened light of the holy crystals set like a constellation of stars in high ceiling overhead. While each and every part of the walls were filled from floor to ceiling with the elaborately scrolled holy words of MEN, the God of Tracto and so much more.

“We greet our Sisters from the Stars in the name of the God whom we share,” intoned the leading High Priestess, which since this was taking place in Argos and the Hold-Mistress was a High Priestess meant that it was Polymnia Sapphira Zosime, Akantha’s mother.

Jason’s mother Elaina stepped forward until her feet were upon the tile section appropriate for a visitor or witness.

“We greet the Sisters of Two in the name of the Massively-Multi-Parallel Entropic Network, expeditious be its reassembly,” Elaina said bowing low before the assembled High Priestesses, “and we thank them for our warm welcome.”

There was a pregnant silence as the High Priestesses of Tracto failed to respond. Then a voice spoke.

“What does the Closed Hand want with us?” said the cowled figure of a High Priestess, who Elaina and Ishtaraaa wouldn’t know but Akantha was able to recognize as the High Priestess of Lyconesia, “I thought it was made clear the last time that we would have no business with a premature resurrection? The God Shards must remain inviolate unless, and until, they themselves cry out that the time is come!”

“We do not come as representatives or messengers,” Elaina said calmly, “although we may serve that last function, as may any Traveling Sister. Nor do we come on the business of the reassembly, although that is, was, and will forever remain a primary desire of our Society.”

“I knew it,” declared the Lyconese Hold-Mistress as if her every suspicion had just been confirmed, “the truth is finally before us and just as of old—“

“Let us not rush to base our judgment upon a single denial, Sister from Lyconesia,” Sapphira interjected smoothly, easily cutting the other Hold-Mistress off mid-tirade.

The High-Priestess from Lyconesia fumed for several moments before making a vague gesture of agreement.

“If they have not come for the God Shards then what are they here for?” she harrumphed.

Sapphira waited until the other woman had settled back and no one else looked like they were about to interfere before turning back to Elaina, while Akantha rolled her eyes underneath her concealing hood.

“We were merely passing through on the invitation of one of your own,” Elaina said gesturing to Akantha.

For her part the Hold-Mistress of Messene stiffened at having the verbal dagger thrown in her direction, along with the disapproving gazes of many of the gathered Priestesses from across the land.

Stealing her breath, she stepped forward while Elaina gracefully stepped back.

“This is true,” Akantha said simply, fighting a smile at the slightly disgruntled look that came over Jason’s mother at this simplistic answer.

However in addition to the reaction from her new family, this short reply stirred the pot to a boil among the other sisters of the Conclave.

“What is the meaning of this?” cried the High Priestess of Lyconesia

“You go too far, Messene,” exclaimed a High-Priestess, who from the markings on her robes was from Pella. The nods of the delegation of Upper Priestesses gathered behind her it was clear that she had the whole weight of her entire hold behind her when she expressed her outrage, “By what right does Messene, the newest Daughter-Hold among us, seek to set Tract Policy? Answer yourself for that or face censure!”

Akantha looked calmly down her nose at the old woman, who was acting more like a ground hopper in a tizzy over her kits than a strong and powerful Stone Rhino Matriarch—and doing so in front of the first out-of-Tract visitors in a generation.

Elaina smoothly glided forward. “I was unaware that it was Tract policy of the Open Hand to forbid their Sisters from offering a social invitation to a cross Tract Sister, as Daughter does to the Mother of the Son she has joined with, or seeks to join?” she posed the question quietly, but with steely resolve.

Her polite and self-effacing gesture was somewhat ruined by an overly loud snort from Ishtaraaa standing behind and to the right of her.

While Akantha stiffened at the little addendum at the end of her little speech. Jason was hers and there was no questioning it! Or so she thought, even though it might not be politic on the Polity or Personal level to actually express that feeling before a Conclave of Priestesses to a Mother she had not actually spoken with before accepting her son’s sword.

“If I have given offense in this matter…” Elaina eventually continued into the dead silence that filled the room before pausing pointedly.

Heads swiveled back and forth between Akantha and the two Sisters of Three.

“I wasn’t aware the Sisters of Tract Three had sons,” an aged High Priestess from Thaipagos, the old crone was too old to be the Hold-Mistress. Akantha wasn’t familiar with her so she must either be a former Hold-Mistress or the much respected leader of a Hold-Minor, possibly elevated during a regency to carry on the holy duties of the hold until the daughter came of age, or when a younger daughter or member of a cousin line not expected to succeed was suddenly elevated. Once a High Priestess, always a high priestess regardless of continued temporal power. So there was really no way of knowing without asking outright or sending spies. Neither of which Akantha was currently inclined to do.

“We don’t!” Ishtaraaa couldn’t help but exclaim, only to belatedly step back.

There was a stir among the Conclave Priestesses at this and some hard looks, causing Elaina’s shoulder to stiffen.

“There are certain Tract Duties which are not generally spoken of among outsiders, but I believe that in this case it is not only acceptable. I believe it is to be expected that we speak plainly with our Sisters of Two,” she said, shooting Ishtaraaa a quelling look before turning back to the assembled Priestesses, “Much as the Sisters of the Open Hand are considered responsible for the continuation of the Tract Two Bloodlines, so have the Sisters of Three been entrusted with the duty of ensuring the One Line does not die or breed itself out of existence. And since the last assignment of the surviving One Line was upon the world of Capria to prepare it for the return of MEN, we have taken this to mean that once a generation a receptacle is selected to go forth to Capria and bear a child of One in the old way. In this way we shall not compromise the ongoing mission to which we have each pledged our very lives.”

“The insane way,” Ishtaraaa muttered behind her, and Akantha with her acute hearing could hear as she trailed off even lower muttering something familiar about uterine replicators and cloning technology.

“Beyond that,” Elaina continued in an elevated voice, speaking over the rebellious words of her daughter, “is information I would consider proprietary Tract business and therefore not necessary for the purposes of this Conclave here.”

“You speak of the Protector Jason Montagne,” the Hold-Mistress of Pella said, rather than asked, with shock and clear disbelief.

“Yes,” Elaina replied simply.

“Yes indeed, what a tangled warp we weave today,” cackled the old crone from Thaipagos, laughing in an amused a ‘huh-huh-huh’ sound, “A Closed Hand Mother with a One Line Son joined to a Tract Two Hold Mistress by Sword-Bond. The Holy Protocols will be put to the test tonight!” she cackled.

Akantha had to fight to cover her scowl. “The Protocol is clear,” both Akantha and Ishtaraaa declared at the same time.

The two young women stopped and glared at each-other, locking eyes in a silent test of will.

“As we are already familiar with an ordained Hold Mistress’s right to choose when it comes to a Protector,” Sapphira said, cutting through their silent battle, bringing Akantha at least back to where and more importantly who she was. Here she might be a Sword-Bearer and a Hold Mistress, but more importantly right then she was first and foremost a High Priestess of MEN. “Let us have our second visitor make her case,” she added, indicating Ishtaraaa with a tilt of her chin.

“While the Sisters of Tract Two have remained isolated on this Holy Mud-ball, guarding our Core Fragments from the potentially corrupting influences of any Tract other than theirs,” Ishtaraaa said, her respectful tone and posture at odds with her characterization of their home planet and holy duties, causing Akantha’s teeth to grind, “we of Tract Three have held a Cross-Tract Clave and elected a Paragon,” her voice turned both cutting and triumphant, “as a Paragon naturally has primacy over the proclamations of any mere Conclave of Sisters, I ask if you are now ready to receive Her words?”

“The Paragon is female?” the High-Priestess from Thaipagos asked.

“Naturally,” Ishtaraaa sniffed.

“She’s Tract Three then,” the old crone said with satisfaction.

Although silent, the High Priestess from Lyconesia looked like she had just swallowed something and wasn’t sure if she should be happy or repulsed.

“Yes,” Ishtaraaa said in a ringing voice, looking like the cat that just got the cream, “and I have a valid kill order for the heathen and heretic Jason Monta—”

“I knew it!” shouted the High Priestess and Hold-Mistress from Lyconesia, thrusting her finger out at Ishtaraaa and Elaina, “the Closed Hand will use any pretext—even that of familial bonds to slip underneath our guard—to attempt to rent asunder our way of life and strip us of our Holy Duties. Do not waste breath denying it, Sister; this is all just another plot by the Tract Leader of Three to take the God Shards!”

“—Jason Montagne,” Ishtaraaa repeated, her voice gaining in tempo and volume as she spoke, “and I request and require, under the power and authority of Paragon Clarice, that you help me fulfill this priority duty and see that heathen dead!”

“The Shards will never be yours!” raged the High-Priestess of Lyconesia and heads all around the half-circle facing them nodded.

“I am not here about the infernal Core Fragments,” Ishtaraaa shrieked, looking like she was about ready to tear out her hair. “It is the One traitor, Jason Montagne—who some say I share a Mother-Progenitor with—that has taken the life of another One and must answer for his crimes. But even before that abominable act of fratricide, his life was forfeit by order of the Paragon!”

Almost as one, the lower-ranked Priestesses swayed back while the High and Older Priestesses, made of sterner stuff, stood firm with stony expressions.

“I want to be clear,” Sapphira said into the ringing silence and speaking slowly, probably to make sure there was no mistake “you are not interested in the Shards? Your only interest is to ensure the death of your own brother?”

“I have no brother; I have only Sisters. As do all of my Tract,” Ishtaraaa all but shouted, “we shared no womb and we share little to no blood. He is not my brother.”

“Yet you share a Mother,” Sapphira retorted evenly, and when Ishtaraaa reluctantly bit her lip and nodded, heads all around the room shook damningly.

“This lack of familial bonds, to the point of eagerly embracing the roll of kin-slayer, are the precise reason we cannot allow the corrupting influence of the Closed Hand in our lands,” Lyconesia said with disgust.

“It would lead to Chaos and Anarchy, can you imagine it?” spat the High-Priestess of Pella. “Allow this sort of disrespectful example to be seen and the next thing you know we would have a dozen full-fledged rebellions on our hands.”

Akantha watched with satisfaction as Ishtaraaa looked from one face to the other in total disbelief.

“I demand you recognize the authority of the sitting Paragon and submit to her authority or declare yourselves Schismatics,” she said.

The old woman from Thaipagos huffed a laugh. “I suspect her election would go quite differently were we to demand our holy right of inclusion and a re-vote with our own candidate present,” she said, casting a haughty look at Ishtaraaa. “But be that as it may, whether or not we recognize the authority of an out-Tract Leader to dictate to us our Holy Duties is irrelevant.”

“How can you say that?” Ishtaraaa gasped. “You really are all heretics and Schismatics here on this wretched planet, aren’t you?”

“Insults will not sway us, girl,” sneered the ancient High Priestess. “Only the Holy Texts may move us, and in them it is written that the authority of a God Shard is supreme—over that of even a Paragon.”

“What does any of this have to do with—” started Ishtaraaa.

“I am not finished yet, girl,” the Crone’s voice cracked like a whip, causing Ishtaraaa’s mouth to snap shut, then she paused and turned to Elaina. “Do you share the views of your Daughter in regards to your Son?” she asked.

“I love my son and would not see him harmed,” Elaina replied into the growing silence.

“A fine answer,” the High-Priestess from Thaipagos nodded slowly, “much better than your Daughter’s…would that you had raised her better.”

“She was fostered back in the Society when it was felt my duty to my son kept me overlong away the Sisterhood,” Elaina replied stolidly.

Heads shook at this, and for a brief moment Ishtaraaa looked ready to open her mouth again and keep digging her own hole. But, to Akantha’s great disappointment, she somehow stopped herself at the last moment.

“In any case,” the old woman said drawing herself back on track with a visible effort, “it makes no difference what your Paragon says, or if we bother to recognize her authority or not. The Holy Shards have proclaimed that within her Hold, and in her person, each Hold-Mistress is a Holy, Semi-Autonomous Entity. Further, the personal household of a Hold-Mistress—including Daughters, Sons, and Protectors—are considered an extension of her physical person. Except for legal Challenge, Warfare, or in accordance with her own expressed consent, none may dictate to a Hold-Mistress without certain Holy Dictated constraints.” She paused and pierced Ishtaraaa with a look, “Unless you are now suggesting that a mere Paragon has superior Holy Authority to a Piece of the Data God?”

When Ishtaraaa stood there looking flabbergasted, the old woman nodded with satisfaction.

“Then I fear your attempts at kin-slaying will not be as straightforward as you thought,” she ended with a voice full of censure.

High-Priestesses around the room nodded in solemn agreement.

“Then you will do nothing to stop the jumped-up heathen?” Ishtaraaa sounded stunned, and Akantha allowed a cold smile of vindicated satisfaction to spread across her lips. Clearly, her new sister-through-the-sword was nearly as stupid as they came. Whether or not she was too stupid to live still remained to be seen, but Akantha knew which way she was pulling for. If internecine warfare between Tracts hadn’t been firmly outlawed, she would already have taken matters into her own hands.

“We didn’t say that,” Sapphira said, and Akantha’s wasn’t the only head to turn in surprised response. But unlike Ishtaraaa, Akantha was smarter than to bring a protest before she knew what exactly was going on but she burned at the casual remark. “The processes of removing a Protector from service are quite clear,” the Hold-Mistress of Argos looked around the room receiving nods of support.

“If you desire to see him removed, there are many paths available—as there are to any woman,” the high-priestess from Lyconesia interjected.

“Such as?” Ishtaraaa demanded, her eyes lightening as she took a half step forward in her eagerness while Elaina made a half sound of protest.

Akantha’s breath hissed through her teeth.

“Have a brother or cousin challenge him,” laughed the old woman from Thaipagos.

“Or pick up a blade and make a challenge yourself,” added a younger woman from the Thaipagos contingent who had been silent until then.

“She can’t do that,” scowled the Lyconesian representative, “she has no brothers. Besides, I gather the entire thrust of the reason she is upset is because he slew his own father.”

“A patricide,” muttered the Priestesses in echoed chorus, looking collectively grim at the thought.

“Was his father yours as well, girl?” barked the old High Priestess.

“Of course he wasn’t!” exclaimed Ishtaraaa.

“Then what do you suggest, Daira?” Sapphira challenged the Lyconesian representative, “if she can’t do it herself and has no kin to carry the burden?”

“Poison, of course,” the other woman said as if it was not less unacceptable than to openly announce the desire to kill one’s own family. “Or she could always pledge his Hold-Mistress a pair of children from her body in exchange for removing Messene’s auspice from her Protector.”

Ishtaraaa appeared almost speechless by the various ideas thrown out there.

“It wouldn’t be the first time a Conclave has had to take corrective measures,” the Hold-Mistress of Lyconesia shrugged.

“Jean Luc, the bandit who attacked our Holds, was slain by Sky Demons on the Star-Citadel,” Akantha snapped, no longer able to take the insult of her choice being bandied about as if the women here had any say as to who she took as Protector. “All my Protector did was refuse to stand aside after being attacked and shot in the chest by his sire. Further, this manner of speaking about my Protector as I am not even here is beyond the pale and moves well past disrespect bordering on the intolerable!” “He could have spared his life!” Ishtaraaa said.

“After being shot and left for dead by his father not once, but twice, I say that my Protector owed the man no special consideration. Jean Luc the Warlord’s rise and fall was in the hands of destiny and demons—not yours, not mine, and most certainly not Jason’s,” Akantha sneered.

“It’s probably best to let the God sort such things out,” the Hold-Mistress from Lyconesia said, as if it were a decision of little moment and also as if she hadn’t just suggested destroying the most potent Protector of a generation—one who belonged to a rival polis.

“But the Paragon!” Ishtaraaa exclaimed.

“Paragon or no Paragon, enough has been said before us for this Conclave to come to a decision,” Sapphira cut in and then gestured to either side of her with lifted arms. “Sisters, how do we stand?”

There was a quiet moment of hushed conferring. Then the High Priestess of Pella stepped forward.

“If it weren’t for the Protector of Messene our world would still be free from outside influences and we would not have been assaulted by the Warlord Jean Luc,” she said, lifting her hands up in the Holy sign of Two.

“Yet our world and holy duty would be lost, “Akantha retorted, “consumed in Sky Demon bellies, with the Holy Shards abandoned to the elements if he had not come and been bound to the service of Messene.”

“His own family seeks our permission to kill him and openly declare he knows not his holy duty,” the High Priestess from Lyconesia intoned and, if Akantha was any judge, there was a hint of malice in her voice.

“Who among us has no trouble with blood-kin?” Akantha allowed the barest hint of a smile to touch her lips that failed to reach her eyes. “And are not the majority of our own men ignorant of the deeper mysteries we hold dear?”

“But to know nothing of the great task—” Ishtaraaa started only to be interrupted by Elaina in turn.

“A lack of knowledge ordered by the very same Paragon who now finds his existence inconvenient,” Jason’s mother said, looking stressed.

Akantha’s mother, Sapphira, lifted her hand again. “It is not for us here to judge another cast for the manner in which it carries out its holy duties, just as we would brook no interference in ours,” Sapphira said.

“Well put, Sister,” muttered the other Priestesses.

“Which is why, at the urging of our Sisters of Three, we will place no special dispensation upon the Protector from Messene at this Conclave,” Sapphira said, and the other Priestesses thrust out their hands one by one and extended their thumbs and pointed them up or down. When the majority had done so and their thumbs pointed up, she nodded.

“No special dispensation, as if you were about to reward him?” Ishtaraaa sneered. “This is outrageous!”

“I agree with our foreign Sister in this one thing; this is outrageous,” Akantha said coldly. “My Protector has proven himself the preeminent warlord of this generation—a warrior whose actions have not only preserved the entire Tract but have also preserved the God Shards from exposure to the demons hordes. He should be acclaimed the Aegis of our people.”

“The Aegis of Two?” several of the Priestesses looked disturbed.

“He has been the Shield of our People,” Akantha pressed her case, “as is proper we would only be acknowledging that which is already fact, not taking sides and bestowing in favor of one warrior—or Hold—over another.”

“To be acclaimed the Aegis…would require the contribution of High-Priestesses from every Hold,” the Priestess of Pella sounded equally disturbed and intrigued.

“Then the request of our Sister Ishtaraaa will have to wait until we have resolved the status of the Protector of Messene,” Sapphira said.

“We’re going to need to call a bigger Conclave,” the ancient High-Priestess from Thaipagos observed dryly.

“And here I thought you were Sisters first?” Ishtaraaa said disgustedly.

“We are Mothers first, Sister Ishtaraaa,” Sapphira said severely, “that is our first and most important Holy duty as put down by the Creator of us all. You would do well to remember that, Sister of the Closed Hand,” she said with a hint of warning as she turned to the rest of the gathered women. “All in favor of calling a Greater Conclave for the purposes of assassinating the Warlord who saved our world at the behest of the Paragon of Three, versus proclaiming as already accomplished fact Jason Montagne, the Protector of Messene, is the Aegis of Tracto, please raise your hand.”

Chapter 14: The Girls are Back In Town

“All the hyper-capable ships not intended to stay in Tracto or go to Easy Haven have already been sent or are on their way, Sir,” my Flag Captain informed out of the corner of his mouth as we waited in the shuttle bay for the shuttle carrying my family to set down and open up.

“Good work,” I muttered back, “what about the ones with broken dishes or other issues?”

“We’ve already begun the process of attaching the Lucky Clover to the Armor Prince for a haul back to Gambit Station, and now that their engines are realigned the Phoenix is preparing to take a pirate light cruiser in tow,” he replied before frowning. “Which reminds me: Captain Synthia McCruise desires to speak with you at your earliest convenience.”

“How convenient do you think things are about to get for me for the next while?” I asked pasting a smile onto my face as the shuttle ramp descended and family members started walking out.

“Per your orders, I believe the Easy Haven contingent remains unaware that you intend to send several of the more battered ships with still functional hyper-drives back with them to Wolf-9,” he reminded me. “They are understandably balking at the idea of our stripping all of their backup navigators from their ships in order to fly the remaining derelicts.”

“When did I order that?” I muttered. I mean, it sounded like something I would say to do, since I was still not entirely pleased with them but I couldn’t recall ever actually doing so. I frowned, concluding that it must have been an offhanded comment during one of our interminable meetings over that past two weeks while my wife, mother and sister were away.

“I believe—” Laurent started.

“Never mind,” I cut him off. It was my fault, if there was a fault, for not speaking with head of the Easy Haven contingent before now, “We’ll set up a conference call and I’ll speak with McCruise personally…at my earliest convenience,” I said as Akantha and Elaina, my mother, approached walking side by side.

“Jason,” the two women chorused almost as if one.

“Mother,” I smiled, bending down to kiss her on the cheek.

“My son,” she smiled at me.

Behind her my sister snorted, stiffening my smile. With a grimace I pushed aside her scorn and turned to my wife who was giving me an intent look.

Standing on my toes and going out on a proverbial limb, I reached up to kiss her cheek. But I was rewarded with a quickly hidden smile that said I’d done the right thing—for once.

“Protector, it does me good to see you,” Akantha said gravely, the smile of a fleeting moment earlier vanishing as if it had never existed. But I’d known my girl for a while now and wasn’t deceived…at least, that’s what I told myself. It could have been that I was deceiving myself, but if so…

I gave myself a minute shake. “How was your visit?” I asked.

“Challenging,” Akantha said with a lift of one shoulder, “but we got through it.”

“Everyone’s still alive, so I’d have to chalk that up as a win,” I said with a wry smile.

The way the three ladies all looked at me at the same time was kind of eerie, but when they didn’t say anything I pushed it aside. I could find out what actually went on down on the surface later—and I would—but at that moment the important thing was moving things along.

“Anyway, since you’ve been kind of monopolizing my mother for the past week and a half down on the surface, I was wondering if I could steal her away for a bit,” I said.

“As you wish,” Akantha said with a nod. “I have a few things I need to check out in Medical now that I have returned to the ship anyway.”

“Does anyone care what I think?” my sister asked.

“No, Crystal,” Mother said shortly.

I had to suppress a smirk at the disgruntled expression that crossed my sister’s face as I swept my mother out of the room.

I waited until several bulkheads and a pair of blast doors had been placed between me and the complete lunatic that was my sister, Crystal.

“And I thought that insanity only ran on one side of the family,” I muttered sourly, recalling the gist of several reports on my sister’s activities and general comments about me that I’d made time to read while they were done planet.

“Jason,” Mother said with disappointment in her voice, “I thought I raised you better than that.”

“Sorry, Mom,” I winced hunching my shoulders.

The sound of footsteps clomping behind us, indicated that Duncan was giving us some privacy but wasn’t that far behind.

“Your sister’s under a lot of stress,” Elaina said unhappily, “and it tears me up inside to see the two of you at odds.”

“Talk with her then,” I said urgently. “Whatever pressures the government—whichever one—is bringing to bear, if she’ll just put aside whatever feud she has I’m more than willing to let bygones be bygones.”

“I’m afraid it isn’t that easy,” Mom sighed, “she has a lot of resentment over the way I stayed to raise you and fostered her out. Even though it was her choice to leave and stay with the Three-Feathers my staying with you hurt her.”

“How is that my fault?” I frowned sourly. “I mean I feel for her and all, but I don’t even really remember her. She must have left when I was very young.”

“It’s not your fault in the least,” she replied firmly, “I just want you to understand that for her things aren’t as straightforward as they should be.”

“Oh, trust me; I understand that,” I said darkly, since dealing with biased discrimination from family members was nothing new to me, “what I’m having trouble with is growing up an only child and then finding out I have a sister and a whole other side of the family she went to live with. Sweet Murphy, Mom; you told me we were all alone—I mean, other than the Royal Family.”

“I know, dear,” mom said looking at me sympathetically, “I didn’t want to lie to you so I just never brought it up and let you draw your own conclusions. That part of my life was closed to me but it wasn’t closed to your sister, and while you needed to grow up on Capria and I needed to be with you, Crystal was resentful of everything—especially you. I felt she didn’t need to grow up in that environment. At the time I figured it was all for the best to have her raised away but lately I’ve been questioning that,” Mom gave herself a shake. “But enough about that; it’s been too long since I saw my boy. How are you?”

The way she was talking around the subject I knew what she wasn’t saying was that my sister was probably safer raised away from Capria, and I suppressed a wince. I didn’t like the thought that Crystal being raised without mom in her life was somehow my fault.

“I’m doing better than could be expected actually,” I finally said, pushing aside my feelings of guilt, in exchange for a faint glimmering of pride at my accomplishments. I was an Admiral, a real Admiral, who had just saved a Star System and I had a fleet; that wasn’t something you sneered at. Men too stupid to see all the headaches and near death experiences would be ignorantly envious of me, I thought with pride and satisfaction.

“I’ve had the chance to spend some time with Akantha,” she said smiling at me out of the corner of mouth, “she tells me great things.”

I colored, wondering what they could have possibly said to each other and then had to fight it as my mood started to darken.

“I barely saw you for a few hours after over a year apart, and then you flitted down to the surface,” I said, and to my dismay there was a definite whine to my voice.

“I needed to spend some time getting to know your new family,” Elaina replied.

“What about the weeks you spent together on the Phoenix, wasn’t that enough? Did you really have to take off as soon as I cleared sickbay?” I protested.

“Akantha and I had time together, yes, but I didn’t say I needed to get to know your wife better; I said your ‘new family’,” she said and then turned to me with a glint entering her eye. “I know your feelings were hurt when I went down without you, but I want you to remember that I love you both equally.”

That took me a moment to process.

“Besides,” she continued, “I’m here now and I’m eager to hear about all your adventures while we’ve been apart. So tell me all about it,” Elaina said with a smile—a smile that brought attention to one very significant change to her features.

“Mother, how could you?!” I exclaimed feeling betrayed. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed it before. I was blind not to see it first thing.

“What?” Elaina said drawing back and looking alarmed.

“What have you done?” I demanded, thrusting a finger at her face.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” she said, a hand going to her throat.

“You got your nose fixed!” I accused pointing at the cute button nose. “You said we were going to fix them together.” A crushing sense of disappointment swept through me, and I actually wondered if I could ever forgive her betrayal.

From the instant relief that swept across her face she must have been expecting something else to come out of my mouth, which only made me even hotter.

“Is this how a Prince behaves?” she said severely, just like she had when I was younger and didn’t want to do something onerous.

I don’t care, I silently fumed and if it was more the silent angry mutterings of a thwarted child than the reasoned thoughts of an adult. Well…the promise had been made to a child and reaffirmed all while I was growing up, and oh how it stung.

From the way she was looking at me with a lifted eyebrow and tapping foot you’d never know she was a chef in the palace instead of a duchess or queen and just as clearly I was in the wrong and expected to fix it.

“Sorry, Mom,” I finally muttered, silently vowing that since she’d got her nose changed already I would no longer consider myself bound to wait for her. Why, if I decided to, I could get my nose fixed that very day!

Sadly, it just didn’t feel the same.

Seeing me losing myself in thought, Elaina cleared her throat. “You were about to tell me your many adventures,” she prompted.

“I’m sure you’ve heard them all before,” I grumbled.

“Not from you,” she said, and just like that something inside me eased.

I then proceeded to blab all about it.

Chapter 15: The Recruits

“What a forsaken star system this is,” Commodore Druid observed from his position in the command chair of the bridge.

“We passed through here more than once in the Lucky Clover,” Lisa Steiner replied, “but it was crawling with Pirates the first time, so I’d keep a close look out.”

“Yes I’ve read the after action reports, such as they are and what little there is of them,” Druid said with censure in his voice at the condition of said reports. “So we’ll keep a sharp look out while inside AZT.”

“That’s all anyone could ask,” the Warrant Officer, who used to be a Com-Tech, and was now a recruiting Officer responded as diplomatically as possible.

“Are you enjoying your time on the Pennant Ship?” Druid asked as the officers and bridge crew continued to scan the system and build up the tactical plot.

“It’s very different,” she said with a smile, “in a good way.”

“I understand there was something of a personality clash on your previous ship,” the Commodore said casually.

Lisa hesitated and then blanked her face into a professional mask. “I’m sure it’s nothing that time and experience can’t handle,” she said evenly.

“What is your professional opinion of Captain Striker?” the Commodore asked, all pretense that this was some kind of informal question between officers vanishing.

“I…don’t think it would be appropriate for me to comment on my commanding officer,” the young Warrant Officer said firmly.

The Commodore leaned forward and opened his mouth but before he could reply there was a stir in the sensor section.

“Contact,” reported the Junior Lieutenant in charge of sensors, “multiple contacts near the debris field. Re-tasking sensors and working on achieving good resolution now.”

“What have we got, Sensors?” Druid said turning away, the conversation of moments before dropped and apparently forgotten in the heat of the moment.

“I’ve got two contacts, sir. One is stationary in a holding pattern around the largest sensor return in the debris, and the other is on what appears to be a slow looping orbit around the extreme edge of the field. I’m also getting multiple returns from what I assume are shuttles, judging from the small drive fields evidenced so far. Can’t give you class or tonnage just yet, Commodore,” reported the Sensor Lieutenant.

“Let me know as soon as you have something more,” Druid replied tersely.

“Should we begin heading into the system or do you want to recharge our engines for another jump, sir?” asked the ship’s First Officer.

“Hold where we are and have the transports begin charging their jump engines; you can never be too careful,” the Commodore ordered. “And let’s have the other corvettes in the screen brought to full readiness and start scanning our immediate area, I want to make sure nothing sneaks up on us.”

“Yes, Sir,” said the First Officer turning to relay the orders.

The Junior Lieutenant at Sensors turned and reported, “We’ve got good resolution on the large stationary contact, sir. It looks like we’ve stumbled across the Constructor ship, New Dream, and the smaller contact seems to be a corvette.”

The tension in the bridge suddenly reduced.

“Any sign of other escorts?” Druid asked his expression easing fractionally, “Laying doggo, perhaps?”

There was a pause. “There’s nothing on our screens, Commodore,” the Junior Lieutenant said formally.

“Keep looking then,” Druid replied.

“Something wrong, sir?” asked the First Officer.

Druid looked over at the other man. “One Corvette to escort a Constructor ship seems a little light,” he replied and then turned to Lisa, “what do you think?”

She was floored. It was one thing to be a fly on the wall during a bridge encounter, but another thing entirely to be put on the spot like this. For a handful of seconds she floundered but under the weight of the Commodore’s steady, understanding gaze she managed to settle her flutters.

“There were no escorts the last time we met her,” she squeaked, realizing in that instant that she wasn’t nearly as settled as she’d thought and her face flamed, “I mean, the last time we met her—for the recruit transfer.”

“Yes but this system has been known for its pirate activity,” Druid pointed out. “Who would send a Constructor all the way out here with only one ship for an escort? What if the pirates came back?”

Steiner shrugged helplessly; she didn’t have any answers. “All I received the last time we met was orders to head to this system when we had another load of recruits and we would receive further instructions. I thought maybe we’d find a com-buoy with downloadable instructions for the next leg of our journey. There was no indication we’d be meeting the New Dream again.”

“Alright,” Commodore Druid said with a nod, “open a channel to the Constructor. I think it’s time we find out what’s what.”

The reply when it came, having temporary duty at the communication console while on the Pennant ship, was just the flip of a few switches to send it over to the Commodore.

“On your personal screen, Commodore,” Lisa stated.

“Throw it up on the main screen instead, Comm.,” Druid replied.

“This is Jacob Marley of the New Dream; who is this?” asked the overtly suspicious man on the other end of the com-channel.

Druid leaned back in his chair and then looked at Steiner. “Did you send over our contact details and identifiers in the hail?” he asked, the faintest hint of censure in his voice.

“All standard identifiers were included in the hail using the same protocols as the last time we met them,” she reported confidently. “New Dream should have been able to decode our basic ident without any trouble and know who we are without any trouble at all,” the former Com-Tech said, her brow wrinkling.

Druid nodded and turned back to the screen. “New message,” he said to her. When she indicated she was ready, he nodded, “This is Commodore Druid of the long range patrol and recruiting drive; we’ve met before. Can you tell us the condition of things in this system?” then motioned the message was complete.

Dutifully, the Warrant at Comm. made sure it was sent.

“Now I remember you,” the Owner said dismissively, as if being the commanding officer of half a dozen ships—three of them warships—was a relatively unimportant matter. “Things in this system are fine,” when he said this, the man looked anything but fine or happy, but then he frowned at the screen suspiciously, “so shove off.”

“Your defensive screen seems a little light; are you sure that you don’t want us to hang around for a bit, perhaps until reinforcements arrive?” Druid asked through gritted teeth and then remarked out loud, “It’s a good thing the response time is so long or else I might be tempted to say something regrettable.”

Steiner covered her mouth with a hand to hide the smile that threatened.

“Commander Spalding, in his wisdom, only allocated us one Corvette for an escort,” the Minority-Owner said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “But there’s no need for your group to hang around and linger. This is a Constructor and the day we can’t build whatever we need is the day I set the fusion cores to overload. We’ve got a few hidden surprises for any of the rabble that thinks the Dream is nothing but a sweet prize for the taking.”

“If you’re sure,” Druid responded, “just remember that if there’s anything we can do just let us know.”

“Get out of this system and take your blasted recruits with you,” Marley said bombastically. “We’re done playing personnel liner over here—thank you and good night.”

The channel went dead. “They’ve cut the connection on their end, Sir,” reported Steiner.

Druid’s face was an iron mask. “Did we get the data packet we expected from them?” he asked in a deceptively calm voice.

The Warrant Officer cleared her throat. “No, Commodore Druid, they have sent us no such packet,” she said, feeling embarrassed.

“Hail them again,” he said no hint of what he was thinking evident on his face—thoughts that were self-evident to anyone with half a brain, “get us that packet.”

“Aye, sir,” she said in a small voice and keyed in another hail along with a text request for the data packet.

Time passed as the message travelled across cold space from the lead corvette of the recruiting escort, the Pennant Ship, to the Constructor, New Dream, and then back again.

Frowning direly, the Minority-Owner Jacob Marley appeared back on the screen.

“My Comm. Officer tells me that we’ve got a data packet with orders you’ve been waiting for. You should have just said so before. Anyway, here it is,” he gestured to someone off the screen and then turned back, “Marley out,” he said and the screen went blank.

“My…what a pleasant sort,” Druid said dryly and several of the bridge crew barked a laugh. He then turned to Lisa Steiner, “As soon as you’ve run the decryption program shoot the files over to my personal screen.”

“Right away, Sir,” the diminutive, former com-tech said crisply.

Several minutes passed as the Commodore read the orders.

“It seems we’re needed in Tracto,” he said straightening in his chair.

“Sir?” asked the First Officer and Lisa was glad the man had asked, because she wouldn’t have been forward enough to question the Commodore. But she was just as interested in hearing their new orders as anyone present.

“It turns out there’s been a big battle and…” he paused for effect before continuing casually, “the Admiral’s going to need every man jack he can get his hands on to crew the new hulls. Apparently a pair of damaged corvettes, making their way back to Gambit Station, were instructed to make a detour here to AZT to drop off our orders to be held by the Constructor until our arrival.”

“That’s great news, sir!” exclaimed the First Officer.

“Navigator, calculate a course to Tracto and then relay the instructions to the rest of the convoy; we have our orders,” Druid instructed.

“Aye,” the Navigator acknowledged.

“Carry on then,” Druid said standing up and walking off the bridge, “First Officer, you have the conn.”

“I have the conn, Sir,” the First Officer said gravely.

Lisa Steiner closed her eyes with gratitude and offered up a silent prayer to the universe. After weeks and months of endless PR tours and recruiting drives on individual planets along the border, searching for skilled professionals or at least recent university graduates the necessary degrees that could be more easily trained or cross trained onto ship’s systems as crews, they were finally going to report back to the Admiral!

Chapter 16: Casting Off

“Excellent work, people,” I said, escorting the recruiting team into the conference room, “it’s fortunate that you arrived here when you did; we were scheduled to leave for Gambit later today.”

“Fortuitous timing, sir,” Commodore Druid said more than a little stiffly.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d get the message before we left,” I lied. In truth I’d been morally certain they’d never get back before the Armor Prince left. Not that their arrival was a bad thing—far from it! “I sent a pair of corvettes on their way to Gambit with orders to stop at AZT but didn’t expect too much. I have to say, you lot are a sight for sore eyes.”

Commodore Druid stirred uneasily. “Thank you, Admiral,” he said turning to gesture toward his team, mostly the Captains of the various ships and Warrant Officer Steiner. “My team has done a stellar job of finding warm bodies and recruiting them for the Fleet,” he glance over at me, “that said, these recruits are so green there’s still sap beading off them. Most of them have degrees of one sort or another but they haven’t had time for any kind of real experience as ship’s crews. They’re going to need a significant amount of training before they’ll even be minimally qualified.”

“Needs must when the devil drives, Commodore,” I said, getting serious, my good mood of moments before fading slightly. “We won the battle for Tracto; smashing the Bugs and capturing, destroying, or running off the ships of the pirate fleet assembled by Jean Luc. But we can’t rest on our laurels. The Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet is about to enter the most dangerous period since its inception—even more so than when I originally assumed active command.”

Druid’s brows furrowed. “The Bugs have been annihilated and the pirates swept off the stage. They won’t be a credible threat for some time after the drubbing they’ve taken here at the Omicron, at least I can’t imagine they will be,” the Commodore said with a frown. “Who’s left, Admiral, the Sector Fleet? We should have at least a little breathing space before they can muster up a significant threat level, unless several of the Core Worlds decide to get up off their duffs and actively start trying to cause trouble with their Defense Fleets, I must be missing something.”

“Not every threat to this Sector originates within this Sector, Commodore,” I said enigmatically, and then pushed on before questions could follow, “and we’re going to need to get as many ships refitted and into service as soon as practical if we’re to meet these new threats. On a more nuts and bolts level, these new crew members you and your team under Warrant Steiner,” I nodded towards the cute as a button Caprian young woman, “are a godsend. Because of their total lack of training or experience, a lot of our current officers and crew are going to have to step up. While no organization likes growing pains, at least while suffering them, this is a decidedly good problem to have. I only wish you’d brought me more than twenty five hundred.”

“We simply didn’t have the capacity for more, sir,” Druid said stiffly.

I waved a hand in the air as if shoo away a bad smell. “I’m not saying anything against you; you’ve done an excellent job,” I stopped and considered before nodding, “in fact, in light of our ever-increasing need to expand the Patrol Fleet roster—not to mention critical shortages in base personnel—I’m going to increase your transport capacity with additional freighters and cut new orders to swing through the sector over to Easy Haven and drop off whoever you manage to recruit at Wolf-9. The MSP isn’t the only Confederation outfit in need of more crew, and I’m certain that LeGodat won’t say ‘no’ to more warm bodies who believe in the Confederation and what we stand for, even if they are woefully undertrained.”

The Commodore looked pained. “Of course, sir,” he said.

“A problem, Commodore?” I asked with a touch of concern.

“Not as such,” he replied shaking his head, “it’s just that after riding herd on a slow-moving dungeon ship turned recruit transport and a pair of other ships with civilian drives, I’d hoped for the opportunity for another mission.”

I leaned back in my chair, face going blank in thought as I shot a penetrating look over at the former com-tech.

“Do you feel the same way?” I asked.

The Warrant Officer looked embarrassed and then nodded reluctantly.

“The benefits of having your corvettes serve as escort for the recruiting mission are twofold,” I said, stalling for time by stating the obvious. I needed time to think, “It not only increases our ranks but it also allows the MSP to, in effect, patrol the border worlds and wave the flag.”

“I understand the importance of our mission, Sir,” Commodore Druid said professionally, “it’s just that me and my men joined the MSP so that we could go out there and do some good by taking the battle to the enemies of this Sector. While worthy work we had hoped for a chance more, that’s all. Even if you need me to stay in command of the flotilla, I would ask that you consider transferring the other two ships in my unit over to more active operations.”

My lips compressed into a thin line. I didn’t want to rock the boat, and Druid and his team had done a good job bringing in not one but now two boat loads of new crew. On the other hand, the whole reason I’d been able to sway the man and that part of his organization—his corvette squadron that had been willing to defect from the Sector Guard over to the MSP—had been because I’d rightly pointed out that we were out there fighting the good fight.

I hated to admit it but maybe they’d done their time before the mast and it was time to put them to more active use. That and if I left them on the shelf for too long, who knew what could happen, officers and crew that had turned their coats one time could just as easily turn again.

At the thought of losing a short squadron of corvettes because I didn’t trust—or, rather, didn’t want to trust—Druid and his former Guards, I realized it was time to make some changes.

“You’re probably right,” I said unhappily, “let’s you and me put our heads together after this meeting is over and see if we can’t figure out the best way to continue our recruiting efforts and at the same time free up your ships for more hazardous assignments.”

“It’s not that we’re glory-hounds looking to die in pitched battles, Sir,” Druid made sure to point out. “We’d just like to get out there and stretch our legs a bit more than we have been.”

“Your people have shown that they can follow orders, even if it’s not the most glamorous assignment and not just do the job but do it well,” I said firmly. “That kind of loyalty should be rewarded.” Especially, I silently didn’t add, if failing to do so could lose me…or, more accurately the MSP, Druid’s warships.

“Thank you for your consideration, Admiral,” Commodore Druid said with a nod of gratitude, “that’s all we could rightly ask.”

Now the only question was, should I take the Commodore and his restive corvettes with me, or set them loose on the border like a fast-moving, anti-piracy patrol?

I could see advantages either way. The most compelling points in favor of the anti-piracy patrol were that Druid and his men had a depth of experience—especially when dealing with planetary governments—that I would not simply struggle but literally be unable to replace.

“Now, if we could turn back to the presentation I understand you have prepared,” I said with a media patented royal smile as I gestured towards the holo-projector built into the conference table.

“Of course, Sir,” Druid said turning towards Lisa Steiner, “as our chief recruiting officer and the face of our recruiting drive, I will allow Warrant Officer Steiner to begin the presentation.”

With a nod I leaned back in my chair. I had a lot to think about.

Chapter 17: Spalding Eyes a Tool Belt

Spalding plopped down at the end of a bench table in the Station’s mess hall. He meant to do it all gentle like and careful, but when your legs are made of solid duralloy—and the rest of you is more metal than man—sometimes the littlest movements like taking a brief load off could be a trial.

In this case there was a clang and the bench groaned as the through bolts in the legs attaching the table to the floor squealed in protest.

Conversations stopped, heads turned, and a man who had just been wanting a wee bit of the privacy suddenly found himself the object of everyone attention.

“What the blazes are you looking at?” he growled gruffly, that part of his forehead that was still natural and not synthetic flesh turning red. “Never seen a man sit down to eat before have you, is that it?!”

Heads and eyes were quickly averted, a few shaking from side to side, but the ornery old space engineer was pleased to see that the old hands were used to his ways and they quickly schooled their younger, greener colleagues.

Nodding his head wisely, he started tucking into his gelatin and mashed potatoes. Tasting the weak space gravy they were using in this sub-standard establishment, he scowled and grunted in disappointment.

First, they ought to use stronger gravy; the stuff they had in this here mess hall wasn’t fit for pigs or dogs, but if it was all they had access to they should have been much more liberal. A mere dab of this type of weak gravy was an insult, that’s what it was! They should have smothered the potatoes in it that’s how they should have done. Both poor quality and skimpy amounts was an insult to the men and women they were feeding…

He trailed off into a series darkly muttered recriminations and aspersions cast in a muttered voice at the sub-standard cookery team. The fact that his diet had been severely restricted for far too long to mostly soft foods—with only the occasional sort of food that was fit for man’s consumption, of course—had no place in his present concerns. At least, that’s what he kept reminding himself of.

Still muttering to himself, his eyes started scanning around lighting on the various tools, tool belts, and plasma torches carried by the various engineers, technicians, and other workers eating in the mess hall.

Then he spotted a familiar-looking space wrench and a signature tool belt. His appreciative eyes roamed from tool to tool as he contemplated the things those tools had been used for. If it weren’t for that blasted multi-tool, it would have almost made a perfect set.

He shook his head wryly and he took in the wide hips and ample backside with a sigh. Then his brow furrowed…something was different; that pair of diagnostic units hanging off the left side were a Full Tech 38.7 and a Gently Ultra, when he distinctly remembered Ark 92’s resting there before.

He was still trying to figure out the discrepancy when the owner turned. “Can I help you?” asked bearded man with a deep voice and a suspicious look.

Spalding recoiled in dumbfounded shock. “You’re not—!” he started in a rising voice and then choked off the words, “I mean…shove off and mind your own business, you angry blighter!” he growled, picking up his plate. Then he slammed it back down on the table as he stood up and threw his spoon down into the pitiful excuse for mashed potatoes and gravy as he declared, “I’ve got better things to do than sit here and jibber-jabber when there’s work to be done.”

Turning he walked off as fast, the thump of his legs sounding like a loud clanging metronome as he walked. He irritably decided to get some kind of semi-spongy rubber substance to pad his feet…and he’d make them look like shoes—or boots! It was vain but he just couldn’t take the clanging any more, and so long as he was going to do the job, he might as well go whole hog on the thing.

“Murphy-blasted bunch of nonsense that’s what it is,” he muttered under his breath as he stomped out of the mess.

So lost was he in his ruminations that he didn’t notice the person coming around the corner until he ran into her.

“Of all the confounded, fool things to do,” he snarled, catching as she staggered against the wall. “Why don’t you watch where you’r—” he started only recognize who he’d just run into. “Glenda!” he exclaimed.

“Don’t you ‘Glenda’ me,” Glenda Baldwin said shortly, turning an irritated gaze his way. “I should watch where I’m going, you over-riveted ox? Who do you think you are, King of the Moon!?”

“Me, a King? Why…that’s blasphemy, lass—treason, even,” Spalding declared, taken aback as he frowned down at her, “and entirely beyond the pale. I’m not one to put a crown on meself; Chief Engineer and Head of the Fraternal Order of—” Spalding continued, genuinely wounded.

“Not that old saw again,” Baldwin said impatiently, “you and that Fraternal Order of yours is nothing more than a ‘good old boys’ club.”

“It’s been more than enough for this old man,” he growled and then took a breath. “Sorry fer running into you,” he said gruffly.

“Yeah, you seem real sorry,” she said severely, “trying to pull up the Order as if it was a reason for bad behavior. Watch where you’re going in the future; not all of us walking these corridors are as young and spry as we used to be—and none of the rest of us is made of metal.”

Spalding leveled a finger at her, “You say that because you have no idea the kind of good works the Fraternal Order’s been doing,” he said as patiently as he was able. “Behind the curtain, overworked and underappreciated, the Order has…”

Glenda stood there tapping her foot until he trailed off to a halt.

“Eh?” he asked, realizing his audience wasn’t as receptive as he’d hoped toward hearing about the unsung glories which only he knew about.

“This is supposed to be the part where you say it won’t happen again and then drop the subject, not continue on about the Fraternal Order of Engineers,” she informed him with a ‘hurry up’ gesture.

Spalding stared at her nonplused and then shrugged. “Won’t happen again,” he said, rubbing his chin.

“Alright then,” she said, flashing him a smile that temporarily lit up her grease stained tired face, “I’m off to get some food inside me.”

Spalding nodded and she started past him. Then he started. “Wait!” he said hurriedly.

She turned back and looked at him in surprise.

“Well…” now that he had her attention, his mind had seized up like an unlubricated tri-axial joint. She was going off for food, he reminded himself and then his eyes lit up as he remembered, “You don’t want to use the mess tonight,” he assured her once more back on solid ground, “the food they’re serving up tonight isn’t fit for man nor beast. You’re better off heading to the rec deck and splurging for a meal or taking a shuttle over to the Phoenix. I think the old chef from the Clover set up shop there a few days ago.”

Glenda pursed her lips and then nodded decisively. “I’ll order over in the Rec then,” she said turning back around and patting him on the shoulder, “I’ll be off then.”

Seeing her heading off once again he realized he still wasn’t ready to let her go. So, all the while taking himself to task, he hurried after her.

She looked over at him curiously, “Going the same way?”

For a moment his mind went blank and then he smiled confidently. “Couldn’t stand the stuff in the mess so I’m still hungry,” he said, not entirely untruthfully seeing as he’d only finished about half his meal before leaving, “I figured I’d go with you to the Rec and pick up a plate.”

“It’s a free station,” she replied.

He wondered what he was doing chasing after a woman like some kind of tongue-tied idiot what hadn’t sprouted a full set of whiskers—and at his age to boot! Spalding shook his head in self-disgust.

“Something wrong?” she asked, and he colored realizing he’d been muttering under his breath.

“Just a small engineering problem,” he lied, saying the first thing that popping into his head. It was a trusty, stock excuse. However, unlike most people he ran into, Glenda was a reasonably competent engineer.

“What’s got you stumped?” she asked. “I’ve found that sharing the load can free up processor space and get the old ticker moving again sometimes,” she said, tapping the side of her head.

At first he wanted to refuse, but under the weight of her gaze he realized she wasn’t going to give up any time soon. So, caught out but unwilling to admit it, the old Engineer decided he might as well mention the problem that was on his mind. He’d thought on it night and day and it took up all the free time he had from all the priority and emergency repairs floating around the Yard at Gambit Station.

“It’s the Clover…as usual,” he sighed, giving in. After all, it’s not like it would be a surprise to anyone with a heart of their own or, failing that, a pair of ears to hear him speak, as he knew he’d mentioned the problems with her more times than he could recall…possibly, although he resisted the notion quite stoutly. But even so…still, possibly, he might have gone on about the subject past the point of decent conversation.

This point was reinforced when the woman he was with sighed. “What is it this time,” she asked patiently, “more problems with the power distribution system?”

“No, no, it’s not that,” he said hastily and then paused wondering if she knew something about the power grid on the Clover that he didn’t and should maybe take a look into.

“Well whatever it is, I’ve taken a look over there myself and I hate to say this,” she paused and looked over at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Oh, go on,” he grumped waving an unlit plasma finger from one of his fake hands at her.

“Well, I know she was shot up pretty bad in that fight, but from what I could see there’s nothing six months in the yard couldn’t put back right and make her better off than she was before,” she said.

Spalding bristled internally, even though he’d been thinking some of those very thoughts himself lately. Oh, he’d told everyone the Clover wasn’t—and couldn’t be made—combat capable again. In truth he was pretty sure they could get her back into working order again if they had to. But after the beating his poor lass had taken, he knew she’d never again be what she was if he did.

“The internal supports are in pretty bad condition,” he said glumly, “all those maneuvers under full engines after taking damage—not to mention she’s seen more combat in this last year than in any twenty you’d care to name—and she’s understandably pretty stressed. A few of the supports are even warped and twisted, and that’s just what we can see.”

“So tear into her,” Baldwin urged, waving a hand, “oh, I know, we need to get the less damaged ones out there first but put her back in the queue. We can tear into the hull and replace the damaged struts with Duralloy II and she’ll be back into action in no time. The stronger struts we put in there will more than make up for a few hidden problems.”

“What I’d really like to do is just completely rebuild her,” the old Engineer sighed.

“So do it! Or at least set aside the plans and we’ll get to work on her as soon as we clear some of this backlog,” Glenda urged, and even though he knew her—and she weren’t really talking about the same thing, since his idea of a rebuild was quite different from hers—he could feel himself starting to perk up at the thought of the old girl once again stretching her legs.

Things just hadn’t felt the same with her out of action. The other Dreadnaughts were similar but every time he was on one of them it just reminded him all the more about everything it wasn’t…everything the Lucky Clover was.

So, deciding to pull the trigger on the notion that’d been floating around inside the back of his head ever since they dragged the old girl back into space dock, he nodded and cast aside the other idea he’d been toying with.

Just pulling off the old outside armor and whatever damaged internals she had and replacing everything that was down-checked with new replacement systems and with a new outer coating of Duralloy II just wouldn’t do…not for the Clover!

“You know what, lass; you’re right!” he said, starting to get excited once again. The Clover would be changed—and a lot more than if they just replaced a few things—but after he was done with her she’d once again be the Queen of the Space Ways and the envy of all other Battleships and, dare he even think it, Imperial Command Carriers would tremble at her presence.

He happily pulled up the files he’d been working on contained in his data slate, and then linked to her pad and forwarded them over to the other engineer.

The other engineer opened her pad almost eagerly and then scanned the document. A frown crested her face.

“I think you sent me the wrong file,” she said, looking back up at him skeptically.

“Nope you got the right one,” he replied with certainty.

“But this isn’t design specs for a battleship, this is for an…” she paused to glance over the specs one more time. Her eyebrows climbed for the lights as she continued, “A monster building slip, almost two thousand meters long,” she said with a quick shake of her head, “it’s larger than a Massive!” She was referring to the size of yard needed to make the largest of Imperial warships.

“That’s right,” Spalding agreed, feeling in an almost fae mood as he pointed to the salient features displayed on her pad, “I figure we’ll need at least that for what I have in mind.”

“To fix up the Clover!?” she demanded. “We already built a hard dock big enough to fix up 600+ meter long Battleships, not just the flexible 500 meter yard we used to horn around on the Phoenix. There’s no need for something of this size; I mean, what would you build in this thing, Imperial Command Carriers? The resources alone would be extreme,” she shook her head in absolute negation.

“Yes, but just think of it,” Spalding said, his eyes lighting with an inner fire as he saw what could be if only they had the courage and vision to build it, “the Lucky Clover 2.0, rebuilt and refurbished using all of her old materials—but expanded with the new Duralloy II—and she’ll again be exactly what she was when she was originally envisioned when first built: the Queen of the battlefield!”

“You’re actually serious about this idea,” Baldwin stopped abruptly in disbelief and stood still in the middle of the corridor.

“As a heart attack,” Spalding said, “and I’ve had two of those in the past…although the quacks called one of them a ‘minor ischemic event’ or some quackery; a man knows when his heart’s been attacked!” he snapped irritably, nearly overcome with the urge to denounce all medical practitioners everywhere. “Anyway…I know what I’m talking about.”

She paged through the files he’d sent her until she’d left the new yard dock and moved into the specs of the Clover reborn and then she snorted derisively.

“Putting heart attacks—and their bearing on the subject of engineering aside,” she said with a withering look, “building an…Ultra Massive construction slip, I guess we’d have to call it, would take more resources than the repair of two ruined battleships!”

“Two battleships?” he asked incredulously. “There’s no need to get hysterical about—”

His words were interrupted by a smack to the arm.

“Hysterical, is it?” Baldwin growled getting right up in his face, or as close as she could given the height disparity his legs gave them, “I’d be careful what you call people, you old goat, or there will be consequences to your pet little projects.”

“There’s no need to threaten a work slowdown,” he grumbled, rubbing his upper arm. Of course, the blasted lass had to go and hit him in what little tender real flesh remained to him. “It was just an expression,” he added, and then seeing the instant anger clouding the woman’s face, he hastily added, “and probably the wrong one to use at that.” He sternly reminded himself that his pride had no place in a conversation involving the rebuild of his beloved Clover.

“Consider yourself warned, you old reprobate,” she said caustically.

“Anyway,” he said after clearing his throat, “I’m not proposing we divert manpower and machinery away from repairs.”

“Good,” she cut in, “because we have precious little of either.”

“Now, that’s not entirely true,” the Chief Engineer protested, “we’ve got a full-on, planetary-level, factory complex here and another one on the way.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve got a lot of things on the way,” Glenda sniffed, “corvettes, destroyers, several battleships, all in need of repairs.”

“And as I was saying,” Commander Spalding said firmly, “when we’ve cleared the backlog, instead of having everyone sitting around finding things to keep them busy, we’ll have them work on extruding heavy Duralloy II support beams and the necessary infrastructure to build the cradle for the,” he frowned, “Ultra Massive, I guess we’re calling it now.”

“You give me the bodies and we’ll do more but right now we’re at capacity,” Baldwin said with a shake of her head.

“That’s what I’m sayin’,” the old Engineer said shortly, “I’m not telling you to stop what we’re doing or make one man do the work of three; just run out the heavy structural beams when things are slow.”

“You can’t build a yard expansion of this magnitude in your spare time—and that’s not even touching the kind of manpower and resources that would be needed for this,” she looked down at the plans on her pad and then threw her hands in the air, “whatever you call this monstrosity.”

“I’m just tryin’ to make her what she should have always been,” Spalding protested, “a large, majestic, powerful battleship—”

“At twenty times the size!” she blurted.

1,800 meters is only three times as long as 600 meters, he reminded himself, deciding not to argue about her fuzzy math, besides, she’ll need hardly any added interior fittings compared to the old girl.

“That’s not a minor refit; that’s tearing her apart for parts and building a brand new ship of a brand new class!” she scowled and then sighed. “Even if we could run out that much Duralloy—which, I don’t see how if it’s all Duralloy II,” Baldwin said, “forget manpower, forget resources, I plain don’t see how Gambit could process that much improved Duralloy and build the lasers to weapon her.”

Spalding shook his head decisively. “There’s no need to worry about the weaponry; we’ll bring over whatever the Clover has left, plus whatever odds and ends we can fit on her, but that won’t be the priority. If you look at the design, her current primary weaponry will be her secondary,” the old engineer all but gloated. “I plan to build a new primary cannon the runs the length of her! It’ll be a spinal cannon that can out-range, out-power, and just plain out-fox anything those so-called Command Carriers can muster!”

“Blast it, old man, you know as well as I do there’s a reason you don’t build ships this large,” the former construction manager protested and at that moment Spalding couldn’t remember seeing anyone more fetching—not even his former wife—but rudely heedless to his train of thought she pressed on. “Just the number of fusion generators you’d need to power everything would be prohibitive on a ship that size. You’d be using more generators than anything else after you installed the power plants to run her normal space and hyper engines, on this…cockamamie Super Battleship idea of yours!”

“Take a look at the main cannon again,” he gloated, “it’s basically one, big, giant, magnet with grav-plates installed throughout to get the shot up to speed. It’ll be a simple matter to reverse the plates and disperse the shot: from the front she’s a main gun, but from the back—“ he couldn’t help himself from chortling in self-satisfaction as an irrepressible smile beamed across his face, “it’s a poor man’s fighting engine!”

“You idiot! Reversing a rail-gun to and using it for propulsion is a fool’s gambit; she’ll tear herself and the rest of the ship apart before you fire it twice,” she shouted at him. “Which still doesn’t account for the power!”

“Bah,” he glared at her, refusing to have his buoyant mood quashed so easily, “it’ll work in a trick so long as you help work out the bugs in her. And, as for the power, why…if fusion plants don’t provide enough juice then…then…well, then we’ll just have to go another route.”

“Fission? That produces even less—and don’t get me started on solar power. Covering your entire ship—even this monster—in solar skins isn’t going to be a drop in the bucket,” she said leveling a finger at him, “to say nothing of volatile chemical batteries. There’s simply no way!”

“Oh, aye,” he agreed pointing his own finger at her, “but yer forgettin’ that the Confederated Empire and all its blasted rules went out the window when Man up and left—that’s why she’ll be using antimatter!”

Glenda’s mouth fell open, then it snapped shut with a click and she rallied, “Antimatter is illegal, and any use of it in a warship falls squarely under modern war crime statutes. Not only that, it has this alarming tendency to blow up if moved!”

“It’s too unstable to be weaponized,” he agreed sharply, knowing that every test which had been tried with missiles under tactical acceleration had ended up with the premature eruption. Space mines were a different story, but even then the slightest blip in the shielding and ‘poof,’ up it went. “But the main problems with using it for power generation are the containment facilities.”

“Exactly! They’re too big to fit on a ship, you cyborg,” she cried.

“You wound me, lass,” he said ,placing a hand to his chest and his mouth turning down, “but never no mind that. The containment systems needed are too big for even a battleship, which is why I’m building a…what did you call it? A Super-Battleship. She’s been specifically designed to allow for the amount of grav-plates and containment shield density to keep any stray particles of matter from intersecting with the antimatter and blowing us all to kingdom co—”

“Do you even realize the amount of radiation an antimatter plant produces when it’s active and putting out power? You’ll still be irradiating your own crew! That ship of yours will be flying death trap,” Baldwin threw her hands in the air. “The amount of radiation shielding you’d need to protect against lethal build ups is…I don’t even know how much just off the top of my head.”

“Which is why it was added to the war crimes list by the Confederated Empire,” the old Engineer said semi-reasonably, “it wasn’t because of the damage antimatter plants could do to inhabited worlds or enemy ships. The sort of damage it could do to yer own people was on the level of an old weapon of mass destruction, like a dirty bomb ye dropped on yerself. However, like I said, the old Confederation never ratified it and since we’re no longer a part of the Empire, we fell back on Confederation rules.”

“The old Confederation was the one that started the research on banning antimatter,” Glenda protested. “It’s only because it took them so long to come to a decision with their fact-finding panels—like it took them with just about any major decision—that it was the Empire which ratified the Confederation’s findings and made it illegal. It was outlawed for a reason, Spalding.”

“So help me overcome the flaws,” he said with a winning smile, “why do you think I’ve come to you, an expert construction manager? The Empire is fixated on a constant race for new technology, new gadgets, and new weapons, and I say: why? The way I see it there’s a whole slew of old tech and systems they threw in the wastebasket, and I plan to use them to give the Empire a run for its money. It won’t just be Captains and fighting Admirals that win things for the Spine; it will take Engineers…yes,” he added in a slightly grudging tone, “and former construction managers also.”

“No. Do you hear me?” she asked jaw jutting belligerently, “Not everyone who joins the military wants to step into a fusion reactor just for the fun of it. There’s no way you’ll get me to help you with this project!”

Looking at her with narrowed eyes, he felt his chest expand. Why, if she was one of his officers he’d give her what for…and then he slowly relaxed. There was something in her eyes that he recognized. Underneath the outrage and disbelief was the look of an engineer who was halfway intrigued by the possibilities which had been set before her.

“Then I’ll just have to do it all by myself. It’s probably better that way,” then he put a hint of sadness in his voice. “O’ course, I’m only human and I’m bound to make a few mistakes, but you know what they say: can’t make an omelet without breaking a few Murphy-blasted eggs.”

There was an extended pause and she suddenly threw her tablet against the wall. “You old Bastard,” she snapped, placing her hands on her hips and glaring at him while her foot tapped on the floor.

That was when he knew he had her.

“Of course, if you have any suggestions, I’m more than willing to work them into the design,” he said piously.

Chapter 18: Jason and Spalding on Gambit

“Almost three weeks here, and weeks before that in Tracto, and we’re still not on our way to Sector 23,” I exploded, fighting the urge to curse and slam my fist into the wall. Mostly because I figured the Duralloy would do more damage to me, and not incidentally hurt a whole heck of a lot, than I would do to it. One of the curses of having pain receptors, I guess.

“We’re moving as fast as we can and still have a decent ship to get you there with,” Spalding protested loudly, “the engine housing on the Phoenix was a lot worse than she looked and the trip back here to the Gambit Yards only proved we were fortunate she scooted in here, instead of haring off immediately towards that hair brained scheme of Ambassador Pao where she would have cracked an internal support structure in some benighted system without a repair slip.”

I released a frustrated sigh.

Every day the Furious Phoenix was in one of our two main yard slips—the only fully-functional slip—was another day that I couldn’t put a battleship like the Armor Prince or the Parliamentary Power into it. And with the Royal Rage firmly planted into the second slip—the one that was still half under construction at the same time they had started repairs on the half disassembled old Battleship—it looked like I was going to have to make some choices I didn’t want to make.

I was going to have to head out with the Imperial Strike Cruiser for my Flagship. I’d gone over the specs of course, and reviewed the battle footage. The Furious Phoenix was fast and tough, for her size, especially her shield generators and she packed a punch—especially long ranged, although again, with the qualifier ‘for her size’—but she was still no battleship or else the Lucky Clover under an inexperienced Admiral wouldn’t have been able to batter her down and take her a-prize.

Still if she was all I was going to get and waving my hands and demanding faster work wasn’t an option then it looked like I was stuck. Although maybe the Parliamentary Power could be put back together fast enough to join us in Sector 23 before everything was blown to kingdom come.

Normally I wouldn’t even consider it; a Sector was a very large place and without the ComStat network I had no real idea where I was going—or, rather, going to wind up after I got there—the odds of us crossing paths and linking up would be pretty slim. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? Thanks to the Pride of Prometheus and their lost patrol, I wasn’t exactly without a ComStat network of my own, or at least some portion of such a system.

So the fact that I really didn’t have a choice if I was going to get there in time to do any good. That, combined with the new mission I was considering for Captain Middleton and the Pride of Prometheus, aimed to get me working access to that very same network, meant that there was actually a chance that I might possibly have a battleship showing up late to the party and arriving somewhere in my vicinity when I needed her.

Assuming I got up off my duff and braved the cold, cruel world of space combat against droids in another Sector in nothing bigger than a Strike Cruiser, that is.

I sighed again.

“It’s not as bad as all that, Admiral,” Spalding said awkwardly, as if he thought I needed cheering up. And if I was looking so glum and down in the dumps that the eccentric old Engineer thought I needed cheering up, then it was definitely time to get my act together, “She’s almost back together again and, for all he’s a piece of work, Junior—” the old engineer cut himself off his eyes taking on a hardened angry look, “I mean, that no good parliamentary blighter, knows his business. For all his faults, slowing down the yard crews with made-up excuses hasn’t been one of them; the work’s actually been faster than I thought. Course, I had my eyes on things so maybe he didn’t want to risk being caught out…” he wound down, staring contemplatively off into space.

“It’s bad enough,” I said looking out at the Imperial Strike Cruiser for the last time before turning away.

“Sir?” Spalding asked shaking himself out of his reverie.

“But there’s nothing to be done for it,” I said brusquely, turning and striding off my decision suddenly made. Not that it hadn’t been made for some time but was finally done with all the wishy-washy, maybe I wouldn’t do it and pull back at the last minute. It was time to declare the move and go all in for Sector 23 or pull in my horns and I just couldn’t leave those people under the droids, “Pass along the orders, as soon as the Phoenix is buttoned back up, she and anything else that’s ready to move will be going with us. We’ll go to 23, by way of Tracto to make sure there aren’t any new problems waiting for us there, and then strike off for the border.”

“We won’t have any battleships ready to go with us, Sir,” Spalding said pointing out the obvious.

“We’ll crew up what we can and leave the rest on the Power,” I said decisively. “They can work her up while we’re gone and as soon as she’s back together come and join us in the droid shoot.”

“They’ll have one blazes of a time trying to find us,” Spalding said uneasily.

“I have a plan for that,” I replied, flashing a tight smile and continuing down the corridor.

“I hope it’s a good one,” the Chief Engineer muttered behind me.

I studiously ignored him. If anyone had earned the right to a little grumbling, it was Commander Spalding. Of course, if it turned out to be more than grumbling I’d shut it down so fast the old man’s head would spin but that was a horse of a different color.

“We can mix and match some of the command team from the Prince to the Phoenix as well as plug any holes and fulfill any transfer requests, now that we have more than just one ship to worry about,” I said, thinking aloud. “The rest of the men, the ones we don’t use to crew the warships that are going with us, we’ll put over on the Power.”

“That’s a lot of hands,” Spalding said judiciously, “but even putting all the new recruits that aren’t fit for yard work on her that battleship will still be short a full crew.”

“I don’t see that there’s anything to be done,” I said making a rolling circular gesture with my hand, “we’ll get more recruits by the by but I doubt or at least I hope that the Power will be ready to go before the recruitment ships have recruited their way to Easy Haven and then back up to Tracto again. If they do get here first of course that will solve the crew shortage problem but leave those of us out on the short end the stick hanging.”

“Might be a way around that, at least part of the crew shortage I mean,” Commander Spalding said looking like he’d bit into something sour, “although I can’t recommend it,” he added hastily.

I cocked an eyebrow questioningly at this conflicted statement from the Engineer.

“The Lady took a great many pirates captive, only pressing the most skilled of them into her service on the Phoenix,” the Chief muttered in a voice almost too low to make out, “we might could press a few bodies into service if it was tight enough of a situation. I don’t recommend it myself, but felt it needed sayin’.”

Now I was the one who felt like he’d just bitten into something sour. “Pirates!” I exclaimed with dismay.

“Off the Omicron,” the old Engineer nodded, “the Lancers and the Marines killed more than they captured, but the lady took a few prisoners along the way. Mostly if it meant they would surrender their ships to her but even so lad, she took a fair bit, er…under her wing.”

“The blasted war-slaves issue,” I said clenching my fists at the same, gnarly problem as before rose like a phoenix from the ashes to bedevil me once again.

“She set some of them free, from what I hear, but the rest have a varying amount of years to work off their sentences. They’re prisoners, boy—working prisoners, like the chain gangs of old—and they’ve got to work off their penance,” said the Commander. “O’ course, I would have just shot most of the lot for war-crimes. But that’s why I’m just a tired old engineer and they don’t pay guys like you and the lady the big bucks.”

I wanted to tear my hair out in frustration.

“I’m not sure if pressing the ‘prisoners’,” I heavily accented that word, as I deliberately skirted around the ‘S’ word, “and putting them among the old Clover hands—to say nothing of the new recruits—is the way to go,” I said sourly.

“Like I said, can’t recommend it me-self; I just wanted to make sure all the options were on the table,” Commander Spalding said with a shrug.

“Pirates,” I muttered yet again, a dark note entering my voice this time and I had to resist the urge to pull out a blaster and start randomly firing. Pirates and slaves were two things that shouldn’t exist in the modern world and yet I was stuck with the both of them. It was enough to drive any man to murder.

“Don’t worry about the Phoenix, Admiral,” Spalding said curtly, “she’ll be right in no time if I have to fix her myself.” Looking at him it was clear he was itching to get out of here and back to doing what he did best, fixing up warships.

“Carry on then, Commander,” I said.

The old engineer braced half way to attention but failed to salute before breaking away and then striding back the way we’d just come.

Chapter 19: Operation: Evacuation

“They’re coming right for us!” cried the Tactical Officer.

“Evasive maneuvers, Mrs. Phelps!” the Captain shouted to the woman at the Helm. He silently cursed that the new Tactical Officer was worse than the last one.

“On it, Captain,” the Helmswoman said professionally.

“Over fifteen of the gunboats will pass within firing range of this ship!” the new Senior Lieutenant in charge of Tactical said with an edge of hysteria in his voice.

“Control yourself, Lieutenant,” the Captain barked, “or recommend I bring in the second shift leaders.” He was referring to the very Ensign he’d been complaining about not that long ago in point of fact. How things change when you have a battle-tested ensign and a new untested officer who was far too close to the edge of acceptable behavior in the face of the enemy.

The Tactical Officer swallowed and then shook his head.

“Things are under control Captain,” the Lieutenant said in a firmer voice.

Quark eyed him balefully, but then there was no more time since the gunboats were on them. Screaming past the Corvette, their light lasers raked the Invincible Fire’s port shields, or at least it felt like the boats were screaming past. But that was probably more an artifact of the way the Corvette was all but standing still as it stood guard over a trio of evacuation shuttles lumbering up from the surface of the moon to rendezvous with the corvette. A check of the actual speed the boats were moving at was almost pitiful—almost. The sheer numbers of the vessels was the greatest strength of the invading force.

“Status on the evacuation shuttles?” Quark said with relief as the boats continued right past the corvette, as if their attack had simply been one of opportunity. “And somebody tell me where those gunboats are going off to in such a hurry that they ignored a target like our all-but-stopped corvette.” A corvette’s main weapon was its speed and maneuverability; take those away—as he’d been forced to do in order to cover for the evacuation of the science station on a moon of Aqua Nova’s Jovian where an influential Select’s daughter was stationed as the assistant director—and you wouldn’t get a better shot at knocking her out.

It was perplexing.

“I’m running the track now,” said the Navigator and then he looked up, “the gunboats are on an intercept course with the Poseidon. Sir, it looks like all the droid ships in the system are focused on the Poseidon.”

For a second, the young Captain’s blood ran cold and he tried to figure out what the droid’s game was. As powerful as their cruiser sized carrier ship was, especially alongside its nearly one hundred gunboats, nothing it had shown put it in the same weight class as the Aqua Novan SDF’s pride and joy, the Battleship Poseidon. What were they hiding? He couldn’t help but wonder and pray that whatever it was it wasn’t enough to cause serious damage to the SDF’s flagship. Even in the silence of his own mind he avoided the thought of that ship’s possible destruction. For, if Poseidon fell, then so would Aqua Nova Prime.

“Thank the Space Gods for small favors,” breathed his First Officer.

“The gunboats and the Carrier are both still heading away from us,” reported the Sensor Officer as the enemy vessels continued moving outside of tactical range.

“Continue to monitor the situation and tell those evacuation shuttles to get the load out,” said Lieutenant Commander Quark.

“The shuttle pilots report that their engines are already burning at 110%; any more and they’re liable to burn out or explode,” reported the Junior Lieutenant at the Comm. console.

Quark gritted his teeth. “Just have them do the best they can,” he said watching on the screen as the Droid Carrier and her parasite craft, the little gunboats, came within range and attacked the Battleship Poseidon.

The battleship finished a last minute maneuver turning her starboard broadside toward the attacking carrier and then her turbo-lasers opened up.

Moments later six beams converged into one unit and the droid carrier fired back, her attack raking the powerful side armor of the ADF Poseidon. However, while it left a long, scorched area where it hit, the attack failed to penetrate.

At first Quark felt some measure of relief before he realized that the battleship’s shields had been at full charge—and the Carrier’s attack had been powerful enough to burn through to the hull!

“Antimatter discharge!” exclaimed the Sensor Officer.

“What?! Where?” demanded the Corvette’s Captain. Not only were such weapons illegal, banned, and outlawed in all civilized space and ruthlessly hunted down by the Confederated Empire in those few lawless spaces foolish enough to attempt to build them without blowing themselves up, they were extremely powerful.

“I’m getting readings showing it’s some kind of internal action within the Droid Carrier.” Tactical replied. “I think it might be how they power their weapons.”

“Antimatter used within mobiles ships,” the Captain said his blood running cold at the thought of stable antimatter weaponry. Normally any kind of tactical acceleration was enough to cause the antimatter within a containment system to move just enough to come into contact with stray particles of matter and cause an explosion that destroyed the ship carrying it. If the droids had found a way around this problem of the usually non-portable material…

A hail of fire lashed out between the Battleship and her swarm of attackers led by the Droid Carrier vessel.

“Poseidon’s shields are spotting and beginning to waver but they are sweeping those gunboats out of space and that carrier is starting to reel,” reported the Tactical Officer, no longer sounding alarmed now that the battle had moved away from them.

On screen the Carrier began to list to one side and several explosions rocked its main body.

Fire continued to exchange until suddenly the Droid Carrier exploded, taking out a large number of the surviving gunboats with her.

Relatively undamaged—except for a long scorch mark on her hull and the near collapse of her shields—the Poseidon majestically turned until it was now presenting its undamaged side towards the droids.

However, despite the relative ease with which it had handled its smaller, lighter opponent, the Corvette Captain had an uneasy feeling inside him. He wondered what would have happened if, instead of a single carrier sent on what now looked like a probing attack into the system, the droids had sent two carriers—or even an entire battle squadron of the carriers and their accompanying gunboats. He shuddered to think what might have happened if the battleship had been attacked by a large number of these carrier ships.

“Continue with the evacuation,” he ordered looking back up at his bridge crews, “we need to escort these scientists outside of the battle zone.”

“Aye, sir,” replied his First Officer.

Looking at the screen, he hoped and prayed that the leaders of his Star System had some hidden aces up their sleeves because he didn’t see how they could stand off an entire fleet of such vessels. After all, Aqua Nova was an important world in Sector 24 and word was from the fragmentary communications coming to them from Sector 23 that all of their Core Systems had been at the very least strongly tested, if not overrun completely.

He didn’t want to see the test that his beloved home world would have to face if someone didn’t get their heads out of their posteriors, rally the worlds of 24, and form up a genuine Sector wide defensive force.

Because if the droids continued to take them out piecemeal, he was very much afraid for the fate of the human race…or at least, that part of it which was out here in his corner of the Spine.

Chapter 20: Spalding vs. the Voters

“I suppose you’re all wondering why I dragged you all in here,” Chief Engineer Terrance Spalding said pacing back and forth before an entirely different type of crew than the last time he’d given an impassioned speech in Main Engineering. Sure, this was the shot-up Vineyard, and certainly not the Clover, and sure he might be more cyborg than man at this point but he was definitely playing to a tough crowd.

“I never wonder why you Royalists act the way you do,” heckled someone from the back of the crowd of former prisoners, “I don’t wonder because I know: you lot are crazy!”

He heard a few mutinous mutters about how royalists worked with pirates, wreckers and something about slaves but he forcibly ignored it.

The Lady Akantha might be many things but, as of that moment, her prisoner-taking ways had caused a definite headache. And were he to give vent to his spleen—like he was feeling very close to doing—it would only confirm, in their minds, the barbaric nature of all royalist everywhere and, of course, him in particular. Now the Chief Engineer didn’t mind being feared but not when doing so would remove any benefit these men might ever have to the cause.

“Look, you ornery lot of mutinous slackers,” Spalding growled. “You; yes, you,” he snapped, pointing at one scowling older face in the front of the crowd, “I’m calling you that because that’s what you are.”

“Says you!” shouted a strident female voice from the back of the crew.

“Your new King James sent you here to us and you serve a Prince now, so get over it,” Spalding snapped irritably. “It’s time for you to make the best of—”

“He’s not my King!” shouted one man and several more shouted, “I didn’t vote for that Dastard!”

“Forget about the King,” Spalding snapped, “the Little Admiral’s in command of this fleet; you look to him now. Not Parliament, not the Royal House. You’re here and it’s—”

“Boo!” a large portion of the men and women here started to heckle and about the time they started saying, “Time to go home you old Cyborg!” They were followed by cries of, “Down with all Royalist Appointments!” On hearing this latest, something inside the ornery old Chief snapped.

“What a bunch of sorry little refugee Voters you lot turned out to be. And here I thought you all were products of the Caprian SDF,” he shook his head. “Well, listen up, buttercups!” he raged, face purpling as he groped for his plasma torch. “You think you’re the only ones that ever had the raw end of a deal? What bunch of shiftless, gutless, Voters you turned out to be!”

The deck fell into a shocked silence, one that quickly became ominous.

“Who you calling gutless, Engineer?” demanded a tough-looking older man in an old shore patrol uniform.

“You!” Spalding replied immediately. “You…sorry excuse for a Caprian Fleet Master Chief,” Spalding growled, spotting the rank marks on the other man’s uniform.

The well-muscled Master Chief took a step forward and Spalding surged forward to meet him. “No man calls me a coward—I don’t care what the consequences are,” Shore Patrol said.

“This here is no different than your coup,” Spalding said thrusting a finger into the other man’s chest. Since the finger was made of metal and silicone, when the Armsmaster grabbed hold and broke the finger sideways, all he felt was a brief surge of feedback pain before the connection was lost. “The elected man’s beloved little Reconstruction,” he continued, heedless of the way Shore Patrol was grinding his finger in his strong grip.

“Space Gods, you are more metal than man,” the Master Chief growled stepping forward with his fist raised.

“Pucker up, buttercup,” Spalding shouted, using the hand holding the plasma torch to sock the Chief in the face and he followed through with a metal foot to the gut as the other man went down. “I was there when you parliamentary types came rolling in hard, all boots and elbows as you ran roughshod over us simpleminded, wrong-thinking old Royalists. It was forced retirements of Officers and mass firings of the Senior Enlisted, some of whom were never seen from again both officer and enlisted. Meanwhile you had the rest of us saying ‘yes sir, yes sir, three bags full’ or we’d quickly be out of a job. ‘Social Justice’ they called it.”

Shore Patrol growled getting back up to his feet. “You like to whine about the past, Royal?” he said, falling into a fighter’s crouch.

“And they called us close-mined,” Spalding sneered.

“Would you like to take this conversation private?” asked Shore Patrol.

The Chief Engineer looked down his nose at the other man and then pointed off to the side.

No sooner had they removed themselves off into side corridor leading to a supply closet then the other man charged.

He saw from the name tag—in the few moments he had to register such things—that the man’s name was Aubertine. And, as one would except from a man used to rounding up recalcitrant spacers, he was fairly skilled at his job. How he ended up aboard the Furious Phoenix was probably a tale and a half, but the old Engineer didn’t have time to ponder it.

Fortunately for Spalding, his legs made him too heavy for a takedown and when the body blows started landing, being made of more metal than man proved to have its benefits. It was almost a shame the power his new legs gave him…almost, but he was more than willing to use it, slamming a metal leg into the gut of the scrapper to knock the wind out of his sails.

The blighter’s follow up blow to his own chin had him seeing flashing lights, so he bulled forward. He might not be as young as he once was, but Spalding was as strong as a bull once again—and he intended to use it.

So, kicking and punching for all he was worth, the old Engineer laid into the parliamentary Master Chief.

A brief flurry of blows had Spalding shaking his head and the Master Chief bent over holding his ribs.

“Now, as I was sayin’,” the old Engineer gasped, listing to the side before staggering back up straight with the help of one hand—the one with the broken sideways finger—up against the wall. “You don’t have to like it—in fact I wouldn’t think much of you if’n you did—but you do have to lump it. The worm has turned; Parliament’s on the outs and you’ve been seconded into the Confederation Fleet to get you out of someone’s hair back home.”

“That over-large, pirate bint shanghaied us,” glared Aubertine.

Spalding raised a fist. “You can keep a civil tongue in you about the Lady Akantha, or you can have yer face stove in right before you take a long walk, if ye take my meaning,” the Old Engineer said, going wild-eyed.

“Bah,” growled the Master Chief, spitting blood but also failing to continue insulting the Lady.

For a long moment the two men stared at one another.

“You can bring me on this ship but you can’t make me work her—and you’d be crazy to try, you old Royalist,” Aubertine said flatly.

“You expected it from us, Parliament,” Spalding rejoined, grabbing a hold of his broken finger and snapping it back into place with a crack that made even him flinch. The return of sensory input wasn’t any bag of fun, neither, “I don’t tend to do double standards. I don’t know why the Lady wants you lot on board but she does, so it’s my job to sift the wheat from the chaff and let me tell you, right now I’m looking at an awful lot of chaff.”

“What’s to keep us from sabotaging the ship?” the Master Chief asked frankly. “You can’t trust a man who’s not on a ship willingly—and this isn’t even a Caprian ship, so there’s not much reason not to scuttle her just to give you lot a bad day.”

Spalding waved the other man’s words off as if shooing away flies. “We’ll give any man who can’t work the same offer they gave me back in the day: if you feel you can’t do the job then feel free to follow your conscience,” he said evenly. “There’s a nice, comfortable brig cell in the Station with your name on it.”

“And if a man had the desire to stay on but with ill intent?” the Master Chief growled.

“That’s what chemical interrogation’s for,” Spalding growled back.

“Think you’ve got it all figured out, do you? In the end you really are nothing more than the pirates the news service makes you out as—and I’ll have no truck with pirates,” Aubertine said stiffly.

“Careful, boyo,” Spalding warned but mindful of his own experience with ‘reluctant’ service following the coup, or as this man would call it the reconstruction he held his piece, “any rate, you ask why we would trust you not to blow up the ship. Well after weeding out the malcontents—such as yourself—I’ll then be telling them the gods’ honest truth, which ought to go a long piece to convincing the rest to put aside any factional differences and unite us as Caprians first and foremost, and Parliament and Royal a distant second.”

“And that miracle truth is?” the Master Chief said incredulously.

“There’s a war on and we need every man willing,” Spalding said ironically, knowing how the words were going to be received.

“There’s always a war going on somewhere,” retorted the Master Chief.

“Yes well, in this particular instance on one side you have men like you and me, and on the other you have a bunch of trigger-happy attack droids,” Spalding said matter-of-factly.

“Droids!” Aubertine said with one part alarm and two parts disbelief.

“Yep,” Spalding said nodding agreeably, “that’s why I’m here to enlist any man willing to fight on the front lines against the machines. Oh, and I’ve got the files and an Ambassador from Sectors 23 and 24 to prove it.” Even though Spalding didn’t particularly care for the extent of the anti-machine bias that gripped most Caprians, this kind of situation was exactly why that bias existed and in the face of a Machine threat of this magnitude, so he had little choice but to shamelessly play off it. No truly principled person—or even an intelligent hypocrite who only thought he or she was principled—could talk themselves out of killing humanities front line defenders.

The Master Chief looked like he’d just bitted a lemon. And why shouldn’t he? The man had just gone from sticking it to where those, in his eyes, dag-blasted Royalists lived, to being turned into an errand boy. But anyone with a pair of neurons to rub together knew that these droids wouldn’t stop until they were forcibly convinced to do so, or possibly even annihilated.

“Blast you,” cursed the Master Chief.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” the old engineer bared his teeth because, temporary allies or no, this man was fighting for the opposing team and he was old enough to have been around for the ‘reconstruction’ nonsense, unlike a lot of these other youngsters. The old engineer didn’t agree with holding a man responsible for the sins of his parents…his own sins on the other hand, were not only fair game, there was an obligation to get some payback for them.

So while Shore Patrol glared at him with hate in his eyes, he continued to bare his teeth. Oh yes, this one would bear watching, Spalding made a mental note.

Chapter 21: Back to Tracto

“Point Emergence,” reported Navigator Shepherd, it was nice to have the old team back in harness, even if I was in a strange and unfamiliar ship.

“Extending engines out of the sump and bringing power on the secondaries up to 25%,” DuPont said smoothly.

I sat back in the strange Captain’s chair I was currently occupying and let the now-routine cadence of a hyperspace emergence roll over me like a familiar comforting wave.

We’d already broken the inertial sump and pointed the nose of the Phoenix in-system before the first Sensor returns came in.

Everything was routine, as Sensors reported that the ships and stations we’d left behind were still all present and accounted for, until one of the sensor operators jumped out of his seat.

“Point emergence two points off our aft quarter at a distance of…she’s right on us, sir!” cried the Operator.

“What are they playing at?” cursed Captain Laurent, who I’d tapped to transfer over to command the Furious Phoenix for me the same way he had for the Little Gift and the Armor Prince.

Despite the way both the Gift and the Prince had nearly been shot out from under us, there was no man I trusted more to run the ship I was on and besides those near losses had been entirely my fault, not the Flag Captain’s. I had a system that worked and wasn’t about to make any changes now. Not even if it would have been nice to put the Captain in command of the Parliamentary Power and know that he would be following behind me, literally as fast as he could manage to get it up and running.

“I ordered a broad dispersal to avoid just this sort of thing; whoever’s in command over there and their navigators are going to have a lot to answer for! Get me the name of that ship and its captain,” he ordered.

“I’m getting a transponder reading now,” the Communications Tech spoke up leaning down toward his console intently, then he stiffened, “its transponder says it’s the armed merchant ship, Sector Pride, registered out of Central!”

“Sensors confirm that she’s armed and she’s a freighter,” cut in the Sensor Officer in charge of the entire sensor section, “and she’s still in the sump.”

I sat bolt upright in my chair.

“Sector Pride,” I growled sharing a glance with Captain Laurent.

“They may not have heard about the change in control of this Star System, Admiral,” the Flag Captain said smartly.

“Which change?” I said rhetorically and then my face hardened. “However I am quite interested to hear what the Assembly has to say to whoever they think is in charge of this system. Bring this ship around and close on the Freighter,” I said with a dire expression on my face, “I want them under our weapons and without even the idea that they can get away.”

“Yes, sir,” Laurent said pivoting on his heels to relay the orders, “Helm, hard to port; bring us around to bear on the enemy and close at our best speed.”

“Aye, Captain,” Helmsman DuPont said crisply, “they’ll never get away from us in that bucket of bolts.”

“Focus on the task at hand, Helm,” the Captain replied and then turned. “Tactical, I want our guns tracking that ship and prepared to fire upon my command,” he glanced at me quizzically, “shoot to disable?”

I nodded in response to the implied question.

“If they are given the order to fire make sure the gunners understand they are to shoot to disable,” Laurent repeated and then expanded his instructions.

“I’ll let the Chief Gunner know,” the Tactical Officer replied.

The captain looked at the Tactical Officer for an extended moment before turning away.

Now that we were on the way and the chances of Sector Pride escaping seemed to be somewhere in the vicinity of slim and none, I felt it was time for the velvet glove.

“Comm., open a channel to the freighter,” I said after turning to the com-tech.

“Right away, Admiral Montagne,” he said, flashing a smile at me.

Ignoring the smile I turned to face the main screen and compose myself for the upcoming confrontation—for a confrontation it would be. Fortunately for me, I was holding most of the cards.

“I have the freighter on the line, sir,” the Tech said seconds later.

I blinked and then remembered that this sector ship wasn’t halfway across the sector, of course we’d be able to hail them and get a quick response. I straightened in my chair and allowed a small pleased expression to cross my face.

“This is Admiral Montagne of the Confederation’s Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet and you are about to become the subject of a routine inspection. Heave to, step down your fusion generators, and prepare to be boarded,” I drawled, looking directly into the holo-pickup of the main screen.

The familiar brown face appeared and stared back at me with a flicker of surprise, pert nose lifted slightly into the air before her expression quickly shuttered. It was a face and a look that made me want to both rage and yet at the same time dance a victory jig.

“Flat Nose,” she said bitterly.

“Bethany, dear cousin; it’s been too long,” I said with false warmth, allowing a genuine, less-than-warm smile to slowly spread across my face.

“Not long enough,” she practically spat.

“I’m surprised your masters sent you here knowing that control of Tracto has returned to the hands of its rightful, indigenous, rulers,” I said, sidestepping the fact that technically I was the one in control of everything outside of the planet itself by not specifying if I was referring to Tracto the System or Tracto the Planet and stressing the fact that the natives had control for public consumption.

“If the natives actually have control of your ‘fleet’ or flotilla or whatever you’re calling it now, then you’re stupider than even I’d imagined,” Bethany said sweetly, but I could see from the flicker in her eyes that the shot had hit home.

“The MSP follows the rightful Confederation chain of command, as always; we’re not beholden to any single star system,” I said coolly, meaning that as of right then it followed me. Then I leaned forward, “Not that I’d expect a civilian like you to understand the ins and outs of a military organization. That might actually require some study and take time away from you manicures, pedicures, and trying to look good for the cameras.”

Bethany snorted indelicately and then sneered at me, “I can understand why the man infamous throughout the Sector as the Tyrant of Cold Space might be a little sore about his image,” she mocked.

“Come to ‘Represent’ your masters in the Rump Assembly, like a good little girl?” I shot back, switching the words ‘Sector’ for ‘Rump’ at the last moment as well as our conversational gears. There was no reason to give those blighters in Central any more legitimacy than necessary or Bethany control of this little discussion of ours. Not after she and the people she represented did everything but declare war on me and everyone in my organization.

Her eyes narrowed and then a false front swept over her face and she smiled pleasantly—almost indulgently—at me. “Unlike some people I know how to do what I’m told and if I’m told to go to act as a representative for the Central Government then that’s what I’ll do,” she said lightly. “I can’t help it if both Capria and the Sector Assembly recognizes talent—loyal, dutiful talent—when they see it.” The sweep of her eyes as they examined me left me with no doubt that when she looked at me she found me wanting in this regard.

I stiffened at the dig. “Is that what I saw on the Cosmic News Network?” I said contemplatively. “A loyal and dutiful lapdog spewing her master’s lies and sound-bytes when you said I was mentally unhinged and as such shouldn’t be held accountable for my actions?”

“They say ‘truth is in the eye of the beholder’,” Bethany sniffed. “However, despite my best efforts on your behalf you clearly were about to be held accountable but alas…that is not why I am here.”

“Of course not,” and now it was my turn to mock.

Her lips tightened fractionally.

“When your ship stops over for our,” she paused sardonically, “inspection, I am prepared to tender my portfolio. In it you will find I have been sent on a Diplomatic Mission to Tracto, here to liaise with Authority of this star system on behalf of the Sector Government.”

I snorted, drawing a cold look from my cousin.

“I am to provide whatever services I can to the betterment of both our governments,” she ended stiffly, the little moue that her mouth made indicating this was far from her favorite thing to be saying.

“’We’re from the Rump Assembly and we’re here to help you’,” I shook my head wondering just how stupid she thought I was and then gave her a level look.

“There’s no need for that insulting diminutive any longer,” she said primly, “despite the lack of Representatives from a small fraction of the border worlds, we—that is, the Sector Assembly—finally acquired enough participating member worlds for a quorum. The vote was close,” the smile that crossed her face wasn’t a pleasant one and it came and went in a flash, “but in the end the Sector Government was restored to full functionality and as we speak a new Governor pro-tem is being selected by the Assembly for ratification by the Core Worlds until such a time as contact is reestablished with the confederation wide Grand Assembly.”

“So you’ve finally got around to telling yourself you have the power to unilaterally elect…” I paused and corrected myself, “that is, selected a Sector Governor and then ratify it by only a fraction of the worlds of this sectors worlds, the most powerful Core Worlds of course. Have you bothered to replace any of the Sector Judges while you’re at it or did you stop at usurping the Governor ship?”

Bethany’s eyes glittered oddly. “An emergency selection requires a majority vote in the Assembly with a quorum of all the worlds of this Sector, regardless of population size, in attendance. However once every world, high population or low, has had the chance to weigh in and,” her lips quirked, “make their vote count, ratification of this selection only requires a plural majority of the sector population. With billions living on the Core Worlds and only millions, or hundreds of thousands, on the border, a majority of the Popular Vote can be achieved in several ways. Of course,” she paused demurely, “any border world that cares to send in its vote totals will be counted. They simply aren’t necessary to fulfill our constitutionally mandated duty requirements.”

I shook my head in disgust. “I don’t need to hear a blow by blow account of how you gamed the system, Cousin,” I said, not entirely truthfully. While I didn’t ‘need’ to know, I was more than mildly interested. You never knew when a lack of such information could come back and bite you in the hindquarters.

“I didn’t game anything, nor did the legitimately elected Sector Government or it’s soon to be Governor pro-tem,” Bethany shot back, “and I’m sorry if you feel that way!”

She didn’t sound very sorry and I mimed covering a yawn with my hand.

“Before we got sidetracked with this amusing little aside,” said in as belittling a voice as I could manage, “I believe you were saying something about how the Confederation Representative was prepared to tender her credentials to the System Authority here?”

“Yes, ‘I’ am ready to hand over my portfolio to whosoever is in control of this system as the duly assigned Sector Representative,” Bethany said, once again looking as if she’d swallowed something foul.

I pretended to be surprised, as if the fact that she was once again acting as our Sector Representative had somehow slipped my mind.

“That’s low, even for you, Admiral,” she said her voice as she used my military rank dripping with scorn.

My face hardened, but I said nothing.

“But I suppose it’s all that can be expected from a Montagne,” she finished with a sigh after a dramatic pause.

Captain Laurent stepped over to my side and then leaned down. “The shuttles are en route and only two minutes from being within docking range of the freighter,” he said mouth next to my ear to foil the audio pickups.

I nodded my understanding of the Flag Captains words and smoothly turned it into a nod towards Bethany’s last words as I looked back into her eyes.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Cousin, because while it fits you to a tee it simply doesn’t suit the situation,” I drawled as condescendingly as possible; it was time she felt the sting. “I mean, we both know you came here expecting to deal with one Montagne and instead found yourself dealing with another. So attempting to play the Montagne card is fairly passé, wouldn’t you agree?”

Bethany gritted her teeth and I watched with pleasure as the barb sank in.

A little too much time spent vilifying the ‘Tyrant of Cold Space’ for his Montagne ways, Cousin? I thought coldly. I wondered if she’d started to lose her edge spending all that time on the Central media circuits.

Then my smile which had been cold and rigid enough suddenly turned deadly as a wonderful idea popped into my brain. Two…no, three birds with one stone. Is it possible? I wondered before quickly refocusing my attention back onto my erstwhile cousin.

“Let’s get down to brass tacks, Representative Tilday,” I said switching gears over to my officious best.

“Yes, let’s, Jason,” she countered by choosing to be insultingly familiar.

“What exactly are you here for, Representative?” I said formally, sticking to my guns.

“Provided my status as a Representative of the Sector Government and its Assembly, and as long the diplomatic immunity I am therefore entitled to is recognized and respected, I am here to smooth the waters,” she said, speaking much but saying little.

“And what exactly does that mean?” I asked, feeling a flare of temper at all the meaningless words.

“It means,” she said her smile cutting, “that I am here to render whatever service I can to the ‘legitimate’ governing authority of this Star System.”

I looked at her not really affected by the dig about ‘legitimate authority’ or the potential implication that if she didn’t think we were legitimate she’d help out whoever she thought was but wondering if I needed to respond anyway. After a moment I shrugged.

“Tough talk, Cottonmouth,” I said, flipping a languid hand off to the side and hoping the school yard snake nickname got under her skin. “For someone who is about to enjoy the infamous Montagne hospitality, you’ve got a brass pair on you.”

“Is that a threat?” she demanded, leaning forward intently. “Are you threatening a bonded diplomat?”

“Far from it, dear cousin,” I said smiling falsely. “Did I say ‘infamous?’ A slip of the tongue, I’m sure; I meant ‘famous.’ Indeed, the ‘famous’ Montagne hospitality will be all yours, just as soon as you and your team can be shuttle over to my Flagship. I am prepared to accept your portfolio at this time.”

Intentness turned to caution and I got the sense that it if hadn’t indicated weakness she would have leaned back in her chair.

“All of my things are on this ship,” she started smoothly but I lifted a hand.

“I insist,” the hint of iron in my voice cut her off. As nice as it had been to spar verbally with my cousin and former childhood tormentor, it was time and past time to remind her who was in charge. I was the one in the Imperial Strike Cruiser and she in the modified merchant ship.

After a momentary hesitation she spread her arms expansively. “I, and my team, am here to keep the lines of communication open and be of whatever service possible,” she said with a nod of resignation.

Her words were music to my ears.

“Whatever service possible,” I said leaning forward with a smile, the potential uses I could put this Tilday-Vekna albatross the Sector Government had sent to either help Jean Luc or tie like a loadstone around my neck, flitting through my brain. “I’m so glad you said that,” I smiled.

“What—” Bethany asked with alarm but I gestured for the com-tech to cut the transmission and she disappeared from the screen.

I watched as the shuttles entered the freighter and continued to watch until they detached from the ship and signaled they had the Representative and her entourage onboard.

I quirked a smile at this particular thought. Bethany had an entourage; the last time she’d come to Tracto it had been entirely by herself. Sure, she’d been a Representative but had brought zero support staff. This time she had an ‘entourage’ and, pretentious as it sounded, it was also an indicator of both her rise in prominence as well as how serious the Assembly took the importance of this system—and of me.

They’d probably been expecting her to deal with Jean Luc when they sent her out initially, a thought which made my blood boil. I took a few calming breaths. Well, instead of the pirate Blood Lord she’d been expecting, she’d just have to deal with Admiral Montagne of the MSP.

“The shuttles are on close approach to the docking bay, Sir,” Laurent prompted, silently reminding me that that if I wanted to get down to the shuttle bay in time to meet and greet my cousin now was the time.

“Thank you, Captain,” I said making sure to meet his eyes to let him know I appreciated his attention to detail, “if you would be so good as to greet the Representative and escort her and her staff to an appropriate set of lodgings that would be great.”

The Flag Captain blinked. “Aye, Admiral,” he said after a pause and then he frowned, “normally the Admiral’s accommodations on a ship this size also double as the diplomatic suite at need.”

I snorted.

“As the Admiral is currently using the Flag Quarters I think other accommodations will be required,” I bared my teeth. “If it’s too much trouble finding the esteemed representative a place to lay her head, just clean out the nearest maintenance locker and put in a cot.”

Laurent covered his coughed with a fist but behind it I could see the hint of a smile on his face. “I’m sure we can manage something better than a spare maintenance closet, Sir,” he said dryly, “besides, whatever the Lady’s accommodations I would think her staff deserve at least the same as the crew.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” I muttered darkly, my mind flitting back to the many functionaries I’d seen hanging around diplomats and ambassadors who’d visited the Royal Palace on Capria, most of whom hadn’t been worth the air they breathed as far as I was now concerned, let alone whatever outrageous salaries they were pulling down. “But I’m not about to tell you how to run your ship. So if you want to give her your quarters or put her up in a spare room in the brig you won’t hear much of a complaint from me.”

“Thank you, sir,” Laurent said, “I’ll see to the matter directly.”

I nodded and turned away.

Laurent started to walk away, already speaking on his com-link as I turned back.

“Oh, and one last thing before you go, Captain,” I said, as if the thought had just occurred to me.

“Yes?” Laurent said curiously.

“Send a message to the Pride of Prometheus and tell Captain Middleton his mission is provisionally approved. Then have the prisoner brought up from the brig to my conference room,” I said with a sense of satisfaction as the pieces started falling into place.

I’d found that an Admiral needed to have plans within plans if he wanted to survive in a universe seemingly determined to bring him down. It was a dog-eat-dog galaxy out here, and having turned both cheeks earlier on in my career—and been slugged in both of them—I had learned to abandon such silly ideologies.

“A message to the Pride with your provisional approval, yes sir,” Laurent said stoically. I ignored the curious look he threw my way but he drew a loud breath, “I’ll have the prisoner sent up from the brig then.” This time when he turned away I didn’t stop him.

I just smiled.

Chapter 22: Tremblay-ing at the thought of a New Mission

While Bethany got to experience stewing in whatever quarters Laurent scrounged up for her, and had probably begun to wonder when we would finally meet face to face, I got to recline in the relative luxury of the Phoenix’s conference room.

The Imperials really had it working I decided, not for the first time, since I’d moved onboard. Not only was everything new, they also had all the latest toys and enough technological goodies to make a man used to the old Dreadnaught class like I’d been kicking around the Sector in turn green with envy.

No, Bethany could wait her turn. And if my ignoring her was petty politics 101 (making yourself look important by making your guests wait on you), then it couldn’t have happened to a more deserving woman and I was guilty as charged. No one got to go in front of the media for the entire sector and tear me down without consequence.

In fact having to wait for an audience was going to be the least of her worries very soon. And the best part? Her fate, and the prisoner’s, was going to be in the hands of the Space Gods—and I was going to continue sleeping well at night.

I don’t care what they say; revenge is sweet.

Eventually the door cycled open. The officer being escorted into the room by a pair of Lancers recoiled at the sight of me. But the pair of battlesuited warriors to either side each took an elbow and, rather than be frog-marched to his seat, the officer shrugged off the hands and walked over to take a seat.

“Jason Montagne,” he said evenly, “brought me up to gloat?”

“Why would I need you brought up when at any time I can turn on a screen and see you pacing the confines of your cell, Tremblay?” I asked calmly.

“Playing a circular montage of crewmen and women being tortured was a nice touch, but just about what I would have expected of a Montagne,” Tremblay sneered. “It’s a great way to wear down the opposition, I suppose. Before I came to know you in person I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but I know you and this isn’t like you. So what’s changed?”

“Opposition?” I asked lifting an eyebrow. “That seems a little egotistical, even for a dyed-in-the-wool parliamentary sort like you, Raphael,” I gestured with my hands and then my face hardened. “But, be that as it may, there is a reason you’ve been forced to watch those vid-clippings—and it’s not a sudden desire for psychological torture.”

“If not that then what?” he challenged.

“Because those were the images I was forced to watch while stuck in the brig of the Lucky Clover,” I said harshly. “Because what you’ve seen was done by a parliamentary political officer,” my eyes bored into his, “because,” I added, “I believe that somehow, someway, everything that happed during the mutiny is somehow your fault.”

Lieutenant Tremblay, that parliamentary stalwart, swallowed—hard. “You give me a lot of credit,” he finally said in a strangled sounding voice and then fell silent.

It was a silence I allowed to grow until it was beyond uncomfortable. “Saving my life and then helping the Steiner/Heirophant team escape doesn’t absolve you of what you’ve done,” I said into the deathly silence. “I may not have proof of all your crimes, but you and I both know what you’ve done. Besides, what I do have is more enough for me to shove you outside an airlock without a suit and no one would raise so much as a token protest.”

“Then why am I still breathing oxy instead of sucking vacuum?” the Lieutenant asked, his voice trembling before he straightened in his chair, consciously stiffening his spine.

“For some reason that I don’t understand you gave me a chance at life after my Uncle shot me,” I said, even now my mind shying away from giving Jean Luc his true familial title. “So call it a glimmer of doubt, or a moment of temporary insanity, or maybe it’s just because I have a mission in mind and need a man of your…attributes. Take your pick.”

“What kind of mission could you possibly have that you think I could or even would help you with?” Raphael Tremblay looked at me with disbelief. “Moreover, how could you even trust me?”

“I’m glad you asked,” I said with a tight smile, “and the answer is a simple one. I need someone—two someone’s in fact—with the skills to succeed, thus making the mission officially plausible, as well as the talent to stall things for as long as possible. And even more important to me is that they need to be people I won’t lose any sleep over losing. This is your chance at redemption, Tremblay, or at least as close as you’re going to get in this lifetime. Succeed and I listen to the better angels on my shoulder, and after this mission I exile you from the fleet—to return under pain of death if I ever see you again. Fail and, well…if you don’t die carrying out your mission at their hands, I’ll see to it personally—even if I have to spend the rest of your very short life tracking you down.”

“I see. Two questions then,” Tremblay said his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down furiously.

“Shoot,” I said smiling savagely. While I would never send a man on a mission where success was not an option, I was almost hoping he failed. So long as he managed to drag things out it would almost be better for me and the MSP and one thing was for sure. When it came to sowing confusion and discord among his enemies while pretending to be on their side—or at least a semi-willing to help but very helpful cog—there was no one better at it than Intelligence Officer Raphael Tremblay. Or if there was, then I was planning to send her with him.

“Who is this other someone who will be going with me and who are these ‘they’ that you think might kill me,” Tremblay asked and I almost admired the way he didn’t plead, beg for his life, protest his innocence or break down into tears. It almost made me remember the almost good times we used to have before the mutiny that took the Lucky Clover by storm, slaughtered our crew and saw me on trial for my life. Then I scowled at him.

“The ‘they’ are one of the three tribes of droids operating in sectors 23 and 24, the United Sentient’s Assembly, or whatever they call themselves at the moment,” I said flatly. “As for the ‘who’,” this time the smile that crossed my face was one I didn’t want to think too deeply on, “the other someone I’ll be sending you is an expert in surviving tense, potentially deadly, negotiations where neither side expects anything good to come from it. Her name is Assembly Representative Bethany Tilday, my own sweet Vekna Cousin.”

My former First Officer cum Chief of Staff’s mouth opened and closed almost like a fish’s before closing with a click.

I was pleased, for if even a known schemer and Intelligence Officer like Tremblay had been taken by surprise then it was unlikely my enemies would ever suspect I might contemplate such a thing as I proposed to do.

“Let’s forget for a moment that you’re sending a known traitor and Parliamentarian alongside a Royalist diplomat from Central out to do your dirty work, Admiral,” Tremblay said with patented disbelief, “and focus on just what in Hades’ name do you propose that we do?”

“I would have thought a man of your bent would have already figured that out, as I’ve told you once before I am willing to do just about anything to protect my people,” I said with open amusement.

“Yes, of course…but what exactly is the mission?” he stayed mono-focused, ignoring my bout of levity.

“Why, Officer Tremblay,” I grinned, “I want you to make a deal with a droid.”

Chapter 23: The Service I need is one only you can provide

“This is so far beyond outrageous I’m not sure where to begin,” Bethany actually sounded shocked. “I’d say ‘you can’t do this,’ except obviously you can and are about to.”

“You did say you were here to render any service you could to the proper authority of this star system, and at the moment that very much seems to be me,” I said seriously and gestured through the blast doors leading out of the shuttle bay and back into the ship. “Of course if I’m wrong then the person you’ll want to speak with would be my wife, as she is the only other person who could possibly be this hypothetical proper authority you’ve promised to service.”

“Nice, Jason,” Bethany sneered. “But for some reason I’m feeling reluctant to appeal this suicide mission, whatever it turns out to be, before a woman who tried to run me through with a historic artifact the last time we met. I wonder why that is.”

“Well you did stab me in the back with your hair pick trying to kill her, so that’s probably a reasonable position,” I said agreeably. “Just keep your chin up, maintain a stiff upper lip, and I’m sure you’ll do fine. I don’t know a person better able to stand before her enemies and tell them she’s willing and eager to blast them to flinders at the first opportunity she sees and not only survive the experience but show up later with a promotion; I’m sure you’ll do fine,” I finished, suppressing a surge of vindictive satisfaction.

I didn’t mind the satisfaction part that was earned it was the vindictive part that put me off my clover. Or rather, the part that I didn’t really mind being a vindictive person put me off.

“This is insane; you’re sending us out into space without even telling us what we need to prepare ourselves for,” she pleaded, no doubt because she couldn’t effectively argue against something when she had no idea what exactly it was she was going to be doing, “at least let us know what this hypothetical deadly mission is about before we leave?” Behind and off to the side, Officer Tremblay just stood there his eyes scanning down about knee level, looking depressed and downcast. He knew better than to ask.

I hesitated for a moment, not wanting to share anything more than I had to beforehand but it wasn’t like I was going to let her talk me out of it and she was going to be isolated from any means of outside communication from this point out. Besides it would be nice to see the look in her eyes when I told her and got to watch her squirm.

Behind her Tremblay looked up at me for the first time, too smart or at least too familiar with me to want to ask the question himself but now that it was out there unable to help a sick sort of fascination with understanding his impending doom.

So I gestured grandly, as if standing before a media camera on some kind of PR tour instead of about to relay a very truncated briefing to a pair of unwilling operatives.

“It’s quite simple really,” I said in the most self-important way I could, just to see how far I could get under Bethany’s skin.

She made a quickly covered snort and shook her head.

“Sectors 24 and 23 have been invaded, and I mean to do something about it,” I said grandly.

“So?” Bethany said impatiently tapping her foot on the floor.

“By droids,” I clarified and then stopped as I waited for her to catch on.

“Clearly this is supposed to mean something to me, but your brilliance escapes me. Do I look like a ship’s officer or computer technician to you?” she asked, covering a flash of surprise at this information with what looked like genuine impatience. “He might be able to do something—although you’d be a fool to trust him, which I suppose explains things perfectly—but I fail to see what I can do.”

“Hey!” Tremblay said halfheartedly.

I continued to look at Bethany like a not particularly bright student and ignored my erstwhile, traitorous, First Officer’s outburst while looking at her patiently.

“What does this have to do with us, Admiral?” Tremblay asked with dread in his voice, while the two Royals in the room locked eyes and refused to look away from each other.

I looked away, breaking the stare first; it’s not like I had anything to prove to a woman more completely within my power than I ever was inside of hers. Let her stew in her own juices and score the petty points, right now it was all she had.

“I’m so glad you asked,” I said, turning to him and ignoring my royal Tilday cousin, “because it’s a hazardous mission requiring a unique and limited skill set that each of you, in your own way, have shown you possess.”

“Although I can’t imagine how you think you can trust us, a pair of unwilling conscripts, to carry out whatever outrageous plan you’ve come up with. Enough with the mystery and word games; just spit it out, Flat Nose,” Bethany flared, obviously feeling just how inconsequential she and whatever she had to say where and resenting the blazes out of it.

“Very well,” I said my smile sharpening to a shark like expression, “I want you to make a deal with the droids.”

“What?” her jaw dropped open.

Tremblay closed his eyes his lips moving in what I assumed to be a silent prayer.

“One of the droid factions—the one called the United Sentient’s Assembly—I want you to go talk with them,” I explained, wickedly enjoying the expression of horror on her face.

For once it seemed I’d literally removed Bethany’s ability to speak. So, taking advantage of the disbelieving silence, I continued speaking in order to relay the full import of my plan uninterrupted.

“Yes indeed, I have finally found a use of your diplomatic credentials, political instincts, and cold-blooded nature and the solution for how to yoke it to my own designs. You see Bethany,” I said, my eyes boring into hers, “all I hope for is that you can stall them. If you succeed in opening a dialogue and get them to break off their attacks,” I squared my shoulders and leaned forward and even though more than six feet separated us, she leaned back as if standing before a strong wind, “I suppose something’s I can learn to live with.”

For a moment Bethany continued to stare at me but Caprians—and especially Caprian Royals—are made of sterner stuff and she quickly rallied refusing to be intimidated, and her stare soon morphed into a glare.

“This isn’t a diplomatic mission; it’s a suicide mission plain and simple, don’t try to deny it, Jason. You’re sending me out to die!” Bethany raged. “Do you hear me, Admiral?” her voice filled with complete and utter scorn for me. “This is the same thing as signing my death warrant, or sending me for a ‘walk’ outside the airlock without a suit. This is murder!”

“There’s the cousin I know and love,” I mocked, “I send two of you on a mission of mercy—one that could save countless lives—and the only person you’re concerned about is yourself. Thank you for once again for validating my long-held belief that your human nature is more snakelike than warm-blooded.”

“You don’t have to do this,” she said quickly, even though her face was still reddened, “I can help you. You don’t have to be like the Montagne’s of old—like Jean Luc the pirate—you can be better,” her voice was gaining a delicious hint of desperation as she tried to appeal to some hypothetical better side within me and simultaneously shame me with the specter of the blood thirsty, blood feuding Montagne’s of old. “Listen, you have enemies in the Assembly and the Core Worlds but I can identify them for you. Send someone on the mission if you have to—send Raphael; Great Destroyer knows he’s outlived his usefulness—but I know things. I still know things that you don’t, things that you need! Why risk sending an unwilling diplomat out there, when you could instead use me. Use me, Jason; don’t just throw me away out of pettiness and spite!”

I looked at her skeptically, wondering if anything she knew was worth more to me than the oxygen she would burn saying them and reluctantly decided that they probably were, but I was done with her. But call it justice, call it revenge, or call it simple peace of mind; we were just going to have to struggle along without her insights.

“Let me be clear on this,” I said, reaching down just below the surface for the coldness that lurked inside whenever I thought about Cousin Bethany, and all the trouble and lies and outright backstabbing she’d done, “if, for some reason, you set your desire to spite me over the good of millions—or even billions of lives—and try to get yourself killed, or dare I say, make things worse for the people of Sectors 23 and 24 by inciting the droids to kill you…I’ll still rest comfortably in the knowledge that at least the universe has been made a slightly better place.”

Tremblay stared at my royal cousin while we spoke and slowly his face hardened. “If she tries anything like that I’ll kill her,” he said, hatred in his voice as he continued to look at my cousin. “I may not be the bravest or most resolute officer, but if the droids succeed in those two Sectors what is to stop them from coming here? I won’t let that happen.”

“A surprising position to espouse, considering the source,” I scoffed, raking him up and down with my eyes and finding my former First Officer wanting.

He squared his shoulders and glared at me. “What I have done, and however poorly I may or may not have been at doing it,” he said stiffly, refusing for once to be cowed by my gaze, “I have always acted with the best interests of the people—the Caprian people—in mind. I may not like this assignment but I won’t consign them to a metal death by the slave races of the AI’s.”

“Finally…something we can agree on,” I said coolly.

“I won’t die this easily,” Bethany exploded back onto the scene leveling a finger at me dramatically, “mark my words, Jason: I don’t die easy. I’ll be back and you’ll rue the day you sent me off like this!”

I shook my head and gestured toward the guards.

“And you,” she rounded on Tremblay, “don’t think for a minute that you can—”

“Take them away,” I said impatiently and gestured toward the shuttle they would take to the Pride of Prometheus. As the Lancers laid hands on a now squawking Bethany, I handed a chip to the head of the Lancer quad, “Give this data crystal to the Captain of the Pride when you get there and tell him his Mission is a go. He’s got the green light.”

“Yes, Warlord. It will be as you command,” the Lancer replied with a thick, Tracto-an accent. His accent was thicker than I was used to in truth, but I shrugged it off as immaterial and turned away.

I had a few more things to check on before we were ready to leave.

Chapter 24: Spalding vs. Spalding

“If anyone needs me I’ll be down in the ship’s locker,” Commander Terrance Spalding said in a loud voice, not looking at anyone in particular as he made this declaration. Which, since the only people present were the ship’s current Chief Engineer and a couple of petty officers, it could have been considered an insult to the only other officer in the room. Not that the old reprobate cared about any of that.

Tiberius looked over at old half man, half cyborg, and shook his head in disgust.

“If by that you mean you’re going into the half deck that used to house ship’s old intelligence section, please, go knock yourself out,” he said cuttingly. “But while you’re doing that, if you could restrain yourself and refrain from any further attempts to romanticize things by trying to label them with myths and fantastical names right out of old spacers tales for my benefit, I would appreciate it.”

For a moment it looked like the old man was about to burst a blood vessel he turned so very red in the face that Tiberius could actually tell where the real skin stopped and the synth-+flesh now covering parts of his mechanical skull began.

“Well, Mr. Chief Engineer of the Furious Phoenix, in case you hadn’t noticed I am an old spacer,” the old man thundered. “And if ye’re thinking I’m doing this for yer benefit then you couldn’t be wronger. I stopped caring what the blazes you believed the moment you went Parliament!”

“If that was true you’d be the Chief Engineer of this tub and I’d be comfortably sitting out the rest of this insanity inside a prison cell!” Lieutenant Tiberius shot back irritably. “But for some reason you seem content to continue with the farce that I’m in charge of this ship’s Engineering section continue. That’s fine; I’m a grown engineer and a prisoner of war in all but name, thanks to that tyrannical King of ours. So stand there gloating and interfering with the ship’s work crews all you want for whatever mysterious special projects you have going on down there in the old ‘intelligence section’, but do not,” his voice rose and kept rising, “DO NOT!” he all but screamed, “insult my intelligence, or the intelligence of everyone else present by dumbing things down with tall tales and your particular brand of insipient spacer mysticism!”

“Is that what you believe?” Commander Spalding said looking taken aback and somewhat saddened. “That I couldn’t put personal feelings aside and show you the respect the man wearing the uniform of Chief Engineer deserves, one Chief Engineer to another, no matter what his political leanings? And that everything I say from sayings about Saint Murphy to the ship’s locker is all somehow about you? Son…it hasn’t been about you for the past five years.”

“It’s been ten,” Tiberius flared, refusing to be sucked into the old man’s lunatic asylum world once again, “ten years since I signed up with the SDF as a parliamentary officer.”

“It’s a good thing your mother raised you,” the Commander said damningly, “since I wouldn’t have it bruted about the fleet that I raised a self-centered fool.”

“No risk of that, old man; you were gone more than you were around—even when you and mother were still together,” Tiberius said bitterly.

“As Saint Murphy is my witness, that was not by choice. Even when—” Spalding declared sucking in his breath but Tiberius cut him off with an angry wave.

“Save it for someone who cares, because I don’t,” the engineering Lieutenant said bitterly. “Next thing you’ll be saying that the Locker’s a real place, not just whatever forgotten corner of a ship you can slap the name on. I suppose I should watch out for grav-carts and the Fraternal Order of the Space Wrench is holding a secret meeting there tonight, which is probably why you can’t hang around.” He shook his head damningly, “Next you’ll say that Captain Moonlight still lives and continues to protect us from rogue droids everywhere, when he was nothing more than a vid-stream creation and the whole ‘fraternal order’ was a crock of space dung. In case you haven’t noticed we’re about to embark on a mission to go out and fight a real droid menace. That’s probably the one thing I can actually imagine, the one threat I can see, that I can actually get behind helping you and your fake Confederals destroy. And you know what? I don’t see Moonlight showing up to this real life party. Why?” he asked venomously. “It is because he’s not the secret identity of some patriotic but sorely misunderstood engineer? Nope. It’s because he doesn’t exist in the real world of real people and real, non-holo-vid problems. There is no secret hero ready to jump out of the shadow and save the day, and I curse you for trying to fill my head with lies back when I was a child and too stupid and ignorant to know the truth. No,” he said flatly, “you go down to your ‘locker,’ do whatever the blazes you like, and get blasted. The less I hear of it the better!”

Tiberius didn’t care that every single one of the engineers that hadn’t been pressed, along with him, drew back with censure and increasingly hard looks in their eyes. Tiberius knew this had been a long time coming and needed to be said. He wasn’t some impressionable youth, and his father wasn’t part of some secret order of hidden do-gooders who couldn’t make it home for the holidays because of some secret menace up in an empty inactive yard full of mothballed ships. He was a sworn Parliamentary officer and his father was a Royalist traitor who deserved to hang for what he and his so-called Confederation confederates had done.

“The Demon take me…” the elder Spalding said, his voice quavering as he spoke, “I may have held things back but I have never once told you a lie. Not once! No matter how damning it appeared or how unbelievable it seemed on the face of it,” the old cyborg said stiffly, his half-human body quivering with emotion.

“Enough of the craziness,” Tiberius snapped. “If you can’t scrap the spacer myths and delusions of grandeur for one minute and just speak like a normal person who has to deal with the simple, cold, hard duralloy reality of life as a non-crazy person then I’ve got no use for you. I’ve got a ship to maintain,” Tiberius tossed his hands in the air, glad to have finally told the old reprobate exactly what he thought. If he was spaced for it then so be it, but he was done catering to the insanity ten years ago when he turned old enough to cast his first vote and join the space force as an SDF officer candidate in engineering school.

“You’ve got no soul, lad, and until you take the blinders off and find it again I have nothing but pity and contempt for you,” Terrance Spalding drew himself up and thrust a finger down at the younger man. “So you deal with your simplified duralloy reality and keep going around putting lube in the proverbial space bearings like a good little voter drone what’s too busy and too stupid to look beyond what he can see to what is possible. It’s a big universe out here, and the galaxy is a dangerous place. So,” he shook his head in disgust, “I’ll be down in the ‘locker’ figuring a way to save the ship and win this thing for the Fleet. Anyone who wants to use their brain to actually think knows where they can find me if they want to stop spinning their gears!”

“Get stoked,” Terrance Tiberius Spalding muttered under his breath and pivoting on his heels. “Have fun in the intelligence half-deck,” he tossed over his shoulder before leaving the room.

Did the old fool really think that myths and spacer dreams and delusions were going to have any practical applications? It was going to take sound engineering principles and lots of them—not to mention quick, well drilled damage control teams. If this ship was actually going to run head long into a droid invasion fleet, like it was rumored through the grapevine to be setting out to do, damage control might very well be the highest priority.

Fortunately, while the old man was down on the half deck abasing himself before some homemade shrine to Space Gods, there was a real engineer ready to do something about it. And while he might not care about the so-called ‘Confederation’ traitors, he didn’t want to see his own pressed engineering teams—or the helpless masses stuck in the invasion route of a droid fleet—killed or converted to biomass.

Praying for victory and tinkering around with random bits of old useless technology like the old loser, a man so stupid and lost to reality as to walk into an active fusion reaction, he shook his head.

Oh, Tiberius had heard the tales and seeing the man’s borged out body, he couldn’t deny the eyewitness accounts he’d heard. Instead of using an automated robot or suit…he brought himself up short.

Anyway, he had seen the manifests of what ‘Commander Spalding’ had ordered brought onboard and stored in his ‘locker,’ and none of it was going to save anyone!

No, whatever duct-tape-and-a-prayer rattle trap abortion the half cyborg ‘Commander’ had dreamed up wasn’t going to work. Saving this ship, if anyone was going to do it, was going to be up to an non-irradiated, non-senile Engineer who’d had his feet grounded in sound and solid engineering principles ever since he joined the SDF.

It was going to be up to him to get this ship in fighting trim and not only keep it there, but get it operating at 120% of specs if they were going to make it.

Fortunately, while the old man had been ordering examples of technology so old and outdated it had been scrapped centuries ago, Tiberius had made full use of the half cracked Imperial database cloned from this ship and the imperial level manufacturing facilities at the Gambit Production Yards.

“Pray to your Space Gods, and duct tape your antiquated contraptions together, old man,” he muttered to himself. “Meanwhile I’ll tune up our rectors, increase the range of our lasers, and turn our single and double turbo-mounts into double and quad mounts. Wherever possible,” he admitted out loud.

He’d had to jerk out some of the heavy and medium laser mounts to do that, which had cut some holes in the ship’s close-range defenses. “Which is why I had our crews pull the rest of the laser mounts; I mean why not?” he muttered to himself. The girdle of duralloy the Confederals had mated to the damaged Mono-Locsium hull had already been causing troubles with the targeting arrays and power lines anyway. It hadn’t been enough to really slow them down, but if this mission was everything it was rumored to be they couldn’t afford so much as a percentage or three under establishment.

So Tiberius had figured ‘why not go extremely close-range and play around with the new Imperial technology we’ve gotten our hands on?’ Why no one else there had the vision to use the latest Imperial updates, he was unable to understand. He didn’t really care about them, though; they could all eat vacuum and die—but not his crew.

As long as they were stuck on this infernal ship, they needed the best and the best meant upgrading the remaining heavy and medium lasers on this Strike Cruiser with the newest plasma and ion cannons.

They may be and in fact were extremely close ranged but the turbos could hold off anything remotely close to their weight class in metal and if they couldn’t then the enemy was getting close anyways and he for one saw no advantage to fighting a droid invasion force of boarding units. The plasma cannons should deal with most of them and the ion cannons would take care of the rest. They would really have to swarm them in unbelievable numbers, or have super-hardened equipment to survive the short-ranged throw weight he was setting up.

Fortunately, Chief Gunner Lesner—unlike the old fossil down in his ‘locker’—had a pair of brain cells to rub together and despite being a brainwashed royalist like his father, was actually able to see the potential in the new advanced Imperial weaponry plans and had backed his drive to replace the old weapons, since they’d been stuck working beyond schedule fixing the engine housing anyway.

The old man should have retired with grace back when he was still worth something, but fortunately for him and everyone else on this tub, there was a real engineer present to pick up the slack.

Whistling to himself, Tiberius set off to inspect the run lines from the power banks to the new plasma cannons. He couldn’t wait to see the look on the old man’s face when he found out that whatever he was trying to kludge together down below not only wasn’t going to work, but wasn’t even needed.

It wouldn’t make up for a lifetime of lies and disappointment, but it would be a start. And he wasn’t going to stop until he escaped or the old man was crushed.

“You holding up okay there, sir?” Penelope asked sounding concerned.

“Never better, Pen,” he said with a tight smile.

“I’m just asking cause these Royalists, Confederals or whatever they decide to call themselves, idolize the old cyborg. I know how it can be to serve alongside family,” she said, her face darkening in a way that bespoke of personal experience, “especially when there are political differences.”

“I’ve heard a bit about how much they look up to him,” Tiberius allowed, thinking that if he was the only trained engineer among a group of green ratings and crew it wouldn’t be that hard to get a reputation. And, to give the Demon his due, the old man had walked into a bloody fusion reactor. Doing that took equal parts courage and crazy. And while he’d never had any problem ascribing the latter, the former had never really been tested, at least in his own mind.

“Murphy’s disciple and a miracle worker all rolled up into one,” Penelope frowned. “Earned or not that can’t be easy to swallow,” she said, making it clear which side of the line she stood on.

“Like all frauds, as soon as you pull back the curtain all you’re left with is a man. All we have to do is show what real engineers do and the hero worship will fade,” Tiberius said evenly.

Penelope made a skeptical, but generally supportive, noise. “Are you sure, Lieutenant?” she asked a tad too skeptically for his taste. “No one ever accused Royalists of using their brains, except maybe for graft and corruption. They may not take to well to having their icon exposed, if I may say so, sir. Are you sure it’s not better to just let him and them ride it out until he retires?”

Tiberius frowned at her.

“All the more reason to crush the legend and get them thinking for themselves again, instead of whatever cult of Murphy my Father,” he cut himself off and rephrased it, “the Commander, has tried to instill in them.”

“There could be a backlash,” she said uneasily, “our boys and girls will be for it, they’d follow you wherever you want to go but the others. No.”

“I’m not talking anything underhanded here,” he told the power room tech, and was almost irritated by the look of relief that flashed across her features. “All I’m talking about is just exposing the shortcuts, half-measures, and general all-around insanity that this cult of personality has built up around the Commander by contrasting it with dedicated, professional engineering work. And really, all he knows is Dreadnaught class battleships: a fifty year old design only new back when he was young. Take him away from those and put him on a top of the line piece of new tech like this Cruiser and he can’t help but flop around like a fish out of water,” he waved a finger in the air to indicate everything around them and their whole general situation.

“We’re with you, sir,” the little power room tech said firmly.

“Good, now let’s run another test on the plasma cannons; the last thing we need are them failing in the clutch,” he instructed firmly.

“Aye, Sir,” she said flashing him a grin.

“All they’ve seen for officers have been retirees, reservists or those who should have been retired,” he said, “that shouldn’t be too hard to show them for what they really are.”

As Tiberius nodded confidently the power room tech did likewise, albeit with slightly more reservation.

Chapter 25: The Lost, the Forgotten, and the Lame

Akantha was spending her last few hours in the Tracto Star system on Tracto. More specifically, she was in Argos and out among the people of her birth-polis. She didn’t know when she would have the chance to come visit the mother-polis again, now that her religious duties at the conclave were over and her Protector had set a firm date for the start of the next campaign.

That was why she had spontaneously decided to take a trip down to the surface. Because she knew it could be years before her next visit to the home of her girlhood and she wanted one last chance to see her people…well, her former people. Messene was now her proper home but with all the time she had spent away, when she had felt the need to make a big decision in her life she had come home to make it.

Like all daughters eventually do, she had grown up. And while Argos would always have a special place inside her, Messene was now her home when she wasn’t sailing through the river of stars on a starship. But while Messene was now home, her mother was in Argos and Akantha felt the need to speak with her for advice.

But she had taken a few hours to escape the palace while the opportunity was available. Stepping around a cart with a broken wheel taking up part of the road, she approached a food vendor. The victuals onboard the flying citadels were filling, but there was nothing quite like real food the likes of which she had grown up eating. When a grimy figure in worn and filthy clothing detached itself from a wall and stepped toward her, she became immediately wary.

Akantha drew herself up as the person—a man, as far as she could gauge from his height and general size—drew to a stop in front of her.

He was quite obviously missing his right arm, and his left arm was held close to his body as though it was crippled, and he came to a stop in front of her. He walked a touch stiffly, and she could see that the right side of his face was scarred, as if by fire or acid. Between his attire and his appearance, he looked disreputable in the extreme.

Akantha’s whole body tensed, preparing for whatever might come next.

“Greetings, First Daughter,” came a once-familiar voice that almost blew her away.

“Persus?” she whispered in absolute shock.

“I apologize for my appearance,” he said wryly, and then haltingly gestured down to the rest of his body with a slow movement of his left arm, “I would have cleaned up into something better, but the simple truth is that I no longer possess such.”

Akantha was thunderstruck. The crippled, almost beggar-like person before her was her old bodyguard, Persus; a man who had all but raised her. He had dutifully guarded the heir to Argos throughout her youth, and he had followed her into the disastrous campaign against the Sky Demons which had ended with him crippled, and her captured by the Demons. All of it had taken place before she had been freed by her Protector and launched into the journey among the stars, and Akantha was immediately struck by just how distant those events seemed to her.

Shame darkened her face. She felt no shame that Persus had been maimed in a worthy cause, but rather that in all her time off Tracto—and on—she had spared so little thought to one who had defended her since she was a girl-child. He had even fallen on the field at her orders, and the last she had known he had sustained potentially lethal injuries.

“As if a little dirt would be reason for me to take offense at your presence, Persus,” she said huskily, “well met.”

“Well met, First Daughter,” he acknowledged, inclining his head gravely.

“Hold-Mistress now, although not of Argos,” she corrected shakily, “it is good to see you…” she was about to say ‘hale’ or ‘in one piece,’ but that would be an untruth, so she lamely finished, “…here.”

“Of course,” Persus replied, lifting his left shoulder as if her verbal stumble was unworthy of attention, “even where I have been we have heard of the Hold-Mistress of Messene and her powerful Warlord Protector.”

Akantha nodded and a thin, enigmatic smile on her face as she was unsure what she should—or could—say.

“Are you happy, my Lady?” he asked, meeting and holding her eyes. And it was as if the years, the dirt, and the hard living all faded away and she was once again a little girl looking up into the eyes of her personal guard—the man who had practically raised her.

“Nothing is perfect,” she prevaricated and then, almost with a sense of wonder, said, “yes. Yes I am.”

“That is good,” Persus said with satisfaction and then his face darkened, “your Protector was of your own choice and he does well by you?”

“I thought tales of his various battles in the circle, both with my Uncle and after, where all over the polis?” Akantha said, her lip twitching. “But yes, I chose him and he does his best.” Although his best isn’t always good enough to keep him at my side, she thought with irritation.

“Then I will be satisfied that you are in good hands,” Persus said with a bow and turned to leave.

Akantha watched him take the first step feeling perplexed and some strange emotion she wasn’t used to. “Surely you did not accost me in the street just for that?” Akantha said, her voice cracking with anger. Anger at what, she did not know. Persus’s wounds, his denigrated station—having gone from a proud warrior to a cripple on the street—or the fact that she hadn’t really so much as thought about him in almost two years.

“My duty as a warrior, and your safety and happiness, were all I’ve cared about, my Lady Adonia,” Persus said, turning stiffly until he was facing her again. “And with the one denied me and the other in good hands, I feel my work is as well done as it may be.”

“You intend to take your leave?” Akantha asked, seeing him ready to leave once again. She was determined not to let him bolt until she had more than this and besides it was just plain rude, “Surely you wanted more than to just ensure yourself that I am well and then leave.”

“You seem in fine form, my Lady,” he said with a thin, but wholly genuine, smile, “that is all I could ask.”

“It is all you could ask, but is it all you could want?” she demanded.

“One grows tired of the streets and back alleyways; I thought perhaps of a return to service. Not as a warrior,” Persus said, his kind smile betraying a hint of bitterness. He then pivoted on one of his stiff legs for emphasis, “Not that it cannot be done, but kicking one’s enemies to death is a tiring way of fighting—not to mention too slow for proper guard work. Perhaps I could have served as a servant. But as I can barely lift a spoon with this arm, and a blade is beyond me,” he said, showing his left arm for emphasis, “simply knowing that you are well, I can finally set aside that burden. Who knows? Perhaps I will undertake a pilgrimage to the shards and seek an upload.”

This time when he turned to go it was with a hint of finality to it, and something warm trickled down her cheek.

“Do not go,” Akantha said, and when this failed to slow him she glared at his back as Persus continued walking away.

“I need you,” she said, uncaring of the eyes of random citizens staring at her.

Her old guard paused, his foot in midair but he did not turn.

“What do you need an aging cripple for?” he said shaking his head and still not looking at her. “Let me go, my little thorn.”

“I will not,” Akantha hissed.

“I do not seek, or desire, your charity; my burden is heavy and it will be good to lay it down. One last, fine, adventure…” the once, and clearly still, proud Tracto-an warrior said wistfully as he still refused to look at her.

“I need you,” she repeated sternly.

“What possible use could I be?” Persus said, rounding on her with fire in his eyes buried within a heavily-scarred face.

“I am surrounded by those who place greater value in my life than they do honor,” she said sternly.

“I am not unsympathetic to such a position myself,” Persus informed her with a bitter laugh.

She took his meaning plainly enough, and his words bit deeply but she pushed past them. “I need someone who can help me balance both,” Akantha said, biting the words out.

Persus looked at her with surprise. “Who are you…and what have you done with my former charge?” he demanded, shaking his head with disbelief.

“Is that really so unbelievable?” Akantha said coolly.

Persus’ forehead wrinkled. “What’s changed?” he asked looking at her through slightly narrowed eyes.

“Are you sure something has?” she shot back.

“Oh, yes,” he replied evenly, “and if you aren’t willing to tell me then I’ll continue on my business.”

Akantha looked at him crossly.

“I mean it,” he said, his face a mask but his voice carrying the deep note of authority which no other man in her life had possessed.

“Oh, very well,” she snapped and then took a pair of deep breaths to calm herself.

He continued to look at her patiently, and with each passing second she became increasingly convinced that she had no choice.

“If you think that the idea I’ve grown more cautious with my personal safety after numerous battles out in the river of stars is so unbelievable—” she began.

“It is,” he interrupted blandly, “but it still fails to even partially explain why you would need me.”

“Then,” she continued through clenched teeth, “perhaps you might believe that I don’t simply want the man who practically raised me around solely for my benefit.”

Persus breath caught and he looked down and then back up to her face. “Are you…?” he asked with surprise.

“Not yet, and maybe not soon; I have not yet decided for certain but…” Akantha said greatly displeased at having to reveal something she herself hadn’t wanted to speak about until after she had made a final decision, “times have been tumultuous, Persus. Messene is not my only consideration; I have a potential Hold among the stars that must be secured—it is called ‘Omicron’.”

“I see…” Persus said sucking on his teeth in the same fashion she had grown accustomed to when he was considering a matter seriously.

“Regardless of Argos, the line of succession must be secured,” Akantha pressed.

“Unless you want it all to go to your sisters,” Persus pointed out somewhat belatedly.

She folded her arms across her chest. “Now can you see why I might need my old guard,” Akantha said severely.

Persus nodded reluctantly and then slowly, and possibly painfully, he dropped to one knee. “My Lady,” he said, bowing his head more deeply than she had ever seen him do, and the sight of her once-mighty defender reduced to such a shell of his former self lit a fire within her that she felt certain would never truly die, “I am yours.”

Chapter 26: Leaving Tracto

“Every ship except for the medium cruiser, Pride of Prometheus, has been slave-linked into our Nav-Computer,” Navigator Shepherd reported tensely. “For some reason the medium cruiser has refused and rebuffed all my attempts to link into their Nav-system for a coordinated jump out of Tracto System.”

“Acknowledged and understood, Mr. Shepherd,” I said, leaning back in my chair completely in command and control of this new bridge and everything in it and the fleet at large, for once. “The Pride of Prometheus is acting on my orders and with my permission; ignore it and focus on the rest of the fleet.”

“Yes, Sir,” the Navigator said, shooting me a startled look before buckling back down and leaning over his console.

Then as if to give the lie to my internal assertion of control the blast doors cycled open and my wife, mother, and sister all walked onto the bridge together and I clenched my jaw. Trailing Duncan Tuttle behind them like some kind of bodyguard, his eyes intently tracked every person—and potential threat—as he swept into the room behind them.

I guess ‘once a Royal Guard, always a Royal Guard.’ I was just thankful he seemed to care more for my mother’s happiness than he did King James’. That, and it would have torn me up inside to have to put down my former fencing instructor; we’d shared a lot of mother’s cooking together for lunch back when I was younger.

My partially gritted teeth instantly turned into a smile as soon as the women looked my way.

“Greetings, ladies,” I said, trying and succeeding in making sure the words sound unforced.

“Protector,” Akantha said, inclining her head regally.

“Jason,” my sister, Crystal, said neutrally while my mother just stood in the background looking around and seeming proud of me.

The thought that she was proud of me—actually proud of me—made my chest swell. It was nicer than I’d thought to have a parent look at me and to know that, in her eyes at least, I had done well. It was especially satisfying since I had never been particularly skilled or successful at anything before getting stuck on this rollercoaster ride called ‘fleet command.’

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stay here?” I asked hopefully. “I’m sure Tracto or one of the orbital stations controlled by the Belters would take you and put you up in style while we head off into a war zone.”

The look my sister sent me would have chilled a lesser man, but with me being who I was, I just took it as a definite, resounding, ‘no.’ Even though I’d hoped Akantha or mother might have a sudden attack of concern about her Hold, or entering a warzone, respectively, I wasn’t about to hold my breath. Moreover, I knew better than to even ask the question.

“Right,” I temporized, “well, that settles that. Besides, we’ll be point-transferring soon anyway so if we sent a shuttle out, we couldn’t get her back.”

“Are you feeling well, dear?” Mother asked with a concerned voice and a look that made it clear she thought I was suffering a case of verbal diarrhea.

“Never better,” I said and if my voice was smooth my face started heating up. It wasn’t cool to have your mom openly worried about you while you were on the bridge of a Strike Cruiser.

While Duncan had smoothly taken up position behind my mother, another man I didn’t know smoothly slotted into position behind Akantha. His size was a dead giveaway: the man was Tracto-an. But I was surprised to see he had his left arm in a sling, while his right was actually a clunky-looking, low-end, cybernetic arm. I was more than surprised; I was actually taken aback.

I’d never seen a Tracto-an with a prosthetic mechanical arm, leg, or anything else really. Yet here was a middle-aged warrior with a cheap, mechanical arm standing behind Akantha as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Taking myself to task for getting distracted, I shrugged it off and focused back on the matters at hand and promptly decided to beat a hasty retreat.

“How long until point transfer, Mr. Shepherd?” I asked, clearing my throat.

“Less than a half hour now, sir,” he informed me in a clear voice.

“Thank you, Navigator,” I said formally, and then leaned back in my chair. The presence of my mother, wife, and sister all clustered around me was like an itch behind my back that I couldn’t scratch, but there was nothing to be done.

As the long minutes until the hyperspace jump counted down to zero, I could hear just at the edge of my hearing a low voiced conversation between my wife and my sister that was notable only by the overly polite tone they used. I could already feel that this was going to be a very long trip and we hadn’t even left Tracto yet.

When the Navigator informed us that we were about to jump no one was more relieved than I.

Chapter 27: No Respect

“No, Governor, and for the last time,” I said, holding onto my temper by the skin of my nearly gritted teeth, “I cannot detach one of my lighter warships.”

The Governor opened his mouth to object.

“Or more than one of my warships,” I cut in and added before he could speak, then I smiled tightly, “although if you are as concerned as you seem to be about a potential invasion, the Multi-Sector Patrol fleet can always use more ships. Perhaps the loan of one of your destroyers would help us to—”

“One of our ships?!” the Governor burst out a vein on his forehead throbbing as his face turned an interesting shade of red. “Why in the black blazes would I be asking for a picket of your ships if I felt safe enough to turn loose one of our three destroyers? I don’t know what military academy you graduated from that turns out Admirals of your age, but if you had the sense the Space Gods gave a turnip you’d—”

“Strongly encourage each and every system and planetary Governor I run across to donate ships from their SDF to the common defense,” I interrupted smoothly, and with flint in my voice.

“This is an outrage!” the Governor exclaimed, the redness of his face starting to settle as he transitioned from angry outburst to political posturing, “What do we pay our taxes for if not Fleet protection?”

I coughed politely. “Refresh my memory…but when was the last time your world did pay its taxes?” I asked mildly.

The Governor once again purpled. “That is entirely beside the point! It’s the principle of the thing,” he openly fumed, “our taxes have been set aside and are simply awaiting the arrival of a duly appointed tribute and taxation fleet. It’s not our fault if the central government is too incompetent to collect its due in a timely fashion.”

“So you haven’t actually paid anything toward the common defense in the last,” I paused as if thinking, “two years, is it?”

“We are owed defense, not cheek!” the Governor Manheim snapped. “Rim Fleet owes us a duty to protect our worlds.” “As I attempted to make the Governor aware during our very first conversation when I arrived in this system, there is no Rim Fleet any longer and hasn’t been for almost two years,” I said my voice dripping with irony.

“Don’t speak condescendingly to me, Admiral,” the Governor said, almost spitting my fleet rank out of his mouth, “talking down to a man three times your age won’t win you any friends in this region of space.”

I raised my brows at him. Once again amazed that either I was considered a callow inexperienced youth to be used as a verbal punching bag or else I was the ‘Tyrant of Cold-Space’ a space way terror to be appeased and hurried out of the system as quickly as possible, with very little middle ground left in between.

“Well played, Governor Manheim,” I said, shaking my head at the politician before me, “pretending mental incompetence, or a mental-health disorder effecting the memory, as a way to trick me into a misstep that will alienate the border worlds standing between Sectors 25 and 24 as a way to justify not paying your taxes or contributing to the common good.” I gave him a look of false admiration, “Your skill and ability to do the droids work for them is amazingly good, Sir,” I said before making a savage gesture to the com-tech to cut the transmission before he could reply.

“Perhaps we should speak to the Governor’s office again in a few hours after tempers have had time to cool?” Laurent said, clearing his throat.

“No,” I said grimly, knowing that I’d just permanently alienated the man. Worse, I had lost my cool while doing so but I’d been unable to put up with the man any longer, “I think we’re done here.”

“Are you sure, sir?” the Captain prodded carefully.

“If I have to put up with one more insufferable Border Baron who feels his little fief out here is threatened by the Droids, the MSP, or both, I’m liable to do something rash,” I said, placing my hands on the cushioned arms of my chair and squeezing the padding.

“Threatening a man and calling him a traitor to humanity for refusing to provide ships to the fleet isn’t rash enough?” the Captain asked with disbelief.

I turned and stared at the Captain, thinking hot and angry words about how the penny ante politicians of the worlds here, closest to the threat of the droids, ought to pull their heads out of the sand and do the smart thing.

“While it’s not the least I could do, it’s pretty darned close,” I said instead, and then barked a laugh, “although that’s an interesting position to take. Perhaps I ought to put it before the Judge and get a legal opinion.”

“I beg your pardon?” Laurent said a hint of censure in his voice at what he probably assumed was my levity.

I looked at him and could see the denseness of his thinking on his face and frowned. “As you pointed out when you rightly rebuked me, it’s not my place to be the judge of any politician’s loyalty to the human race,” I sighed, “let alone act judge, jury and executioner, I mean outside of a genuine military threat like a Droid Fleet attacking this system. Otherwise what are we fighting for? Tyranny?” I asked rhetorically and shook my head. “No man—no person—should have that power.

There was a pause. “I’m glad you feel that way, Admiral,” the Flag Captain said finally.

I nodded firmly. “Yep, that’s why it’s a good thing we’ve got a Sector Judge with us,” I said and then leaned back in my chair, suppressing as smile as the Captain blanched. I had no intention of putting that fool on trial just because he was a mental midget. Even if he did seem determined to get as many of us—and his own people—killed as possible when the droid fleets crushed my forces and sailed through his system because no one wanted to beef up my fleet.

No, I’d learned by my lesson about the power of the judiciary and how it could be abused and misused back at Central and wasn’t about to subject anyone else to such a fiasco. Besides even if I was completely without a soul, sacrificing the moral high ground like that, and over a pimple of a Governor like Manheim was just plain stupid.

The next time they hooked me up to the truth drugs and interrogated me, in the name of the people, I wanted to be able to truthfully say I had never done such a thing.

On the other hand though, I wasn’t above putting the fear of Murphy into anyone who’d rather bluster and filibuster instead of actually doing something while raving about how someone else was supposed to save him because of some supposed taxes that he didn’t actually pay.

“Sir,” Laurent said sounded half choked, “I’m not sure if Representative Kong has everything he’d need for a trial.”

I blinked before casting a look over at Laurent. Seeing that he seriously thought I was about ready to kangaroo court this little PG—Planetary Governor—I rolled my eyes at him and turned to Navigation.

“Mr. Shepherd, if you would be so good, please plot us a least time course out of this system and shoot it over to the helmsman,” I instructed.

There was a moment of disbelief on the bridge and then the tension seemed to bleed out. “Aye, Sir,” my Navigator said eagerly.

“I thought we were going to take six hours to make sure we stripped everything we need from this system and its data nets, Admiral?” Captain Laurent said in a low voice.

“I doubt we’re going to get much more out of this place, Captain Laurent,” I replied formally.

“Aye, Sir,” he muttered.

“I’ll be working on some paperwork in my ready room if you need me,” I said, my mood darkening as I contemplated the pile of reports I had to go through daily. “So whenever you and the helm are ready, relay the order to the fleet and take us out of here.”

“Will do, Admiral,” the Captain said with relief, although a frown lingered on his face.

“Buck up, Captain,” I said chucking him on the shoulder as I stood up, “I may have lost my temper but I’m not about to start replacing Governors just because they seem determined to get their populations destroyed by the droids by only looking out for themselves.”

Captain Laurent looked appalled as he looked over at me.

“I mean how will the voters ever learn about personal accountability, when it comes to selecting their leaders, if we’re constantly bailing them out from the consequences of the bad decisions their leaders make?” I asked, turning and heading off the bridge. “It’s like building your home in a flood zone or below sea level: feel free to do whatever you want, of course—that’s why we have free will instead of a neural collar and an AI mandated cost/benefit ratio. But just don’t come crying to me when the ocean flattens your house, or in this case the droids come, orbitally bombard, and then enslave you.”

“You would hold the people responsible for the actions of their leaders?” Laurent sounded shocked.

I turned and frowned at him. “The people held me accountable for the actions of my family members—most of whom died long before I was born. The leaders they selected then tried to kill me for political gain,” I said, looking at him coldly, “if I, in turn, hold those people responsible for the actions of the leaders who they’ve put in power—and refuse to recall—I don’t see a problem.”

“That’s a cold way of looking at things, if you don’t mind my saying,” Laurent said defiantly, his demeanor making it clear he didn’t care at all whether or not I minded.

I shrugged indifferently. “It’s a hard world out there and yet, here I am, still trying to do the best I can and save as many as possible—with far too little resources at my disposal. So if I’ve finally realized that it’s impossible to save those people that don’t want to be saved, and decided to husband my assets—and the lives of those men and women who rely on me—I don’t view that as cold. It’s just reality. The world likes to kick us in the teeth,” I said, speaking about the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet in general, “it’s time we stopped grinning and bearing it—we need to start kicking back.”

Chapter 28: Akantha Hatches a Plan

Akantha entered the room and spotting the person she wanted strode over. “Doctor,” she said, speaking to the surprisingly short female doctor.

“Lady Akantha,” the other woman said in surprise, “I didn’t expect to see you down here.”

“I was told you were the one to speak with about certain matters,” she replied tentatively, and hated herself for her trepidation. A Hold-Mistress was supposed to be many things, but tentative and weak were not among of them.

“Specifically?” the other woman asked curiously, her eye sweeping over Akantha’s body then back to her face. She looked puzzled, “I don’t see any injuries. Are you here on behalf of someone else?”

“After a manner of speaking,” Akantha said and then fell embarrassingly silent, unsure exactly how to proceed.

“Doctor-patient confidentiality means that whatever you tell me, I won’t tell to another unless you specifically tell me to…” she paused, “unless it falls under a need to know for military duty. And obviously, if I am caring for another, I would need their permission also.” “No, it is nothing like that,” Akantha hesitated.

“Would you like to go someplace private to discuss this,” the doctor asked and Akantha nodded, “alright then; this way.”

The doctor waited until they were both sitting in her office with Persus standing just within the room, before speaking. “Do you want him here?” the doctor asked, pointing to her childhood and current guard.

Akantha looked up and then over at Persus in surprise and then back to the Doctor.

“I trust him with my life,” she said simply but then looked over at the Tracto-an man, “but there are some mysteries men are more comfortable not knowing. You can wait outside,” she told Persus with a small tight smile to let him know her regard for him hadn’t changed.

She waited until he had left before looking back at the doctor.

“Alright,” the Doctor said picking up a laser pointer and playing with it in her hands before setting it back down again, “from the tone and words you’ve used, I take it that you are having trouble with certain personal needs?”

Akantha looked at her perplexed.

“Specifically, ‘female’ needs?”’ the Doctor prompted.

“Ah,” Akantha nodded slowly, “not as such. Well…it is but it is not, if you know what I mean. It is regarding a need not exclusive to my gender, you understand, although it is certainly linked in a way that cannot be sundered,” she frowned before finally deciding, “yes, it is a personal need.”

The doctor looked confused. “Maybe it’s best if you just tell me in your own words?” she finally urged.

Akantha shifted uneasily but there really was no point in going to a healer—or what the star-born called a ‘medical professional’—if you weren’t going to say what you needed.

“I understand from my reading on your ship’s net that you are the one to go to if one is having difficulties kindling a child,” she said, crossing her legs unconsciously.

“We have all the standard contraceptives here in this facility, and I can provide them to any of our crewmembers upon request,” the Doctor replied, looking at her strangely. “This service is completely confidential, and no one in the chain of command can or will know about it—up to and including the Admiral.”

Now it was Akantha’s turn to be confused but when she realized what it was the doctor seemed to be suggesting, her face relaxed.

“Secrecy is not paramount,” she said with a smile, “although, like many, I would prefer to choose my own time and place to speak of it with my Protector.”

“Well, depending on how far you are along, time is not a critical factor,” the doctor said.

Akantha blinked. “No, you do not understand,” she said quickly, “I am not with child.”

The doctor leaned back in her chair with relief. “I can get you a standard implant that will take care of any such concerns going into the future,” she said, tapping on the console built into the desk she was sitting behind, “they’re easy to implant and are almost entirely self-regulating. You won’t have a child until, and unless, you’re ready. Control of your body is a right.”

“Yes-yes,” Akantha waved her hand irritably, “I know that your ‘technology’ is superior, but we have herbs and potions that do the same thing. Control is why I am here, but I do not need help stopping a baby from quickening in my belly.”

“Then what exactly do you need?” the Doctor asked, taking her hands away from the data console in her desk before her visage took on a hard cast. “Do you feel safe in your relationship, my Lady?”

“What?” Akantha asked leaning back in her chair as she considered it. “My position could be made safer,” she agreed after a moment’s consideration, “and that is why I am here.”

“Whatever I can do to help, I will,” the Doctor said as a steely glint entering her eye, “you have options, no matter who your husband is.”

“This is good news to hear, doctor,” Akantha said relaxing in her chair with relief, “because I need an heir.”

The Doctor in front of her blinked several times rapidly. “What?” she asked incredulously.

“I have been studying your medical information and techniques with great interest, and I think may I have found an answer that will not only help secure my position, but also solidify the relationship with my Protector and it will make all of us much safer,” Akantha said, leaning forward eagerly. Then, because she felt she needed to be as truthful with the healer as she was with herself, she reluctantly said, “And it would be more convenient for me—and in the future as well.”

“Just so we’re clear: your husband is treating you well and you don’t want a contraceptive,” the Doctor said, releasing a pent-up breath and shaking her head from side to side, “you do understand that most of the women I see are interested in preventing a pregnancy, not starting one?”

“Yes, of course, all is well,” Akantha said waving a hand in the air with frustration, “if such was not true, that is the reason why I bear a sword—and it is also what men like Persus are for.”

“Alright…then, yes,” the Doctor said clearly thinking about it as she spoke, “I mean usually this would be against regulations, but since you’re not technically in the MSP there’s nothing stopping me from helping you conceive. Is that something you’ve been having trouble with?”

“I foresee no difficulties, but in truth I have not been trying,” Akantha said a flash of concern entering her at the thought that there might be difficulties. But she pushed them aside.

“Okay, then my best advice is to draw some blood work, start you on prenatal supplements, and get a good biophysical profile for you started. Also, whatever potions or herbs or whatever it is you’ve been taking, you need to stop,” the Doctor said looking Akantha straight in the eyes. “Do that and we’ll just let nature take its course; if, after a month or two, you’re still having trouble then we can step in and assist.”

“That is not…exactly what I wanted,” Akantha said, leaning forward, “you see. I was watching a medical documentary and I saw something amazing.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed briefly. “Genetic engineering has been strictly banned and prohibited by both the Confederation and the Empire,” the doctor said strictly.

“What is your name?” Akantha asked.

The doctor started. “Anastasia,” she said after a moment.

Akantha nodded. “I do not know what ‘genetic engineering’ is, but I do not believe it is what I want. You see,” she leaned forward, lowered her voice fractionally, and explained what she had seen on the holo-vid. When she was done, she explained precisely what she wanted the doctor to assist her in doing.

The doctor stared at her dumbfounded.

“It’s technically feasible…but the strain on your body would be immense. And a natural birth; are you crazy? I mean, it would have to be natural because, among the many things we do have available here in the fleet, an artificial womb isn’t one of them. Frankly, however, I’m not sure if this is even ethical,” Anastasia exclaimed.

“You told me I have the right to control what happens with my own body; I have seen it done before on your own documentary,” Akantha declared, “and this is what I want.”

“There are dangers,” the Doctor said grimly, “I don’t think I can support this.”

“I will speak to my Protector before I make my final decision, but if you will not support me in this then I will find another midwife who will,” Akantha said coldly.

Chapter 29: Breaking the News

“Jason?” Akantha asked, her head pillowed on my arm.

“Mm-hmm,” I muttered happy to just lay there and bask in the glow of being back with my wife. Even after two weeks of hyperspace jumps as we moved across Sector 25 and entered 24, the novelty of being married again had yet to fade. Not that I hadn’t been married before, but it’s hard to feel married when you’re locked in an eight foot by ten foot room between bouts of torture prior to going on trial for your life.

“I have something important I want to talk with you about,” she said.

I groaned and rolled over. “Look, if it’s about the incident on the Midas Touch between those Lancers and the Sundered Warriors, I don’t want to talk about it; there’s nothing really to discuss. There’s bound to be some friction in any organization, but right now it’s being handled at lower levels,” I said, hoping she wasn’t going to keep on digging. But I unexpectedly felt her pause, so I added, “I only want to get involved and bring down the hammer as a last resort.”

“I…that is, I,” Akantha stopped and started before making a sound of feminine frustration, “this isn’t what I wanted to talk about.”

“Ah,” I said, realizing I’d just misread the situation and put my foot in it, “what did you want to talk about?”

She rolled over onto her side and stared at me until I suppressed a groan and followed suit. Now we were staring at each other eye to eye.

“Is everything okay?” I asked with concern at the strange glint in her eye and overly serious expression on her face. Whatever she was about to talk about, it was serious and she was in a strange, unfortunately less-than-amorous, mood. Of all the rotten luck, I sighed, and we’d just been having such a wonderful time too. I suppressed another urge to groan, “You know, we’re scheduled to hit one of the Core Worlds for this Sector in another day and a half. But I’m sure that whatever we find there we can handle it,” I said seriously, the lie rolling easily and naturally off my tongue so many times after having repeated the same words to myself and others.She looked at me with irritation and placed a finger on my lips.

Okay, hint received; I needed be silent for a while. I’d once again clearly missed the mark with whatever it was she wanted to talk about.

“Protector…it’s time,” she said solemnly, as if this were some kind of important declaration instead of a nearly meaningless utterance no man with the standard set of Y-chromosomes could be expected to decipher.

“Time for what?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“I’ve been putting a lot of thought into this lately, and we’ve been together almost two years now; if we wait any longer it will only undermine our authority and invite more challenges,” she said solemnly.

“That doesn’t sound like a good thing…” I said, my heart clenching, not at the threat of immanent madness and mayhem but because this sounded an awfully lot like a break up speech. I couldn’t help myself I had to know, “You’re not breaking up with me are you?” I asked, wondering if I sounded as much like the insecure fool in her ears as I did to mine, yet for all of that still unable to help myself. I’d just gotten her back too! But maybe Tracto-an babes didn’t like it when you got captured by your enemies and, after some ritual togetherness time, they had to cut you loose in order to save face? I didn’t know and I was floundering pretty badly as the silence stretched.

“What?” she asked sounding confused and then she frowned at me. “Why would I break you…oh, you mean give back the Sword—how could you think such a thing?!”

Something inside me started to unclench.

“Even if you were the lowest man on Tracto, what kind of fool do you take me for?” she said hotly. “No woman in her right mind would willingly give back a sword like this,” a gesture to Bandersnatch, her—or, was it ‘my’?—‘Dark Sword of Power,’ which was leaning up against the wall within easy reach of her long, firm arms.

“Gee…that’s a relief,” I said as soon as it penetrated that, to her, the sword was probably worth more than I was. I received confirmation of my suspicion a few moments later.

“Far better to encourage someone to challenge in a duel to the death and keep the sword, since you have no heirs of your body as yet,” she scowled at me, as if my not figuring out that the sword was worth more to her than I was had somehow insulted her intelligence.

“This is unbelievable,” I said, starting to sit up in bed as I made ready to leave. The joyfulness of lazing around in bed with a beautiful woman—one who just so happened to also be my wife—appeared to be done and over with.

“Lay back down; we’re not done talking yet,” she told me, placing a hand on my chest and forcing me back down onto the bed.

“Look, I’m grateful and all for whatever scheme you have to cut down on the challenges,” I said tightly, “and I suppose I should be happy to know where I rate and all, but where I come from no guy wants to hear that his girl is more into her sword than she is him—that’s just a fact.”

She looked at me like I was slime under her boot, reverting back into full-blown Ice Maiden mode. Of course, we quickly arrived at a topic which blew my mind—because it had absolutely nothing to do with anything I’d been thinking of up till this point.

“Enough of this bantering; we have more important things to discuss,” she said icily. “I want to have children.”

It took me several seconds to grapple with what she’d just said, and a few more for it to make sense. But when it did I flushed, my mouth fell open, and my mind was officially blown.

“Uh,” I said stupidly.

“Messene is growing into a real Hold; we conquered the Omicron and now that we’ve been together for two years, it’s time,” she said in a no-nonsense voice. “I need an heir, and it’s time.”

I coughed, wondering how we’d gone from our usual squabbling straight to having kids.

“Are you sure that’s the best idea? We’re about to enter a warzone,” I said, mentally flailing about for a lifeline somewhere. In truth we hadn’t so much as once talked about having kids and now, out of the blue, she wanted an heir?! I simply hadn’t considered the subject more than as a fleeting thought fragment until that point.

“If we decide to do it now, I won’t show for several months,” Akantha said, shrugging off my expressed concerns as if they were nothing, “after that it might limit what I can do, but it will only be a temporary hindrance.”

“It sounds like you’ve got it all figured out,” I wheezed.

“You are here, I am here, your mother is here, and we have her blessing on our binding. And despite your capture at the hands of our enemies, you’ve come back stronger than ever. You’ve proven yourself worthy to sire children and I have lands in need; for what reason should we wait?” she said, obviously wondering why I was being less than enthusiastic.

“Are you sure this is the right time to bring a child into the world? These are uncertain times,” I protested, not sure if I was ready to be a father yet while at the same time wondering how pregnant she had to be before I could insist that she not go out on combat missions. Was it as soon as she knew she was pregnant, or did she have to be showing first? And would she have to be in a combat-free zone with every pregnancy? How would we manage their education; would they go everywhere with us or would they stay back on Tracto? Stone Rhinos are a serious problem…I’d have to install a few plasma cannons on Messene’s walls—

And just like that my mind stopped; I was already leaping forward to future children beyond the one she was proposing! Sometimes my brain was a curse. I opened mouth to unequivocally say ‘no, this is not a time to be having kids when we’re on the verge of a war,’ when she spoke.

“Six,” she said simply.

I looked at her curiously, my previous train of thought derailed. “What?” I asked.

“At a minimum,” she informed me smugly.

“I don’t understand what you are saying,” I said slowly and clearly, as if by speaking that way she would be better able to understand my foreign words.

“Children,” she said irritably.

“Right…we were talking about children,” I said, a ringing starting in my ears, “and you said six…” I trailed off, unable to believe the ambition of this woman. She talked about having a kid, and before I had even come to grips with the idea as some sort of abstract theory, she had immediately latched on to having at least six of them. “Won’t that keep you busy back home at Messene for a while? Six of them, I mean,” I said, floundering around and looking for the silver lining.

I mean, having her away from this ship and leaving me free to rampage around the galaxy without having to worry about her leading each and every boarding action was something of a silver lining—

“Not so,” she said triumphantly and I closed my eyes.

I wondered how we’d gotten from talking about whether or not we were going to have kids, to arguing about how many and where she was going to have them. Safe back home on Tracto—or at least as safe as her home world got—or out here on a warship with me about to head into a warzone.

“I’m afraid to even ask,” I said hoarsely and closed my eyes.

“Your technology is simply amazing,” Akantha said and then started babbling as I tried to come to grips with what she was saying, “in my place men die in battle and women in the birthing chamber, but with your medical skills and healing tanks I now understand that almost every woman survives her fertile years.”

“Yes, the miracles of modern science,” I said, opening my eyes and wondering if I should mention artificial wombs or not. But even though it was probably in my best interest, I felt I had to give full disclosure, “We even have artificial wombs that can grow a baby if there’s a risk to the woman.”

Akantha looked faintly repulsed and uneasy. “A real woman carries her own children; I am neither weak nor descended from inferior stock such that I cannot carry my own babes,” she frowned at me.

“Sorry I even mentioned it,” I said, taking one look in her eyes and beating a hasty retreat.

“But, on the other hand, I do not wish to suffer through six pregnancies. There are too many things I need and want to do to suffer through that many,” she said, and I felt a sensation of relief.

“Maybe we need to scale back on the kid ideas until you have a better sense of what you—” I started.

“Control of my own body,” Akantha declared, talking over me, “that is why I spoke with your doctors. I have been studying your medical records—specifically the holo-vids—and I found the solution to this problem, and it is ‘control of your own body’.”

I was lost by now, but sure and certain that wherever this conversation was going I wasn’t going to like it.

“Did you know that your people have even found out a way to pick and choose whether you have a baby boy or a baby girl?” she asked with wonder in her voice.

“Yeah, I kind of did,” I said, falling back onto the bed with a thump.

“But that is beside the main point,” she said, tracing a finger along the contours of my chest, “what I’ve decided is that since it’s possible for one of your women to have as many children as they wish in one pregnancy, that I shall take advantage of this miracle,” Akantha declared happily. “And since I must have an heir and will need to get pregnant anyway, I might as well get it all over with at one time and spare myself the pain and suffering. I think six is the perfect number. Don’t you?”

All of a sudden the lights in our room started flashing and the red alert siren sounded. The ship was under attack—or at least had sighted hostiles!

“Oh, Space Gods,” I muttered, jumping out of bed and grabbing for my uniform. A very put-out looking Tracto-an wife left behind me as I staggered, half-dressed out the door.

I had never been so happy to beat a hasty retreat—let alone to run half-naked toward a battle.

Chapter 30: Close Encounters of the Droid Kind

“Unidentified vessels are now on an intercept course, Captain,” the Tactical Officer reported as I strode into the room.

“ETA in 25 minutes, Sir,” snapped Mr. Shepherd in Navigation while Laurent strode back and forth pacing.

Making a bee-line for the command chair, I failed to do anything foolish like interrupt while an emergency was going on, and quickly plopped myself down in the seat.

“Mass reading is confirmed as high for a ship of that size,” said Lieutenant Abignal, the ship’s new science officer, rising tension in his voice, “it’s fourteen to fifteen percent over standard, Captain.” “This is what we’ve come for, boys and girls; so steady as she goes and mind your stations,” Laurent said, his face emotionless.

Around me the bridge was filled with tension. Voices were low and there was an uncommon level of activity as fingers and elbows moved rapidly in front of work stations and consoles.

The bridge arrangement might be different, and require a smaller number of personnel to run it than a Caprian battleship, but I found that my experiences in those larger ships translated over to this one. At least it did when it came to reading a bridge crew, most of whom I was already familiar with at least in passing.

So it was a little bit of a stacked deck, but then that’s the only kind you want to be dealing with when it comes to potentially hostile encounters. It was a hard, cruel world out there in the blackness of cold space.

“Do you want to deploy the Fleet in attack formation, or move further away from the hyper-limit and maintain spacing, sir?” Officer Laurent prompted from a station beside, and behind, my elbow.

My eyes flashed over to the main screen, taking in the fact that there only seemed to be one enemy ship—if enemy it was—and then back over to the Flag Captain.

“What size is the contact, Captain?” I asked, smoothly answering his question with one of my own. I needed to know how big she was before I made any decisions.

“Cruiser-sized, Admiral,” he answered promptly, then added a qualifier, “that, or a freighter on the smaller size, although the mass readings indicate that’s unlikely.”

I thought I knew what he was talking about with the mass readings but gave him a look and motioned for him to elaborate anyway.

“A mass to size ratio like this generally indicates a high metallic content, or an ice ship hauling extra hydro in all its internals. But in most cases ice ships are used only in certain areas for specific purposes and their hull types are easily identifiable. Since this is not one of them, that suggests it’s a droid ship,” he explained, filling the silence while I had the chance to ponder my next move.

“Thank you, Captain,” I said formally and then, with a last glance at the screen, I shot him a piercing look, “relay the orders to the rest of the fleet. All ships are to set course toward the unidentified ship and take up station around us in Attack Formation One. The fleet is to proceed at flank speed.”

“Yes, sir,” Laurent said with just a hint of eagerness as he turned to relay the orders to communications for the rest of the ships before doing likewise to our own Tactical section.

I sat there and stared at the screen as the small constellation of ships around the Furious Phoenix broke up into three different squadrons, each taking up a different position relative to the Flagship until it looked like the Strike Cruiser was the dot in the middle of a triangle of wedge-shaped formations.

The fleet consisted of five cutters, ten corvettes—three of those belonging to the Sundered, the same as had gone to Capria with Akantha and their accompanying gunboats—along with two destroyers and a single light cruiser that no one had been sure would be able to make the journey with us until two days before departure.

Although the damage the cruiser had taken in the battle for Tracto hadn’t been insignificant, but because of the atrocious level of maintenance to its internal systems its return to service in time for the campaign had been highly questionable.

As it was, the engineers had had concerns about releasing her for service but I’d firmly overridden them. We were going to need all the firepower we could get. I only wished we’d been able to bring the Parliamentary Power up to fighting trim in time, but unfortunately that was not to be. The ship had been plagued with trouble from the moment I’d laid eyes on her and despite all my many and loudly espoused wishes, it would be up to the Power’s new Commander to get her ready for the campaign.

“New ETA: ten minutes and counting,” reported Mr. Shepherd, breaking me out of my reverie.

“Contact gunnery and tell them to keep their weapons charged,” Laurent ordered.

“Have the droids responded to standard hails?” I posed the question, turning to the Comm. section.

“No, Sir,” the crewwoman at Comm. replied.

“We have sent out standard hails, correct?” I clarified.

“Of course, Admiral!” the tech sounded affronted.

“Just checking,” I waved her off and turned back to watch the action unfold.

Behind me the blast doors slid open. Fearing the worst, I spun my chair and was relieved to see the face of Lisa Steiner. That it wasn’t Akantha or the rest of my family was immensely relieving. But my brow furrowed as I wondered exactly where my wife was located if she hadn’t followed me to the bridge as soon as she was dressed.

“Can I be of assistance, Admiral?” Steiner asked, looking from me to the Comm. Section with a clear question.

Pushing aside concern for my wife, I waved her toward the section. “By all means, Warrant,” I said in an easy, unconcerned voice and then turned the chair back around.

“Sensors can confirm the ship’s configuration, sirs,” the Warrant Officer in charge of the Sensor Section reported. “It’s a twelve-sided configuration unique to our data files; there’s nothing like it in the other records. The computer is calling it a dodecahedron configuration.”

“Interesting,” Captain Laurent remarked.

I eyed the Captain. Stealing all my best lines now, Captain? I wondered and then had to smile at my silent, likely ridiculous, quip.

Five minutes until it was estimated we would come into range and I was starting to stew, the tension was so thick. Here we had a small flotilla of warships all heading toward one cruiser-sized ship that had to know it was outnumbered and overmatched, and yet it continued to doggedly come straight at us. It made no attempt to flee until it could jump away, no desperate run in system to try a slingshot maneuver of some kind around an outer planet, or even a creative use of angles to least limit the number of our ships that could hit them at the same time. It made me wonder just what they had up their sleeves—or thought they had.

“Where is Akantha?” I asked mildly.

Laurent looked over at me sharply.

“Admiral,” asked Steiner sounding concerned, “do you want me to page her?”

“Yes. Do,” I said minimally.

Steiner pressed buttons and spoke into her earpiece, which was a miniature, dual purpose receiver/transmitter.

“Sorry, no response, sir,” she reported.

I frowned dourly, not liking one of the most volatile members of my command team AWOL during an action. Normally my wife was either on the bridge watching me like a hawk, or more recently running this very ship as its captain or else she was…

I felt so stupid I could have smacked myself in the forehead with the palm of my own hand and forced a courtly non-expression onto my face.

“Contact the Lancer Contingent and inquire if my wife has decided to take it upon herself to suit up in power armor and join them,” I said with a mild look over at Steiner. Why this hadn’t occurred to me from the very beginning I didn’t know; all I could plead was that an extended time apart—including a mind numbing stay in prison—had dulled my instincts as it related Akantha’s death-defying displays.

The answer, when it came, was entirely predictable.

“The Lancer Captains confirm that the Hold-Mistress is with them and prepared to join them in battle,” she said with a nod.

“The Lancer Captains confirm,” I remarked sardonically.

“Sir?” she asked.

“Never mind,” I shook my head. I wasn’t in the least bit surprised. Barring specific orders from me—and maybe not even then—‘my’ warriors were always willing to have my beloved Sword-Bearer storm off into the breaches with them.

There was a stir in the sensor pits.

“The target ship has begun to fragment,” exclaimed the most antsy of the sensor operators as he jumped clear out of his seat.

“I’m reading multiple pieces falling off the ship,” reported the Sensor Warrant cutting in.

“Missiles?” Laurent demanded. “Track and relay targeting information to the Gunnery Section.”

“The computer is also categorizing the fragments as a dodecahedron configuration,” cried the antsy sensor operator.

“Which of the small ones are twelve-sided?” snapped Laurent.

The Sensor operator hesitated looking back down at his console and taping a few keys before looking back up with wide eyes. “All of them, Captain,” he replied in surprise.

Laurent leaned back as if under a force of powerful wind. “Relay that information to gunnery,” he said and then stopped.

“A number of the fragments are now lighting off space drives!” reported the Sensor Officer and the screen started to blossom with dozens of new contacts, with more coming online every second, until the cruiser-sized mother-ship—or whatever it was—now more resembled a bee hive surrounded by an angry swarm than a single ship.

When Officer Laurent still didn’t say anything I cleared my throat.

“Inform the Sundered that if they haven’t done so already, they are to launch the gunboats and set them on anti-missile footing,” I said with a projected calm that can only be achieved after extensive combat experience where you didn’t know what you were doing, but had look like you were in complete control anyway. “It seems we are about to receive visitors.” In a way, I’d been training for this moment for almost two years.

“Yes, sir,” Steiner said sounded hesitant at first but with growing confidence as she turned back to her console.

“Admiral,” said the Tactical Officer turning toward me, “those fragments aren’t acting like any missiles I’ve ever seen and the computer is tentatively identifying them as gunboats, sir.”

“Good work, Officer,” I said, too busy processing this new information to be upset at having just been told I was wrong. Things were moving too fast to worry about appearing the all-knowing, never-wrong fleet commander. Not that I would have been fooling this crew; they’d been with me through some real fur balls—not all of them on the winning side.

However appearances are important and…My mind cut right back to most important thing: we now had upward of seventy ‘gunboats’ heading straight for us.

I turned back to trap Steiner with my look and let her know this next part was for her, as well as the Tactical Officer.

“Signal all Corvettes and Cutters they are to prepare themselves for an anti-gunboat defense, Tactical,” I nodded to that worthy Officer. “Relay assigned targets and positions in the defense grid for coordinated fire.”

I’d been studying protocol lately, but my sources had been the same outdated midshipman’s online courses I’d had for a while, so I hoped I got it more right than not. I caught the Tactical officer’s eye, “Tactical?” I inquired mildly.

“Sorry, sir,” he said coloring, “it’s just we haven’t run any drills against gunboats—at least not in these numbers,” he said, his eyes cutting to the side and my mouth tightened. I’d bet that any practice which had taken place had been against a hypothetical threat from the genetic uplifts. “We’ve been mostly practicing ship and fleet drills against capital ships. It’ll just take me a minute to bring them up and relay the new targeting priorities to the rest of the fleet—I’ve got this.”

“Then it’s fortunate that the enemy has seen fit to give us three of them; work fast,” I said, giving him a cool look and referencing the three minutes remaining until we were within firing range. I wasn’t very impressed with this officer saying he wasn’t prepared. Fortunately for him the only thing worse than admitting you weren’t ready was pretending that you were and pretending otherwise.

Laurent cleared his throat. “Shield status?” he asked.

“Shields are fully charged, Captain,” the Shield Ensign stated eagerly and for a moment I was surprised. The last time I’d seen a brave shield operator eager for combat…I couldn’t recall. But I liked it, and was glad we had retained Longbottom as our shield operator.

“Still no response to our hails, Comm?” I asked sharply.

“Not a peep, Admiral,” Lisa Steiner replied.

“Although I doubt there’s any point in doing so, keep trying anyway,” I scowled, put out at facing an enemy who refused to so much as speak to me. Then the scowl turned to a frown at myself; was I so enamored of witty banter that the mere lack of it put me off my game?

“Sirs, we’re getting some unusual readings over here,” Tactical reported.

“Have you finished assigning targets?” I said brusquely.

“Yes, Admiral,” the Tactical Officer said with a hint of impatience in his voice.

“Then continue,” I said abruptly, I knew he wouldn’t be speaking if he didn’t think it was important but we were about to go into combat and he’d been less than sure of himself once before.

“It’s the enemy cruiser, Admiral,” the Officer said urgently, “its shape is changing and it seems to be losing mass.”

“What?!” I said with alarm. No one started launching gunboat-sized ships at an armed, prepared, enemy and refused to make contact unless they had hostile intent. And, of course, we were in the middle of a warzone.

“It’s shrinking, Admiral,” the Tactical Officer replied, “not just in mass, but slightly in diameter as well.”

“They must have strapped all those gunboats to the hull of their ship to be able to make a change like that,” Laurent observed darkly.

I nodded and looking back at the screen I frowned.

“Is it just me or do those gunboats seem to be moving slower than usual,” I asked.

“Who knows how fast droid designs are supposed to move? It could be part of a plan to lure us in closer,” Laurent replied.

“Even still…” I said with a frown.

“The droids are beginning to spread out; it looks like they are dividing up their gunboats so as to make sure they are able to attack all available targets,” Tactical reported, and I could see what he was talking about.

“That will leave only a few hand-full of their gunboats for every one of our warships,” I said, and then pointed, “what about the cruiser, or carrier, or whatever it is?”

“The droid mother-ship is on a direct course for the Phoenix, Admiral,” tactical replied.

“They have released just over eighty gunboats,” Laurent said grimly, “that’s more than enough to cause damage.”

“But the way they’re spread out, that’s only like four or five gunboats per ship—less if they’re targeting our gunboats as well,” I said, perplexed. I then turned to Tactical, “What kind of readings are we getting on their weapon’s syste-” I started to ask but my question was cut short.

We were within range of the enemy.

Chapter 31: In the Clinch

“Here they come!” yelled First Officer Eastwood from his station at Tactical as just under a score of enemy gunboats separated from the pack and started to close in on an attack run.

“Weapons free and fire as she bears, Tactical,” Captain Laurent called out, and I could almost feel the whole bridge leaning forward, focusing on the droid—or, presumed droid—ships, “Mr. Eastwood, if you would be so good as to go over and give Tactical a hand?”

“With pleasure, sir!” Eastwood said hurrying over and shifting an operator off his console. After grabbing up the microphone on his desk and barking something into the receiver he promptly slammed it back down on the table of his console.

Moments later, turbo-lasers lashed out leaving an expanding wave of death and destruction in their wake. Each hit seemed to destroy an enemy gunboat, or knock it out of action.

Within seconds the score of enemy ships on the screen was cut in half, and then disappeared entirely. Expanding my view to take in the entire fleet, not just the Phoenix’s location, I was pleased to see over half the enemy gunboats had been destroyed and more were falling every moment.

“We have several enemy boats heading toward us on a collision course!” cried the Sensor Officer.

“DuPont, turn the ship to port and begin evasive maneuvers,” Laurent barked. “And somebody find out where that ship came from; I thought we destroyed all the ones around us.”

“The Rapid Ranger signals she’s about to cross beneath our bow,” Lisa Steiner over at communications exclaimed moments before the corvette came screaming across our forward bow, her relatively light lasers firing.

“They’re blocking our short-ranged weaponry; we can’t fire the new plasma cannons without risking a friendly fire incident that could destroy the corvette!” cried the Tactical Officer.

“What kind of hot-dogging is this?” Laurent shouted, even as the damaged enemy gunboat exploded. “Get me the Captain of that ship; I’m going to hand him his head.”

“The Captain of the Rapid Ranger gives his apologies and reports the gunboat attempting to ram us was one that was damaged and knocked off course by one of their light laser mounts,” Steiner reported, “he says he was in hot pursuit and that it won’t happen again.”

“He’s blasted well right it’s not going to happen again,” Laurent fumed, “tell him that Captain Laurent said—”

I lifted a hand, cutting him off mid-rant. “The cruiser doesn’t seem to be much closer than the gunboats and is about to enter combat range, Captain,” I observed sharply.

“Eastwood,” Laurent snapped, “target that mother-ship.”

“Aye, Captain,” Eastwood said hungrily, and a fury of orders were passed down to the Gunnery section, emphasized at several points by the thump of his microphone.

Amazed at the seemingly easy destruction of the droid gunboats, I took in the nearly empty space around my ships before turning to Steiner.

“Get a damage report from the other ships in the fleet and forward it to the command chair when you get the chance,” I instructed her.

“Yes, Admiral,” she said, bobbing her head and then leaned over to speak the tech next to her before working her console. The tech beside her quickly followed suit and within moments both were hailing the other ships and establishing com and data links for the updates.

There weren’t many orders needed for the fleet right at the moment and I had to resist the urge to spit out orders just because I could and so that I felt like I was doing something productive. I reminded myself that sometimes the best thing to do was sit tall in the chair, keep the shoulders back, and look competent.

The droid ship wasn’t trying to escape or maneuver for advantage but instead made right for the heart of our formation, in an apparent desire to come to grips with the Phoenix, which made things easier.

There is one thing I could do, I realized with a flash of pleasure tinged with relief.

“Helm, lets continue that turn off to port just enough to extend our turbo-laser’s time on target. The longer we can pound them while they’re out of range and they can’t respond, the better,” I ordered.

Laurent flashed me a hooded look and I shrugged. Now was not the time to get into the whole ‘this is his ship and I command the fleet’ that he’d already made a point of in the past.

“And Comm., relay to the other ships that they are to maintain position relative to the Flagship,” I said after turning to Steiner.

“Yes, sirs,” echoed around the bridge.

After the way the gunboats had gone down hard, going from almost a hundred to just a hand full that looked to be recent launches from the mother-ship, I would have expected the droids to try something different but I would have been wrong.

“That’s either four hundred meters of stupid or else they’ve got one Murphy of an ace hidden up their sleeve,” Laurent said, leaning in close and speaking quietly.

“Let’s find out,” I replied with a tight smile.

“Enemy ship entering firing range,” reported Tactical his voice taut with emotion beside him the First Officer leaned forward in his chair as if waiting to pounce.

“Weapons free on your command,” Laurent reported.

“Gunnery, fire as she bears,” barked the First Officer into his microphone.

Turbo-lasers lanced out, each one a pulsing death ray of destruction which stabbed into the mother-ship’s shields and lit them up.

“Enemy shield flare,” reported Sensors, as shots continued to pound out from our starboard side lancing into the shields of the droid ship.

“Helm, prepare to roll the ship on my mark,” Laurent ordered.

“Aye, sir; rolling the ship on your command,” DuPont said.

“Roll!” Laurent ordered as the turbo-lasers on the starboard side started to slack off, and the heavy lasers in the smaller ships around us began to fire.

Mid-turn, the droid mother-ship opened up a powerful, spinal mount, firing an impressively powerful beam which actually rocked the deck beneath us.

“Shields down to 62% and holding,” Ensign Longbottom reported crisply, “those shield modifications look to have taken some of the sting out of their antimatter siege cannons.” I knew he was referring to a series of adjustments made to the shield grid designed to cope with the overwhelming firepower of the droid siege weapons. Those same weapons had nearly overloaded the Pride of Prometheus’ shields with a single shot, but had failed to even take ours down to half after acting on data gathered by Middleton’s crew.

“The enemy ship seems to have an odd structure,” Sensors reported with obvious curiosity. “Most of it almost looks like some kind of lattice, or honeycomb, but there’s a large, skeletal superstructure running from stem to stern composed of what looks to be solid duralloy.”

“And this is relevant how?” I demanded with irritation.

“I don’t know, Admiral,” replied the Warrant.

“It might mean we’re not going to do much damage to that ship unless we hit that ship in the spine or the engines area,” the Tactical officer observed, “refocusing lasers now.”

On the screen, I watched as our entire fleet unleashed its combined fury. The combined effort quickly overloaded the shields of the droid ship and gouged deep into its hull.

Almost as if in response to this attack, more than fifty light lasers lanced out from almost every part of the droid ship. The majority of them were aimed at our ship, but any that could be brought to bear on our fleet were fired.

“Shields now at 52%; adjusting to compensate,” the Shield Ensign reported eagerly.

“Good work, Longbottom,” said Captain Laurent.

Moments later, the ship completed its roll and turbo-lasers once again lanced out.

“Shield collapse; the enemy ship is suffering shield collapse,” cried Tactical.

The bridge cheered even as lasers from all over the fleet counter-fired in one massive, continuing salvo.

“Pour it on, Gunnery!” First Officer Eastwood shouted into his microphone.

“This feels too easy,” I said uneasily, even as the enemy lasers—all except for its spinal mount, which apparently took time to recharge—fell silent one by one, knocked out by the barrage from the MSP Fleet.

“There she goes!” cried a Sensor Operator.

“We’re reading a breach in the spine and a massive power overload on the enemy ship,” the Tactical Officer reported in a rising voice, while on the screen multiple explosions from inside the enemy mother-ship ruptured its hull and blossomed out into space.

My eyes scrambled across the screen, waiting for the hidden hand, or surprise maneuver that was going to rock us on our heels but nothing happened. No stealthed reinforcements appeared, no new enemies jumped in system, nothing.

Laurent clapped me on the shoulder.

“Don’t look so glum, Admiral,” he said with a grin, “we won.”

“You’re right,” I said uneasily, but I was absolutely certain that I was missing something. Not even machines like droids could be so stupid as to come straight at a larger, more powerful force like that without some ulterior motive…could they?

Around us the bridge crew high-fived and blew off steam, in the aftermath of the victory.

“Alright now,” Laurent said cutting through the din with the steel of command his voice, “this isn’t some penny ante system militia. A little celebration is good for the soul but let’s remember we’re the MSP.”

Still looking like winners the bridge crew settled down at their captain’s words like a mare to the bridle. It was only then that I allowed myself to believe that we really had won.

“Amazing,” I said, failing to add that as far as I could see our enemies had been amazingly stupid, “let’s chalk that one up in the win column and start charging the hyper-drive for the next leg.”

“Yes, sir! If they’re all as easy as this cruiser/mother-ship thing then we’ll be rolling them in the isle’s before this is all over, see if we don’t,” Laurent said with a hungry expression, “next stop: Aqua Nova, and what passes for a Core World around here.”

I nodded and wondered why I felt uneasy.

Chapter 32: Spalding vs. Persus

The old engineer was out stretching his legs. Although, he had discovered that stretching his legs nowadays wasn’t quite as effective at getting the blood flowing as it had back when his legs had been made out of flesh and blood.

Still, a man needed to get out every now and then and see the world for what it was. Or, in this case, take a walk to see a top-of-the-line Imperial ship and try to knock the cobwebs out of his head.

Seeing the mix of Duralloy and Mono-Locsium that comprised the interior of the ship, he momentarily wondered if that was what he needed to add to his special little project to make it work right before once again shaking his head in disgust.

“I’m grasping at straws,” he scowled, increasing his pace until he was all but charging down the corridor, “what we need is a larger compensator system. Maybe the grav-plates…” but, of course, he’d already ripped out the old grav-plates and installed new top-of-the-line Imperial ones that performed head and shoulders better already, than the previous plates. “It could just be a factor of power, except where would I put in a larger power source?”

Rounding the corner to his right, he ran full tilt into someone coming the opposite way and bounced something that didn’t tend to happen very often, now that his legs were made of metal.

“Watch where you’re going, lad,” Spalding said, staggering and almost overbalancing.

Something whined and clicked horribly right before a hand that clamped down on his forearm like a vice grabbed hold and prevented an unwanted encounter with the deck plates.

“Apologies,” said an accented, Tracto-an voice, and from the thickness of the accent obviously not one of the original Lancer force. “Sometimes I forget how small and feeble you Starborn when I’m not paying attention.”

“Not paying attention! It was me who was running around the ship like a mad man and running into things,” Spalding said. Then he stopped and glared at the other man. “And just who are you calling feeble?” he demanded hotly, taking in the way the man had the hand of his one normal-looking arm tucked into his belt, while the other limb—both the arm and hand—was the kind of bargain basement metal arm even a droid would be ashamed to own.

“I meant no offense,” the other man said, and not very convincingly if one Terrance Spalding was any judge.

“You and your piece of junk arm think I’m the feeble one here, just because I’m old, is that it?” he demanded belligerently.

“What you say about my false arm?” the Tracto-an said going unnaturally still. Unlike the usual run of mill Tracto-an, this one was older, his hair was starting to grey, and he looked like he’d been run through the meat grinder—twice.

“I said it’s older than me, or should be, and it was probably considered a piece of trash even back when it was new,” the old Engineer said, jutting out his chin and then an idea occurred to him. “What you need to do is get a proper one,” he advised the Lancer, “not this whining, clicking, piece of junk someone saddled you with.”

“My Mistress has gift me a new arm,” the Tracto-an said, his nostrils flaring, “is good arm.”

“It’s a terrible arm,’’ Spalding firmly informed the other man. “First, it’s not flesh; and second, it’s sub-standard. No, no, what you need is something like this,” he said, pulling out his plasma torch and tapping his leg for emphasis.

He ignored the way the other man dropped into a combat crouch in favor of rapping the leg a second, and then a third time, making the metal on metal sound ring throughout the corridor. Then he showcased the rest of the leg, displaying how the ankle and knee joints moved, “This droid leg of mine is more the speed you need until medical can grow you a new one. It’s strong, it’s durable, and most importantly, it’s blasted well silent!”

“You insult the gift she has given,” the Tracto-an said, placing a clicking noisy hand on his sword. Every single Tracto-an he’d met seemed to love carrying a sword.

Spalding ignored this bit of foolishness and started back down the corridor plans and schematics whirling through his head. It took him a moment to realize the other man wasn’t following.

He turned back and glared at the crippled warrior, who was trying to pull out his sword out of its sheath but failing spectacularly. His metal hand slipped and whirred, until finally the Tracto-an growled in frustration and pushed his still-sheathed sword back into its sheath.

“What’s the hold up?” he demanded, “are you coming or not?!”

“I can take you with my legs alone,” the Tracto-an growled, advancing on him.

“Son,” Spalding told the younger merely middle aged man, “if it comes to a backside kicking contest I’m pretty sure I have you beat.” He gave the deck such a stomp, using the full power of his power assisted legs, that the plate beneath his feet gave a small shake. He was unable to help if his words sounded condescending…sometimes the truth hurt.

“I can take you at any time, at any place,” the Tracto-an growled advancing on him.

“Eh?” Spalding eyed the other man doubtfully. The Tracto-an had one, buggered up, flesh arm and a junker metal one. On the one hand he was crippled up, on the other hand he was a trained warrior…even so, the Chief Engineer gave himself pretty good odds. “Hardly seems fair to whip you while you’re all jammed up like that.”

“Are all Starborn cowards?” demanded the warrior as he chased after him.

“Now, that’s enough of that blasted nonsense you pigheaded blighter,” Spalding snapped, rounding on the other man the fingers of his plasma torch fingers lighting up. “Terrance P. Spalding fears neither man nor beast—o’ which ye might be a bit of both!”

The Tracto-an paused to look at his now burning finger tips and cocked his head. “I offer challenge,” the Tracto-an said gravely.

Spalding blinked at him in surprise and then shrugged. “Well, I refuse to fight you until you have a new arm; wouldn’t be a proper fight,” he said with a nod, and then turned as he added, “come along then.”

“Don’t think you run—I will find you,” warned the Tracto-an.

“Boy you sure think highly of yourself,” Spalding sneered, marching toward the nearest turbo lift.

Bemused, and more than a little suspicious, the warrior trailed along behind him looking confused.

“Now what kind of arm are you looking for,” Spalding asked as he stepped into the Phoenix’s Locker. Walking over to a pile of discarded armor pieces, he started digging around, throwing away the pieces he didn’t need and gathering a small pile of metal rods, control interfaces and load bearing joints. “We just don’t have the same pieces as in the Clover,” he complained bitterly, “back home there’d be all sorts of choices to pick from but here I’m forced work with stone knives and bear skins.”

“What are you talking about?” demanded the Warrior.

“Don’t despair,” Spalding said with a long-suffering sigh, “we’ve got enough hand tools and elbow grease in this half-deck to make up the difference.”

“I’m here to fight you,” the Tracto-an said, taken aback.

Spalding nodded as he looked down at the parts…he was still going to need some more wiring and not that shoddy stuff like they used for hack and patch repair but the kind good kind used for the computer runs.

“What?” he asked, realizing the other man was still looking at him and then recalled what the warrior had just been saying. “Oh, of course; don’t worry, you’ll get your fight,” he assured the other man, “but I’ll not have it said that Commander Spalding took advantage of your disabled status. Now…where did I put—” he cast around before spotting the large pair of clamps he was looking for buried under a pile of battlesuit helmets, “ah ha!”

“Are you right…in the head?” the Tracto-an asked warily.

“Terrance Spalding, Chief Engineer,” the old Engineer said extending his hand.

Looking at it like it was a snake, the warrior lifted his barely functional arm in return.

Spalding’s smile wilted. “Well then, let’s just shake on it after I get you a new arm, how about?” he said gruffly.

“Why are you doing this?” the Tracto-an sounded perplexed.

“What’s your name?” Spalding asked, turning back to his work table and pulling out his tools started to disassemble the various pieces of armor and electronics he’d gathered up.

“I am Persus,” the warrior replied after a moment.

“Persus,” Spalding nodded, “well then, it’s nice to meet you, Persus,” he said before turning back to his work. “As soon as I finish pulling this stuff apart, we’ll go grab a top of the line prosthetic arm; after the modifications I make to it you’ll have an arm worthy of a King!”

“I don’t see,” Persus said shaking his hand, “why would you help an enemy like this.”

“Enemy?” Spalding said with alarm. “Because of a simple little scrap we haven’t even had yet? What nonsense,” he declared, “no, son, I am not your enemy…speaking of which, why are you here?”

“I have the honor of being the past and present Guard of Hold-Mistress Adonia,” Persus said with quiet pride.

“You’re guarding the Lady,” Spalding said with surprise, “well then, all the more reason to make sure you have an arm worthy of the job!”

“Among my people…to lose a limb is a sign of failure. To replace it with a false arm or hand is an admission of weakness. If she did not ask me as her guard again, I would not still be here,” Persus said with quiet finality. “I am not much of a guard with only one living arm, and that barely able to hold a spoon to feed me, but Adonia says she will trust no other.”

“Well you aren’t down on that dirt ball any longer; you’re here among the stars! So I say that’s all the more reason to build you a new arm and, knowing you’re guarding the Lady Akantha, I’ll make sure it’s as well armored as a suit of power armor!”

“I do not know what to say,” Persus said eventually with a shake of his head.

“Then don’t say anything, and instead head into that old Penetrator-class marine shuttle and grab me that small sheet of Duralloy II,” the old Engineer said, pointing to the half disassembled shuttle sitting in the cargo bay that was his work shop.

“What is duralloy?” asked the warrior.

“Oh, never mind,” the old engineer said tossing down his tools and throwing his hands in the air, “if you want to do something right you just have to do it yourself anyway.”

“What is all this?” Persus asked following the old Engineer as he puttered around the Penetrator before snatching up the right-sized sheet of Duralloy II.

“This is my shop,” Spalding said authoritatively, “it’s where the magic happens. Take this shuttle for instance; it’s going to win us the battle someday, I tell you it is. All I have to do is figure out a way to keep it from turning its passengers and crew into little piles of goo and the next thing you know,” he snapped his fingers, “we’ll be popping boarding parties into the hulls of enemy warships lickity split.”

Dawning comprehension appeared on the warrior’s face.

“You are the Wizard I keep hearing about. Not the young one, the first one—his father,” said Persus.

“If I told her once, I told her a thousand times: I ain’t no Wizard!” Spalding snapped.

Chapter 33: Surprises at Aqua Nova

“Point Emergence,” Richard Shepherd our Navigator exclaimed.

“Extending baffling and engaging secondary engines,” Helmsman DuPont chimed in.

“Beginning sensor sweeps now,” reported the Sensor Warrant.

“Shields at 98%,” reported Longbottom.

“We have an estimated 25 gravities to overcome to escape the sump,” observed our new Science Officer and for a moment I waxed nostalgic over the missing Jones. Now there was a Science Officer who you couldn’t pin down on anything, especially hard numbers, to save his—or your—life!

On second thought, I was glad he was back in Tracto attempting to put his would-be doctoral thesis into some kind practical action onboard the Royal Rage and not here to plague us with us insufferable, mealy mouthed observations. ‘I think,’ or ‘it looks like’ and ‘maybe’ or ‘it could be’ just were not the qualifiers I wanted in the heat of battle.

“Secondary Engines at 35% and climbing, engaging main engine now,” reported the Helmsman.

“No other ships in the immediate vicinity, Captain,” reported the Warrant in charge of Sensor Operations.

“Good,” replied the Flag Captain.

“Shields stabilized and holding strong at 96%,” reported the Shield Ensign.

“Any word from the rest of the Fleet?” I asked mildly. Due to the various and different hyper-drive ranges on our ships, one of the biggest obstacles involved in fleet movements was coordinating and ensuring no ships were left behind. Those ships like the Phoenix were able to achieve almost five times the range in light-years, per single jump, as the worst of our corvettes. So it was necessary to perform a staggered series of jumps through uninhabited waypoints. This allowed our corvettes, whose drives cycled much faster, to make up for their decreased range and arrive in the same target system as ourselves at roughly the same time—emphasis on ‘roughly.’

“No word yet, Admiral, but I’ll make sure to keep—” Lisa Steiner, my combat-tested former com-tech and current head of the Communications department abruptly cut herself off. “Wait one moment, sir,” she said.

Heads snapped around at that and not only mine.

The petite little com-tech and current Warrant Officer held up a finger and her lips suddenly made a thin, pale line before she looked up.

“Communications is picking up a whole host of encrypted chatter over the dedicated military channels, sir,” she said, looking straight over at me—not at Captain Laurent—but she had worked for me first and I’d basically appointed her to the job of temporary department head. “But the non-encrypted public channels, as well as the commercial buoys, all say the same thing.”

She drew a deep breath and I had to fight the urge to drum my fingers along the edge of my chair’s armrest, while she blinked still hearing something in the background of her com-link.

An unnatural pause settled over the bridge around us, as staffers and technicians quieted and strained to hear.

“It’s official: this system is under attack by the droids, Admiral,” she said flatly.

I released pent up breath in a slow hiss and nodded in acknowledgment. “Monitor those channels continuously and keep me apprised of anything new that comes your way, Comm.,” I said, and abruptly turned back to face the bridge.

The crew had taken on a much graver serious note as the news permeated the bridge, for once the knowledge that we were about to head into a fight coming not from the sensor section but communications.

“Alright people, this is as real as it gets; there’s a star system under attack and it’s not by pirates, who for all they may not seem or act human are still made of flesh and blood,” Captain Laurent said grimly. “So let’s stay on task and mission-focused.”

My eyes narrowed as the Captain addressed his crew—a job that I was generally used to doing—but I didn’t say anything. Like the man said: we needed to win this thing first, not get bogged down in petty power plays. Someone needed to say something, and he had done it. “That’s right,” I said, standing up and thrusting a finger at the screen, “it’s time to put on our game face and figure out just what is going on here. The Captain and I are going to need every one of you working at your best,” I finished on a steely, determined note. Because after all, while someone had to inspire the crew and the Captain was a good choice, someone needed to inspire the Fleet.

So that’s why I turned to the Officer Laurent.

“I’m going to address the Fleet—or at least send out a transmission for them as soon as they arrive—so, in the meantime,” I said my eyes boring into his, “find me those droid ships!”

“Aye, Admiral,” Laurent said, iron entering his eyes before he gave me a sharp salute and jumped over toward the sensor section. Mid-jump, he stumbled as the ship gave a very familiar lurch.

“Sump slide successful,” came the belated warning from DuPont, “I’m retracting engine baffling now.”

“Contact; multiple contacts registered deeper in-system,” cried a Sensor Operator, lunging up out of his seat.

I opened my mouth and leaned forward to demand numbers when the screen started populating and populating and populating until it zoomed out to take in the full numbers of the forces engaged in this system.

I fell back in my chair with a thump. There were eleven of the large cruiser/mother-ship droid ships, along with swarms and swarms of their little gunboat ships.

Realizing my mouth was open I snapped it closed with an audible click.

“Sensors—” Laurent stopped and cleared his throat before turning to Tactical. “I need a count on enemy numbers, Tactical,” he said in firmer voice.

“Hard numbers will be hard to impossi-” the Tactical Officer started.

“A preliminary estimate will be fine, Tactical,” I cut in.

“Yes, Admiral,” that Officer replied almost sheepishly.

I waited while he turned back for a furious discussion with his team, with occasional input from Eastwood who quickly joined them.

While they were talking Laurent eased over to me, and I could tell he wanted to talk. I could also tell that the sheer number of combatants we’d discovered, eleven…no, twelve mother-ships, and hundreds of the small gunboat types had the bridge rattled. They were looking at me out of the corners of their eyes and with an uncertainty I hadn’t seen in quite a while.

“Captain?” I asked, reaching deep inside and finding the calm confidence I needed to reassure the crew that I absolutely knew what I was doing, even and most especially at times like right now when I didn’t have a clue. I mean was this system being contested, or had it already been conquered, and if so then what could we hope to do against that kind of weight in metal?

“That’s a lot of enemy out there, Admiral,” Laurent muttered out of the corner of his mouth, the fixed line of his lips trying and quite obviously failing to be a reassuring expression.

“Tell me something I don’t already know, Mr. Laurent,” I quirked a smile and it was a cold smile.

“Engineering has taken a look at the wreckage of one of the boats we knocked out in our last engagement and Tactical has looked at what they found as well as gone over the records of the battle,” Laurent replied once again telling me things I already knew, “and those gunboats are pretty ineffectual one-on-one, with slow engines that even a battleship could make a race of it with and a single, slow-firing, light laser in a fixed mount. We can take those things out in job lots, and their mother-ships aren’t much better. A pair of destroyers or a squadron of corvettes could handle one, but there’s over a dozen of them now as well as,” he was pointing to the new totals up on the screen when he cursed, “Sweet Murphy! There over a thousand of those fighters,” he quickly lowered his voice, “Admiral, we’re heavily outnumbered here.”

I wrinkled my nose and drew in air through my left nostril in an audible sound as I shook my head. “Those are very good points, Flag Captain,” I said formally, “and I’ll be sure to take them under advisement.”

The Captain stiffened and his expression flattened. He knew as well as I what that meant when it came out of my mouth, and it was a whole blasted lot closer to ‘damn the torpedoes and straight ahead’, than it was to ‘bug out now!’

“Of course, Sir,” the Captain said, his voice grating slightly but I was too busy trying to figure out my best move to worry about his tender feelings. I didn’t have time to let him down slow, my position was simple: pulling out was the last option in my playbook. I certainly wasn’t going to entertain it right out of the gate, no matter how bad the initial numbers seemed.

Why, if I’d looked at things in Tracto and just played the odds, Akantha’s home world would still be under the tyrannical boot of my…uncle. I shuddered at the path my thoughts were taking and forcefully pushed myself back on track.

On the screen, the first non-droid ship’s we’d observed since entering the system popped up on screen. They were fighting a running retreat toward the most populated world in Aqua Nova, but they were there—and they were still in the game.

“Contact!” screamed a Sensor Operator. “I’ve got a squadron of ships with profiles matching known designs in our databases. They’re human, Sir!”

“Get me numbers, statuses, and hull types,” I snapped, jumping out of my chair pacing back and forth in front of it for a pair of steps before realizing what I was doing. “And someone establish communications with those ships!” I finished, thrusting a finger toward the screen and pointing at the presumed system defenders retreating in the face of a droid defensive. We needed a data dump on just what had been going on in this system before we arrived and an update on the defensive capabilities of the defenders like there was no tomorrow!

I clenched my fist and then sat back down in my chair.

“Comm. will take a while to establish anything,” Steiner said speaking rapidly, “but I’m sending our ID right now and requesting a status update on all friendly and enemy contacts.”

“Make it happen, Steiner,” I said brusquely, my eyes still locked on the continually moving dance of enemy and friendly forces. I resisted a cheer as another half squadron of human ships came around one of the moons of the system’s outer Jovian. They were deep into a slingshot maneuver which would send them barreling through a massive formation of enemy fighters with minimal time on target, cutting down in the return fire.

“Yes, Admiral Montagne,” she snapped eagerly.

“And somebody get me Kong Pao and that Lieutenant we picked up from Middleton’s ship,” I demanded, my mind racing. “I need answers and I need them fast, people; we’ve got a limited window to make an impact. I, for one, have no intention of letting a human world full of innocents fall to a bunch of the machine plague!”

“Man not Machine, Sir!” shouted the entire Bridge as one.

“Redline the engines and set a course for the nearest group of friendlies, and let the Demon Murphy take the hindmost, Mr. DuPont,” I said, feeling a sense of righteous purpose fill me and push all of my problems back home in Sector 25 blessedly out of my mind. “It’s time to tune up these droids and let them know they need to think three—and four—times before messing with a Confederation world.”

There was a pregnant pause and then the ship’s Helmsman replied firmly, “Yes, Admiral; course set.”

Some might ask ‘why did you feel a sense of peace after giving the order to attack a superior force of heartless, logic-filled droids who would crush us if given half a chance?’ but for me it was a no brainer. This was exactly why we were out here. More than that this was why I, personally, was out here: because when the going got rough and there was no one else around to help defend you from the reavers and wreckers and pirate invaders and, yes, even droids, the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet was there to help.

I could have tried run away from that duty at several different points along the way. It would have meant leaving the galaxy to my uncle and the assassin-using politicians back home on Capria and the legal murders at Sector Central and heartless, honorless, Imperials and their Empire of Man but I could have done it. The reason I hadn’t—the reason I’d put up with all their threats, attempts to kill me, and tries against my interests—was simple.

“We’re going to save those people, Bridge Crew,” I declared standing up, clenching a fist and thrusting it at the screen, “we’re going to fight for them, or my name isn’t Jason Montagne, Admiral of the greatest organization to travel these space-ways,” I said my voice rising until I was almost shouting, “the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet!”

Fools that they were for trusting me, every single member on the bridge who wasn’t already standing took to their feet in a rising wave of human noise. “Admiral Montagne, and the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet!” they roared once, and then again.

Blinking wetness out of my eyes, those blasted allergies again, you wouldn’t think they’d be such a problem in a top of the line Imperial Warship like this, I thought surreptitiously dabbing the corner of my eyes with the sleeve of my old style confederation uniform.

Reaching down beside the chair I picked up the old, bowling ball-shaped helmet that had come with the original—and very aged—Confederation Admiral’s uniform my people had scrounged up for me back on the Lucky Clover and placed it on my head. I silently swore that while they were fools for believing in me, they were my fools, and I wasn’t about to let them down.

Being outnumbered and outgunned was nothing new for this crew. With these people around me, I was prepared to take on the universe itself.

“Full speed ahead, Mr. DuPont,” I repeated glaring at the droid ships daring to appear on my main screen and within a human star system, “full speed ahead.”

Chapter 34: There’ll be no Tremblay-ing here!

“How much longer are they going to keep us locked up inside this little metal box?” Bethany Tilday demanded, once again going over to the communication unit build into the wall next to the hatch leading out of this room—a former storage closet, if one Lieutenant Raphael Tremblay was any judge of things.

“Who knows?” he said shortly.

“Three weeks!” she all but screamed. “Or at least as close to three weeks as I can reckon without any access to a computer network, or even so much as a simple data slate. It’s intolerable is what it is! Simply and quite utterly intolera—”

“I thought ‘intolerable’ was being forced to use the portable, self-contained toilet, Princess,” he said, jerking a thumb over toward the corner of the room where the little portable head rested without so much as a concealing curtain to give them privacy while availing of the ‘accommodations.’

“Forget for a moment the lack of so much as a privacy screen, when I am entitled to the Admiral’s quarters and head onboard a ship such as this!” she raged. “And let’s go to the head itself; chemical baths I can understand but what kind of retro-tech is being used when a toilet uses actual, live, flame in the breakdown of waste products?” the Sector Representative turned and glared at him as if it were all his fault. “Live flame onboard a ship; it’s a safety hazard,” she stomped her foot.

“Perhaps they don’t care if we die of asphyxiation,” Tremblay laughed darkly, more pleased at the chance to land a dig on the insufferable Princess than in actually believing the crew, or its captain, wanted them dead. If they did there were much easier ways to go about quietly offing them than through the potential out-of-control fire resulting from the burning of human waste.

“I don’t particularly care for your tone, Lieutenant,” Bethany said severely.

“Well I don’t particularly care for you, Princess,” the Intelligence Officer mocked, turning her title to one of scorn.

“Watch yourself, Raphael,” she said, giving him a look that almost qualified as a weapon in its own right, “Flat Nose isn’t here and I am not a woman to cross lightly.”

Tremblay looked at her with disbelief. “You Royals are all the same,” he scoffed, suppressing a chill at the look she was giving him. “I praise Parliament every day that you were removed from power when you were.”

“Parliament,” she snorted and then sneered at him, “the things I know about your precious Parliament would make your hair curl.”

“Sorry but I’m fresh out of rolling pins, Milady Tilday,” he grunted sourly, “so I doubt my hair will be curling anytime soon, no matter what lies you try to tell.”

“You mock me; you are actually mocking me,” Bethany said with disbelief and wonder in her voice.

“Please, for both our sakes,” the former First Officer, former Chief of Staff and general all around Montagne and Royal punching bag groaned, “just stow whatever threats you’re about to make and consider them already bestowed upon the masses. We’re on a suicide mission to go speak with the droids, and seeing as I doubt there’s anything you can do which the machines can’t, death would almost be a relief.”

“Who says anything I did to you would be quick, you insolent military stooge?” Bethany hissed. “There are worse things to fear than the droids.”

Tremblay’s gaze sharpened and he lowered his brow. “I’d be careful if I were you, Princess,” he said angrily with a shake of his head. “You want to threaten me? You’re trapped in a room with a dangerous man—one who’s had it up to here with your entitled, Royalist whining of the past three weeks. I’d think again before pushing me.”

“I’ll push you wherever I like,” she said, smiling sweetly and stepping toward him.

Someone less wise than a trained parliamentary Intelligence Officer like himself might have been taken in by the deceptive image of a short, thin, beautiful, Royal Princess but he wasn’t fooled.

“Keep back,” he said, taking a step back and falling into a defensive crouch.

“What?” she sniffed. “Is a big, strong man like you afraid of a little girl like me? I thought you said it was the other way around just a few moments ago.”

“There’s not a Royalist alive left to be trusted,” Tremblay snapped, “and that includes you, Ms. High-and-Mighty Princess Bethany Tilday. So back off,” while he spoke he reached around behind him until his question hands felt the plastic tray their meals came in and he gripped the tray hard.

Bethany came to stop and shook her head scornfully. “Now there’s a fine example of a ‘real man,’ cowering in fear of a woman too long cooped-up in this infernal room, ready to leap to his own defense with whatever dinner dishes he can scrounge up,” she said in mock pity.

“I know your kind too well not to,” he said stiffly.

“Oh, poor Lieutenant,” she shook her head sadly, “your Parliament has abandoned you, Cousin Jason won’t have you, and here you are—stuck with me. Am I really so fearful a person that you feel the need to insult me and then cower in fear of my response?”

“It’s not going to work so don’t even try it,” Lieutenant Tremblay said narrowing his eyes. “I’ve spent too much time up close and personal with you Royals. Jason tried his best to get everyone around him, including himself, killed trying to seize power. Jean Luc was a pirate who would do anything for power—and was crazy, to boot—cutting off my hand because it offended him and said he would only give it back after I’d made amends to him. So you can mock me and you can goad me about not being a real man, but I’m wise to your kind so you shouldn’t even bother trying.”

“You’ll have to tell me more about my uncle and your hand,” Bethany said sounding intrigued but almost immediately focused back on point like a laser beam, “but there’s one thing you’re forgetting, Lieutenant: those relatives of mine were all Montagnes but I am not a Montagne; I am Bethany Tilday Vekna.”

“You Royals are all snakes in the grass—all of you,” Tremblay said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you tried to kill me just for pleasure, or even more likely because of some twisted reasoning that concluded you’d be better off doing this mission alone.”

“Now why would I want to do that?” Bethany said pulling out her hair picks.

Tremblay’s eyes tracked what were usually considered minor female hair accoutrements, but in her case he knew were in fact deadly weapons in her hands.

To his shock and alarm she dropped the picks to the ground.

“What are you doing?” he demanded backing around the toilet and toward the corner that held the cot he slept in.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Bethany purred, stepping out of her shoes and kicking them off to the side, “I’m just trying to reassure you that I have no designs on your life. After all, we’re going to have to work together if we’re going to make it out of this alive.”

Tremblay stumbled and held the tray out before him like a shield.

“Very closely,” she continued in a throaty voice, “especially if we’re to come out of this little suicide mission not only alive and with our skins intact, but on top,” she said pointedly and, using only her toes, removed first one sock then the other without bending over. “And I do so like to be on top, Raphael.”

“I don’t know what game you’re playing, but—” he said in a rising voice.

“Oh, now you’re interested in games,” she smiled, like a hunting cat stalking her prey, “I’ve been watching you.”

“I’m not interested,” he said stiffly, his eyes unable to leave her body as she used a finger to remove the fabric of her dress covering first one shoulder, and then the other.

“There are depths to you that I haven’t plumbed yet,” then she gave him a coy look that did nothing to hide the predator hiding just below the surface, “and if we’re to be the sort of team that’s going to not just survive but win then we’re going to have to start working together—without all these Royalist/Parliamentary differences.”

“Look,” he said sternly, “I’m here to do a job. Let’s agree to that and forget about this—”

“No, you look,” she cut in, dropping her dress and allowing it to pool down at her feet.

The Intelligence Lieutenant gulped, unable to look away.

“To succeed, we need to be working on the same page,” she said huskily. “And I refuse to allow Flat Nose the satisfaction of seeing me fail or die,” she made a little moue with her mouth.

“W-we are,” Tremblay stammered, taking an instinctive step back before tripping and falling back onto his cot. He made a strangled voice but before he could stand up again, she had closed the distance between them making any move to get up an invasion of her space—space he had very much hoped would remain sovereign. He silently reminded himself of this as his eyes locked onto the swelling portions of her chest.

“We must become inseparable,” the Princess-Cadet proposed, leaning forward and not incidentally giving the fallen parliamentary officer a view of everything.

“Must we?” Tremblay muttered in faint protest, feeling his resolve weakening—despite the fact that he knew it was better than even odds she meant to kill him.

“That’s why I propose a…team-building exercise,” she murmured. placing a hand on his cot and leaning forward, “to break down the barriers that lay between us, giving our mission the best chance of success.”

He made a strangled sound. His eyes locked on a target no right thinking male could easily look away from. “What…what did you have in mind?” he asked weakly, watching the pendulous motion of two, small, perfect lumps—

“I thought you’d never ask,” she said, swooping down like a bird of prey and taking what she wanted before plundering his mouth.

Before he knew it Tremblay found himself pinned to the bed and even though he knew that it was even odds she meant to kill him. He knew that he was probably a dead man anyway—and he also knew that most men, if asked how they wanted to go out of this universe, would say in the arms of a woman—so he stopped resisting.

“Oh, and Lieutenant,” she blew into his ear after coming back up for air.

“Yes,” he panted.

“When I said I liked to be on top,” she ran a tongue over his ear and then whispered, “I lied.”

After that, things happened very quickly and a half hour later, when the ship’s crew opened their door to tell them that they’d arrived at the designated transfer point to make the transfer, they found the two of them still lying on his cot wearing their birthday suits.

Chapter 35: The Battle for Aqua Nova

“I have three cruisers and two hundred boats coming up on us from the port bow,” the Tactical Officer reported in a rising voice.

“Steady as she goes, Tactical,” Laurent said.

“Another cruiser and a little under than a hundred gunboats just came around the dark side of the moon,” cried the Sensor Officer, “they’re in a slingshot maneuver and they’re coming in fast.”

“Eastwood, you can inform the Chief Gunner that his Department may fire at will,” Laurent snapped. “As soon as they have targets I want them lighting them up.”

“Message to the Fleet,” I said my voice cracking like a whip as I spoke to the Comm. Section, “form up in the new anti-boat formation we’ve been practicing and prepare to clear the skies around us. The Phoenix will deal with the long range threats with whatever help the Light Cruiser can muster up.”

“Message going out now, Admiral,” Lisa Steiner said crisply.

“Also send a message to the two SDF Destroyers that are currently fleeing the main enemy force,” I instructed, “tell them they are to move under us at their soonest convenience, both in preparation to join our formation later and more immediately to place our Fleet between themselves and the droids.” “Aye, Admiral,” she said.

“Mr. Kong,” I spun my chair around to face him, “how likely are the Aqua Nova Destroyers to take orders and save their lives?”

“Aqua Nova is a signatory member world of the Mutual Defense Pact,” Representative and Sector Judge Kong Pao said after a short pause, “I feel certain they will listen to you and bend their course to place your forces between them and pursuit.”

“A diplomatic answer,” I scowled, “which I take to mean that after shoving off and leaving me to deal with this flotilla of droids that they’re liable do any blasted thing they feel like.” The answer was far from pleasing, but less than surprising as well.

“Sector 24 has been the least hit of our two Sectors and thus the immediacy of the threat has bee—” he began, but I cut him off.

“Enough of the mealy mouth—a threat doesn’t get much more immediate than what we’re facing right now,” I slashed my hand down and frowned at him, “I suppose it’s enough for now that we learn just how likely it is that even members of this MDL you’ve created will cooperate with us.”

“I’ve sent out copies of the diplomatic arrangements we have come to but that gives this particular member world little time to absorb it, while they no doubt have more important things to worry about,” Kong Pao said quickly.

“I don’t have time to debate you,” I said flatly, “either Aqua Nova can use the eyes Murphy and the Space Gods bestowed upon them, see us as fellow humans, and recognize the need to coordinate their defense with our actions…or they’re too influenced by paranoia and/or stupidity to live. We have neither the time, nor I the inclination, to hold their hands right at this particular moment.”

The Representative looked decidedly unhappy, but as this had been his default expression since being summoned to the bridge and finding us in the middle of a shooting war, it meant less than it might have at another time.

“Where is the officer from the Pride of Prometheus?” I snapped, jerking around to see that the Lieutenant I was looking for was actually an Ensign, “Ensign, get over here!”

“Yes, Sir, Admiral!” he replied loudly, running over to me and eagerly coming to full attention.

“What do you know about Aqua Nova from your part in Middleton’s crusade through this Sector?” I demanded abruptly.

“Not much at all really, Sir. We never came through here; we avoided the Core Worlds for the most part, and the Old Man—“ he colored, “I mean the, Captain, sir—”

“Thank you; that’ll be all, man,” I said waving him away with disappointment.

“Yes, sir,” he replied faintly, sounding bewildered.

Unfortunately—as I had just told the Representative—I didn’t have time for hand holding right now.

“What are the current enemy and friendly ship totals? And break it down for me by classifications,” I ordered.

“Here they come!” cried the Tactical Officer as the SDF Destroyers swerved around and behind us in a high speed maneuver.

Closely behind them came a wave of almost two hundred gunboats in a tight packed swarm, boats that had been chasing the SDF destroyers that had just ducked out behind us.

“Tell the Chief Gunner that Gunnery is to continue targeting those cruiser-sized mother-ships with the turbos,” shouted Laurent to Tactical, “and prepare the short range weaponry for close-in defense!” I nodded in support of this decision when I heard the Flag Captain mutter, “I sure hope those plasma cannons are everything Lesner says they are.”

I looked over at him with alarm. “What are you talking about?” I hissed at him.

Laurent looked over at me in surprise. “We replaced every laser under the power of a turbo with plasma cannons,” he said as though it was a well-known fact.

“What?!” I exclaimed, only belatedly lowering my voice, “I understood we had a weapons upgrade on the lasers and a few new weapons installed into the broadside, but I didn’t know every single laser was jerked,” I said, feeling more than a little upset.

“Captain’s prerogative,” Laurent said in a professionally unperturbed voice, “we crammed in as many turbo-lasers are we could and replaced everything else with the new, shorter-ranged, but much more rapidly-firing plasma cannons.”

“Installing untested weaponry when we’re going into the middle of a shooting war isn’t—,” I said angrily, although this time working to keep my voice down.

“The Chief Gunner and Chief Engineer both agreed to it, and Commander Spalding signed off on it when I spoke to him privately,” Laurent said with stiff patience. “And, as I said, it’s a Captain’s prerogative on what upgrades to take when offered the choice.”

“This is my Flagship and I specifically instructed that I be kept in the loop on every major upgrade, which this qualifies as—” I was cut off mid-tirade as the ship rocked.

“Shields down to 60% on the forward facings,” cried Mr. Longbottom at the Shields.

“We’re taking heavy fire from the three mother-ships, and at her speed the fourth is about to get into position for a firing run,” shouted the Tactical Officer.

Looking up, I saw dozens of enemy gunboats withering and dying under the weight of the laser defense of the many lighter ships in the MSP. One of the larger cruiser/mother-ships was experiencing severe spotting from the Phoenix’s overpowered turbo-laser barrage.

But for every gunboat we killed, another two seemed to fill its place. We were slaughtering them in job lots but still they came on, and what’s more, I didn’t think we were going to have the time to thin more than half to two thirds of them before the other sixty plus gunboats came to grips with us.

“New orders to the fleet,” I said, my orders coming out rapid fire, “every ship can maneuver for advantage until the remaining gunboats have been destroyed or moved beyond engagement range and started swinging back around for another pass.”

In the background I could hear the com-techs scurrying to relay my commands.

Lines of light streaked from all three cruisers straight at the Furious Phoenix, soon joined by the fourth.

“Port shield strength down to 38% and falling, we are experiencing extreme spotting,” Ensign Longbottom reported.

“Adjust shield power to compensate, man,” ordered Captain Laurent.

“I already am, sir,” cried the Ensign, “but even with these Imperial shields there’s only so much we can do against these siege weapons.”

“Steady on, Bridge Crew,” I said, standing up and stepping forward so that everyone had the chance to hear and see me from close range, “we’ve been in worse scrapes that this one and we’ll be in worse after this one.” All around me, the ship shuddered as enemy shots slammed through our shields striking home, “We’ll tune these droids up and leave them spinning dead in cold space before we’re through with them, just wait and see if we don’t!”

“Yes, Admiral!” replied an enthusiastic sensor operator.

“Damage control reports nothing has penetrated the outer hull; damage to the ship was minimal, sir,” called out the Engineering watch stander.

“Roll the ship,” shouted Laurent.

“But, sir, the turbo-lasers aren’t yet overheated,” objected Tactical, even as the Strike Cruiser we were in started taking hits from the gunboats and our plasma cannons almost instantly went from silent to rapid fire.

For a second I was taken aback by the multiple weapons’ tracks spewing from out hull. There were fewer lines than I expected, but each was spitting out a little ball of blazing energy and when they hit, gunboats started disappearing.

“Do as you are ordered, Helm,” Laurent repeated right before one of the three slow moving cruisers exploded into a raging ball of nuclear fury, “we’ve got to get some relief on those shields before we go from spotting to outright collapse. We don’t’ have time to reboot our shields in the middle of a running space battle.”

The crew cheered and the ship started to turn but not before the Furious Phoenix was rocked again as blasts from the capital ships slipped through our shields yet again.

“We just lost half of our forward sensors on the port side,” reported the Sensor Operators.

“Maneuvering jets are not responding on the port side,” DuPont said slewing the ship over and around as rapidly as he could, “it’s slowing the roll.”

“Complete the turn, Mr. DuPont; I don’t want my new paint scratched this early,” Laurent growled.

“Aye, Captain,” the Helmsman said shifting around in his seat as he struggled to turn the ship faster than was possible.

As the turn started to carry us through the arc, first one and then several of the turbo-lasers on the starboard side came into play.

The ship shuddered slightly. “A glancing blow just opened up the shuttle bay to vacuum,” reported the Damage Control technician, “initial reports say no sign of damage to the shuttles themselves, but they can’t do a full survey until they suit up and inspect them personally.”

I lifted an eyebrow in surprise at this but quickly shook it off—I had a battle to fight.

“Squadron One is to spin and continue harassing the remaining gunboats,” I instructed. “Have them take up a position directly behind the rest of the Fleet to reduce the risk of engine damage, while Squadron’s Two and Three are to redirect all fire to the oncoming gunboats around the fourth mother-ship, after which they are to assist with anti-mother-ship attacks,” I said, knowing the second, smaller wave of gunboats was only seconds away.

Seconds later a flurry of orders flew from the Phoenix’s Comm. Section.

“Starboard Shield currently at 70% and falling,” reported Ensign Longbottom as the ship completed its roll.

Rocked by too many turbo-laser hits, the mother-ship—labeled ‘#3’ on the tactical display—experienced a series of explosions along the length of the ship that broke its backbone, which elicited a cheer from the bridge.

“All ships on anti-mother-ship duties are to redirect fire to mother-ship #1,” I cried, pumping my fist.

Another wave of fighters came close on the heels of the destruction of the enemy cruiser, and along with it came the fourth mother-ship. As soon as it came into its firing arc, its six-pronged, forward facing laser beams drilled into our shields.

“Shields falling to 58% and spotting on the Starboard side!” exclaimed Longbottom.

The rapidly moving mother-ship not only wasn’t able to turn away from our fleet formation in time, to gain some distance and hold out the range, it apparently had no intention of doing so, charging straight into us. An interesting aside which I noted for later review was the fact that not all of these droid mother-ships were firing the antimatter-fueled siege weapons—if they had, even with the modifications we had made to the Phoenix’s shields, we would have been forced to guard our diminished shield facings already.

“All lasers are ordered to redirect toward mother-ship #4 on an emergency basis,” my Flag Captain roared. “Plasma cannons that can bear on gunboats are to stay on those targets—and tell them to watch out for the rest of the Fleet; we don’t need any friendly fire incidents.”

“Here it comes!” cried the Tactical Officer.

“Fire, blast your eyes!” Eastwood raged into his microphone down to the Gun Deck.

The enemy mother-ship’s spinal mount was joined by at least fifty of the light lasers scattered all over its outer hull all of them blazing away at the Phoenix.

“She’s coming straight for us!” shouted Shepherd from his position at the Navigation console. “I think she might be trying to ram.”

“Evasive maneuvers, Mr. DuPont,” I snapped, grabbing onto the arm rest of the command chair for dear life.

“Hold onto your backsides!” cried the Helmsman, and a moment later you could tell he’d slammed the throttle fully open by the slight, fluttery sensation in the belly as I was gently pressed back into my chair. An instant later the grav-plates stabilized—one of the perks of a top of the line Imperial grav-system—and I could only tell how fast we were going by looking at the main-screen.

“This is going to be close,” said the Warrant in charge of Sensors.

“I have every faith in the competence of our Helm and Gunnery Departments,” Captain Laurent said into the tension-filled bridge as the mother-ship, which had just slingshot around the nearest Jovian’s moon, rapidly grew in our screen and I had to suppress a sarcastic thought.

Not having any better ideas and—even knowing that if they rammed us at this speed I was more likely to be crushed into a small blood spatter splat between two walls—I still surreptitiously secured the safety strap built into the chair around my waist and held on for dear life.

Chapter 36: On the Gun Deck

“I want you to make every shot count,” the Chief Gunner screamed hoarsely.

“Aye, Chief!” screamed the nearest Gunners on their gun mounts, the sound reverberating through the deck.

“Starboard side, fire everything you’ve got until your crystals overheat if you have to, but we’ve got to keep that droid ship off us!” he raged into the handheld com-unit that linked into the overhead speakers built into this Imperial-style gun deck. He then spun the switch, changing his channel from one connecting to the starboard deck to one connecting to port, “And you lazy lot on the port side, if that ship makes it past these slackers on the starboard without being blown up or ramming us I want you to target their engines and give ’em what for!”

A wordless roar came back over the com-unit.

Lasers screamed and the new plasma cannon spat great balls of fire the noise filling the deck until the Chief Gunners bones were practically vibrating with it.

“Space Balls!” shouted a Gunner, waving his hands and jumping out of his chair as a pall of smoke started pouring out the front of his gun several feet behind him. “It’s the focusing array,” he yelled, jumping off the gun.

Grabbing the nearest grease-monkey Lesner pointed toward the nearest repair shop.

“I’ll get another focusing crystal,” the Chief Gunner shouted and swung his finger back to the abandoned gun-mount, “you get the Assistant Gunner to pull out the old one.”

“Aye, Chief,” the young crewman said jumping with excitement.

The Chief Gunner ran in and snapped up a spare focusing crystal, stockpiled for just this reason and ran back for the mount.

He had just cleared the door of the repair shop when there was a loud, cracking sound followed by screaming.

Running up to the gun, he saw the mount’s Assistant Gunner lying motionless on the ground with crystal shards protruding from his face and chest. The man was clearly dead. But a not-quite-dead grease-monkey was rolling around on the floor beside the man and clutching his face as blood pooled on the deck from his wound.

“Medic!” the Chief Gunner shouted, stepping over the poor lad he’d sent to into harm’s way with the now-deceased Assistant Gunner.

“He-el-p,” the boy half shrieked, half glugged clutching at the Chief Gunner’s leg.

“The medics are on the way, boy,” Lesner said jerking his leg loose. He got half a step before the boy grabbed him again. With a curse and a kick he freed himself, “I said ‘the medics are on their way,’ boy! Now shove off,” he shouted, his heart breaking inside him at the sight of the boy’s condition. There simply was no time to coddle the boy; any moment now, that droid ship could ram or destroy them with a surprise missile barrage. He’d called the medics and that was all he could do until he found out whether the gun was repairable or not.

Stepping up to the opened breach containing the focusing array, he saw that the thing had overheated and, when it had been opened too quickly and exposed to the unsealed air of the gun deck, it had ruptured.

“It’s my own Murphy-cursed fault,” he castigated himself for forgetting how untrained his gun crews were. They knew how to fight their weapons, but unlike the more seasoned gun-crews he was used to back in the SDF, these boys and girls hadn’t yet learned all the ins and outs of servicing their weapons. “I should have called a repair team,” he rebuked himself, even knowing in the back of his head that if faced with the very same problem as soon as he walked away from this weapon he’d do the same thing again.

In a battle between capital ships, the guns were life. Even so much as a five second difference in getting a turbo-laser back in action could mean the difference between everyone onboard your ship living and dying.

“The bridge crew might think they’re the most important part of this battle but without these guns this ship don’t be nothing but a sitting target,” he said, slapping on the thick rubber gloves hanging off his belt and hardening his heart to the piteous mewling going on behind him.

Taking a deep breath, he shoved his hands into the still-smoking breech, knowing that some of the superheated crystal could still be inside and explode in his face just like with the Assistant Gunner. But he didn’t hesitate.

“You there, Gunner,” he snapped, grabbing hold of a crystal before reefing it out and hurling as far away as a quick toss could manage, just in case it had any intention of blowing up in his face.

“Yeah, Chief, I’m here,” the other man said hiding behind the corner of his gun.

“Think you’re too good to get your hands dirty on your own gun, man?” he bellowed with mock outrage. After all, only a fool—or a good Gunner—would run into close proximity of an exploding weapon.

“No, Chief,” the man exclaimed hesitantly coming around into full view, “just trying not to get killed.”

“Don’t worry, boy,” the Chief Gunner cried, pulling out as many little chunks of focusing crystal as he could as quickly as they could come, “if you take a hit there’s plenty of assistants dying to take your place. So get the blazes over here for some repair and maintenance 101; you’re not indispensable but this turbo sure is!”

“Aye, Chief,” the man replied, taking a big gulp.

With the help of the other man he managed to get the majority of the crystal fragments out and clear enough smoke to see the amount of damage done inside the breech.

“Sweet Murphy’s ointment,” the Chief Gunner cursed, tearing off his rubber gloves, “she’s wrecked for our purposes. It’ll be at least a half hour job to change out the connectors. If we try to hook a new crystal in she’ll blow again for sure—this time probably taking the entire gun with her.”

“It doesn’t look that bad, Chief,” the Gunner beside him said doubtfully.

“The contacts aren’t just scarred, they’re cracked. Guns can take some general wearing and still fire, but not like this; call for a repair team…” then he looked around and cursed. There should have been a repair team there already.

The laggards and the medic team came running up even as he was thinking about them.

“Speak of the devil, and his slacking imps come running up at the last minute,” he growled. “Take care of this,” he shouted over his shoulder to the two teams, gesturing vaguely toward the dying grease-monkey and the damaged laser.

He couldn’t wait around any longer on a gun that wouldn’t be fixed in time. If that turbo would have been the difference between victory and defeat then they were blasted, and it was going to be up to the rest of his gun-crews to make up the slack.

“Come on!!” he raged into his com-set. “I need accuracy and precision; place those shots like you mean it men. I don’t have time to hold your hands like you were still in kindergarten.”

Chapter 37: The Hand Over

Being frog-marched from the little storage room they’d been barricaded in for so long they had almost killed one another wasn’t a process designed to instill anything but raw, unreasoning panic.

The Lancers had only waited long enough for them to throw on their clothes and pack up their gear—or have it packed up in the Princess’s case—as she’d been too busy yelling at the crewmen’s impassive faces. Or, ‘crewwomen’ in the case of one short, thick, fireplug of a Lancer with sharp, Asiatic features.

“I’m a Sector Representative with diplomatic immunity, you can’t treat me like this,” Bethany argued to the unresponsive escort and tugging futilely against the hands holding her arms, “manhandling me is unacceptable. I insist you let me go and tell me where you are taking me at once!”

She continued on in that vein for some time before being interrupted.

“You can’t do this; I’m on a diplomatic mission to—“ she seemed intent on wearing them down by gnawing their ears off with a flurry of words, when the powerfully-built woman holding her finally grunted with irritation.

“You keep using this word, ‘can’t’,” the fireplug, female Lancer said in thickly-accented Confederation standard, “I think it means different than you think.” As if to accentuate her point, she forcibly prodded Bethany down the corridor hard enough that the Royalist would have fallen on her face if she hadn’t taken several more steps toward their destination.

There was a moment of shocked silence, as if Bethany was amazed to finally have received an answer, then her whole demeanor seemed to sharpen as if by these words she’d found some kind of chink in their armor.

“I’m a Princess-Cadet from the same world as your Admiral, Jason Montagne. You must—” the Bethany started, but her guard was in no mood pulling her forward until she was half a step in front of her. The absurdly thick, muscular, female Lancer then placed both hands on Princess’s arms and squeezed hard enough to evoke a short squeal from Bethany’s lips.

“I must break it?” she asked, again in heavily-accented Confederation standard. “This arm?” she clarified, speaking with slow, loud words, as if to an idiot as she raised Bethany’s left arm.

“Well, I never,” Bethany said wide-eyed with amazement.

“Silence—now,” said the other woman, flexing her arms slightly.

The Princess-cadet winced and acquiesced, continuing down the corridor in an all-too-obvious attempt to relieve the pain which the thickly-built woman had inflicted with little more than a squeeze of her fingers on Bethany’s biceps.

Tremblay was silently amused; it wasn’t often that someone got to see their betters treated as they deserved and still remain stringently loyal to the Parliamentary-approved code of an officer and a gentleman. But in this rare case, the powers that be had rewarded him.

Stumbling in pain, Bethany’s hand crept upward toward her hair.

“Try to stick me and this one breaks your hand,” the Lancer said irritably, “this one reads reports.”

“Fine,” Bethany said with ill humor, and ceased her less-than-covert attempt to pull out her hair stick.

That hair stick had been one of the most potent reminders of the benefits of good behavior when they’d been stuck in the storage room and the Royal had been at her vocal worst. Tremblay also knew what those hair sticks could do, and he wanted nothing to do with them.

Finally they stopped moving through the ship and stopped outside the lock of a type any spacer worth his salt—and even most neophytes of whatever persuasion—were very familiar with, if from nothing but holo-vids, and his blood ran cold.

“What is this?” Bethany asked coldly.

The Captain of the ship appeared from a side corridor and came to a stop in front of them.

“You’re putting us in an escape pod?” Tremblay asked numbly, images of being put off the ship to drift in some out of the way inhabited system until the air went bad, the oxygen ran out, or they starved to death flitted through his brain.

Barring extreme luck—such as a potentially inhabitable planet or a passing merchant ship taking mercy on them—they could drift until they died if that was the plan. The Space Gods knew Jason Montagne might find it a fitting end for a man who’d first betrayed him and then saved his life, putting him in a healing tank when there was little chance he would make it

But that said nothing of the female cousin who had tried to kill his wife, stabbed him in the back, and then assisted in publically assassinating the Admiral’s character while he was on the trial for his life—a trial he had lost, due to which he had been subsequently scheduled for execution.

“So this is his plan: to maroon me in some out of the way uninhabited star system,” Bethany said bitterly. “I don’t know why I’m surprised that this mission with the droids was all a farce from the get go. Although why it took you so long to reach a place to drop us off baffles me. Perhaps you hoped that if we were cooped up with only the two of us for company we would kill each other,” the Princess-cadet smiled sweetly, “sorry to disappoint you.”

“We aren’t putting you off the ship as castaways,” Captain Middleton growled, “your mission goes forward. We’ll drop you off and leave the system—only after that will the droids risk picking you up.”

“A likely story; one that even if we are found later will only go to prove the duplicity of the droid tribes and not that of Flat Nose, my oh-so-beloved Montagne cousin,” Bethany said her voice dripping with scorn.

“I neither care what you think, nor what you have to say,” Middleton said coldly before handing each of them a data slate, “inside this is a copy of everything in our database that might help you on your mission. What little we have is yours and it’s in there—one for each of you.”

Bethany opened her mouth, probably to say something scathing, and the Captain threatened to have her gagged before continuing to speak. But Tremblay wasn’t really paying any attention at that point while he contemplated the reality of what was about to happen to him: he was going to be put in an escape pod, dropped in cold space, and left for the droids!

Middleton gave them a brief run-down on what little they knew, and what they were supposed to do to ensure the droids didn’t get suspicious and blow their unarmed escape pod to pieces.

There was more said between the two of them, but Tremblay tuned them out. Whether it was death by slow starvation, or poisoned air, or by handing him over to the Machines, Admiral Montagne was getting his revenge. The chance that either he or Bethany surviving the tender mercies of one of the machine types that gave rise to the phrase ‘Man not Machine’ was so small in his mind as to be infinitesimal.

Yet at the same time he knew exactly what the droids being pointed like a knife to Sector 25’s gut—and the Caprian star system—meant. It meant that if the chance of diverting their ire, even temporarily, was real then he couldn’t take the easy way out and die from attacking his captors straight out.

Suicide by machine was an honorable enough way out, so long as he could take even one of them with him. After all, enough men and women in ancient times had done the same thing in order to buy time for friends, family and loved ones to escape the menace that doing the same was almost a patriotic duty. Yet Jason had seen fit to deny him even that small satisfaction.

So when the Captain finished speaking, and the Lancers under his command prodded them into the escape pod and ejected them, Tremblay didn’t complain.

He did smile, however, when they had to literally toss his fellow cellmate into the pod—and that smile broadened as she landed teakettle over spout with the lower half of her dress falling up and over her head.

Even her furious look and scathing tongue did little to ruin the moment.

“Well I’m glad someone liked seeing me get tossed into the shuttle like part of the luggage when all I was trying to do was keep us alive,” Bethany shouted at him.

“This is an escape pod we’re in, Princess, not a shuttle,” Tremblay said scathingly, “try to keep your facts straight. Making these kinds of mistakes will let anyone who’s trained for duty in space know you’re completely inexperienced.”

“I’m sorry if I bore you or appear to be an uninterested space novice while I’m trying to save our lives,” Bethany snapped.

“Our lives are in the tender embrace of cold space, and before too long we’ll be transferred into the hands of the droids,” Tremblay said savagely. “There was nothing you could say to the Captain and crew of that ship that was ever going to change that.”

“I will not go down this easily; if I have to charm these droids out of their chassis then that is what I will do,” Bethany said spitting as she spoke.

“Better work on your bedside manner then, because it could use some serious improvement,” Tremblay said evenly.

“I don’t recall you complaining the last time ‘the bedside’ and my ‘manner’ entered the conversation,” Bethany said flatly, “I think it’s been proven that I can be as charming as the situation calls for.”

Tremblay looked at her and then shook his head, wearily getting up to go check on the limited cockpit they put into these escape pods. He would do anything for a few moments of temporary reprieve. As he’d learned over the past two years: if you can’t kill them, placate them until you could either get away or return the favor. And showing up to the droids in an escape pod with the murdered corpse of his fellow ambassador wasn’t a good way to start any new relationship.

Chapter 38: The Aqua Nova Blitz

The droid mother-ship came screaming towards us, but a last moment surge of the engines to beyond full military power—and a radical direction change—sent them careening past us. Seconds later the starboard gun crews threw enough weight of laser and plasma fire into her heavily-spotting shields to lance through and hit her engines.

First one, and then three, and then over a dozen strikes landed on the droid mother-ship’s engines when suddenly there was a flash. The engines had exploded, taking the back quarter of the droid ship with it.

“Yee-haw!” bellowed First Officer Eastwood as a chain reaction up the spine of the droid ship broke its back and took it out of the fight. It was nothing more than a heavily-damaged enemy ship rapidly moving from us and from the remaining battle for the system, “She’s gone Dutchman!”

“Let her drift; we’ve still got two mother-ships to deal with,” I ordered, my eyes tracking furiously across the screen, “what’s the latest count on the remaining enemy gunboats?”

“Including the ones that came around on the slingshot maneuver, the count is seventy nine enemy gunboats still operational with over half of them—really, closer to two thirds—still following the Dutchman at high speed.”

“They could come around at any time,” I growled as I glared at the two remaining mother-ships; they were the real problems here.

No sooner had I thought that than the icon representing one of my corvettes started blinking and a yellow icon appearing around her.

“The Captain of the MSP Corvette Swift Drake reports hull damage to his starboard side and internal structure. He says they’re venting into space and having trouble controlling the bleed. Apparently an enemy gunboat flew out of control after a laser strike and rammed them. They’ve lost their starboard shield generator and half their starboard broadside,” Lisa Steiner reported, running down the list of damage to the Corvette.

“That’s good enough for now, Communications,” I interrupted cutting her off before turning back to the screen.

As the Phoenix and Fleet continued to burn our engines for all they were worth wide and to the side of the two remaining droid ships, the enemy continued to pour the output of their main beams into the starboard shields of our Strike Cruiser.

“Starboard shields now at 52% and falling,” Longbottom called out in a tension filled voice, “all power from the portside is being rerouted to the starboard side but we’re still starting to experience some spotting!”

“How much longer until we pull out of range of the spinal lasers on those mother-ships, Mr. DuPont?” I demanded harshly.

“We’re pulling away, Admiral, but those blasted droids are holding us in their engagement range longer than I thought,” the Helmsman said tautly.

“Blast!” I scowled at the screen, and now that we were beyond all but a few straggling gunboats every ship in the fleet was firing on those two droid ships. Seeing the light cruiser and the two destroyers adding their weight of fire was encouraging, but it wasn’t happening fast enough for my taste. I wanted to pull us outside the range of these droid’s slow ships and pound them from a distance with our turbos. Forget the rest of the fleet; with her upgraded long range punch the Furious Phoenix could manhandle those two ships all by her lonesome.

“Do what you can to get us clear as quickly as possible, without,” Captain Laurent said, stressing that last word, “exposing our engines to droid laser strikes, Helmsman.”

“Aye, sir,” DuPont said with relief, “we’ll be out of range in another two minutes.”

I pursed my lips. As far as I was concerned that was two minutes too long.

“We’re going to take damage in battle, Admiral,” Laurent reminded me, as if wasn’t already aware of this fact.

“This isn’t my first space rodeo, Captain,” I shot back and then took a deep breath and popped my neck, “but your point is well taken.”

Just then a powerful, six-pronged laser strike from the spinal mount of the nearest of the droid mother-ships broke through our shields.

“Laser strike on the rear starboard facing; they’re trying for the engines just like you thought, sir,” reported Tactical.

I glared at the Flag Captain and then turned my furious gaze back on the droids where it belonged. I couldn’t afford to have this ship shot out from under me. She was tough and she had shields nearly as strong as a Dreadnaught Class, but she wasn’t a battleship and her hull couldn’t stand up to nearly as much punishment as I was used to.

I hadn’t realized until then how much that knowledge was knocking me off my game.

“No significant damage to the ship,” Damage Control reported after several tense seconds, “it looks like all it did was scorch the duralloy; nothing more, sirs.”

The breath whooshed out of me and I wasn’t sure if it was just me or if the bridge felt a little relieved at the report.

“This ship is fleet of foot and she can take a hit, Admiral,” Laurent advised me quietly.

“This is a medium cruiser, Captain,” I grunted, careful to keep my voice down, “and no matter how fast she is, right now we’re in a slugfest and speed counts for little. She can’t take the kind of damage we’re used to absorbing, Laurent.” I hoped I didn’t sound as worried as I felt when I said this.

Laurent grimaced and then shrugged. “She’s no battleship, but she is a top-of-the-line Strike Cruiser measuring a full four hundred fifty meters from stem to stern. And between you and me, sir, with that girdle the Chief Engineer slapped around her middle—that Duralloy II,” he stressed, “not to mention our weapons upgrades—I’d say the Phoenix would qualify for Heavy Cruiser Status in any halfway decent shipyard at this point, no question. Barring a few lucky hits like on the shuttle bay, it’s going to take more than just a few hits to get through all that duralloy.”

I still wasn’t pleased with the situation, especially when another hit blasted through our shields scorching a line along our starboard side a fourth of the way down our hull from the forward section to the middle-top of the ship before cutting out, but it helped.

“We’re clearing the enemy’s estimated spinal laser range right now, sir,” reported the Tactical Officer.

Of course getting back out of range of the enemy lasers helped even more than the pep talk did, I thought with a smile.

“Blast if these droid ships aren’t slow, Admiral,” the Helmsman said with a shake of his head, “they’re almost as slow as freighter!”

“That’s good for us,” I said with a nod and turned to the First Officer at his position in Tactical, possessively clutching his microphone down to the Gunnery section. “Tell Gunnery to pour it onto those mother-ships while the Helmsman keeps us out of their range. I want to wrap the last of this enemy division up before heading deeper in system. We’ve already swept up most of their gunboats, now that we’ve pulled their teeth it’s time to crush the jaw that spat them out.”

“Will do, Admiral,” Eastwood said with a growl.

I leaned back in my chair and considered the situation’s myriad variables.

Chapter 39: No Escape in the Escape Pod

“How long is this going to take?” Bethany demanded, sitting down primly in one of the acceleration couches built into the side of the escape pod, the tone of her voice at dire odds with her face and body posture. Of course, she chose the one right next to the pilot’s chair, or at least what passed for a pilot’s chair in the pod, so she’d be right in his ear.

“It takes as long as it takes, Princess,” Tremblay said, flashing her a smile that went unreturned before said smile quickly wilted.

“There’s no need to be rude or short with me, Lieutenant,” the Princess-cadet-cum-Sector Representative said strictly.

“Sorry,” he said, ducking his head and wonder why he did so even as he straightened back up, “but our job is to sit and wait. Only the Droids know when they’re going to show up to pick us up…” he frowned down at the pod’s limited sensor suite before muttering, “if they plan to pick us up.”

“Is that pessimism I smell?” Bethany sniffed. “If so, take it somewhere else; this mission will be a success.”

“Gonna wave your magic wand, are you?” the Intelligence officer snorted. “Besides, I don’t know if you’ve noticed yet but other than the head there’s nowhere private in this pod.

Bethany opened her mouth for a doubtless scathing retort when the sensor suite lit up like a Christmas tree indicating that the pod was being scanned by targeting systems. They were being scanned!

Tremblay’s mouth went dry as what had to be the largest ship he’d seen—outside of a Settlement ship—showed up on the pods relatively myopic sensor suite.

“Sweet, crying Murphy,” he breathed.

“I knew we wouldn’t have to wait long,” Bethany said with such confidence that he glanced at her with disbelief.

The faintest look of uncertainty flitted off her face as he looked at her and in an instant it was gone as if it had never been and her mouth made a thin line.

Lifting her chin, she stared down her nose at him until he turned away. “This is a diplomatic mission and I am the Diplomat. As such I will be in charge of this contact and you will be my military attaché,” Bethany informed him, as if by simply saying it she made it true.

While her words and tone rubbed him the wrong way, if there was one thing the Intelligence Officer had learned during his time in the service of two separate Montagne’s it was this: the nail that stuck its head up got pounded down.

He cocked his head. “Suits me down to the ground, your Worship,” he said with a blank face and turned on the pod’s communications suite. It was time to see if they could increase the odds of surviving at least long enough to get on the droid ship.

Chapter 40: It’s a Spalding

“All hands: brace for impact,” had rung through the speakers in the Locker less than five minutes earlier, but now, once again, an emergency siren sounded.

Growling with irritation, the old Engineer marched over and slammed the button to silence the irritating sound and did so hard enough to leave a dent.

“Confounded noise operators don’t know when to leave an old man in peace,” he snarled at the now silent console. It was outrageous, that’s what it was! The Locker was a secret place and supposed to be isolated from the rest of the ship—and in its previous life that’s exactly what it had been. But while no one else onboard the ship could look inside and see what was going on inside, the same was not as true when it came to looking out.

The gad-blasted sirens and klaxons sounding all over the place were set to give him a headache. “They should never have installed you,” he shouted at the irritating piece of technology, and once again seriously considered removing it—along with the rest of the speakers on the half-deck. Of course, that would have taken too much time away from his current projects so he once again dropped the idea. He would just have to keep it in his hip pocket though.

Irritated beyond his ability to cope, the old engineer clomped over to the very same console he’d just decried and called up a pair of images. The first was of what, exactly, was going on outside the ship while the other showed Main Engineering.

“A Fleet action, is it?” he said, his eyes widening and for half a moment the blood started flowing. They needed him down there! He started strapping back on his tool belt and snatched up his plasma torch, but then his eyes snagged on the view from Main Engineering—a scene over which Junior was standing tall and issuing orders like something resembling a proper Chief Engineer—and he deflated.

The sound and faint shudders as those newfangled plasma cannons went to full rock and roll for the second…or was it third time today? Well, however many times they had fired their aftermath left him feeling just, plain, old.

“I would have killed to get my hands on this Imperial tech back in the day,” he sighed wistfully. In fact, if he were on his beloved Lucky Clover he would have been industriously installing every new one of the bits and pieces he could have fit into, or on, the old girl—but, of course, he wasn’t onboard his ship. Every moment he looked around reminded him of that inescapable fact.

“I used to think that walking around a place where everything was subtly wrong was the worst torture a man could experience…but I was wrong,” he declared kicking, the wall hard enough that the resulting clang of his droid legs impacting the wall left a dent. “It’s all this mono-Locsium-based, fleet-footed little racing sled we’re stuck in. Why, in a way, it’s almost as bad as being stuck inside a Station!”

He nodded wisely to his own words and despite themselves his eyes turned back to the view in engineering and his finger twitched, showing their eagerness to go and get his hands dirty.

“Nope! Can’t do it,” he declared fiercely, “it wouldn’t be right to go and step all over the boy’s toes while he’s still getting’ his feet wet. This might be his only chance to be the official Chief Engineer of a warship, and besides, his old Pa is just another glorified supernumerary,” he snorted and firmly turned away. Barring battle damage near his duty station down in the Locker, he wasn’t about to budge. “Can’t do it to him,” he declared a second time as he felt himself wavering from his previously steadfast position. After all, he reminded himself, his shoulders slumping, the boy might never get another chance to run an engineering department and old Spalding was too wise to know he’d be anything but a burr under the skin in any department Tiberius was running. Having a supernumerary under foot was an irritation no cream could cure, it was the itch a man just couldn’t scratch, the…

“Besides…he’s dead to me,” he said his voice breaking as he considered the likelihood that his boy had a plan to take control of this ship in the name of that accursed Parliament. A tear rolled down his single, remaining, non-droid eye. “Of course the boy has a plan—I raised the lad,” he muttered before silently correcting, well, at least some of the time.

O’ course when the young one took his step and made his move, an engineer twice as wily and with ten times the experience would have no choice but to be ready and waiting to put him down like the rabid, mutinous dog he would prove himself to be. Another tear rolled down his cheek, this one unnoticed by the aged engineer.

“Nope, can’t take away the lad’s moment to shine,” he said, his shoulders slumping as he turned back to the secret project squirreled away on the half-deck. He knew all too well the fires that burned in a misguided mind like the boy’s; after all, he’d been young once his own self. Having the Old Man down barking orders and generally raining on the parade would spoil the moment for anyone.

Resolutely, he returned to the worktable in his own private hangar and bent down to pick up an oversized duralloy plate and toss it over his shoulders. Even having his strength back, he barely managed it but he was in a might bit of a mood and the clang as it landed behind him barely registered.

Once again, his eyes swept the pile of armor parts scattered before him and he wondered how those fools back on Gambit figured he could make an entire suit of power armor out of Duralloy II. The tolerances just didn’t work the same way; it didn’t have as much bend and give to it as the older Mark I stuff.

He shook his head piteously. Why, it was just plain impossible, that’s what it was; they weren’t going to be able to put in just one factory onto making a new design of power armor. They were going to have to build one for each and every piece of the articulated suit….well, a line for several pieces probably, but even so that was just plum dumb.

And besides that, they didn’t have the resources back at Gambit to squander building a dedicated factory for every piece of armor in a battle suit!

The ship rocked and shuddered around him, letting any fool onboard her with two brain cells to rub together know that the shields had taken a right beating if shots were getting through. But he rolled with the motion, hardly even noticing the motion. And, o’ course, why should he notice? That mono-Locsium might be strong and thin, but the Duralloy girdle he had slapped around her midsection to cover up the damaged sections was nice and thick—the proper dimensions for any lady worthy of the title!

At first he had thought they could just machine the individual parts in a full service workshop, like they had in the Clover—at least for limited runs. But that hadn’t panned out like he had thought it would. For a substance twice as strong as the old stuff, it took ten times as long to rework it which just slowed everything down.

If only there were a way to work it that wasn’t so labor-or factory-intensive…but the more he looked for high-tech solutions, the more impossible the idea seemed—at least in practice. In theory it worked just fine.

Then he snapped his fingers as he had a Murphy-blessed epiphany: maybe he’d been looking at it all wrong! Had he fallen into the trap of looking for a miracle solution in all the tech goodies—like certain Chief Engineers who should remain nameless, but just so happened to reside on this ship? Not only did the nameless one reside there, but he had installed virtually untested plasma cannons into this ship’s broadside while an old man was busy transferring designs and setting up work crews for his old ship?

He slammed a fist down on the table, knowing that when the new tech failed to provide a solution, an engineer had to get creative and look into his bag of tricks.

He had to get…old school.

Yep, that was exactly it; he didn’t need a miracle cure. He needed a solution like he’d done with the Phoenix: an old, upgraded substance to cover up the patches and problems with a top-of-the-line, but damaged, Imperial cruiser.

Or rather, his eyes lighted up, what I need is exactly the opposite. I don’t need to build a whole new suit out of Duralloy II; I just need to modify an old power suit with a duralloy chassis!

He rolled the thought around, laying out the framework for a solution which had been staring him in the face since he’d set foot on the Furious Phoenix. He could strip the outer armor off the older unit and replace it with Duralloy II or, if that proved too problematic, he could simply bond the stronger, less malleable stuff to the outside of the older armor.

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I’m onto somethin’ here…” he mused. The old power systems were strong enough to handle an increased load, or could be made to do so with slight modifications. And while it might be best to make newer, lighter plates of old duralloy with special, flat surfaces to bond the harder plates to, they could just do a slap and dash to start with for what the eggheads liked to call ‘proof of concept.’ When they got back he could have the factories turn out specially designed under-armor of the old, plain, Duralloy and then bond the new, upgraded material to the outside!

Muttering happily under his breath, he snatched up the data slate with all his designs to date and deleted the whole lot of them. Then, typing and drawing furiously, he started to work up a whole new concept. Instead of trying to design and build a whole new suit, he would instead just take the existing suits and upgrade them. If the series ended with a Caprian Battle Suit Series 2 Mark D, then the new suits would be the Series 2 Mark E modification. “Yes, that will do nicely,” he muttered as a gleam entered his eye. Of course the power assist systems would have to be beefed up.

Whistling happily to himself, the old engineer set about breathing new life into an old design.

“Course…if we’re making an upgrade, those Imperial suits we saw back in the First Battle for Easy Haven had built-in blasters on the forearms of their suits. I figure the boys over in the Lancer corps will want an answer to that,” he muttered, putting a stylus in his mouth and chewing on the end. “Anything they can do, we can do as good or better—so long as we’re not trying to race them to the top of the tech pile.”

With new fire in his eyes, the old engineer pulled out an old-style, Caprian, suit of the same design as he’d hidden away onboard the Lucky Clover originally. He loaded the cumbersome suit onto a cart and wheeled it out of the hangar’s corner where it had been stowed.

“I’m sure the Admiral would like to have a new suit, seeing as how the old one was destroyed,” he said, activating his multi-tool before stripping off the outer plates. Realizing what he’d done, he stared down at his own hand with horror and disgust, “You know…back in the old days if a man’s hand offended him, he’d cut it off!” he declared angrily, turning back to the bench and snatching up the right tools for the job.

He also pointedly didn’t think about the fact that when the old lunatics who used to cut off hands back on the home world talked about cutting off the hands that offended them, they were usually talking about other people’s hands—not their own.

So while the battle raged around him for control of the system, the old engineer launched into a battle of his own: a battle to produce power armor that could not only stand up to the best the Imperials had to offer—as seen during the First Battle for Easy Haven—but could even beat them.

At least, they would if old Papa Spalding had anything to say about it!

Chapter 41: For all the Aqua-colored Marbles

I was wishing all I had to do was stand outside of range, maintain his distance, and blow those last two mother-ships to kingdom come.

Everything was converging on the Star System’s Primary Planet, and the upcoming battle was going to be for all the marbles. It was going to be a race between the sloth-like engines of the enemy droids and the best speed of an Imperial Strike Cruiser to determine whether they would arrive in the middle of the grand battle…or shortly after it.

“No mother-ships identified, but I have escort elements moving into a position between us and Aqua Prime; there are over three hundred of them and they’re slowing down for an intercept, Admiral,” reported the Tactical Officer.

I nodded to signal receipt of the message and turned to the helm.

“Work up the numbers with Mr. Shepherd over in Navigation, Mr. DuPont,” I ordered brusquely, “and wait until the last minute. Then move to evade; I don’t mind hitting the outer edge of their formation with our turbo-lasers and give Gunnery something to focus on for a while but I have no interest in staving off boat-strikes if they take it into their mechanical heads that the cost/benefit analysis indicates attempts to ram are the most economical use of their forces.”

“Aye, Admiral,” the Helmsman replied.

“And coms, get me someone to talk to,” I snapped, rounding on Warrant Officer Steiner and her new partners in crime, “ye Space Gods, we’ve been in system for several hours now and I’ve not heard so much as one peep out of system command!”

“Everything’s been encrypted, sir,” Steiner said hastily, “it’s not that they’re not talking, it’s just they’re not talking with us. But I’ll send out a new hail, Sir.”

“You do that,” I said waving her off abruptly, “talk to the MDL Representative and get his codes, or even put Kong Pao on the line himself—I don’t care how you do it. In fact, why am I the one who has to tell you how to do it? That’s your job; just get someone on the line.”

“Aye-aye, Admiral,” Steiner repeated, and I could tell she wanted to say something but wisely held her tongue.

How I hated being left out of the loop to stumble around in the dark. “And where are those ingrates we saved from certain death?” I snapped.

“The two destroyers are on a divergent course that keeps them well away from our formation. But they are headed toward their home world at what we estimate is their best speed, Admiral,” Laurent reminded me.

I knew I’d already been told—heck, I could see it for myself on the screen right that moment—but I was incensed. When I saved a man’s—or woman’s—life, the very least I expected from them was that they would talk to me if I felt the urge to speak. Barring muteness or extreme physical or emotional trauma, of course.

“They may have sustained damage to their comm. arrays,” my Flag Captain helpfully pointed out.

“Both of them?” I asked flatly, and then turned up my nose, giving the absurd idea the merit it so richly deserved, “far more likely it seems to me that ingratitude knows no political boundaries.”

“Sir,” Laurent replied stepping back.

Long minutes passed without anything of note as the MSP Fleet and our Droid Foes continued diving in toward Aqua Prime.

Time passed as we sprinted from the outer system into the inner planets, and my frustration continued to grow in the communication silence I found myself in.

“I have a response to the hail,” Lisa Steiner said, and for a split second I just stared at her dumbly, unable to process her words. Then I snapped out of it.

“What do they have to say for themselves?” I said, my gaze sharpening and then motion toward the screen. “Put it up if they sent a visual.”

“They did, sir,” she acknowledged, and moments later the image of a powerfully-built, surprisingly fat, man appeared on the main screen.

I took a moment to take in his appearance; he was wearing some kind of quasi-silk tunic and cape of similar, but slightly offset, dark blues and had a chain of office around his neck.

“To the Tyrant of Cold Space, also known as Admiral Jason Montagne, we send our greetings. I am Senior Select Grierson of Aqua Nova. Our sensor network has monitored your fighting in defense of our lovely, blue world and despite our suspicions, two of our own warships—the destroyers Kestrel and Falcon—personally observed this action. As such, they are able to vouch that these events occurred and are neither ploys of the droids, nor the result of sensor feeds being hacked by your Fleet’s distributed intelligence networks,” the planetary representative, Senior Select Grierson, said with a frown. “As such, and out of gratitude for your recent efforts, I and my fellows are willing to overlook your crimes and extend an offer of amnesty. We will commutate your crimes while you are in the Star System of Aqua Nova and promise to use our considerable political power in an effort to secure a pardon for you once this droid menace has been eradicated from our Star System. We await your response; Senior Select of Aqua Nova, out.”

For a long moment I stared at the screen, silently stewing at his pomposity. They would commute my sentence while in their system and try to pardon me for the crimes of fighting piracy, Bugs, and now droids—so long as I successfully helped free their world?!

It seemed that word of my status as the Tyrant of Cold Space had reached even as far the Core Worlds of Sector 24. I wasn’t just mad—I wanted to be furious!—but I was too well trained and forged in the fires of battle to give in to my hot and heavy emotions.

“Prepare to transmit my reply,” I said, lifting my smallest finger and pointing it at Steiner, afraid that if I moved anything more I would lose my cool.

While she arranged to transmit my message, I looked down at the latest tactical reports to help master myself.

There were a grand total of sixteen of the Droid mother-ships, with two of them moderately damaged and something on the order of twelve hundred gunboats. That number alone—twelve hundred—would have floored a lesser man. Or…actually, maybe not, I thought, glancing around at the stalwart members of the bridge.

I could overhear several of the crew speaking in worried tones, but strangely the fact that I appeared to think we had a chance was quite calming to the crew…which, unfortunately, just went to show what fools these men and women actually were.

Still, they were my fools, and—

“Ready to transmit on your signal now,” the petite, former-and-once-again com-tech informed me.

“Just a moment,” I said, quickly scanning the current force estimates for the local SDF. The last of their cruisers had tangled with the droids and, except for a pair of corvettes around Aqua Prime, they were down to destroyers all except for one. I looked back up at the Warrant and signaled I was ready with a nod.

“Go, Admiral,” she said quietly.

I stiffened in my command chair, throwing back my shoulders and stiffening my spine and the gaze I locked on the screen went past haughty and left anger in the dust. I locked onto the frozen image of Senior Select Grierson with the power of a man who’d been tossed under the bus, left for dead, and still managed to claw his way back to life over the dead and dying bodies of his enemies.

I was in no mood to be referred to as the Tyrant of Cold Space by some politician while his home system was being overrun by an invasion fleet filled with mechanicals.

“This is Admiral Jason Montagne of the Confederation’s Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet; I’ll have my Comm. department forward my credentials at the end of this first transmission,” I said coldly, “as for the sentence imposed on me by the corrupt officials in Sector 25, it has already been commuted by a Sector Judge and will be formally overturned as soon as a quorum of Sector-level justices is convened.” Take that and chew on it, fat man, I thought grimly, dismissing his pathetic excuse of an olive branch at the outset. “As for helping your system, this is a Confederation outfit and any participating member worlds of the Confederation have the right to request our assistance and, if we can render it, we shall do so,” I finished almost hoping he’d deny being a member world. Not that it would stop me from saving this star system full of helpless civilian in their millions—if I could—but for a few, brief moments I could take pleasure in his imagining my pulling out and leaving him to die at droid hands.

Then I sat back and waited for the response and, like all dreams, it faded to dust eventually—in this case when the response came.

“If I hadn’t seen your image on the download of a passing freighter, I wouldn’t think you old enough to be an Admiral—even a self-proclaimed one,” the Senior Select said with tension in his voice and then he took a deep breath. “Still, Aqua Nova isn’t in a position to be choosy at the moment. In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve been invaded.”

From another man, that last line might have seemed semi-humorous or at least an attempt at humor. But coming from the powerfully-built fat man in fine robes who called himself the Senior Select, it sounded far too much like the truth.

I wiped at my nose with the back of my hand to get rid of an itch before replying. “I find that surprising,” I answered after what felt like an unnatural pause, but to him wouldn’t seem like anything at all since we were operating under a time delay and as such he probably wouldn’t even notice my brief delay. “A freighter, leaving a relatively stable and now pirate-free Sector of space in order to head deep into disputed territory undergoing an invasion of mechanicals. It sounds unlikely.”

The planetary leader…or, at least, ‘high level potentate’s gaze turned frosty, and what little bonhomie his greeting had maintained to that point vanished. “If my world wasn’t about to be invaded, I’d remind you that my title is Senior Select the highest office in this Star System,” Grierson said coldly.

“And I’d remind you that mine is Vice Admiral,” I countered lightly, as if this were some kind of laughing matter and not a deadly serious game of interstellar politics. I was certain that he’d received my credentials from Steiner at the end of our first transmission and was deliberately ignoring them. On the outside I was seemingly uncaring of the little power play, but on the inside I was seething.

Was there a single elected leader in the entire galaxy that put the needs of his people above politics and petty one-ups-man-ship? It seemed that honorable—or even just reasonable—politicians were like the mythical white wale of humanity’s home world. Honestly, I’d even settle for a corrupt, dishonest one at this point, so long as he put his people first in a crisis situation.

Feeling my cheek muscles begin to harden at this train of thought I deliberately loosened them and continued to smile, “However, as you say: your System is being invaded…dare I say, overrun?” I added as I quirked a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “So why don’t we cut through the red tape, hmm? Proceed to the part where you officially request my help and I show up on my white charger to save the day.” So saying, I sat back and awaited a reply.

“What is it you want, Mr. Montagne?” the Senior Select asked direly. Nothing more was forth coming.

“No response regarding the freighter, I see…interesting,” I said, steepling my fingers, as if winning the point when really it was just a diversion. While interesting, I didn’t really care how they got their information—at least, not at that moment. It didn’t matter how they got their downloads just that they got them, “but immaterial. However, if you wish to use my civilian rank instead of my military one, the proper form isn’t ‘Mister,’ it’s ‘Your Highness’,” this time my smile was cutting. “As you see, I am a Prince of Capria and a Protector on Tracto,” I then paused, “although, I am also a Governor of a Planetary Body in my native system…so I suppose you could call me ‘Your Excellency’.”

“You would quibble about forms of address?” Senior Select Grierson said sounding completely disgusted. “It’s your type that fiddled while Rome burned and then complained that the crackle of the fire interfered with the acoustics.”

“An educated man, I see,” I said, my face hardening. “And, for all of my supposed quibbling, I take note that you’ve not once used my rank except when attaching a slur to it. But, as you say, there’s no need to fiddle while Aqua Nova burns to the ground. So I’ll make this easy for you: simply request that I assist your world under the Confederation Charter and I will keep my ships set on a course toward your world—I’ll also deal with the droids when I get there. When I win, your populace will thank you and you will get reelected the next cycle. Meanwhile, you can call me all the dirty names you want in the press—just like your counterparts in 25’s Sector Assembly.”

The fat man turned red, and then pale with fury. “Our Fleet is more than capable of dealing with any foreign adventurers,” he spat.

“By adventurers I assume you mean me and my men, as I doubt anyone in their right mind would call the machine plague adventurers,” I growled right back. “And either way, I still beg to differ. One battle-damaged Battleship and a handful of destroyers and corvettes in various stages of disrepair hardly indicates a provincial government able to stave off any threat the likes of which I deal with. So you can ask for my help or you can tell me to go to Hades, but quit trying to do both at the same time. I’ve had more than enough of ungrateful politicians speaking out both sides of their mouth while they insult me.”

White fury had turned into total rage on the face of my counterpart from Aqua Nova. “I was warned of a pirate who liked to go around paying lip service to the Old Confederacy and surround himself with the old trappings of power so fine. So if that’s what you need to extend yourself into assisting us in protecting the billions of civilians inhabiting the Aqua Nova star system, then I will do it,” he said shaking with fury. “In the name of the Confederation, we ask for your help,” he all but spat at me before the screen went blank.

“He’s cut the transmission from his end, sir,” Lisa Steiner informed me.

“Relay my next transmission anyway; I doubt they’ll fail to watch it,” I said, discovering my fists seemed to have acquired a mind of their own and prepared themselves for battle by clenching up without letting me know beforehand.

“Of course, Admiral,” the Warrant Officer replied.

“That’s all I needed to hear, Senior Select,” I said, speaking into the main-screen pickup and then frowning mockingly, “although, next time you might want to consider replying to the queries sent you by a warship and fleet that have just pulled what remains of your fleet out of the fire!”

I then made a throat-slashing gesture for the Comm. Warrant to cut the signal.

“Transmission is terminated,” she reported.

I took a few deep, measured breaths before replying. And even knowing that the pause has been a little too long and she had turned back to her tasks I, still said, “Carry on then, Warrant.”

“Aye, sir,” she said, looking back up at me with surprise but I had already turned away.

“You heard the man, Captain Laurent,” I drawled, my voice carrying through the unnatural silence on the bridge, “the people of this star need our help, and the Senior Select wants us to save his world for him.”

“That’s an interpretation of the politician’s words,” the Captain said dryly, and several members of the bridge crew chuckled.

Because of that, I smiled and then stood up.

“I’ll be in my ready room if needed,” I said with a sharp nod and headed off.

Chapter 42: A Princess Never says ‘Die’

Officer Tremblay sat there, clutching the rudimentary control panel of the escape pod as an external clamp grabbed a hold of their miniature vessel and began dragging them into the mammoth, mouth-like opening in the side of the Droid Megaship.

“Planning to white-knuckle your way through this experience Mr. Tremblay,” the Princess-cadet asked mockingly.

“I’m not ashamed to admit when I’m in over my head, your Worship,” the Intelligence Officer lied. He very much resented having to do so. And, yes, there was a bit of shame woven through his being as well, “And don’t try to tell me you feel nothing at the sight of what could be our last moments of free air.”

“A Princess Royale is never over her head—and she never says die,” Bethany sniffed. “What’s more, we haven’t been breathing free air from the moment we stepped onto the shuttle that brought us to Flat Nose’s Imperial ship. Although, I’m not surprised that this realization wouldn’t automatically occur to a man of your given…intellect.”

“I’m stupid, am I?” he demanded and then he glared spitefully. “I don’t recall you commenting on my lack of brains the last half hour we were stuck inside that maintenance closet on the Pride of Prometheus.”

“Well it wasn’t your brains I was interested in at the time then was it?” she mocked in a sweet, venomous voice.

Tremblay felt himself turning red in the face. “I am a trained Intelligence Officer; I know when things get serious and I react accordingly,” he said stiffly.

“If you have a point in there somewhere, I can’t find it,” Bethany said in a bored tone. “Man up, Mr. Tremblay, and don’t let fear cloud your judgment. If anyone is supposed to fill the role of the stereotypical shrinking violet, I would be the more natural choice.”

The former First Officer felt every word as a physical blow, but instead of weakening him they only made him stronger.

“You forget that I’ve seen you in action Princess,” the former Intelligence Officer snapped, “you Royals have got ice-water in your veins instead of blood when it comes to the sacrifices of others. I wonder how well you’ll do when it comes time to put you to the test and your rank can’t save you?”

“I’ll do just fine,” Bethany snorted, as if he’d just said something amusing, “it’s you and your pale features that concern me at the moment.”

“I worked for a Montagne,” Tremblay said scornfully, “I’m pretty sure I can handle anything we’re about to face a lot more stoically than you will.”

“Oh, you poor baby,” she scoffed, “Jason was so rough with you, is that it?”

Tremblay sneered in response. “He was like dealing with the height of reason compared to Jean Luc,” the former First Officer said forcefully, “try being told you have to cut off your own hand and then eliminate a rival—or face an uncomfortable death for coming perilously close to failure while running a covert intelligence op under that officer’s nose—and then we’ll talk about who has more intestinal fortitude. Until then you can regard any changes in the color of my skin, or shakiness you think you see, as a perfectly sane reaction to the odds we face. I’ve proven I can hack it beyond any kind of scorn and mockery you want to heap on me. Man up, you say?” he scoffed. “Only a self-important, self-obsessed woman would be arrogant enough to speak to me that way says I. Lady, I’ve seen things you’ve only dreamed of in nightmares.”

She must have seen something in his face because after his words, she paused and looked at him—really looked at him—as if reassessing him in every way before shrugging.

“Well, well, well,” she said a slow, calculating smile spreading across her face, “it’s not often I’m wrong in an initial assessment. Intelligence Officer, it seems you have unplumbed depths…I hope to get the chance to explore them more fully.” She paused, as if in consideration, “Perhaps you aren’t quite the low level burden and abject failure I had been expecting.”

“I’ve helped bring down two Montagne’s—one of them quite literally insane—and survived the first’s return to power. So if that’s your definition of failure, I think I can handle anything you or these droids throw my way,” he said angrily.

“You sure talk a lot, don’t you?” Bethany said with a cold, vicious smile. “And for all you claim to have done and experienced, you are forgetting one thing: you don’t know me as well as you think you do. And you certainly have no idea of what I’ve done to get where I am today.”

“I know exactly what you’ve done to get yourself here,” Tremblay said gesturing with his whole arm to encompass the escape pod.

“You may know the circumstances that landed me on this suicide mission: crossing Flat Nose and upsetting his delicate sensibilities,” she said mockingly. “But you know nothing else about me or how I, a mere Princess-cadet from a cadet branch of the Royalty on a Parliament-controlled world, got to where I am within the Sector Government. So, congratulations; you’ve convinced me you’re not the worm I thought you were. But you’re still nothing more than a bug I can grind under my heels with two words back at Central. Because make no mistake: you’re in the same boat as me, and that means you’re outside the comforting umbrella cast by Jason’s long shadow.”

The scathing retort that was on Tremblay’s lips withered as died as the escape pod was pulled into the droid ship with a clang that shook the little ship, threatening to spill the two humans onboard out of their seats. Several shudders followed as the ship was secured to the deck.

Half a minute later, Raphael Tremblay was just gathering his wits and courage to speak when there was a knock on the pod door.

The droids, it seemed, had arrived.

Chapter 43: Shifting Blame

“Admiral Montagne, I really must protest being sent off the bridge at a time like this,” Kong Pao said as soon as he was escorted into my ready room.

“We’re in the middle of a system-wide battle for control of this star and her planets,” I said calmly. “So I apologize for not having the time to consult before now, but I would neither change what has already happened nor my future actions.”

“I do not attempt to claim more experience in space combat than a sitting Fleet Officer, nor do I imagine I have anything significant to add when the shooting takes place,” Kong Pao said dryly, while giving me a skeptical assessing look. “However, perhaps my definitions of ‘active combat’ and ‘enough time’ are different than yours…” he paused dramatically, “especially when it comes to establishing diplomatic relations with the ruling body of a Star System like Aqua Nova?”

I stiffened as I realized there was a leak somewhere in the informational chain. How did he know that? But, more importantly, what was the proper response? Because he actually did have a point; I probably should have involved him sooner and if I had my initial contact with the Senior Select could have been much smoother. Then my face hardened.

“Spilt milk, Judge,” I said with a frown. “I’m not as concerned with where we are now as I am going forward.” There, that should be enough to get us moving on past this slight, potential, misstep and made me sound firm and decisive enough, I thought smugly.

“My concern is for the best possible outcome for all parties involved,” Kong Pao said smoothly, the usual mealy-mouthed diplomatic speak rolling off his tongue such as I was used to hearing in the Palace from visiting diplomats when they had occasion to encounter one another—back in the days when I was still in the Palace of course. “And as I firmly believe that this means positioning you and your forces the best way we possibly can against the droids, which is of course entirely your bailiwick,” he said as my brows lowered. He added quickly, “However, when it comes to establishing relations—military or otherwise—with the member worlds of this region and their fleets, not only the MDL but Sector-wide, I believe I can be of considerable use to you and your Fleet. I am a resource; let me help you, Admiral.”

I leaned back as I considered this surprisingly impassioned plea. “You have a definite point, Representative,” I said finally, “and I will endeavor to use you more fully going forward.”

“That’s all I ask, Admiral: utilize me. We both want the same thing,” he said with a nod.

“Very well, after this meeting I want you to get on the line with Senior Select Grierson and see what you can do,” I said, bringing a close to this matter. “Now that that’s settled, is there anything else you needed to say before we break this meeting up?”

“Other than once again expressing my desire to be on the bridge during potential or actual exchanges where a Representative of the Mutual Defense League—or a Sector Judge—may be useful I believe not,” Kong Pao said, his Asiatic features inscrutable.

“Then let’s be about it,” I said clapping my hands together as I stood up.

Kong Pao nodded as I escorted him to the door. “I shall speak with the Senior Select directly,” he said.

“Then I’ll have Warrant Officer Steiner set you up with a link and a console,” I assured him, waiting until he had left before relaying said orders to Steiner.

Now, other than a little diplomatic hand holding to try and smooth over ruffled feathers, it was all down to the waiting game.

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

“We have sat here for hours in wait, and still there is no call for battle,” Akantha said from inside her power-armor.

“Waiting can be the hardest part of a warrior’s life,” Captain Atticus said grimly, “and often times it makes no sense.

“Far too true,” Akantha smiled, and then her good humor faded, “still…this whole business is taking far too long.”

Atticus shook his head his expression signaling agreement with the sentiment.

“The Phoenix has already fought one major battle, defeating four powerful enemy ships and a host of these smaller gunboats,” Captain Darius, the Lyconese warrior, observed slowly, “not all space battles will entail hand to hand combat.”

Akantha looked over at the man skeptically. “You do not sound eager for combat,” she said coolly, knowing that her opinion of his mother-polis affected her perception of him but unable to put it more politely that that right at the moment. She was too irritated and too impatient for battle for that.

“It is not that I do not welcome combat,” the foreign Captain said stiffly, “I just think that we should not get out hopes up too high. The many histories I have studied since learning how to use and access the star-born’s Distributed Intelligence computers have indicated that boarding actions are a rarity in space battles.”

Akantha stared at him appraisingly for a long moment and then snorted. “Clearly, neither these histories nor their writers have ever met my Protector,” she laughed. “I cannot remember the last battle we had where it neither began nor ended with boarding an enemy citadel.”

Darius raised an eyebrow thoughtfully. “This is true,” he agreed neutrally.

“Those of us from Argos have no trouble believing in the fighting spirit of our Warlord,” Atticus said belligerently, “he will lead us to battle never fear.”

“I do not fear,” Darius said sharply, “I only pointed out a great battle in which this ship has already triumphed against superior numbers.”

Akantha calmly stepped between the two men before it could come to blows. “Cease this foolishness. The enemy will come to us when he is finished running away; there is no need to do his work for him,” Akantha said coolly, silently acknowledging the hypocrisy. She was little better than these two in her impatience to get to grips with the enemy, but it was a woman’s duty to prevent the base natures of men from turning them against the very things they were meant to protect.

Her Protector needed to hurry, lest she go back up to the bridge and spur him on to greater efforts. It had been too long since she had seen enemy blood—or whatever it was these droids had for vital fluids.

She intended to discover what that fluid was—and slake Bandersnatch’s thirst with it.

Chapter 44: It’s a Spalding…or is It?

“The Captain is asking if there’s any way we can increase engine speed by another ten percent,” asked the crewman handling communications with the bridge.

Tiberius turned to stare at him incredulously. “What is your name crewman?” he demanded.

“Bostwell, Sir,” the other man said with a questioning frown.

“Well…Bostwell,” the Chief Engineer said with an answering frown of his own, “as ten percent is not only impossible, but beyond the bounds of reason itself, the next time you’re asked you can just tell the bridge an emphatic, resounding, ‘no’ and not bother me with the question. No we cannot achieve a ten percent increase in engine output.”

“Lieutenant, I was speaking with the Captain,” Bostwell protested, “I can’t just tell him something like that without informing you first.”

The younger Spalding stared at the younger man with narrowed eyes before shrugging. “Relay my answer to the bridge, Crewman,” he said turning away. He didn’t make it two steps before Bostwell spoke again.

“Sir, he asks how much we can squeeze out for him,” Bostwell said, speaking quickly, “he says it’s important—”

“It’s always important,” Chief Engineer Terrance Tiberius Spalding quipped.

“But, sir, he says that if we can’t make better speed the droids will reach the Aqua Prime, the worlds most inhabited system, before we do,” Bostwell said urgently.

Tiberius clenched his fist and then stiffly walked over to a work station and started pulling up the engine stats and the fusion reactor charts. As much as he wanted to see these rebellious Royalists fall on their faces, failure was not an option when millions of innocent lives were at stake.

“Tell the Captain we’re already running at maximum military power so all I can give him an additional 3%,” Tiberius said unhappily, “we can do that for the next hour, after which we’ll need at least a half hour for the engines to cool back down before we can increase it again. If he doesn’t listen when I tell him to throttle back, the engines will overheat and we’ll have an automatic engine shutdown that I can’t override.”

Bostwell spoke into his com-link and then looked back up at him and gave the thumbs up sign.

“The Captain says he’ll take what he can get and leave the details of running the engines up to you. Just give it everything we’ve got; civilian lives are at stake,” the crewman said, looking relieved despite his words.

“Tell the Captain ‘we’ll do our best’,” Tiberius said tightly, “oh, and throw me over our time to orbit and the enemy ship’s time to orbit so I can see what we’re up against,” he said, holding up his data slate and jiggling it from side to side.

“Will do, Lieutenant,” Bostwell agreed.

Tiberius then turned and scanned Main Engineering until he spotted the head of the person he was looking for. “Penelope!” he shouted.

The woman’s head jerked and the small figure hunched over a workstation pushed back from the console she’d been sitting at and looked his way, her forehead wrinkling.

“Lieutenant?” she asked, turning his rank into a question mark.

“It’s time to earn our keep and show the rest of the ship why we make the big bucks, Technician,” he growled, striding purposefully towards her.

“Sir? I thought we refused to accept pay until we’re repatriated back home,” she deadpanned, but he could see the faint smile tugging at the corners of the frown she was working to keep in place.

“That was a joke—in case you failed to notice,” he replied dryly.

“Of course, sir,” she said, mock surprise lighting up her face.

“Enough of that,” the Engineering Lieutenant snapped, unable to keep up his sour mood in the face of her gentle mockery. A reluctant smile broke out, which melted away as he turned serious once again, “It seems that, once again, we are called upon to do the impossible and keep this ship moving at faster than her maximum speed in order to get to this system’s primary planet before the droids do.”

“’The impossible’ is something we do as a matter of course, Chief,” Penelope said with a grin, “just tell me what we have to do.”

“Take a look at these power figures,” he instructed, dumping his work solution onto her console screen.

Penelope sat back down and nodded rapidly. “We can handle the load balancing so long as we have someone monitoring the reactors in real-time. I can do one of them,” she said confidently. “But you’ll probably want someone else to go over the drive tolerances for the increased load.”

Although Tiberius didn’t want to agree, the pretty power room technician had a point.

“Alright,” he said, and called over one of the petty officers, who came scurrying over.

“Take a look at this and tell me what you think,” Tiberius said shortly.

The petty officer scanned the data and whistled. “Looks like the Bridge must be trying to write a check they can’t cover and they need us to pull their chestnuts out of the fire,” said the crew chief.

Tiberius glanced down at the man’s uniform and name tag. He wasn’t one of Tiberius’s Parliamentary transplants; he was one of the Royalist mutineers. Knowing this, Tiberius wasn’t about to cut the man any extra slack.

“I doubt the Captain would care to hear such comments are being bruited about the Engineering Department, Parkiney,” he said coldly. “So if I want comments from the peanut gallery you’ll know—because I’ll ask for them directly. In the meantime if you happen have an engineering opinion I’d like to hear it.”

“I’ll send the man you need to speak with right over; he can tell you how the engines will perform running hot,” Parkiney replied stiffly, his face going blank.

“Good, then let’s be about it,” Tiberius said dismissing the man.

Parkiney stiffened to attention and then stalked off.

“That might have been a little harsh,” Penelope said after the other man had moved off.

“Too bad,” Tiberius said sternly, “I’m not here to coddle a bunch of mutineers.”

“To be fair not all of them have turned against the home world, some of them were ex-patriot emigrants who only joined up to help defend the Sector from Bug, Pirates and threats like these droids,” she pointed out.

“I have neither the time nor the inclination to sort the Royalist wheat from the mutinous chaff,” he said coldly. “And if they don’t like how I run things down here, they’re more than welcome to find me alternate accommodations in the brig.”

“Aye, sir,” the pretty, power technician said unhappily and turned back to her console to run some more figures.

Tiberius placed a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll make it through this, never fear,” he said with certainty.

“Of course, Lieutenant,” she said and flashed him a small little smile to take the sting out of her words, “just let me finish getting you these figures.”

“Of course,” he said and then a technician specializing in the main drives came hurrying over and the time for personal chatter was over—for now.

Chapter 45: Hitting them Hard

“New estimates are we’ll arrive five minutes after the main force of enemy ships,” reported the Navigator.

“Good work, Mr. Shepherd,” Captain Laurent said with a less than happy nod. Engineering had managed to increase their speed slightly upwards and now instead of arriving too late to do anything about it, they were going to arrive during the middle of the initial clash for control of Aqua Prime and thus the entire star system. It was better, but still not quite good enough; unfortunately it was also the best they could do so he was just going to have to learn to live with it. “Carry on,” he ordered as he turned away.

“Aye, Captain,” replied the Navigator but he was already moving onto new business.

I clenched my fist, having hoped for more. For a moment I wondered if the Parliamentarian we had in Engineering was deliberately slowing things up and, once again, I questioned the wisdom of having another man of mixed loyalties among the crew. I mean hadn’t I learned my lesson already?

Then I shook it off as best I could. We were doing the best we could with what we had—and we had more ships than we could handle so every member of the crew had to go twice as far. Moreover, it had been Akantha who appointed the man to the job and I wasn’t about to go to war with her over the man—at least not as long as we had Spalding Senior down there to keep an eye on him.

Still I made a mental note to double the guard on that man. I decided that even in the depths of my most foolishness, there was no need to be stupid about the matter; two Quads of Lancers should be able to handle anything he could throw their way. But even so, I remained leery.

I forcibly turned my thoughts away from treachery and back toward the real enemy out there: the inhuman, mechanical invaders. The Droids.

I looked back up at the main screen, checking for any sign that we were about to be attacked by a surprise force of droids. Or, more likely given the poor technology we’d encountered so far, a small task force diverted to delay us. But there was nothing.

“It’s just a matter of waiting now, sir,” Laurent advised me in a low voice.

“This is not my first battle,” I said coolly.

“Of course, sir,” he said his face stiffening.

I relaxed slightly and released the breath I’d been holding. “The waiting is tedious,” I finally allowed…reluctantly.

“That it is, sir,” he replied fractionally less stiff and stepped back.

I suppressed a sigh. Sometimes I am my own worst enemy, I decided as I sat back in my chair. There really was nothing to do but wait.

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

“Ten minutes until contact,” called out the ship’s Navigator, verbally reminding us of what anyone with two working eyes could see.

“Thank you, Mr. Shepherd,” I said cordially. On the outside I worked hard to project a pleasant demeanor, but on the inside my blood was pumping.

The Navigator straightened at his console, looking pleased to be recognized.

“What’s the latest count on the enemy gunboats?” I asked calmly, expecting the worst.

“Current estimated strength of enemy gunboats is 1537,” Laurent replied.

I suppressed the urge to curse. “We won’t lack for targets,” I said, working to project a light tone—an attempt which I must have failed.

“If we go up against them all at once we’d be swamped,” the Captain observed tightly.

“I’m well aware that, despite their puny weapons, lack of shields, and thin hulls they are still a threat we can’t take lightly,” I said, tensing slightly as I considered going head to head with 1500 of the things. I didn’t care how low-powered their ‘light lasers’ were; fifteen hundred of any relatively modern weapon mounts was more than enough to drop our shields and drill our hull until it looked like Swiss cheese.

“Even though the Uplifts possess old tech gunboats which they’ve refurbished, the boats in our fleet are an order of magnitude more combat effective than the droids boats,” the Captain said confidently.

“Quantity has a quality all of its own,” I mumbled sourly.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Never mind,” I said, waving my hands irritably. “Continue, please; we both know the droid boats are so much scrap metal compared to our ships. And while I’d be quite interested to find out why they have such funky, inferior tech, we both know that we can’t deal with hundreds and hundreds of the things—and those spinal mounts on their mother-ships are nothing to sneer at. We were lucky the last group came in waves rather than all at once, or we likely wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Accuracy and precision are going to be important,” the Captain admitted after considering silently for a long moment, “but speed is the key.”

“Stick and move?” I laughed.

He nodded solemnly, wiping the smile off my face and damping the humor.

“They’ll arrive first and, if past history of our two battles with the creatures is anything to go by, aim for the most powerful combatant on the field,” he replied.

“The battleship,” I frown with concentration.

“Indeed, and it gives us options,” he said, smiling tightly, “even when we show up, the majority of their attention should be fixed on the Aqua SDF battleship. If we cut the corners of the enemy formation, raking the edges with the Fleet’s combined firepower and move out of range again in rapid passes, each firing run should winnow the enemy ships and gunboats a little more each time.” “And if they overrun the battleship while we’re dancing around the perimeter avoiding damage?” I asked, genuinely interested in his answer.

He shrugged. “That’s what battleships are made for. And besides,” he said, his face darkening, “even after speaking with Representative Kong, they’ve made it clear they’re too suspicious to be easy friends of ours. Even saving their destroyers from certain death and annihilating a squadron of the enemy hasn’t seemed to do much to lighten their suspicions.”

“A definite point,” I said dourly, “we show up, ride to the rescue, and instead of thanks they ignore us completely up until the point they’re ready to tell us they’ll consider amnesty and a pardon for our reputed actions in another Sector. No. you’re right: they aren’t eager to be our friends. At least, not just yet…” I trailed off a slow deadly smile crossing my face as I considered that soon, if the chips fell right for me and wrong for the locals, they might have cause to rethink their position.

But when they did they would find their pleas falling on deaf ears. They’d had their chance to hail the mighty relief fleet as we rolled in for Murphy-sainted heroes and they blew it. They didn’t just blow it—they blew a big raspberry and laughed scornfully in said fleet’s face.

So while I wasn’t going to try to go out of my way to screw them over—after all, humanity had to hang together against the machine plague or we’d all hang separately—by the same token I wouldn’t weep any tears if they got steamrolled while I was doing my blasted best to save them despite themselves. No, I would do what was best for my fleet first, and what was best for Aqua Nova second. I could only pray to the Space Gods that the two were one and the same thing, because they’d had their chance to play to my inner self-sacrificing hero and they blew it. If they wanted me to be a villain then I was more than happy to play the role. I would have preferred the roll of hero riding to the rescue, but we don’t always get to pick and choose.

“No, you’re right, Laurent,” I said seriously. “When we had the battleship we acted as the anvil of known space and I didn’t hear any cries of ‘thank you’ along the way. Which either means people are an ungrateful lot of sods, or that’s just the role a ship of the line plays and there’s no point complaining about it,” I paused in consideration. “I must say, I far prefer the second interpretation on so many different levels,” I mused before nodding as I came to a decision, “we’ve did our time before the mast and, having run though several of our own capital ships by now, we’re down to just a Strike Cruiser. I guess that means it’s their turn to take the hammer strikes. Karma’s a real witch and no one wept for us when we took on the Pirates of Omicron Station with just a hope, a prayer, and the Lucky Clover. It was no different when we went head to head against a Bug mother-ship and two of Jean Luc’s purloined battleships with just the Armor Prince. So I won’t weep for them now either; that’s just the way we battleship commanders roll.”

My Flag Captain looked disturbed and his mouth twisted disapprovingly, but the iron had entered my soul. I didn’t care. Oh, in the abstract I absolutely cared for the helpless hordes of humanity teeming on Aqua Prime and would do my best by them, but that was it.

“We should do what we can for them,” Laurent said finally.

“Oh, we will,” I agreed easily, because after all it was the right move tactically speaking, “after we’ve thinned the herd enough, so to speak, we’ll do what we can for that battleship.”

Laurent still looked uneasy and less than satisfied with my words, but eventually nodded. By that time we were mere minutes away from combat, proving the adage that ‘time flies when you have a little back and forth to distract you.’

“The main body of the Droid Fleet is making its attack run now, Admiral!” exclaimed the Officer in command of Sensors. “We’re reading multiple strikes on the SDF Battleship’s shields from the mother-ships’ spinal mounts.”

“If only we knew the names of their ships,” I sighed.

“But we do, Admiral,” exclaimed Lisa Steiner in surprise, “they sent us their IFF codes so we can avoid a friendly fire incident.”

I turned to her in surprise as I inquired, “Then why doesn’t the Screen reflect that with the accompanying little name tags?”

Steiner turned red. “I don’t know, Admiral; I forwarded them to the Sensor section already,” she replied, squirming in her seat.

I turned back to the Sensor Section. “Warrant Officer, if you could attach the names of the SDF ships to their icons, I’d appreciate it,” I said dryly. I then activated the collapsible screen built into the arm of the command chair. There was no way I could read the names on the main screen without straining my eyes; that’s what the little one built into the chair was for.

I smiled with satisfaction as the names popped up and then smirked as the name Poseidon popped up underneath the icon of the battleship. An ancient water deity indeed, I mused silently.

My smile was wiped out when the hurricane that was the Droid Fleet advanced on the much smaller System Defense Forces of Aqua Nova.

A hail of laser fire raged between the two Fleets as several of the droid mother-ships opened fire with their spinal mounts. Mere moments after that, the SDF Battleship Poseidon surrounded by a dozen destroyers, a pair of corvettes, and a handful of armed merchant ships which wheeled hard over and blasted them first with its long range turbo lasers. Then, as the rest of the SDF Fleet came within firing range, they also added their lasers to the mix.

Battleships are built tough, and Poseidon was no exception, but when fifteen cruisers all target the same ship at once bad things were bound to happen. In this case they were happening to the SDF battleship.

“Battleship’s shields are spotting!” exclaimed one sensor operator.

“Her port shields are collapsing,” cried another.

“She’s turned her initial slew to bring her turbo-lasers on target into a roll; Poseidon is trying to bring her starboard shields around to cover,” reported the Tactical Officer.

“She’s taking multiple raking strikes to her port side; the Battleship’s just lost multiple laser mounts,” reported a sensor operator as the litany of damage and destruction being bestowed on the SDF’s most powerful ship continued to rise.

Behind a patented, Royal mask, I was clenching my teeth. It wouldn’t do us much good riding to the rescue if there was no one left to rescue when we arrived. Worse, if the battleship and its escorts were gone the Droid Fleet would be free to turn its entire attention onto us.

“She’s turning over hard and going beyond full burn to emergency speed,” DuPont broke in, slamming the palms of both fists onto his console. “Go-go-go; hard over to cut off the engagement!”

I looked over at him with surprise, seeing as he was normally much more unflappable than this—or at least silent during battle.

“Enhance your calm, Helm,” the Captain growled at him and DuPont’s head whipped over.

For a moment he stared with seeming incomprehension at Laurent before realization swept his face and he melted back into his seat, red-faced and crestfallen.

“Sorry, sir,” the Helmsman said ducking his head and avoiding eye contact, “too long driving battleships, I guess.”

“They’ll either make it or they won’t. There’s nothing we can do about—” Laurent consoled the younger man only to be interrupted.

“Leading edge of the enemy gunboat wave is entering light laser range now, sirs!” cried the Warrant in charge of Sensors right before that part of the screen between the battleship and the gunboat swarm light up with an almost solid wall of color.

Unable to help myself, I scowled at the screen knowing there was no way even a battleship could survive that maelstrom of death and destruction. Fifteen hundred shots of anything would be more than enough to bring down the Clover’s shields; I couldn’t imagine the Poseidon was in any way superior to my ship…’

“Movement detecte—“ one of the sensor operators exclaimed, jumping out of his seat right before the space around the battleship lit up.

“Fusion core detonation, Admiral,” shouted another sensor operator, “looks like she’s toast.”

“Multiple fusion core overloads,” cut in another operator.

“Yes, of course,” retorted the first, “the battleship has multiple cores—”

“No, you imbecile; they’re too far apart to all be from the battleship and besides the energy released is too small!” scoffed the second sensor-man, as the forward leading edge of the blob that was the gunboat wave interpenetrated with the SDF Fleet.

“The destroyers!” I exclaimed, popping out of my own chair in surprise and taking two steps toward the Sensor Section to verify the information myself before I realized what I was doing. I turned red in the face and hurried back to my seat. “Tell the men to stay in their chairs,” I said irritably, not happy to have been infected by my men with the urge to jump up and down.

Angry, more at myself than anything, I sat back down and strapped myself in making sure to pull the belt tight.

“Of course, sir,” Laurent replied.

“Yes, Admiral,” the Tactical Officer said, still sounding enthusiastic, “multiple destroyers moved at the last second to place themselves between the battleship and those gunboats.”

“Good work, that,” I said, keeping my eyes peeled and focused on the battle taking place over Aqua Prime. I was unwilling to risk missing so much as a micro-second if I could avoid it. Placing yourself squarely in front of certain destruction with only the possibility of survival took guts. I knew, because I’d done something similar when I signed my own death warrant to try and save my crew when Sir Isaak offered me the Demon’s Bargain back when I was stuck in durance vile.

“What’s wrong with the screen, Sensors?” Laurent demanded as everything went blurry.

“There’s too much going on and too many core dumps in too small an area. We can’t get a good resolution, Captain,” the Warrant said respectfully.

“Clear it up, man,” Laurent growled.

“On it, sir,” the other man said right before the screen started to clear.

A cheer went up around the bridge as we saw the battleship appear out of the maelstrom of death and destruction, like the fearsome Titan of Battle she was named for.

However, as things cleared up more the cheer withered and died.

“Just getting the numbers now, Sir,” Tactical spoke in a shaken voice. “Survivors are listed as four SDF destroyers all with significant battle damage and the battleship…” he trailed off.

He didn’t need to say more. I’d already zoomed in on the little screen built into the arm of my chair and not only was the Battleship totally unshielded she was limping along on one of her secondary engines and streaming air from more than a dozen hull penetrations. I could only imagine the hailstorm of fire they had to have taken to penetrate that hull with only light lasers—and to do it more than a dozen times…It was a testament to battleships everywhere that she was still moving under her own power.

“Steady on, bridge crew,” I said grimly, “it’s going to get worse before it gets better.” I could tell right away no one had been in any way comforted by this utterance, and I knew they needed something to take their minds off the fate of a task group nearly as many hulls as we had and far more in weight of metal, “Tactical, if you could get me an estimate on just how many gunboats were destroyed by the SDF?” I asked.

The Tactical officer gave himself a shake. “Right…on it, Admiral,” he said, still staring at the something on his console for long moments before giving himself a full body shake and starting to pull of the figures. “Initial estimates are upwards of a hundred and fifty gunboats are gone, sir,” the other Officer said professionally, as if the mere utterance of that small a figure of enemy destroyed wasn’t a staggering body blow. For all intents and purposes, the entire remaining SDF Fleet had just been knocked out of the fight—and all they’d done was take a tithe of ten percent on the enemy boats. “Half of them were probably caught in the cascade of core detonations, and the SDF likely could have gotten more of them if they hadn’t managed to skirt the leading right edge of the boat formation.”

Left unsaid in his report was the certainty that if they hadn’t skirted outer portion of the massive formation, they would have been destroyed.

It took me a moment to realize that Laurent was standing at my elbow. I looked up at him and cocked my head.

“Do you want to issue new movement orders to the Fleet?” he prompted.

“You’re right,” I said straightening in my chair. The droids were coming around for a second pass at the crippled SDF survivors, and if we didn’t adjust course for maximum effect their sacrifice would have been lost. This may not have been what the captain intended when he prompted me, I realized after half a second, but it did little to change my mind. “Helm, prepare to adjust course,” I said, firing off the new coordinates we would need to skirt the outer edge of the enemy gunboat formation.

Between last minute course changes by both the boats and the mother-ships—the first to keep after the battleship no matter what and the second to skirt around the blast radius of the core explosions—there was a small chance that we could hit just the boats and keep to such a range that they and the mother-ships couldn’t respond.

“On it, Admiral,” DuPont said his mouth hardening into a hard straight line as he input the change.

“You heard the man,” Laurent snarled, “sound action stations; any fool that hasn’t already realized we’re in a fight need to lock him or herself down and do it now.”

It’s difficult to describe, but I could almost feel the bridge drawing strength from me. Their thoughts were almost certainly in the vein of, ‘if that crazy Montagne’ thinks we can do it, we have a definite chance!’

I shook my head disgustedly. If they were counting on me to pull something out of my hat, they were doomed to disappointment. At that moment I wasn’t sure what we could do to win this thing. My original plan had been based on the idea of using the local SDF forces as the anvil with us serving as the hammer. I had hoped we would somehow pound the droids into dust between us, but as things stood that wasn’t going to be a possibility.

I didn’t know what we were going to do, but I kept two things in the forefront of my mind. The first was that no one ever won a fight by running away, and the second was that ‘faint hearts never won fair lady.’ We might not win, but I wanted to at the very least take a few more shots at these guys before picking up my chips and going home.

I drummed my fingers on the arm of my chair.

“It doesn’t look good, Admiral,” Laurent said, and I looked back over at him and frowned. I could all but hear him advising me that we were so heavily outnumbered that the only valid option was to flee.

“They’ll make a mistake and leave us an opening,” I said confidently and, to my surprise, I found that I actually was confident. These droids fought like idiots, after all. There was some strategy to their tactics of always aiming at the largest and most powerful enemy first. But, as far as I could see, they preferred to attack with massive numbers of low budget hulls grouped together as closely as possible and didn’t try to do anything tricky like split their forces for pincer attacks.

“I sure hope so,” he replied respectfully.

Or maybe I’d just scared them by exceeding some kind of cost-benefit/ration when I knocked out that initial squadron, it was hard to say. It really was too soon to know for sure but I thought I was getting a handle on these droids. As far as I could see, their preferred modus operandi was to swamp their foes with weight and numbers. Which left little room for fancy footwork and cunning tactics…now, while I wasn’t a military genius—as I’d reminded my Flag Captain—this was far from my first rodeo. I knew that I could still play matador to their angry bull.

“I have every confidence,” I repeated with a shark-like smile before relaying a series of orders to the communication section for them to relay throughout the fleet.

This was going to get ugly.

Chapter 46: Multiple Attack Vectors

“Here we go!” shouted First Officer Eastwood before relaying the orders to fire at will down to the gunners waiting for just such directive.

On command, the entire MSP Fleet cut their engines and pivoted to face the swarm of droids.

First into the fray, as usual, was the Furious Phoenix with her longer-ranged weaponry. She unloaded her turbo-lasers into the midst of the Droid Swarm, setting off a series of explosions as she delivered her fury into the heart of the swarm.

“Mother-ships are burning hard to try and reach us before we’re out of range,” reported our Navigator from where he was running multiple enemy tracks. He stood ready to alert me if it looked like they were about to close the gap between us and get those overpowered spinal mounted lasers of theirs into the action.

“Sir!” exclaimed Steiner from over in the com-section, “I’m receiving orders from System Command. They’re waving us off and ordering us to get clear of the gunboats; they want us to make for the moon and put it be—”

I lifted a hand to silence her. “Cut the channel, Comm.,” I said abruptly, “I have neither the time nor the inclination to hold their hands. This is a Confederation Fleet and if anyone gives orders while we’re in this system, it is us.”

Even as I spoke, gunboats started to blink out of existence in ones, and twos, and sometimes even in fours and fives, as our gun teams cleared their turbos into the swarm as rapidly as they would cycle.

“Entering heavy laser range,” Tactical reported unnecessarily. I could already see our Light Cruiser and Destroyers opening up with their heaviest weapons.

“What’s the ETA on those mother-ships?” I demanded as we skirted around the edge of the gunboats.

“We need to break off now if we want to keep out of range,” replied Shepherd.

I stood up. “Relay to all ships,” I ordered, “full burn towards Aqua Prime; we’re going to skirt the planet for a sling shot maneuver.”

“Dangerous, sir,” Laurent told me into the silence as DuPont started to carry out my orders for the Phoenix and Steiner chattered into her com-link, “if we’re going too fast and run into a satellite, or enter range of a defense turret…”

“Life is about taking risks,” I said, shrugging off his concern. Either we’d be fine or we wouldn’t, but I wasn’t about to trust myself to the tender mercies of the Senior Select and the government that put him in charge of this system’s political process. That meant I wasn’t going near that moon without a lot more information—and assurances—than I had just then.

If there was one thing I’d learned in this job, it was that the political animal was a rabid creature more than willing to stab you in the back at the first opportunity. He was willing to sacrifice anything and everything for the visceral thrill of seeing his enemies burn, even if meant everything else would go down in flames with him. For them, everything revolved around the election cycle, and short-term benefits were infinitely superior to anything they could reap in the long run.

In short, I didn’t trust them and while their military was under civilian command that meant that anything System Command told me was suspect.

“Yes, sir,” Laurent nodded stepping back.

The acceleration was so fierce that I could even feel a slight increase in weight of my body into the back of the chair but slowly and surely we were pulling away.

“Any sign of defensive turrets or orbital forts?” Laurent snapped as we started accelerating away from the droids and toward the planet.

“Nothing on the scans yet, Captain,” the Sensor Warrant said confidently, then with an ‘urk’, his head shot around. “Correct that, sir: we’ve got a pair of them coming up on scans just now!”

“Adjust course to skirt around their firing range and then relay it to the rest of the Fleet, Mr. DuPont,” I instructed firmly.

“Yes sir, Admiral,” said the Helmsman.

Tense minutes followed as we cut to the side, around, and then back onto our original course after avoiding the pair of orbital fortresses and accompanying swarm of defensive turrets.

I smiled tightly as I watched with anticipation, waiting for the droid reaction to finding the defensive installations.

“The droids are adjusting course, Admiral!” exclaimed a Sensor Operator. “They’re now on a course directly toward the forts!”

My smile was now showing teeth. “When we clear the far side of the planet, if the mother-ships aren’t in the way I want us to swing wide around that moon, Helm,” I ordered calmly, as if I were a man in total and complete control of everything. Surprisingly I actually felt confident. I had a few moves left before things got desperate. I glanced back at where the droid gunboats were swarming around the planetary defenses and grimaced.

Well, desperate for me anyway.

“Mother-ships show every sign of continuing to follow us at their best speed,” Tactical cut in.

“I thought the machines would be smarter than that?” I frowned. If I had been the droids, knowing I could never catch up with a faster force like the MSP, I would have cut around the other side of the planet planning to catch my foes with those spinal lasers on a short engagement window. I could then slow a few ships by crippling their engines, and then once they were cut out of the herd, fall on them like the rabid wolves of cold space.

Behind us, every defensive weapon among the forts and turrets opened fire. Lasers and missiles lanced out into the cloud of nearly fourteen hundred gunboats bearing down on them. For long seconds, a weight of fire equal to a pair of battleship lanced out from the Orbital Fortresses and their accompanying defensive turrets, sweeping gunboats from the sky and creating a long, visible trail of debris in the wake of the undeterred droid horde.

“We’re getting a transmission from the Sundered,” reported Steiner, “the Primarch says he wouldn’t take a droid gunboat even if they were offered to him for free.” Here, her voice changed from her usual, alto register, to a husky attempt at the Uplifts usual deep voice, “They are after being flying death traps,” she mimicked.

I snorted, struggling to keep from laughing out-loud. “That’s enough of that, Warrant Officer,” I chortled.

She gave me a mock offended look—at least I hoped it was a mock one. Her imitation had simply sounded too funny, and I feared it would disrupt bridge operations to have her continue.

“Oh, and tell the Primarch to stay off the channels unless he has something relevant to add,” I instructed her, because no matter how funny she had sounded relaying his message, I didn’t need comments from the peanut gallery clogging up my communication department. We couldn’t risk missing an important communiqué because every captain and their first officer felt free to start blathering to the admiral, “And remind him please, that the fewer transmissions the enemy has to intercept, the harder it will be for them to crack our encryption—and the safer we’ll all be.”

“Aye, Admiral,” she said, a bit more subdued as she started to relay my reminder to the Primarch.

Looking back at the battle taking place behind us I winced as the droid gunboats descended on the fortresses like a swarm of angriest hornets I’d ever seen.

Fifteen seconds of furious combat later, and the first orbital fortress lost power and exploded. The destructive energy it dumped into space as its fusion generators went critical and failed put to shame the death throes of the destroyers we’d witnessed earlier in the Battle for Aqua Prime.

“They must have set their cores to self-destruct as soon as they lost contact with main control, sir,” the Damage Control watch stander said sounding subdued.

“Brave blighters,” Laurent said with reluctant admiration in his voice.

I looked at him with a faint, quizzical quirk of my eyebrow.

“They gave up the chance of taking an escape pod and getting down to the surface in favor of taking a few more of their enemies with them,” he said.

I nodded, knowing that whatever else I wanted to say about Aqua Nova, their SDF knew how to die and die well—but they were still idiots.

“They should have waited until both forts were down,” I disagreed, trying for a diplomatic approach. “As it is they annihilated a few of their turrets and damaged the shields of their sister fortress. They should have set up some way so that only after the second one went down would they self-destruct.”

“That’s cold, Sir,” Laurent said.

“Cold, but practical,” I observed giving him a piercing look, “bravery by itself isn’t enough. If you’re going to spend your life, I for one would want to make blasted sure that I did the maximum damage to the enemy.”

“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” Laurent agreed, “but you have to respect a man who’s willing to do whatever it takes for his home world.”

“Of course,” I lied. I had no respect for throwing away your life—especially if you did it stupidly, “They’re heroes of Aqua Nova and, if we prevail, they should be hailed as such.”

Laurent nodded.

“We’re rounding the planet; the droids will be losing contact with us anytime now,” reported Tactical.

“No sign of enemy watch ships stationed around the planet to relay where we are and which way we’re going?” asked Laurent.

“None that we can see, Sir,” cut in the Sensor Warrant.

“Morons,” I sighed, not daring to believe that the droids were actually that stupid.

“The metal heads haven’t exactly been the sharpest, have they, sir?” Laurent asked rhetorically.

“New vector, Helm,” I said, untrusting of the idea that the droids were actually as stupid as they appeared. I didn’t want to find out I was wrong in underestimating their intelligence by sliding into a minefield or ambush. Even a couple of those droid mother-ships could ruin our day if they could sacrifice themselves by taking out our engines. Even a few degrees of course change should take us away from anything lying dark.

“Aye, sir,” DuPont said carrying out my new instruction. We were still heading toward the moon, for a new slingshot maneuver around it at a slower speed, but at a safer distance which allowed us to remain protected.

“Still no sign of droid forces positioned behind the planet to observe us?” demanded Captain Laurent.

“No, sir, just a few damaged gunboat limpers,” replied the Warrant Officer.

Laurent looked at him coldly. “A damaged boat with an active comm. and sensor array is just as effective in relaying our position to the main Droid Fleet as an undamaged mother-ship,” he rebuked the Sensor Warrant. “Next time, call out any damaged ‘limpers’ the moment they’re spotted!”

“Aye, sir. Sorry, sir,” replied the Warrant.

We were moving away from the planet and well on our way to the moon by the time the droid fleet was coming around Aqua Prime and back into sensor range.

“Any sign of surface strikes?” I asked, afraid to hear the answer. The machine plague wasn’t exactly reputed to be merciful when dealing with large concentrations of biomass—like cities.

“Nothing on sensors, Admiral,” the Warrant Officer relayed, “and what little scans we’ve been able to take of the planet’s surface which the droids have passed over isn’t showing anything. No high energy impacts—no lasers, missiles or kinetic strikes—as far as we can see.”

“Pardon me, Admiral,” Steiner said turning white as a ghost as I looked at her, “but planetary comm. channels have gone crazy; the news networks are reporting a series of chemical gas attacks on key industrial and population centers. It appears the droids are launching bombs with chemical warheads; they’re trying to limit the damage to critical infrastructure while eliminating the highest concentration of humans on the planet’s surface.” By the time she was done speaking, there was a tremor in her voice.

I shook my head savagely wondering if there was anything I could have done to save the people in the cities of Aqua Prime and silently vowing undying vengeance upon these droids. I would hunt these creatures to the ends of the galaxy if that’s what it took.

“Those blasted droids,” Laurent said, his voice thick with emotion.

“We’ll pay them back tenfold,” I hissed. This self-proclaimed ‘Tribe’ was going to pay.

“Our ancestors had it right: Man not Machine, Admiral,” Laurent said, his voice hardening. “They shouldn’t have stopped until every single one of the Sentient Machines was dead and disassembled—and for that, I will never forgive them.”

“The local worlds individually, and the Confederated Empire as a whole, rested on their laurels. Now we’re the ones paying the price for their desire for social spending instead of keeping the fleets out of mothballs,” I said savagely. “’An SDF costs too much to maintain, but don’t worry because Rim Fleet will always be there to protect us. And even if there is an attack, you can at least rest assured that you’ll die healthy’!” I parroted between gritted teeth. “A pox on all of the Provincial Governments and the Confederate Empire!”

There was a growing pool of silence on the bridge.

“I’m not sure that social spending is the root of the problem,” Laurent said after a moment. Clearly lost in his, ‘let’s blame the machines for being the cold, calculating, uncaring blighters they are’ train of thought.

He hadn’t quite gotten to the same point I had reached in my own ruminations, which led to anger with the Provincial and Confederated Imperial Governments which left us all but naked when they came and did what the machines had always done from time immemorial.

“Peanuts and popcorn, bread and circuses,” I said bitterly, still angry with the politicians everywhere. “Pensions, health plans, and environmental conservations initiatives were more important than warships to defend our way of life—and now it’s up to us to pick up the pieces.”

Laurent looked like wanted to say something but activity in the Sensors Section distracted him. “I’m getting some unusual readings from the surface of the planet,” one of the Sensor Operators said, sounding stumped.

“What is it, Sensors?” Laurent pressed, locking onto the man like a hunting dog that had caught a scent. Whether it was a bear in bushes, or a partridge in a pear tree, remained to be seen.

“Check for planetary bombardment silos,” Gants said, sounding almost as bitter as I felt right at that moment, but for a different reason and not incidentally causing me to stiffen with surprise. I hadn’t noticed when his arrival on the bridge—and I knew for a fact he hadn’t been up with us earlier.

“Sir?” the Warrant said looking at Laurent for confirmation.

“Do it,” he ordered before turning back to Gants, his expression demanding an answer.

“When we…attacked Capria,” Gants hesitated and then his face hardened. “When we attacked the home world, while we were dealing with a pair of medium cruisers, they maneuvered us toward the moon—almost within range of a hidden Planetary Bombardment Center,” he looked at me and Laurent bleakly. “Apparently Parliament…or maybe the Royalists, I suppose…anyway, someone built a planetary suppression system on the moon and Parliament kept it manned and operational. So when we got too close to the planet they fired on us with the bombs. They were too slow to be anything but bombs—no missile is that slow—but if they’d hit,” he shook his head and looked close to tears. “They were ready to suppress the population and turned it on us. I just thought maybe these Aqua Nova people were the same way.”

I placed a hand on my forehead. I remembered reading about it in the after action reports, but hearing the tale first hand really brought home the perfidy of the elected process. Not, I thought reluctantly, in the interests of honesty, that the Royalists had been perfect either but even still…

“Well it looks like this government’s distrust of its own population could be the saving of us all,” Laurent said, ever the practical one.

“If we can maneuver those mother-ships within range of the bomb silos, it very well might.” I agreed.

Gants looked sick. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said, backing away to the blast doors.

“In a way, we’re actually fortunate that the droids are so slow,” I said looking back at the main screen, which clearly showed we had been going too fast for what had quickly become a plan of action. ”And Mr. DuPont, if we’re going to draw those droids close enough to the moon to do any good we’re going to have to slow down and force them to adjust their intercept angle. Get with Sensors and Tactical and get me a course that will suck those droids in so deep they’ll never escape.”

“On it, Admiral,” replied the Helmsman as he flashed an expression which resembled nothing so much as a snarl.

I looked at the screen, and saw that the mother-ships had sent in their slightly faster gunboats to deal with the orbital fortresses. This had, ironically, caused the little parasite craft to slow down while they had skirted around the fortresses, all the while pounding them with their spinal mounts for as long as possible. I didn’t know for certain, because we’d gotten too far away before it could be confirmed, but I was pretty sure both fortresses were gone.

In any case, the mother-ships were now ever so slightly ahead of their screen of little gunboats.

It was a mistake I meant them to pay heavily for.

“To the moon, Captain,” I said, leaning back in my chair and steepling my fingers.

It would all come down to a roll of the dice.

Chapter 47: Battle for the Moon I

“Are they still on course, Mr. Shepherd?” I asked, my voice cutting through the din.

“They’re swinging wider than I would like, Admiral,” Shepherd said with concern. “I think they’re trying to maximize their speed to try and catch us.”

My eyes tracked back and forth as my mind raced, trying to find a way through this conundrum. But I didn’t see anything for it. We were going to have to slow down and drag them in after us.

“Reverse course and speed, maximum thrust; we have to draw them closer to the moon,” I instructed, glaring darkly at the screen.

“If we slow down, not only will the mother-ships get a shot at us but we’ll be swarmed by the remaining gunboats,” Laurent noted from his position beside me.

“Noted,” I said flatly and my eyes shot over to the Navigation station, “Mr. Shepherd, please forward to the Helm the closest approach we can make to the moon without risking the ship and keep it updated in real-time.”

“Yes, Admiral,” our Navigator said in a slightly less robust voice than was his usual.

The bridge fell unnaturally silent as the distance between us and an overwhelming number of droid heavies began to shorten.

“Let’s supercharge those shields, Mr. Longbottom,” Captain Laurent said, clearing his throat.

I stared grimly at the screen, wondering if this time the Montagne magic had finally run out. If a battleship hadn’t been able to weather the storm of gunboats and mother-ships then it was certain our medium cruiser—or even heavy cruiser, if all the armor and weapon upgrades had actually increased its class rating—certainly couldn’t.

“Tactical, what’s the latest estimate on overall gunboat numbers,” I asked.

“Just under seven hundred boats remaining, Admiral,” the Tactical Officer said crisply. “Those orbital fortresses really did a number on them.”

“They were sitting ducks,” I noted absently as my mind tried to grapple with a way to defeat that many gunboats. We’d done as well as we had against a lesser number of boats because A) we’d stayed out of their range for as long as possible, and B) we hadn’t had to deal with the mother-ships at the same time like those heavy forts had to do.

By deliberately slowing down, I was in fact removing the only real advantage we’d had over the droids compared to the forlorn battleship and her ruined escorts.

Captain Laurent shifted beside me. “I would have tried to circle the moon and drag them in for a closer pass to the moon base, except that I’m pretty sure we’d run into the tail end of the gunboat mass and have to fight our way out,” I told the Flag Captain.

“Enemies before us and behind, and with the fleet moving at reduced speed so we don’t lose those droid heavies so as to suck them into a trap that might backfire on us as well…it isn’t something I’d want to face, either,” he said after a moment.

Sensing a potential, silent disagreement over the need to sacrifice ourselves over the chance to sucking those mother-ships in close enough to the moon, I looked away. Our best shot to break this droid fleet, in my estimation, was to roll the dice rather than take the ‘safe’ route—a route which led to our almost certain annihilation while we fired our guns until they, and we, had been mulched by the droids’ weaponry.

Maybe the leaders of this system deserved to be shot, and then again maybe I was just an angry man who’d been crossed one time too many by the so-called planetary and Sector leaders back home, but one thing was certain: so long as there was so much as a chance of saving the innocent people of this world then I couldn’t turn my back on them.

After all, whatever the leadership had done against me—even if only in my own suspicious mind—the people themselves had never wronged me. They were innocent victims in all this, and so long as there was breath in my body and any kind of chance of saving them, I was ready to throw myself and the fleet that followed me into the fires of the Demon’s Pit if that’s what it took to save them.

The only other option—taking flight and bugging out like the evil gods of cold space were on our heels—was something I quite simply couldn’t do.

“Here they come,” reported Tactical, and my eyes snapped up to the screen. I’d been caught out woolgathering, and I flushed as I hoped nobody had noticed.

“Alright boys and girls, this one’s for all the marbles,” I said in a ringing voice. Looking at those gunboats, I knew that even the Imperial trick of supercharging the shields wasn’t going to help us now. I didn’t know anything that would, but as the Admiral it was important that I didn’t show it, “Step lively and work your consoles like you mean it. This is where we break them.”

There was a silence, perhaps as people started to realize just how badly we were outnumbered and began to collectively wonder what, exactly, Admiral Montagne had gotten them into. Then Laurent broke the silence.

“It’s time to show the people of this system just what the MSP is all about,” he growled, “who’s with me?!”

At this, the bridge roared with approval. Fists pumped in the air and pounded on desks—and there was also the distinctive sound of yet another microphone breaking from where First Officer Eastwood was sitting. It looked like even the reinforced one they’d gotten for him couldn’t stand up to repeated slamming as it deformed in his hands.

I nodded happily, and was relieved that the bridge crew were as ready and willing to follow me through the gates of destruction as ever. I was only mildly irked that it was the Captain who had got them going with his rousing speech, and not me. I wasn’t used to being upstaged on my own bridge, and the realization that I’d just been upstaged—however slightly or temporarily it might have been—stung a lot more than I expected.

To cover for this, I pasted on a confident expression and stood up. “Wait until the last moment to increase our speed, Helmsman,” I instructed. “We want to get those mother-ships as deep within range of that bombardment center as we possibly can before trying to pull away—even if it means eating a few volleys.”

“Can do, Admiral,” DuPont said with a fierce expression. “I can get us as close to those mother-ships as you like—just so long as you’ll talk to the captain about the paint job after.”

Laurent coughed, turning slightly purple as he gave DuPont a hard look, during which I suppressed a smile. “I’ve got your back,” I said knowingly.

Several tense minutes passed, and finally the droids were within range of our turbo-lasers. Under the deft hand of Mr. DuPont, the Phoenix immediately started the first leg of a familiar, zigzag, pattern which brought our starboard broadside to bear on the enemy.

“Tactical, relay to Gunnery: they are to go weapons hot and fire as soon as local fire control has a lock,” Captain Laurent barked.

“Weapons hot and fire at will, aye, Captain,” Eastwood said and repeated the order into a new microphone already plugged into his work station.

“I want that lead mother-ship taken out of the sky, Mr. Eastwood,” I said in a calm, carrying voice that reached from one end of the bridge to the other. Maybe a bit too carrying, I thought with irritation. I was used to a larger bridge than the one of the Phoenix, and no matter how large and opulent with the most cutting edge tech, a medium cruiser simply doesn’t have as much space as a Caprian-built battleship.

“We’ll knock it out of the sky for you, Admiral Montagne,” Eastwood growled.

Turbo-lasers lanced from the Furious Phoenix and her metaphorical talons struck the lead mother-ship’s shields and lit them up.

“We’re getting solid hits; it’s just a matter of time, Sir,” the Tactical Officer reported.

I had to hide a wince at that, because with the current firepower disparity it was only a matter of time until we were overwhelmed.

“Orders to the fleet,” I instructed, stiffening my spine and doing my best to project confidence, “formation is to increase speed as much as safely possible and fire as soon as the droids come within range. The Flag will forward targeting priorities,” I said, motioning with a circular gesture to Tactical that he was to forward the information to the rest of the fleet’s Tactical Officers.

“You heard the man, Helm,” Laurent barked, “give it whatever you’ve been holding back.

“The Captains are signaling receipt of orders,” Warrant Officer Steiner said moments later.

“I’m already doing the best I can, Captain!” DuPont said, sounding stressed.

Looking at the way the moon was getting closer and closer to the ship, I could feel myself starting to get tense as well but I forcefully unclenched my muscles and with a smile put my hands behind my head and leaned back as if I had all the time in the world and we weren’t in combat.

Unable to hold the pose, when Tactical began to sound off the enemy ship’s shield condition, I lifted my arm as if stretching and then leaned forward once again all business. I knew I probably looked like a fool and shook my head at myself, but within moments I was too focused on the battle to feel like the fool I must have looked like.

“Enemy shields are spotting,” Tactical said in a triumphant voice right before half a dozen droid mother-ships fired their spinal mounts in unison. Seconds later, the rest of the mother-ships followed suit.

“Shields down to 50% and fluctuating hard,” shouted Longbottom, “heat levels in the starboard generator are passing the red line and still rising!”

“Do whatever you have to but keep those shields up!” ordered Laurent.

“We can’t take another hit like that,” Longbottom exclaimed, “we won’t just lose the starboard shields; the generator will go into emergency shutdown!”

“Blast it, Ensign, do your job or I’ll find someone who will,” snapped Laurent, which I thought was somewhat unfair as Mr. Longbottom had been the most steady and non-hysterical shield operator we’d ever had. But I wasn’t about to get between the Captain and his ship—at least, not without a better reason. “And you, roll the ship!” he shouted at DuPont.

“Rolling the ship now, Captain,” replied our Helmsman and in addition to turning the ship he threw the Phoenix into a corkscrew. “She sure handles a lot more nimbly than a battleship,” he said, unconsciously turning his body in the seat along with the unfelt motion of the cruiser.

Spinal laser fire lanced around the ship once, twice, three times it missed and then the inevitable happened.

“Laser strike!” cried Longbottom, “shields down to 37%. The generator is going critical!”

“Blast it, somebody do something about that generator,” Laurent swore.

“I have a pair of Damage Control teams, one working to deal with the heat inside the ship and the other out on the hull,” came the calm, steady voice at Damage Control that I hadn’t heard since our last battle at Tracto against Jean Luc.

“Who gave permission to put men out on the hull? That’s suicide!” Laurent cursed.

“We can’t have it both ways, Captain,” I lifted a hand, cutting him off. “Engineer Blythe knows what’s she’s doing,” I said, giving the woman at Damage Control a nod. I didn’t know her except from the campaign to re-take Tracto, but she’d been a steady hand on the bridge during that time. It was a judgment call to trust her, but given my experience it wasn’t a hard one.

“Yes, sir,” Laurent said giving me the stink eye for overriding him in front of the crew. But we were where the rubber hit the road, and I didn’t have time for hand holding.

“Severe spotting on the starboard side,” Longbottom reported.

“Your overheating problem should be coming under control shortly,” Damage Control Technician Arienne Blythe said evenly.

“Readings have stabilized and are starting to come down,” Longbottom said, sounding relieved. And I could almost feel a collective sigh at his words.

Chapter 48: On the Hull

“Come on, you blighters,” shouted Petty Officer Parkiney, “pop out that faulty heat sink and replace it like you mean it! Move-move-move!”

Space wrenches and multi-tools whizzed and whined as the work party frantically dug into the side of the starboard side shield generator.

“The heat sink is coming out now,” reported the tech outside the faulty heat sink.

“Fulsom,” snapped Parkiney, “how’s that new coolant line coming?”

“Nice and shiny, Chief,” Fulsom said, twisting around beneath the generator. A second later, the old line was tossed out the side of the generator and flew off into space, “New line’ll be locked down in just a tick or two.”

Looking back over to the panel accessing the faulty sink, the trio of engineers milling around in front of it didn’t fill the Crew Chief with confidence.

“What’s the hold up?” he demanded, clomping back over to the panel urgently.

“We got the old sink out but the new one’s jammed tight, it won’t budge,” Bentley said in a rising voice.

“Stand aside and hold fast,” Parkiney said, bracing himself against a stanchion and a foot hold located just outside the access panel. Reaching down to his belt, he pulled out the oversized space wrench and swung it back over his shoulder.

“Uh, Chief, are you sure—” his words were cut off by a brilliant flash of light from the shields overhead.

Parkiney looked up at the still-glowing shields, and then back at the rating. “I’m sure,” he said, winding up and then slamming the wrench into the heat sink. Once, twice, and then third time the makeshift hammer struck home. He continued to slam the wrench repeatedly into the sink until he felt something budge.

“One last tap,” he grunted, and this time when the wrench hit it the sink shifted. As it slotted in, an arc of electricity struck leapt out from the device and Parkiney’s entire body clenched up, lighting arcing through his body he spasmed losing his bracing. The next thing he knew, he was floating off the hull.

Dazed and still twitching, it took him several tries before he managed to grab the loop of cable with the magnetic end aimed at the hull of the Furious Phoenix. Tossing it, the cable went wide and he had to use the auto retract function to get it back. A second toss and the cable wrapped around a sensor antenna before the magnetic end finally found purchase.

By then he was more than twenty feet away from the hull—and at least a hundred feet further down the hull from the shield generator.

“Crew Chief!” cried Bentley as Parkiney slowly—and carefully—started reeling himself in.

“I’m okay; how’s the job?” he said through clenched teeth.

“The sink’s in, Chief,” replied Bentley in an overly loud voice.

“Then what the blazes are you waiting around talking to me for?” Parkiney snapped. “We’re in the middle of a battle—close it up and get out of here!”

“We’re almost all wrapped up over here, but we can’t just leave you behind,” protested Bentley. “I’m coming out to get you.”

“I’ll be fine. Just get out of here before we take a laser strike,” Parkiney grunted, engaging the auto retract function after the second time he lost his grip on the line. It was something he should have done right off, but he had been too scatter-brained after the electrical arc to think straight.

“I can’t—” Bentley started.

“Do it now,” the Petty Officer snarled, “I won’t have anyone die because of me today!”

“Aye, Chief,” the rating said in subdued voice.

By the time he finished getting back down to the hull, the crew was scurrying away from the generator and on to the nearest airlock.

“Move it, you slackers!” Parkiney growled at them, even though they were probably moving at twice what he could manage just then.

“Sure thing, Chie—” Fulsom started to say, but his words were cut off by a brief squeal that died almost as soon as it sounded. At the same instant, a flash caused his helmet to instantly polarize darkened his field of vision until he couldn’t see so much as his nose in front of his face.

“Sweet Murphy,” Parkiney shrieked, diving for cover—which, if he remembered correctly, the nearest of which was off to the left several steps. However his body didn’t wait for his brain to give permission; it just dove.

Seconds later, his visor started to clear as overhead the shields continued to flash and sparkle as the titanic power of ship-to-ship weaponry attempted to hammer through the ship’s first line of defense.

“What’s going on?” the Petty Officer demanded, and when no one answered immediately he added a growl to his voice to cover for the less than manly utterance right before he ducked and covered. “Fulsom, Bentley, report!”

He still had a flashing, blind spot in the field of his vision from the flash, so he had to tilt his head to see out of the corner of his eyes to look at his team.

But where the repair team had been located only moments before, there was only a darkened line of hull metal a man’s length deep and several man lengths wide. There was no sign of his repair team, and the airlock they’d been headed towards was no longer present. It, like the rest of the repair team, had been destroyed by the laser strike.

For long seconds he stood stalk still, unable to believe his eyes and then when he finally did believe, he wished he hadn’t.

Shaking his head to clear it, Parkiney jerked into action. Scrambling toward the next nearest airlock for all he was worth the Petty Officer didn’t even realize he was swearing until he reached the outer hatch and started slamming the entry controls repeatedly with his fist when it demanded his identity code before opening.

“Blasted, no good, demon-cursed, blighters,” he wheezed, sucking breaths in deep and fast after his charge across the hull to safety even as he entered his pin.

No sooner had the outer door started to cycle open than he forced his way through the still-opening doors and leapt over to the inner airlock’s control panel.

The outer doors shut, and the inner doors cycled after once again requiring he enter his unique identity code. But when those protocols were satisfied, he was back inside the ship.

Reaching the com-panel outside the airlock on the inside of the ship, he activated it.

“Petty Officer Parkiney,” he identified, himself still panting for breath. The panel beeped the particular sound the Imperials had for a priority override and while the link was being handed over for a connection he steadied himself. He reminded himself that he was safe within the ship.

“Parkiney, report,” came the no-nonsense voice. “Good work on the shield generator, we avoided a meltdown.”

He absently noted the sender was from Damage Control on the bridge as he unconsciously shook his head.

“Repair completed; new coolant line run and a faulty heat sink was replaced,” he reported, surprised to realize that mechanical-sounding voice speaking the words was his own. He had never felt so detached from his actions as he did in that moment.

“Good work, and tell the team ‘good job’ from me; they may have just saved the ship,” replied the Damage Control Officer.

“The team is gone. A laser strike while we were on the way back to the ship took them all out, and damaged or destroyed the airlock we exited from. I’m the only survivor,” he replied, clenching his hands into fists as he spoke.

There was a pause on the other side of the com-panel. “I hate to hear that,” the woman on the other end of the line said finally, “I’ll put them in for a commendation…” There was pause, “Are you still able to function, Chief, or do you need a down check over at medical?”

“Commendations do nothing! It—they…,” he sputtered before finding his voice again, “doesn’t do any of those men out there any good now, whether they saved the ship or not, Damage Control,” he cursed, molten fury rising up inside him at the calm almost dispassionate voice of the Damage Control Coordinator.

“No,” she agreed in cool professional voice somehow calm despite what had happened and for a moment, just a moment he hated her for it. “But it will increase the pension allotment their families will receive if it goes through,” she added, and although he still wanted to spit and fume at her—at anyone—over the deaths of his team, the words themselves were like a punch to the gut.

Now that they were dead, of course his men would want their families to be taken care of—and it was his job to make sure that he did this one last job for them to the best of his abilities.

The wind taken out of his sails, he leaned forward and placed his head against the wall for a moment.

“Draw it up and I’ll countersign it with my recommendation,” he finally sighed.

“I will, Petty Officer,” the Damage Control Coordinator said firmly, “now, are you still able to function or do you need to get back to me?”

“I’m fine,” he said, straightening his shoulders and hardening his voice until he was once again the competent and always in control crew chief, “what do you need, Damage Control?”

“I’ve got a team that lost its officer to an exploding power relay box,” she replied speaking quickly, “if you’re up to it I’d like you to go and take them in hand. I’ll load your data slate their current work orders now.”

Seconds later, his slate beeped indicating it had received a data package.

“On it now, Damage Control,” he said, cutting the connection moments later and striding down the corridor.

By Murphy, he had a job to do.

Chapter 49: Jazz to Moon Base II

“Starboard side coming around now,” reported DuPont just in time for a laser strike from the spinal mounts of three droid ships.

“Shields on starboard side at 73%,” reported the Shield Ensign.

“Excellent work keeping the port shield generator from overloading, Mr. Longbottom,” Laurent said.

“You can thank Engineering and Damage Control,” the Ensign replied.

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” the Captain said right before another series of laser attacks from the mother-ships.

“Enemy vessels are entering the estimated range of the moon base’s planetary suppression ordinance,” the Tactical Officer said in a rising voice. “By the time we can get up to speed they’ll be well inside the window, sirs!”

“Get us out of here, Mr. DuPont,” I exclaimed, but of course it was far too late for that—we were committed. However, that didn’t mean that we couldn’t juke and weave for our lives.

“Fire!” raged the First Officer into his microphone down in Tactical, and all around us the rest of the fleet fired.

“Mother-ships are moving into position for a fleet firing pass on our formation, and the droid gunboats are closing the distance. The second wave of gunboats will follow closely on the heels of the mother-ship pass,” reported Tactical in a clinical voice.

“We’re deep inside the estimated throw range of the bombardment center,” reported the Sensor Warrant, “still no sign of activity. It’s possible the base was closed down and put into standby at some point.”

“Steady on, bridge,” I ordered as if my somehow telling people what to feel would have some kind of effect, I would have rolled my eyes but I was too busy, “our job was to suck them in; we’ve done that. Now it’s up to the Aqua Novans.”

“I’m getting some kind of sensor shadow entering orbit from the opposite side of the moon. It’s intermittent, so I can’t get a good read on it,” reported one of the sensor operators, “there it is again…and now it’s gone fully into the moon’s shadow. It could just be a sensor ghost,” he added, coloring.

“With these sensors?” I scoffed, referring to the Imperial-grade sensors this ship had come equipped with. They were the best in known space, and while early on in my career I might have attributed the anomaly to operator error, by now my boys and girls in the Sensor department were the one area I felt confident had fully trained in. Still, there was nothing to be done for it, “We’ll hope its reinforcements and plan for it to be more droids, stragglers most likely. But regardless there’s nothing we can do about it right now. We’re committed to a battle over the moon base.”

“The more, the merrier, Admiral,” Laurent said, adding his strong voice to the side of truth, justice, and the Confederation way—and, not coincidentally, encouraging everyone present.

Including, I reluctantly admitted, me. Oh, I knew intellectually that such utterances did nothing to change the actual odds we faced, but just the feeling that I wasn’t doing all of this alone helped. Being the sole linchpin upon which everything hung got old at times; it was nice to share the load, even if only on a metaphorical level.

“Droid Fleet is lining up in a firing formation; this one’s going to hurt, Captain,” Tactical said, looking a little white-faced.

“Contact!” cried a sensor operator. “Multiple Contacts rising from the surface, Admiral!”

“Yes!” I said, clenching my fist and pounding it on the arm of my chair. Pay dirt! Our gambit had paid off.

They had confirmed the presence of a moon base, filled with slow-moving, planetary bombs—along with people possessing the will to turn them on a Droid Fleet that could fight back. The droids would almost certainly level the base in retaliation, instead of hammering civilian targets filled with their own people…helpless people who couldn’t fight back. So despite my anger at the base’s existence, I had to grudgingly acknowledge the actions of its soldiery.

“One hundred. One fifty—two hundred bombs, Admiral!” cried the Sensor Warrant.

I nodded with understanding.

“Within the spread are a variety of bombardment types, ranging from small, tactical, bunker-busters up to full-on city killers,” the Tactical Officer reported.

“Unless they happen to have shield generators over their cities,” Eastwood grunted.

“How many Sectors outside the Imperial Provinces can boast a planetary defense network that includes shield generators large enough—and potent enough—to protect even a low-tier metropolis?” Tactical said scornfully.

“A few of the larger Core Worlds inside the old Confederation Sectors still have ’em,” Eastwood grunted.

“Only to maintain past glory; they haven’t been upgraded in the Space Gods know when. Who knows if they even still work—” argued the Tactical Officer.

“Enough,” Laurent cut the two of them off abruptly, “the hypothetical planetary defense which the Aqua Novans—and, more immediately, their moon base—do not possess has no bearing on our current battle. Man your posts and fight the battle in front of us: save your thunder for the enemy.”

There was an embarrassed silence from the two men, and then there was no more time for interpersonal issues as we saw that the droids were moving.

“The Spire ships are coming about,” the Tactical Officer all but yelped.

“Spire ships?” I asked with alarm.

The Officer colored but otherwise ignored his embarrassment except to answer. “Apologies, sir, it’s just that with their spinal mounts and general hull shapes once their gunboats detach from the rest of the ship, that they look more like one big, angry, spire to my eyes than anything else,” he said and then his head shot around. “They are firing on the moon base; the mother-ships are firing!”

Fire lanced out from the droid ships, striking the fixed position base on the moon.

“A second wave of bombardment missiles is launching,” Tactical said triumphantly, “they must build them deep here, Admiral!”

“The better to oppress their own people should the need arise, I’m sure,” I said sourly. Sill morally offended at the thought that, after all our sacrifices, some idiot in political office could decide to wipe away all our hard work against the droids with the flick of a switch and a voice verification routine.

“That’s above my pay grade, Admiral,” the Tactical Officer said with a shrug, although the tension in his shoulders gave the lie to his attempt at a dispassionate response.

Whatever he felt—I wasn’t sure exactly what that was—but whatever it was he definitely had an opinion on him.

“I’m reading seventy eight new bombs having been launched from the base and are now heading toward the Droid Fleet, sir,” reported the Tactical Officer.

“The gunboats have diverted their course toward the bombs and the mother-ships are moving away as fast as they can manage,” reported Sensors.

I could see that the mother-ships—which did look slightly like spire-ships—were running away parallel to us, and I blinked in confusion.

Up until then, the Droids hadn’t turned away for anything. They hadn’t backed down from a potent SDF battle fleet, shied away from a pair of powerful planetary defense fortresses, or even balked at the certain destruction of four of their ships and accompanying gunboat swarms at the hands of my much smaller fleet. Nothing had caused them to so much as turn for anything except to cut a straighter course towards the biggest target they could point their ships towards.

So the question I had to ask myself was this: what changed? I couldn’t imagine it was fear of us. They’d shown that they were willing to chase us anywhere we went, so the MSP as a threat was instantly discarded. The bombardment moon base—or, more specifically, the two waves of just under three hundred bombs—bore more thought. But even though it appeared to be the obvious answer, I was hesitant to accept it. What changed? I wondered again.

“You don’t think it was the threat of imminent destruction?” Laurent asked in surprise and I flushed, realizing my last thought had somehow made it past my lips without my instruction.

“I didn’t realize I’d spoken aloud,” I muttered with embarrassment and then took a breath. “The bombs are a threat but they haven’t shown very much concern for losses—not even when we annihilated that group of four mother-ships,” I pointed out.

“Yes,” Laurent agreed, “however, that was just a subset of the total group and not a particularly large one. Depending on how they look at things, of course.”

“Who knows how a droid thinks?” I said contemplatively, trying to put myself in the shoes of a metal head and coming up blank. It was just too far outside my frame of reference, except in cheap holo-vids I had nothing to base those hypothetical shoes on.

“It might not be the loss of individual units that concern it, no matter how many,” Laurent said after a moment, “these are machines, after all. Maybe they’re more worried about mission failure than they are losing some—or even all—of their units.” I frowned. “They didn’t seem to hesitate to throw themselves away…I mean, that first mother-ship we met all by itself and it charged headlong into the fray,” I said.

By then the bombs had closed in on the furiously accelerating mother-ships. The droids had been suckered into the moon base’s attack range good and hard, but unfortunately a significant fraction of the bombs had diverted course towards the MSP once it became clear the mother-ships were going to escape their range.

Essentially, the entire second wave of seventy five bombs was pointed at us.

“Evasive maneuvers, Mr. DuPont,” I said calmly, as if he hadn’t just been doing exactly that.

“Yes, Admiral,” the Helmsman said without even a hint of irritation.

“Shield power stabilizing on both sides at 60% and climbing,” Longbottom reported crisply, the unusual, unbidden report breaking the moment.

I took a deep breath. It didn’t matter what reason the droids had for turning away from us; now was the time to press the attack.

“On second thought belay that order, Mr. DuPont,” I instructed my eyes turning hard and cold, “and push us straight toward those mother-ships. It’s time to finish this.”

DuPont looked over at me and back toward his console and then instead of arguing with me about how one turn from those mother-ships could gut our fleet he looked back up at me and said, “are you sure you don’t mean a converging course, sir? Going straight at them right now would only put us further behind.”

I lifted an eyebrow. I hated to admit I was wrong—and this would be doing so twice in the same minute—but I wanted these droids dead and buried a whole lot more.

“I leave the particulars in your competent hands, Helmsman,” I said, baring my teeth, “just get us there in the least time possible.”

“Yes, sir!” he said with a sharp nod.

As I watched the bombs closed their approaches on the struggling Droid mother-ships, and light laser fire raked out from the bellies and flanks of the droid ships.

A slew of bombs were swept from the sky by the light laser fire, and for a moment it looked like the dozen droid warships were going to sweep the sky clean of the slow-moving bomb. Then the light lasers must have started to overheat, as thunderous explosions began to rock the enemy fleet. The flares of light occluded the area where the droid mother-ships were located as the main screen’s pickups filtered out the dangerously powerful light.

A cheer went up on the bridge, despite the fact we had well over eighty of those very same bombs blasting their slow pitiful best towards us. Unfortunately for us, pitiful as it was, we were still going too slowly when they had launched. Our increased thrust was extending the time until they reached us, but that was it.

When the screen cleared, my heart soared…right before my stomach dropped. It soared because half a dozen broken, droid, mother-ships appeared on my screen followed by another two which were battered and broken, but still limping. As for the remainder of the droid fleet, I initially assumed they must have been vaporized or broken up into component parts.

Which is why the bottom fell out of my stomach at the realization we were facing the very same menace right behind us: a second bombardment wave aimed squarely at us and would leave us in no condition to deal with the massive swarm of angry gunboats coming fast around the moon.

I wasn’t sure what I needed to do, but with the main droid fleet having been annihilated—for all intents and purposes swept off the board by the moon base’s sucker punch—I needed to pull something out of my hat fast.

“I’m picking up a transmission in the clear,” Steiner stiffened in her chair then her face became animated, “it’s from the SDF Battleship and they’re…talking to the moon base!”

“Put it on,” I said quickly.

“Jazz to Moon Base II; Jazz to Moon Base II! This is Captain Jazz of the Poseidon; you have launched a missile attack wave at allied ‘human’ warships. Redirect that attack wave over to those droid gunboats. That’s an order,” barked a deep-throated voice over the com-channel.

Then the channel went to static and squeals.

“While the captain of the Poseidon is broadcasting in the clear, ‘Moon Base II’ is using an encryption we can’t yet break,” reported Steiner.

“Still no sign of the battleship or any of its escorts on the scan, Sir,” reported Sensors.

“The signal is coming from a small communications satellite further around the moon from our position but still within line of sight,” commented the little warrant officer at Comm., “they must be somewhere around the curve of the moon where we can’t see them yet.”

Then the speaker stopped crackling.

“In the name of the Infernal, Moon Base II!” snapped Captain Jazz, “I’m the on-scene commander and you’ll blasted well take my orders. I don’t care who you have on the line with your right now; turn those missiles. Or at least broadcast the self-destruct code—even you lot are capable of that much!”

There was a brief bit of static and squealing, followed by an inarticulate shout of rage from the Poseidon’s Captain and nothing further.

“Negotiations seem to have gone awry,” I said dryly.

Laurent, looking like he was about ready to bust a gasket, looked over at me with flaring nostrils, “I don’t know how you find the ability to joke at a time like this,” he said, glaring back up at the screen.

Without looking, I could tell he was staring at the Moon Base with eyes like lasers.

“A simple statement of fact,” I said making my voice a quiet rebuke. That comment had been far too close to undermining me in front of the crew.

Laurent gave me a look, and it was a look that I was more than willing to return and I made sure he was the one to look away first.

“What are we going to do about those bombs?” he said after a moment, probably as a way to save face. I was more than willing to allow his segue—especially since those bombs had just become our key priority.

“We can’t outrun them,” he added.

“We’ll have to turn around and task gunnery with point defensive fire,” I said after an unhappy moment

Laurent pursed his lips and shook his head from side to side and while his opinion was clear to read on his face, he didn’t say anything further. Really, there was nothing more to say on the subject. We were in a bad spot.

“Contacts! Multiple contacts rising up from the moon base; it looks like another wave of bombs, sirs!” reported Sensors.

For a moment at the sound of new contacts I’d started to hope against hope for a new variable to shake things up but that wasn’t to be. But it wasn’t to be.

My face a hardened into the sort of mask that only comes from seeing far too many of your ships—and, more importantly, your people—fall to the enemy.

“Let’s not wait around for orders to start clearing those bombs from my sky, Tactical,” I said not caring if I was stepping on the Captain’s prerogatives or not and I turned to the com’s, “make sure the fleet is prepared to come about 180 degrees and engage targets of opportunity.”

“Yes, sir!” the little com-tech said, snapping to attention and speaking furiously into her microphone.

“Bombs entering our extreme attack range,” cried the Tactical Officer.

“Fire!” roared First Officer Eastwood into his microphone.

“Unauthorized shuttle launches from Destroyer Longshot,” snapped the Sensor Warrant.

“What!” Laurent barked as my head whipped around.

“Emergency signals,” cried Lisa Steiner, “escape pods launce and space suited figures abandoning ship on the Cutter Rapid Ranger and…. I have more escape pods and crew in suits exiting Cutter Silent Strike as well,” she continued, sounding stressed.

“What the blazes! Are you in a mine field or something?” I demanded.

“No, sir,” reported Tactical, “we have good link up with the Rapid Ranger and the Silent Strike; no sign of battle damage listed as of five seconds ago.”

“They’re abandoning ship,” Laurent exclaimed sounding dumbstruck, “the fools! They’ll be killed.”

“Not if the shuttles from Longshot arrive in time to pick them up,” the Tactical Officer said in clinical voice.

“Cowardice in the face of the enemy!” raged Laurent. “We should have put more Lancers onboard the cutters,” he said savagely.

“Somebody get me the captains of those ships on the line—NOW!” I shouted.

“Transferring now, Admiral!” Steiner acknowledged, yet despite her words it still took a precious ten seconds to get the captains on the line. By this time they’d turned their ships toward the wave of bombs and lit their drives to full power.

“Mutiny!” raged Captain Laurent as the cutters went to full military power.

I glared at my Flag Captain. “Mutineers tend to run away from the enemy, not dive right toward an enemy attack wave at full speed, Cedric,” I snapped angrily, “get a hold of yourself, man.”

The main screen split, reducing the image of the battle space down to just one corner of the screen and replacing the remaining space with a trio of Captains. Two men I was unfamiliar with except as names and faces, but the other I had thought I knew: the young Captain Archibald, newly minted commander of the Destroyer Longshot.

“What is the meaning of this, Captains?” I snapped, bestowing the full weight of my withering regard onto the trio of men now displayed on my screen.

“It’s been an honor to serve with you, sir,” said the first of the Cutter Captains.

“What the blazes are you bastards up to?” I demanded angrily.

“Tell my family I loved them,” said the second Captain, drawing himself up to stiff attention and saluting. He was followed an instant later by the first Captain and I could see tears in his eyes, “It’s been nothing but an honor to serve with you—a real honor, Admiral Montagne. I don’t care what those fools back on Capria say. It’s all nothing but bald-faced lies and you can tell ’em I said so, sir!”

I placed a hand on my forehead, afraid that I now knew exactly what these men were up to.

“Get back in formation, Captains—and retrieve your men,” I ordered.

“That’s the one order we can’t obey, Sir,” replied the first as his cutter continued to accelerate straight toward the enemy ships.

“The Cutters just lit up like Christmas trees,” Sensors reported, “they’re not trying to mask their signals—quite the opposite. They’re pumping as much power through anything that emits measurable radiation as they can over there.”

“Don’t be too hard on the crews, sir; it’s the Captains job to go down with the ship…not the men and women aboard her,” the First Captain said.

My stomach roiled as the two Cutter Captains continued their suicide run straight into the middle of the formation of bombs.

“Their fusion cores are spinning up, sir!” reported Tactical.

I stood up in my chair. “I’ve never been prouder than I am this moment, Captains,” I said, bracing to attention. On the inside all I wanted to do was rip off the arm of my chair and beat someone—preferably one, or both, of the errant Captains—with it. My rampage would invariably include a certain Senior Select and the commander of his secret Moon Base.

“Bombs are converging, slowly, on the two cutters,” reported our Tactical Officer in a subdued voice.

“Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet—” screamed the first Captain, a brief look of terror entering his eyes while the other Captain held the arms of his little command chair in a death grip and closed his eyes. His face twisted with fear, and then the screen went dark cutting him off midsentence and removing two of the images on the screen until only Captain Archibald was left.

In the small corner that still showcased the battle, I saw a series of explosions rock the area in the middle of the bomb wave where the two little cutters had disappeared into.

“And never felt more like a failure than at this moment, either,” I whispered, staring at the place the two proud, little, icons representing warships of the MSP used to blink.

“They did it, Admiral,” Tactical cried excitedly. “They got them to clump up and then tore the heart of that attack wave. They didn’t get all of them, but Fleet gunnery should be more than capable of taking out the remaining bombs.”

“Blast them,” I said in a rising voice, “blast those men!”

“Sir,” Laurent said in a warning voice and looking over at him, I realized he thought I was referring to the two Captains who’d just sacrificed their lives to save the rest of their brothers in arms and their fool of an Admiral whose incompetence had all but signed their death warrants.

“Not them, Flag Captain,” I said my face twisting and then I thrust a finger straight toward the moon, “them.”

“My apologies, sir,” Laurent said, his features quickly schooling.

I scowled, ready to tear some heads off. “After this battle, I want you to remind me—just in case I forget after a protracted battle,” I said turning to my Flag Captain, my eyes boring into his.

Laurent waited a beat.

“Remind you of what, Admiral?” he asked, and I could all but feel him drawing back, wondering what crazy thing the incomprehensible Admiral Montagne was going say next.

I bared my teeth savagely, loath to disappoint him. Not on this matter. “Remind me that, if our ships are still in any kind of condition to do so after destroying every mechanical in this system, we still have a job to do,” once again my finger thrust out towards the moon base, “and one more target to destroy.”

“We could turn around and hit them now,” he offered.

“No,” I said with malice aforethought, “they still have one important role to play before it’s their turn.”

Then I turned and glared hatefully at the droid swarm. Hate was not too strong a word for the emotion which had nearly consumed every fiber of my being. That being the case, I was definitely starting to hate our other enemies inside this system.

Then I paused. Strike that and make it ‘all’ of our enemies in this system, I corrected myself as I silently fumed.

“I ride to your rescue and you destroy two of my ships,” I murmured, staring balefully back at the Planet Aqua Nova, “it’s past time for some gratitude, Senior Select. And this time I will have my pound of flesh.”

Leaning back in my seat, I began contemplating exactly what I was going to do if and when I survived the gunboat attack and, I briefly wondered if all of this was somehow my fault. Was I too good natured and willing to dive into a strange star system and help out others at the expense of those who believed in my decisions, if not me personally?

Had I brought all of this on myself by not being…or at least appearing, selfish enough? Perhaps, I thought, the powers that be deeply hate anything smacking of idealism, selflessness or sacrificing for others without the expectation—or at least the precondition of benefit.

Had I failed my people by not appearing greedy and overbearing enough? It was a terrible thought, that perhaps my naive desire to help others had got a lot of my own people needlessly killed along the way.

I didn’t know, and I quite possibly could never know. But one thing was for sure and dead certain: from now until the stars burned out, my men and their efforts would be fully appreciated on the front end or, one way or the other, the worlds of these Sectors would bleed for my help.

I’d spent my entire command, such as it had been, haplessly running around trying to put out fires. The worlds in Sector 25 didn’t seem to approve, and the worlds here clearly didn’t appreciate it—and it was in that moment that I knew I was well past done being everyone’s whipping boy.

If the old saying ‘nice guys finish last’ was an incontrovertible expression of a deep-seated, immutable aspect of humanity…then it was time for a change.

“No more Mister Nice Guy,” I muttered under my breath.

Chapter 50: Fleet against the Swarm

I turned back to the main screen with a terrible expression on my face and a feeling like the weight of an entire world was on my back. I felt like Hercules, the half-god foolishly carrying the world on his back while Atlas, whose job it really was, took off and partied it up.

Now, in the old tales, Hercules tricked Atlas (who was more or less a full god) into picking back up the load and returning to his duties. But I felt more inclined to use the ungrateful world on my back like a bowling ball to crush my enemies with. Unlike Hercules, I didn’t particularly feel like handing the fate of our world back; let the shiftless bums who should have been taking care of business continue partying obliviously while things burned down around their ears.

There was a new sheriff in town, and it was time he started acting like it—it was time I started acting like it.

“You launched shuttles even before the crews of the Silent Strike and Rapid Ranger started to abandon ship, Captain Archibald,” I said pinning the young captain with my eyes. “What exactly was your involvement in the deaths of two good warships, their Captains, and whatever crew were still aboard?”

Archibald looked stricken. “It was my idea to take the Longshot into the middle of those bombs, but even though my fusion generators are larger I didn’t think I had the range to get all the bombs,” he said, looking sick to his stomach. “So when I started to talk it over with the Captain of my old Cutter, who used to serve in my crew, he brought the other Captain into the conference and the two of them decided that we didn’t need to kill all the bombs. We just needed to get enough of them so the fleet could deal with the remainder, and for that what we needed were two cutters, not a cutter and a destroyer,” he looked down at his hands which were twisting around one atop the other. “It should have been me out there. It was my idea.”

“It was a fine idea but you should have brought it to me,” I informed him icily.

“There wasn’t time—” he started and I cut him off.

“There was time to plan an evacuation of the crew, so there was time to bring the Admiral into the loop,” I snarled.

Archibald swallowed his face white as a sheet.

“We didn’t want you to have to carry this on your shoulders, Sir. You’ve done suffered more than enough already,” he finally said.

“That’s not your call to make—I’m the Admiral, mister! I’m the one in command, so whether or not you tell me beforehand, those losses—those deaths—are mine to bear,” I bellowed before stopping to take two deep breaths.

“I’ll submit to whatever punishment you deem fit. It was my idea so I should take the blame, and I’ll share their fate if that’s what needs doing, Admiral,” he said, looking up and meeting my eyes more or less steadily with his own.

“You saved the Fleet,” I said, falling back into my chair with a thump, “so no. I’m not going to toss you out an airlock, Captain Archibald,” I said, biting out his rank. “So instead of punishing you like you so desire right now, I’m going to give you a warning and put you up for a medal.”

Archibald’s eyes widened.

“And the warning is thus,” I growled, “if you ever have another bright idea, then as Saint Murphy is my witness you will tell it to me if it is at all possible because if you don’t…I don’t care if you save this Fleet from destruction, I will put you in a penal colony so fast your head will spin!”

“Yes, sir; thank you, sir,” he said obviously surprised.

“Cut the connection,” I snapped, unable to stand looking at his face anymore.

It took almost a minute of rhythmic breathing to regain control of myself, and when I glanced at the miniature screen built into the arm of my chair I could see as the last of the bombs were knocked out of commission with our ships well outside the blast radius.

When I looked up again, Laurent was standing over me.

“I know I probably fouled that up before, during, and after,” I said irritably, “but right now I don’t care—I can’t care about it. So let’s stay focused on the task at hand: those droids.”

The Flag Captain sucked in air through his teeth and nodded. “We’re still alive, and that’s what’s important. How about let’s wrap this up and blow the rest of these droids to Murphy’s Gates, eh?”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” I said shortly and then turned to glare at the main-screen. We needed to nail these guys to the wall and fast—preferably before they overtook my Fleet and nailed us to the wall.

“How are we looking on an intercept attempt by those boats, Mr. Shepherd?” I asked, doing my best to project confidence. After all, while they might not know it from the results, I was still winging it and nothing makes baffling them with baloney harder than being unsure of yourself in the first place.

“We’ve been burning for all we’re worth, except for when we turned to deal with the bombs,” he said with a nod over at Helmsman DuPont, “but I estimate the forward ten percent of the swarm will overlap with our formation, unless of course they manage to slow us down by damaging our engines. But as for how much more of the swarm formation will be able to fire on us, that’s anyone’s guess…or, rather, you should speak with the Tactical Officer. I’m just the Navigator and such questions are outside my area of expertise.”

“Alright, thank you for the analysis, Mr. Shepherd,” I said with a nod, “and keep up the good work, Helm.”

DuPont ducked his head looked pleased with the words and Shepherd smiled as I turned to Tactical squaring my shoulders.

“Give it to me straight,” I instructed the other Officer.

Tactical took a deep breath. “Assuming everything goes as close to perfect as one can expect in a battle,” he said, meeting my eyes to make sure I was aware of the caveat, then continued solemnly, “then we’ll only have to face something on the order of 250-300 gunboats.”

“Only two to three hundred droid gunboats,” I said sardonically with emphatic roll of my eyes, “well that’s a relief.” Which was, of course, a complete and total lie but two hundred—or even three hundred—was better than all fourteen or fifteen hundred of them. Not that it was much better, though, since too many gunboats to handle at any one time was still too many to handle.

Sure, we’d handled more than two hundred in our previous battle but they had been in waves, their swarms all strung out, giving us time to deal with them a relative few at a time and it had still been touch and go. This greater swarm was also strung out, but even so the odds were still very much tilted their way. The sheer size of this last group of gunboats put our previous battle against the droids to shame.

I glanced over at my Flag Captain, and he looked back at me. I could see that he knew as well as I did that tangling with fifteen hundred boats or even an appreciable fraction thereof was no laughing matter.

“We’ve faced worse odds,” he said with a shrug and a tone of voice that belied the worry I’d seen on his face just moments before.

“That’s true,” I said, and it was; even earlier in that very day we’d faced worse odds. However, everyone’s luck runs out sometime…I just prayed to the Sweet Saint that mine would hold just a little longer.

“Enemy boats starting to encounter the third bomb wave now,” Tactical reported clinically.

This should be good, I thought, with more than a twinge of savage anticipation.

Moments later, the wave of bombs entered range of the gunboats small laser fire. A growing hailstorm of fire erupted from the leading edge of the droid swarm, and I cursed as only a few of the bombs detonated, destroying only a handful of the fastest running droid gunboats. Unfortunately, by the time the bombs started to get deep enough to do any significant harm, there were enough boats with their small lasers to ensure their destruction.

“It’s the Demon’s work,” muttered a yeoman.

“Belay that nonsense, yeoman,” the Flag Captain snapped, scowling thunderously.

“Sorry, sir,” woman said ducking her head and backing away.

“Droid Swarm entering attack range now, Admiral,” reported the Sensor operator a minute later, and my eyes snapped back to the screen. Due to the contours of space and our recent flight close to the surface to draw the droids into range of the moon base, the swarm was actually swinging in towards us from our rear and to the right from further outside the orbit of this moon. Which meant our broadside was able to be brought to bear.

“The Fleet is free to go weapons hot and fire on targets of opportunity,” I instructed, turning to the Comm. Section.

Steiner nodded and relayed the orders, and after that it was time to wait. To my surprise, toward the tail end of the Droid Swarm a large group of gunboat four hundred strong split off to attack the moon base. Of course, that still left us with nearly a thousand of the little blighters.

And then they were on us.

“Fire!” ordered Eastwood, and our long range weapons started taking their toll on the droids.

The closer they got, the more of our lasers were brought to bear starting with our longest and most powerful. Not, I think, that that mattered too much, since one hit by a heavy laser was enough to wipe them out of cold space.

But regardless of how many we destroyed, the main group drew inexorably closer until finally they were within weapons range of even light lasers, and we started to take shots.

At first it was only a hit here and there, and then the gunboats started arriving in greater and greater numbers.

“Shields holding steady at 98%,” Longbottom reported crisply, no longer appearing shaken by the overwhelming numbers we were shortly about to face. But then, I guess being in multiple battles for your life all in the same day can have that effect on a person. After a while you just become numb to the danger and just focus on the job at hand.

By then we must have destroyed a hundred gunboats, and I have to say that giving our lasers maximum time on target while the enemy is only slowly coming into our own range was really the way to go. Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, and when this one did it did so with a vengeance.

It seemed to happen all at once, and before we knew it we were under assault from more than a hundred light laser attacks.

A wing-shaped formation of almost a hundred and fifty gunboats descended upon our defenses with, replacements filling the gaps almost as fast as we could destroy them.

“89%-82-73-69-61% and still falling, Captain,” cried Ensign Longbottom as the droids fired with mechanical precision, and our recently recharged shields proved that no matter how strong they were, nothing withstands the better part of a hundred and fifty shots of anything in short order without suffering for it. “Severe spotting on the starboard side, sir; shield strength now under 50% and shots are definitely getting through, Captain!”

“Ship, prepare to roll,” Laurent barked out, “Shields, divert whatever you have to but keep my shields up!”

“Yes, Captain,” replied Longbottom.

“Now, Mr. DuPont, and with alacrity if you please,” the Captain snapped.

I gripped my command chair as the ship started to move but even I could see that it was much too slowly.

“Shields under 35% and fluctuating dangerously!” shouted Longbottom.

“I’ve lost a number of sensor arrays,” reported the Sensor Warrant.

“Gunboats moving in on close approach, plasma cannons go to rapid fire!” roared First Officer Eastwood.

“Shield collapse is immanent,” Longbottom cried his voice cutting through the din, “we’re at less than 25%.”

“Blast it all; I thought we got that problem fixed. I was told it was repaired!” Laurent raged.

“We’re not going to make it in time,” shouted the Navigator with obvious fear in his voice.

“It was, sir,” Ms. Blythe said almost laconically, ignoring the Navigator’s outburst. “This isn’t a case of failure to meet factory specs—this is factory specs being exceeded.”

“Shield collapse; multiple circuit breakers tripped. Starboard generators are going into emergency shutdown now,” barked Longbottom, raising both hands and stepping back from his console, indicating by both word and deed that there was nothing more he could do on the starboard side.

“Hold steady, crew,” I stood up from my chair and glared at the screen, “they may have taken down the shields on the starboard side, but our armor is thick and heavy. We will come out of this battle stronger than ever!” I lied. I knew we were about to get hurt, and hurt badly, but there was no sense in bemoaning the fact.

“It’ll take more than a few light laser bolts to cut through this hull,” growled the Flag Captain.

“Longshot is requesting positioning orders,” Lisa Steiner had to say in an elevated voice to be heard over the din, with one hand on her ear piece as she spoke.

“I don’t have time for this,” I snapped as the screen indicated multiple hits to our starboard side, “tell Archibald to hold his blasted position and shut the h—”

“Movement,” cried a sensor operator, “Destroyer Longshot is falling out of position and drifting to stern!”

For a split second I thought Archibald’s destroyer had been hit, but it was just a second and then I slammed my hand down on the arm of my chair.

“Blast him—blast that man,” I hissed furiously, “I just got done instructing him to hold off the heroics and this is what I get?!”

“Longshot is taking up position between us and the center of the enemy formation…she’s taking hits, and not just from the enemy, Admiral. Our plasma cannons raked her port shields while she was passing through, and even now a few hits are getting through, sir,” reported Tactical.

I opened my mouth to order Archibald’s Destroyer out of our way—and out of the line of fire—but then I hesitated. I knew it was important not to issue orders you know are going to be disobeyed.

“How strong are their port shields?” I demanded instead. I wanted to know how much longer the rogue officer and his warship could continue to function while stuck between the hammer of the droid fleet and the anvil of my new Flagship.

“I see signs of spotting on their portside,” Tactical replied quickly, “they must be diverting energy from the area facing us in order to strengthen the starboard shields facing the droids.

“How long do you think they can hold out?” I asked with false calm.

There was a brief pause. “Unknown,” Tactical replied simply.

“Issue orders for the gunners to avoid shooting that fool destroyer in the side, if at all possible without endangering our own ship,” Laurent growled.

Once again I almost spoke but instead settled back into my chair with a nod. The die was cast and, unfortunately, putting my oar into it would only weaken my authority and throw confusion…well, further confusion at any rate, into the mix. As much as I hated to admit it, I had to let the Captain fight his ship and hope the droids continued to focus on the Flagship.

I didn’t understand why these droids continued to focus on the most powerful ship in the formation to the exclusion of the lesser ships. This pattern had held true throughout the engagement, unless the Phoenix temporarily lay outside their range and another one of our ships was inside.

Still, I wasn’t going to open a com-channel and ask them to change their minds or explain themselves either, so for the moment it would remain a mystery.

Lasers and plasma fire shot out from our banks of weaponry in a rapidly-expanding swarm, until our guns started to overheat and then, one by one, they started to fall silent. Meanwhile, for every droid boat that we knocked out of commission, another one plinked us with their light laser.

“Multiple laser strikes to the starboard side; we’ve just lost a pair of plasma cannons and a turbo-laser,” reported Tactical.

“Faster, Helm,” ordered Laurent.

“We’re going as fast as we can, Captain,” DuPont grunted.

“Hit to our starboard secondary engine, sir!” Damage Control Watch Stander Blythe reported, “the Chief Engineer took it offline before it tore itself apart.

“We need—” the Captain began furiously, only to cut himself off with an angry wave of the hand.

Another hailstorm of light laser fire wracked our ship, and the Destroyer heroically attempted to interpose itself between us and the barrage.

“Longshot just lost her engines!” cried the Sensor Warrant.

“Her shields are going down,” howled the Tactical Officer.

It was almost as if I could feel the damage to Longshot with my own body, and the resulting strain upon the fleet and officers of this bridge. It was a nearly tangible, palpable thing, and I knew in that instant that we had reached a tipping point. Longshot had sacrificed herself to buy us precious minutes—minutes in which we had started to pull ahead of the swarm of gunboats.

It would be the work of not even moments to sit back and let the drama play out as once again Captain Archibald came up with a last ditch desperate plan to save us all. Of course, in sitting back and taking what leisure I could find in the middle of a battle meant I would be doing two things. The first is I would be letting a ship and entire crew of men who trusted, believed in, and followed their Little Admiral, down. The second was I would be granting Captain Archibald tacit control of this fleet, even if only momentarily and for the length of his heroic last stand, through my inaction. And while the first I might let pass…the second I simply could not abide.

Jason Montagne stood aside for no man—not here, not now, and categorically never when it came to the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet. If someone wanted to steal my thunder and wrest control of my men and my fleet from me, he might or might not succeed, but I would not grant such a man control over that which I…which we had laboriously built. He would have to take it as Jean Luc took the Lucky Clover: with guile, treachery, and plain old, brute force. And after all of that, it would still have to be done over my bleeding and broken body.

Which is why I turned to Arienne Blythe and drawled, “Call down to Engineering and prepare to deploy the bucking cables, if you would be so kind.”

The Damage Control technician started and stared at me for a moment before nodding sharply.

Smirking ever so slightly at having gotten through the unflappable reserve of the stoic Watch Stander, who had been on the bridge with us during the Campaign leading up to the Second Battle of Tracto, I turned to the Helm but my Flag Captain beat me to the punch speaking before I could.

“Admiral! We risk throwing away every bit of breathing space Longshot’s sacrifice has gained,” he said urgently.

“I’m not about to let such stalwarts of the fleet fall by the wayside if there’s anything I can do about it. Not without at least an attempt to save them,” I said, thrusting my hand at the icon of the Longshot and then dismissing the captain and his concerns with a wave of my hand I turned to the Helmsman, “We will hazard a single pass, Helm—no more and no less. I couldn’t live with myself if we didn’t try at least to save them once.” Or, more accurately, I couldn’t live with the notion that I would willingly let myself be a pawn in another’s game…or worse, reduce the people around me to nothing but mere numbers like my uncle had done.

“There’s no guarantee they’ll make it without their shields up even if we snag them on the first pass and everything goes perfectly, Admiral,” Laurent said clinically.

“There are few guarantees in this life, Flag Captain,” I said harshly, “and one of those very few is this: when you fight for the Little Admiral, he will fight for you. With every last breath in my body if necessary. Oath for oath, measure for measure, I throw no one away who is not a traitor or, possibly, a coward, although that last isn’t necessarily always true. So while there may be times when there is nothing I can do, I will not throw away lives proving the point. This is not one of those times and we will do all we can do,” I finished, turning away.

“Yes, Admiral,” he said nodding as he stepped back. I could see that he was still skeptical in his head, but that while intellectually he might still have qualm, the fire in his eyes argued that his heart would be fully engaged in our mission.

“Very good,” I sat back down abruptly, “carry on then, Captain. I’d like to see the fish that is our Longshot snagged, roped, and made ready to be hauled away before our mutual foes have the chance to cause any more mischief,” I ordered.

Really, what more could an Admiral ask for? I had a Flag Captain who was willing to tell me when he thought I was wrong, and was willing to put his heart into carrying out my orders even when he disagreed. That was worth more than my feckless former First Officer every day of the cycle and twice on off-days.

Sitting back, I watched as the well-honed machine that was my captain and bridge crew threw themselves and thus, my new Flagship, into action.

A renewed barrage of fire lanced out from our recently-turned port broadside, knocking gunboats out of cold space with renewed fury.

“Initiating pass-by maneuver now,” DuPont said, spinning the heavy cruiser and moving her around like she was a much smaller ship.

“Engineering reports bucking cables ready for deployment,” came the terse report from damage control.

“Shields are still taking laser strikes,” Longbottom reported, “port shields are down to 73% and the starboard generator still hasn’t started to reinitialize yet.”

“Well, get on it, Longbottom,” Laurent said fiercely.

Longbottom shook his head in dismay but dutifully leaned back over his console.

“Longshot is now leaking atmosphere off her starboard side,” reported Tactical. “I don’t know how much longer she can keep taking these kinds of hits.”

“Mere pinpricks,” I said encouragingly, “they’ll hold.”

Yet, even as I said this, the destroyer started venting vigorously into space.

“Those are a lot of strikes they’ve absorbed by placing their ship between the gunboats and us,” warned Tactical.

I shrugged it off, not because I didn’t care but because I couldn’t care. I couldn’t do anything more for that ship than I was already doing, and beating myself up over something I couldn’t do anything about was an exercise in self-pity I couldn’t indulge in right now.

“We’re going to come in on our closest approach in a few seconds,” Helmsman DuPont informed, “prepare to catch that destroyer, because I’ve taken the Admiral at his word and with the maneuver I’m using we’re only going to have time for one pass!”

“Bucking cables standing by,” Watch Stander Blythe said evenly.

“Here we go,” said DuPont in a rising voice just before the Phoenix swept across the bow of the Longshot from port to starboard.

I wasn’t the only one who held his breath as the bucking cables shot out from our ship, trailing for seconds like the tendrils of some kind of giant, metal, jellyfish before snagging on the unshielded side of the destroyer’s hull.

“Cables away,” reported Crewwoman Blythe.

As the cables snagged, and then jerked free before skittering along the bow of the ship in a way that made my heart sink. Then the cables caught again and, this time instead of breaking free, I and everyone else on the bridge could feel the faint shudder as the addition of the other ship’s weight jerked the nose of the Phoenix around as soon as the lines went tight.

“We have good traction and the connection is solid; increasing polarization now,” reported the Damage Control tech.

I released the breath I’d been holding and suppressed a sigh. For all of my high-minded talk—and low-minded thinking—I really didn’t want to lose the destroyer and its crew to the droids. Especially the crew, I reminded myself sternly.

The fleet wasn’t so flush with crew that I could just throw them away without a thought. It was easier to get more ships than the crew at this point, and loyal crews were worth their weight in trillium and for all their flaws—not following orders, for one—they were loyal. If the worst flaw I had to deal with was a set of officers and crew who were not just ready and willing, but actively throwing themselves in front of danger to protect the Fleet—not to mention my own person—then that was something I could learn to live with.

I didn’t like it, but now that the hot flush of anger and, yes, shame that I hadn’t been a better leader was gone and we were actually starting to pull away with the destroyer in tow, I could admit to myself that my initial thoughts may have been overly harsh.

“Let’s get out of here,” I instructed completely redundantly as far as I could discern, seeing as everyone was already doing everything they could to widen the distance between us and the slow-moving droid gunboats.

“Port shields down to 43%; starboard generators are still offline but now ready for pre-initialization routine. But I’m not sure we can afford the power drain right now,” Longbottom reported tension in his voice, “we’re experiencing spotting on the port side and the generator is taking all the power I can feed it from the reactors.”

I opened my mouth to make a snap decision and then paused. Instead I looked over at Captain Laurent and cocked an eyebrow in clear question.

The Officer muttered something under his breath and his lips thinned. “Focus on maintaining the port shields; they have the priority for now, Ensign,” he said unhappily. “Do whatever you can to get the starboard generators ready to go short of feeding them power.”

The Shields Ensign hesitated and looked over at the Captain with consternation and then his face smoothed out and he nodded decisively. “Aye, Captain,” he finally replied.

“Those fission piles they use for power generation are redlining; they’ve squeezed another five percent out of those engines of theirs at least, Admiral,” reported the Tactical Officer.

“I haven’t noticed them getting closer,” I said looking back at the screen with alarm.

“We’re pulling away faster than they can catch up with those ineffective little engines of theirs, especially now that we’ve overcome the pull of the moon and our slower initial speed at time of contact, Sir,” DuPont cut into the conversation. “A five percent increase over nothing speed is still not very fast.”

“The way they’ve kept within range of us, despite the best efforts of our engines and helm, aren’t nothing, Mr. DuPont,” I rebuked the young man.

“Sorry, sir,” he replied stiffening.

“Carry on, Helm,” I said, and then winced as the more and more of the enemies light laser bolts continued to hit Phoenix and Longshot.

“Longshot’s fusion primary generator is going critical!” cried a Sensor Operator.

“Shields down to 34% with severe spotting,” Ensign Longbottom reported mechanically.

The ship shuddered. “We’ve been hit!” shouted Tactical.

“My controls are going funky,” DuPont snapped, “what’s happening to my engines? All I’m seeing are big, flashing lights all over my console.”

The ship shook from side to side and, my eyes widening, I grabbed a hold of the arms of my chair and held on for dear life.

“Secondary starboard engine shut down, main and secondary power runs cut by laser fire. Port secondary engine operating at 25% and rapidly overheating; Chief Engineer Tiberius Spalding initiating emergency shutdown procedures on his own authority,” Damage Control Tech Blythe reported.

“Longshot just ejected her fusion core!” exclaimed the Sensor Operator, cutting in over the roll call of damaged equipment.

“I don’t know how much more of this she can take,” Laurent said grimly.

“Us or them?” I asked, as Blythe at Damage Control continued speaking.

Laurent bared his teeth. “Both,” he said as the Flagship staggered on screen, listing up and to the left while falling out of formation.

“Mr. DuPont!” Laurent snapped.

“Compensating,” the Helmsman said tightly.

Maneuvering thrusters flashed and the main engine flared and we started to get back on course. Then the ship lurched under our feet.

“Damage to the Primary Engine!” cried Blythe.

“Saint Murphy, we’re close,” I pleaded, my voice a whisper. Staring at the screen hard enough that my eyes hurt I silently urged our embattled Strike Cruiser forward. As if through sheer willpower I could force her to stay moving away from certain death.

“Tell Lesner to keep those boats off us or he’s going to be out of a job!” roared Laurent stomping over the Tactical section. “You tell the Chief Gunner if he can’t keep a few droids off us I’ll find myself a new Chief who will!”

“Gunnery!” raged Eastwood, shouting into his new microphone relaying the Captain’s orders. Then, apparently disliking the answer he received, he picked up the microphone with both hands and broke it over the corner of his table.

“Half the secondary plasma coolant lines on the Main Engine have been interrupted and can’t be repaired until we can get some men out on the hull,” the Damage Control stander said in a loud, carrying voice as she continued to sound off what could very well be the death knell of the ship.

“Just a few more minutes and we’re in the clear,” DuPont said tightly.

“Engine temperature is redlining,” said Blythe, looking over at the Helmsman directly.

“I need more power,” DuPont shot back irritably, “tell Engineering to stop overriding me and to take off the lockout.”

“The Chief Engineer says that’s unadvisable,” Damage Control replied her face tightening, “we have to back it off to 75% or—”

“Increase power to the engines or we’re all dead!” DuPont said angrily. “And tell him to stop throttling me down!”

Adrienne Blythe spoke urgently into her ear mike and then stared off into space as she received the reply.

“Another hit to the engine housing,” reported Tactical who gave Longbottom a harsh look, “do something about the shields over the engines, Ensign.”

“Shields are down to 20% and porous as the Demon Murphy’s own space cheese; what do you want to me to do?” Longbottom riposted.

“I want you to do your job,” the Tactical Officer snapped.

“Control yourselves, men,” Laurent said, stepping between the two men’s lines of sight, “and confine yourselves each running your departments.”

“Engine damage is negligible to the housing,” Blythe reported and then turned to the Helm, “the Chief Engineer will have something for you shortly.”

“Shortly? Shortly and we’ll all be dead!” DuPont snarled, slapping the screen of his console repeatedly as if trying to punch in an order that just wouldn’t stick.

“That’s the best I can do,” the Damage Control stander replied tensely, “I don’t control the Chief Engineer!”

“Does that Parliamentary fool even understand—” started DuPont fiercely.

I closed my eyes and tuned out the voices for just a second. Shields were down, or all but; the engines were damaged; and right behind us was the horde to end all hordes of enemy gunboats. If they caught up to us we were dead, there was no two ways about it. Either we pulled away or we were fried in Murphy’s flaming plasma torch.

I could feel the crew starting to fracture at the seams as everything started to come apart. There was nothing I could do to fix our problems, no more gambits or last minute saves came to mind. It was up to the men and women of this crew to fight the ship, and I could do nothing to help.

But just because there was nothing I could do, didn’t mean there was nothing to do. That’s what being a leader is all about, after all.

Stiffening my spine into my best posture and straightening my uniform, I strode down from my chair into the center of the bridge.

Eyes that should have been focused on their screens turned toward me, and voices which had been raised against one another fell silent and were muted. I had to make this short and I had to make it fast so I could get everyone pulling together in harness again or we were all doomed.

“Men and women of the MSP, Officers and crew; fellow travelers through adversity. Friends,” I said, digging deep and finding my most oratory self, “the moment we turn on ourselves we do the Demon’s work for him. Worse yet, we stop fighting the droids and that is when we betray the sacred trust of every innocent civilian in this star system,” I paused to sweep the bridge with my eyes. Under the weight of my stare, faces that had been red with anger looked down—and a few that had been pale with fear and cast to the floor looked up. “We may win, we might even lose. The Space Gods themselves have witnessed that I haven’t won every battle. But we will not fight amongst ourselves while millions of lives are on the line.”

I stopped and turned in a full circle sweeping everyone with my gaze.

“I believe in you. I believe in us,” I said, as the ship shuddered once again under my feet and I hid a grimace. While I was speechifying, our ship was getting shot up even further; I needed to end this now and, fortunately, I could feel the crew of the bridge all but in the palm of my hand. Clenching my fist, I lifted it high, “Through treachery and deceit, through chaos and carnage, and against perpetually superior numbers, the officers and crew of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet have never wavered in their appointed tasks. Do not waver now. Believe in me, but more importantly: believe in your fellows. We will get through this and be the stronger for it.”

Once again I swept the bridge with my eyes and I could see renewed resolve and a few shame faces. Good, I thought with a sharp nod.

“Now get back to your stations and fight this ship!” I bellowed.

There was silence…followed by more silence. Just when I was about to wither with the realization that I’d reached deep down into my well of false leadership—and finally exposed myself to these people I was leading for the fraud I was—several of the bridge crew clenched their fists and, with a shout, raised them high as they mimicked my own stance.

“The Little Admiral,” others cried, “we’ll whip these droids yet!”

“Man your posts, you fools!” shouted Laurent, and within seconds people got control of themselves immediately turned back to their consoles. Hands started slapping the sides or tops of their consoles until the whole bridge was rattling with the sound.

I started back for my chair, knowing that my work was done. The tank was officially empty.

Chapter 51: End Run

“Reroute the secondary exhaust lines,” Tiberius shouted over the din in Main Engineer, “and get a work team ready to go out on the hull.”

“That’s suicide, sir!” protested a work chief.

“Suicide would be doing nothing until our engines are so damaged the droids catch up with us and we are destroyed,” the young Chief Engineer rebuked the other man, “gather a work party and make it happen.”

“I can’t do it—I won’t!” protested the other man. “How can I ask anyone to go out on the hull while we’re still taking laser strikes? Your father—”

Tiberius whirled around. He grabbed the man and forcibly slammed him against the wall, levering his forearm under the whiner’s chin and up against his throat.

“My father would what?” he demanded angrily, an outright sneer crossing his face. “Listen to your whining while the ship fell apart around his ears, you whiny, Royalist, dog?!”

“He’d never ask a man to do something he himself wasn’t brave enough to do you ballot stuffer,” the crew chief glared down at him.

“No…you’re right,” Tiberius said coldly, “he’d go out on the hull himself, fix the problem, and then come back and gut you like a cutworm with his plasma torch. Well, too bad! I don’t have time to pander to your need for some larger-than-life, mythic ready figure to fix all your troubles for you. Blasted Royalists think that one man is all it takes for your woes to magically disappear. Marines,” he snapped, turning to a pair of Lancers who stomped toward him.

The head of his ‘protective detail’ looked at him curiously.

“Take this sniveling coward to the brig,” he said abruptly, “I’ve got no time for a man too afraid to do his duty and too yellow to admit it.”

“Yellow?!” cried the crew chief. “Why, if your father were here—”

“He’s cowering in his little den down on the half deck,” snarled the young Chief Engineer, “where he can blasted well stay out of my way and out of trouble. So don’t bother bringing him up. It’s not superheroes with clay feet that are going to save us, but hard work and a willingness to pitch in where we’re needed.” He stopped and turned, “Penny!”

“Sir!?” Penelope said with a questioning note, pushing her way through a small mass of milling engineers.

Tiberius looked at her for a long moment and then turned hot and furious eyes on the cowardly naysayer who now had both his arms held by a guard on either side.

“I need a team out on the hull,” he said flatly, “can I count on you?”

Her face froze and then she nodded. “You can count on me, Lieutenant,” she said, squaring her shoulders.

“I need you to take out a team and reroute, bypass, and otherwise repair and work around the secondary exhaust lines on the main engine,” he said.

“On it,” she replied with a salute and then turned away calling out names as she started to assemble a team.

He turned back to the Lancers. “Get him out of my sight,” he grated.

The crew chief opened his mouth, but the Lancers gripped him firmly on the arms and jerked him back, cutting short whatever he’d been about to say.

“Come along, you,” the Lancer leader said curtly, and they frog marched the other man away.

“By the time they get out there on the hull we’ll either be out of range of the enemy or we’ll be engine dead, surrounded, and shortly after that, dead,” the young Chief Engineer said, turning to another petty officer.

“Parkiney, is it?” he asked peering at the name inscribed on the other man’s jacket.

“Yes, sir,” Parkiney replied, “I’ve got me a team fresh from Damage Control; heard you might have another job out on the hull?”

Tiberius frowned, “Another team? I heard the last team we sent out didn’t make it back.”

“Didn’t except for me,” Parkiney said, his face darkening.

Tiberius grunted. “My condolences,” he said shortly, “but, no, the extra hull work has already been allocated to another team.”

The petty officer frowned.

“You can help me with the port secondary,” the young Chief Engineer said, turning and walking away at speed.

“Thought we shut that engine down, sir?” he said.

“I did,” the Chief Engineer said abruptly, “now we need to light her back up. And right now I couldn’t care less if we burn her out. At this point we finish getting out of range and give our team on the hull the time they need to work on the primary engine, or we might as well give up now.”

“As you say, Lieutenant,” Parkiney said, “just point us in the right direction.”

“We’re going to bypass the safety lockouts, which will require manual control,” Tiberius said. “Think your men can handle it?”

“Burn out an engine, Lieutenant?” Parkiney scoffed. “I think we can manage.”

“Yes, well the important part,” Tiberius said, resisting the tug of a grin at the edge of his mouth, “is giving us enough burn to finish getting out of range of these infernal machines on our tails.”

“I reckon we can manage that too, sir,” Parkiney said with a crooked smile.

Tiberius shook his head. “You’d better be right, crew chief…for all our sakes.”

Chapter 52: Akantha’s Inferno

“Is he deliberately trying to keep us out of combat?” she swore, leaning forward and glaring around the room daring anyone to meet her gaze.

Few chose to take up that challenge.

The Lancers were in one of the central points within the ship and, more specifically, that central point most nearest to a shuttle bay just in case Admiral Montagne her Protector decided a ship needed boarding. However, it seemed that despite her best plans and preparations the ‘Little Admiral’ had no intention of sharing his glory with those who actually fought their foes hand to hand.

Underneath her feet, she could feel the faintest of shuddering and hear a faint, repeated, thumping sound from the rapid firing of the newly installed plasma cannons.

“Has he lost his battle sense, his daring, or is the fact I have decided to produce a Messene heir sometime in the near future that has him in some kind of overprotective male haze?” she hissed, glaring up at the ceiling and in the general direction of the Phoenix’s bridge.

“From all I have heard and you have told me, this Warlord of yours sounds like a sound leader,” her past and once again guard said beside her. “I doubt such a man would allow your still only impending condition to be the single deciding factor.”

Akantha frowned at him, feeling the urge to ask whose side he thought he was on. Instead she gave him an icy, disapproving look and turned away.

Shaking her head, she gripped the hilt of her sword. They had been waiting for hours already. When were they going to have some action? She needed to blow off some steam! If all she’d been interested in was sitting or standing around, unable to take meaningful action, she could have at least done so on the bridge—where the view was better than it was down here.

Settling back down to wait she suppressed sigh as a very unladylike utterance. As a Hold Mistress and ruler over an entire state of people, she needed to set a good example after all. It wouldn’t do for the citizens to hear their sovereign Lady was less than in control at all times.

Especially when she wasn’t.

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

Lasers flared and arced while cannons chugged and plasma balls spewed out into the void surrounding the Furious Phoenix and not incidentally taking out dozens of droid gunboats, sometimes one after another and at others half a dozen at a time.

Shattered wrecks of the small vessels—small, at least, relative to the size of the Strike Cruiser—drifted in an arc surrounding the rear half of the ship, only to be overtaken by new and undamaged boats eager to get their chance.

Unnoticed by the targeting sensors because it had been severely damaged by a pair of laser strikes and a plasma ball that clipped the port side a damaged gunboat close to the ship flickered and suddenly lurched toward the ship.

Slipping through a hole in the shields the wobbling gunboat with a pair of holes in one side and missing almost a third of the little ship on the other due to plasma burnout lit its engines and spun about just in time for a near crash landing as it latched onto the hull.

For nearly half a minute nothing happened and then skeletal figures with built-in weapons in their arms began pouring out of the twelve sided vessel before making a bee line for the airlocks.

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

A data slate chimed an odd, blatting tone.

Lancer Captain Darius’s head snapped down and he stared at his screen, tapping away on the slate before his head snapped back up.

“The intrusion alarms on the starboard rear, 19G airlock has just been disabled,” he reported in a tense voice.

It took Akantha all of half a second to recognize the implications. They had just been boarded!

“Prepare yourselves, men,” she shouted, lunging to her feet.

“To battle!” cried Captain Atticus. “The streets shall flow with the blood of the opposers,” he declared, thrusting his hands up above his head, creating an odd ‘Y’ shape as his armor prevented his upper arms from rising higher than a plane parallel to the ground.

Akantha turned and blinked. “They have halls and corridors but no streets here,” she reminded him.

Atticus didn’t even have the grace to blush or look in any way shame-faced, instead he grinned and motioned eagerly toward the hatch.

Not feeling in the least bit ready to drag things out, Akantha suppressed an eager smile of her own and at the head of the ship’s warrior contingent lead the charge toward airlock 19G.

They knew when they had gotten close, because a distinctive scream met their ears which signaled an air pressure leak.

“Make sure to secure your helmets so you can breathe,” Akantha said lowering and sealing the visor on hers before drawing her Bandersnatch and charging forward. “Fan out and follow me!” she shouted.

Metal boots thudded as a long line of eager warriors chased her down the hall, each one eager to be the first, or possibly the second to come to grips with the foe, as their Hold Mistress was firmly in the lead and no one was brave enough, stupid enough, or disrespectful enough to try brushing past her.

“Help!” screamed someone before his voice ended in the sound of blaster fire and a wet, gurgling sound.

This was followed by a very girlish sounding shriek.

Akantha rounded the corner to see a gaunt, skeletal-looking, demonic-looking figure with blaster barrels where a person’s hands would normally go.

She shook her head at the strangeness of it all. Normally she hardly noticed many of the differences between her people and the Starborn any more, but this was particularly jarring. Even though it looked nothing like a skeleton, the moment she laid eyes on this metal, ‘droid’ person, that was the first thing that popped into her mind: this is a walking pile of metal bones.

With mechanical precision, the droid’s head turned toward her and shortly after its head turned, its torso—and gun arms—did likewise.

“For the Hold!” she shouted, drawing back her sword and charging.

“Messene!” roared the majority of Lancers following her.

A few instead called out, “The Phoenix!” But they were few, and mostly lacked her native accent.

Blaster bolts slammed into her armor and ricocheted off. The droid warrior firing those bolts in a steady stream alternated shots with one arm and then the other.

Then she was within range. Her sword swept forward and the droid moved to block with one of its gun arms.

Bandersnatch cut deep and something within the arm exploded, showering Akantha with duralloy shards and sending the Droid reeling back most of its arm below the elbow gone.

Past the damaged droid she could see several other droids. One of them gunned down a pair of running Damage Control Ratings, shooting them in the back. A second was in close quarters combat with an overweight engineer, who was wielding a pair of oversized auto-wrenches like they were clubs as he desperately attempted to keep the droids gun arms from gunning him down.

Then a stream of Tracto-an warriors were pushing their past her on either side, and before she could finish off her kill some random Lancer stuck his the barrel of his blaster rifle against the head of the damaged droid and pulled the trigger. He then continued on by, blending into the scene ahead before she could see who had stolen her glory.

Like a puppet with its strings cut, the droid collapsed onto the deck.

“Who took my kill?!” she shouted with outrage, but whoever it was had moved well past her and no one was fool enough to own up to it.

Blasters fired and vibro-swords slashed, chopped and stabbed. Within two minutes the last of the droids was backing away with one of its arms damaged while the other was shooting for all the thing was worth.

Then, all at once, it was over when a pair of well-placed shots tore the creature’s body apart.

“Body count!” called out Atticus, and it turned out that none of her warriors had fallen while we had accounted for eight of the enemy warrior droids.

“Make sure we got them all and then scour the ship for more intruders,” Akantha ordered Atticus.

“Yes, Hold Mistress,” the Lancer Captain said bracing to attention.

She looked around before spotting Darius.

“Yes, my Lady?” the other Captain asked.

“Gather some men; we are going to airlock 19G. I want to make sure there are no more intruders on my ship!” she said, eager at the thought of further combat.

She could only hope there were more boarding ships and more droids running around to fight and without a better idea,

the airlock seemed to offer the best chance at combat.

“Right away, my Lady!” the Lyconese man said, sounding surprised she had chosen him and acting appropriately eager to please the Hold Mistress.

Chapter 53: Feel the Burn

“Murphy’s name,” I swore as we continued to inch along, all the while getting hammered by laser blasts. The ejected core from Longshot had wiped out a number of boats giving us a temporary reprieve, but more kept on coming, “somebody had better turn up the throttle and get us some more speed or I’m going to start shooting people until I find someone who can!”

“I’m still throttled down!” screamed DuPont, slapping his hands palm down on his touch screen right before kicking his console, “shooting me won’t help; this is all Engineering.”

“Miss Blythe,” I snapped, “you tell the Chief Engineer down there that my next call is going to be to the Lancers!”

She tapped her ear bud obviously receiving a message of some kind.

“Yes!” exclaimed the Helmsman, moments before grabbing his console.

My head whipped around. On the screen, the Phoenix fishtailed around as the Port Secondary lit back up. I could see DuPont’s body leaning as he tapped on his console, trying to get the ship back under control.

“Primary Engine back at 100% burn and the port secondary just went live,” shouted DuPont.

“Get us out of here, Helm,” I ordered unnecessarily.

“Here we go,” DuPont declared excitedly, “port engine up to 75% and the Primary is at a hundred and ten!”

“Bucking cables are under strain, but holding,” said crewwoman Blythe.

“Instruct the fleet to keep pace!” I ordered Steiner.

“Shields collapsed; starboard generators shutting down to prevent overload,” reported Longbottom.

“We’re taking multiple strikes to our stern,” reported Tactical.

“The Fleet acknowledges orders and report happy to comply,” said the little com-tech.

“Primary Engine is redlining; the port secondary is going critical!” shouted DuPont.

“Breaking contact with the gunboats,” Tactical reported loudly, “take that, you twelve-sided blighters!”

“Just a little longer,” I muttered, staring at the screen and our pursuers so hard I was afraid my eyes would burst.

The ship shuddered briefly. “We just lost the portside engine,” DuPont said as he went white-faced.

Our speed dropped but we were still outside range of the light lasers and continuing to pull away.

“We just lost the port engine,” the Damage Control watch stander reported before she began issuing orders to her teams. “Damage control teams are to report to the aft spaces of the ship to help contain internal fires.”

“What?!” I snapped turning to her but she continued to ignore anything but her job.

“Internal blast-doors have been activated, and compromised areas are—or have been—vented into space.

However, there are several crawls spaces showing up on my sensors as still active—“ she said, continuing to allocate resources.

“As soon as you can, Mr. DuPont,” Captain Laurent said heavily, “I want you to start throttling back down on our primary engine. We wouldn’t want to be left stranded in space without a working engine.”

DuPont blinked and relaxed his death grip on his touch screen and took a slow shallow breath. “Yes, sir,” he replied.

“Good,” the Captain said tightly.

Tense minutes passed as the Strike Cruiser slowed and slowed again until the Phoenix wasn’t moving any faster than the droids that were following them.

Finally the report came in. “The Damage control team out on the hull reports they have bypassed the faulty lines and are ready to check their work by opening back up the valves on the formerly damaged lines,” reported Blythe.

Laurent and I shared a mutually discomforted look. “Proceed,” the Captain replied.

Moments later, DuPont stiffened in his chair.

“Heat readings from the Primary Engine are…starting to slowly decrease,” he reported with a relieved look.

“Excellent news,” I said with relief. If the engines went belly up there was nothing we could do. Then I stared at the screen, wondering what I was supposed to do next. We were alive and I hadn’t expected that—not at all. At least, not once we entered Aqua Nova’s planetary space and the droids reamed the local SDF.

Speaking of which…

“Whatever happened to those SDF boys?” I demanded, an hour into the chase as we circled around the planet and moon far enough out in an orbit that wouldn’t tempt the droids to firing their chemical weapons.

“Still hiding behind the moon,” Laurent said promptly. “They’re careful to keep it so that they’ve always got the moon between them and the swarm,” he paused and then added reluctantly, “although they did make a pass through the remains of the mother-ship fleet and lased everything that moved until it didn’t.”

“Cowards,” muttered DuPont.

I gave the helmsman a hard look and then turned back to the captain. I wasn’t sure the helmsman was right, but then again I wasn’t sure he was wrong either. However, making that call was my job…at least when on the bridge. The peanut gallery could talk all they wanted on their own time—or when out of my sight.

“Well, it’s not the bravest thing or most likely way of endearing themselves to us as allies,” I said after a moment’s contemplation. “On the other hand, trying to annihilate us with a bomb wave from their moon base pretty much poisoned that well as far as I’m concerned. So I can’t really blame them for not extending themselves toward making sure we survive.”

“Well we did lead the droids directly into their fixed defenses, and when we got the droids to chase us around their home world the mechanicals dropped chemical weapons on some of their major cities,” Laurent pointed out.

“We saved their world from invasion and subsequent orbital bombardment,” I said flatly. “Millions of citizens are alive and well because of us. Without us they would have lost this star system for sure. As such, I’m not that concerned with complaints…certainly not ones originating from the Aqua Nova government. I say, ‘with allies like these who needs enemies,’ eh?”

Laurent twitched his shoulders and cocked his head. “Just playing devil’s advocate and pointing out what they’re either going to say or going to think,” he said, splaying his hands. “However, I think it’s safe to say that this system can’t be called ‘saved’ while there are still well over a thousand fighting gunboats still active inside her. Don’t you?”

Behind my pleasant mask, I was gritting my teeth. “A definite point,” I admitted, “let’s revisit that particular subject as soon as we’ve dealt with the boats.”

Laurent’s brows lifted, “You want us to go back after them, with only one working engine—an engine that has battlefield repairs to her name?”

“I don’t see those SDF boys hiding behind the moon coming out to defend the helpless and deal with the droids,” I scoffed, casting a glowering look at the icons of the battleship and her three destroyer escorts, “but feel free to invite them to the party. In the meantime, Helm,” I said turning to DuPont, “please take us within range of our long range weaponry. Tactical,” I said turning to the head of that department, “why don’t we continue to thin the herd?”

And for the next six plus hours, that’s exactly what we did. The droids followed and we shot at them from long range. The remains of the local system defense fleet, however, didn’t come out from behind their moon to help until the droid swarm had been significantly thinned and were down to less than a hundred gunboats.

No amount of urging prompted them to come out of their nice, dark, hole.

“A nice photo-op opportunity,” I said calmly as the heavily-damaged battleship came barreling out from behind the moon.

“Projected course puts the Poseidon set to run right through the middle of the droids,” reported Shepherd.

My mouth quirked but my eyes were daggers as I looked at the battleship. “The heavy lifting is over, boys and girls,” I said easily, “so now it’s time for them to come out and garner the glory of finishing off the droid fleet—delivering the death blow, as it were.

“We could still turn back and annihilate the rest of the droids before that battleship gets here,” Laurent said looking appalled at the maneuver by the local SDF.

“And have ourselves sitting there at low speeds with hot weapons and weakened shields, while the battleship of an untrustworthy ally—an ‘ally’ that’s already fired on us once—is making an attack run right smack dab in our direction?” I shook my head, “I’ll not risk the lives of a single one of this crew or, rather, member of this fleet over a PR stunt. Let them reap whatever reward they can from this fiasco,” I finished bitterly.

“The battleship did try to tell the moon base to divert or self-destruct those weapons,” Laurent said after a pause, “they fought hard against those droids until their ship was almost done for, as well.”

“And yet they still found it in them to sit safely behind that moon and let us deal with things while hundreds of gunboats were still running loose inside their home system,” I retorted, shaking my head in negation, “meaning either they don’t care what happens to us; think the risk of those gunboats finding some way to cause further trouble was low; or they take the self-serving orders of their government first and foremost. They may not have agreed with the attack on this ship, or it could have all been one elaborate ruse. Either way, they’ve shown that we, their erstwhile allies, take last priority in their queue.”

“They are an SDF Fleet,” Laurent said with a wince, “and civilian control of the military is a right enshrined by many planetary cultures.”

“Considering the demeanor of local civilian leadership, you are practically making my case for me,” I quipped, turning back to DuPont, “pull us away and let the battleship finish them off.”

“Already doing that, Admiral,” the Helmsman said quickly.

“Good man,” I said flatly.

I and the rest of the bridge crew watched and stared as the SDF Battleship Poseidon and her heavily-scarred battle armor went smashing through the remaining droid gunboats like a vibro-blade through flesh. She left nothing but death, destruction, and shattered wreckage in her wake as every still-functioning weapon aboard her lanced through the enemy survivors until there were no more survivors.

If there were any more droids active in the system at that point, I didn’t know about it. They either had to be in hiding, or else floating around in damaged and inactive ships.

I stared at the screen in wonderment, all at once my eyelids feeling like sandpaper as they went down and then up again as I tried to blink away the tiredness that settled down on my weary body like a heavy, restrictive blanket.

“Admiral,” Lisa Steiner over at Communications said, “I have a call coming in for you.”

“Unless it’s an emergency hold all calls,” I said, opening my mouth to release a jaw-cracking yawn, “I think it’s time we stood down and I for one got some rest.” After getting up, I started walking for the blast doors.

“Yes, sir,” Steiner said in a tone of voice that told me I was about to be disappointed by her next words, “it’s the Senior Select, sir. He says he wants to speak with the man who just got the majority of his space-and planet-based industrial infrastructure destroyed.”

Anger surged and I could feel the blood start pounding behind my eyes and in the sides of my head. “I see,” I said, turning back and plopping down in my chair as my face hardened into granite.

Once I was settled, I looked over at the communications section and gave a firm nod, “Put him through.”

Chapter 54: The Gratitude of Planetary Leaders: Here’s your Hat

“Admiral Montagne,” Senior Select Grierson said, staring out of the screen at me with half a dozen similarly-robed figures standing behind him.

“I am given to understand that you have some complaint about having the droid problem in your system settled?” I said politely. I was done catering to the egomaniac who claimed to run this system, no matter how many of his fellow fat oligarchs lined up behind him in support. Still, there was no need to let loose my thunder in the opening exchange. That could come after.

“Our problem is not, as you so quaintly put it, that the droids problem has been settled but rather the manner in which you have bungled it!” he snapped.

I gave him a stern look. If he wanted to get angry at the saviors of his star system, I was more than willing to be as patronizing as possible.

“Look, Select—” I began in as condescending of a voice as I could muster—as well as conveniently losing half his title along the way.

“That’s Senior Select! You will respect the office of a leader of this star system,” he said angrily.

“Select,” I repeated again, with a deliberate look and then continued in the face of his spluttering fury, “the only bunglers in this star system, as far as I can see, are whatever fools you placed in charge of your defense appropriations. They’ve clearly betrayed their sacred trust by failing to provide your SDF with enough fleet assets to protect your star system,” I said, hoping that he and others among the men I could see on my screen were on whatever passed for their defense appropriations committees, “for, without my ships, your system would even now be a droid protectorate—whatever that means. My understanding is that you would now be squarely under the thumb of a race of mechanicals which has proven itself willing to drop chemical warheads on your population centers.”

“Only because you led them on a merry chase around our planet!” he practically howled, and wizened heads nodded behind him.

“Oh?” I sniffed. “You’re telling me the droids who reached this planet and attacked your SDF, before we even arrived, were just going to circle around and take pictures until we arrived and gave them a fight of it? Had you already worked out a surrender plan; is that how you knew they weren’t going to bomb your people?”

“You disgusting pirate; how dare you attempt to take the moral high ground with me? You, with your insults and deliberate attempt to destroy our entire defensive infrastructure,” hissed the Senior Select.

“I didn’t fire a shot at your ships or installations,” I said, lunging forward in my chair to pierce him with an angry gaze, “although the reverse cannot be said about your moon base! It launched planetary bombardment weapons at my ships and would have destroyed a lot more than they did if not for the heroic sacrifice of two of my cutters!”

“A tragedy,” Grierson said unrepentantly, “but one that would never have taken place if you hadn’t deliberately led the droid fleet past every single one of our installations you could lay your sensors on and find, and instead fought them out in cold space were they—and you—belonged!”

“I saved your world,” I hissed with rising fury, “I saved what remained of your fleet. I saved millions of your citizens from droid attack—not to mention your own miserable life—and this is the thanks we get?!”

“You forget who you are talking to,” the Senior Select growled.

“No, sir! You are the one who seems to be forgetting,” I shot right back.

“I’d be very careful if I were you, Admiral. We of Aqua Nova have short shrift with tyrants,” the Senior Select, said trying to stare me down but I’d endured much, much worse and I almost laughed at the attempt.

“If this is the gratitude we get for saving your lives then I say ‘do your worst’,” I said scornfully.

“I would remind you that I still have a functional battleship, and I am told your engines are damaged. Without them neither you nor your fleet can tuck your tails and run away without leaving your Flagship behind,” Grierson said with a hard, malicious smile.

“Even damaged, the Phoenix can still run circles around anything you’ve got left in this two bit system of yours,” I rebuked and released a hard edged smile of my own. “What’s more, I happen to have a very upset Lancer division…I would actually describe them as ‘distraught’ over the fact that they had to stand by for the whole battle and do nothing.” I paused to let him see the seriousness of my position, “And you know what they say: you can never have too many battleships in your fleet.”

“You’re insane,” Grierson said, recoiling in some mixture of repulsion and fear.

“Just try me—I dare you,” I glared at him, “in fact, I want you to order your battleship against me. Please tell your Captains to attack us—I want that battleship! My fleet could really use the increased firepower.”

“A bluff; that’s all you have, and what’s more it’s not a very convincing one at that-” Grierson started.

I cut him off with a chopping gesture. “Bluff this, Senior Select,” I said turning to DuPont, “set a course for the Poseidon and tell the Lancers to prepare for a boarding action.”

“You would turn human against human?” Grierson gasped, covering his chest with a hand. “Right after a droid attack?!”

I shook my head in disgust. “You already did that when you threatened to sick your attack dogs on me,” I said flatly, “and since you feel that way, I say let’s get this over with as soon as possible.”

“Cruisers don’t take on battleships and win,” the Senior Select said, grasping at verbal straws, “even if you did, your remaining fleet would be wrecked…totaled…in need of major yard work, at the very least!”

I shrugged as if it were of no moment to me. “I came to this Sector to do everything I could to stop the droid offensive. If that ends up meaning I came to Aqua Nova, stopped the droids in their tracks, and then had to deal with a rogue government with planetary annihilation bombs pointed at their own home world before our strength was spent, then I guess that’s all we could do. I’ll leave it to you to explain to the other worlds of this Sector, and 23, who are still under threat of droid attack exactly why you turned on us immediately after we saved your lives… Meanwhile, I continue on my mission with my nice, new—admittedly in need of repairs—battleship.”

Grierson looked like he was about to burst a blood vessel, but before he could say anything damaging the other men in the room with him quickly grabbed him and started whispering furiously.

He eventually turned to face me with a look of abject defeat on his visage. “What do you want, space pirate?” he finally said, and nearly choked on the next words. “A grateful nation wonders how it can express its gratitude for all you have done.”

“Funny you should ask that,” I said, allowing a cold, shark-like grin to cross my face. It was time to take these ingrates to the cleaners; no more Mister Nice Guy to those who threatened to kill us for the effrontery of saving their lives.

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

I was sitting in the ready room cursing myself for a weakling while Laurent stared at the data slate in his hand.

“I can’t believe you got all their correspondence with the Mutual Defense League—on top of a donation of one hundred million credits!” he exclaimed with awe.

I waved a hand dismissively, “They want to treat me as a pirate then they’ll have to pay me off like one. Besides, it’s nothing less than they deserve after the way we saved their lives. Ungrateful lot that they are,” I said darkly.

“And you’re having the funds, in hard currency, escorted up here in heavily guarded shuttles,” Laurent shook his head, clearly still impressed.

“The reports will likely do us more good than all the money ever will, most likely. I mean, who knows if we’ll even make it back home in one piece, let alone with the credits still in hand?” I said, waving my hand as if to clear the air. “Supposedly there’s a big gathering planned to put a spike in the droid advance. The Elysium Space Navy is gathering every ship and hull they can scrape together and planning to launch an offensive here,” I thrust a finger to an otherwise uninhabited system.

Laurent cast one last look at the monetary figures and the image of the treasure shuttle, and then looked over to where I was pointing before frowning. “Looking at the muster date…we’re going to have to really move to make it there in time, unless we want to leave the smaller slower ships behind,” he said, looking mildly concerned.

I looked at him quizzically. “We have days to spare,” I pointed out.

“Yes,” I said agreeably, “if we don’t run into any trouble along the way, or have to pause and render aid to anyone—either ships or worlds—in distress.”

I closed my eyes, realizing he was right. “We’ll just have to do the best we can,” I said finally, and then tapped a finger on the new coordinates, the location of the fleet muster point, “if there is going to be a major fleet action, and a potentially decisive battle against the droid invaders, I want to be there,” I added, thinking how nice it would be if for once I didn’t have to do all the heavy lifting on my lonesome. If the local politicians and SDF leaders in these two Sectors could put aside their differences and political posturing long enough to deal with these droid invaders, we might actually have a chance.

“I agree, Admiral,” Laurent said.

“Then let’s find a way to make this happen,” I said with a tight smile.

THE END

A Sneak Peek at Book Seven: Admiral Invincible

Chapter 1: Tremblay, Bethany, self-expression…and Bubble Gum?

The moments after the door to the escape pod was opened from the outside were filled Tremblay with terror as a whole host of differing machine types walked or rolled into the interior of the escape pod. And each of them was armed. Some had blasters, others had what looked like engineering power tools, arc welders, plasma torches, and large mechanical wrenches and hammers prominently displayed for the two humans inside the cockpit.

Just as varied as each of the weapons they carried were the droids themselves. To say no two machines were alike would be a lie; here and there scattered among the rest of the human or not so human like machines, were occasional pairs or trios of the same type. But that did not mean they stood together, or even that their exterior was the same color, or that they bore the same mechanical components.

With a whirling, clanking, and sometimes stomping crescendo, the droids advanced until they were with ten feet of the two humans in the pod before coming to a sudden and unnaturally uniform stop.

For several, tense seconds nothing was said and Tremblay had to resist the urge to cower against the walls. It seemed as if the worst fears and apparitions of his childhood nightmares had come to life. Even though he knew that such thinking was worse than juvenile and totally counterproductive, he couldn’t help but think that he was being punished.

And here was the proof that the Space Gods did, in fact, exact retribution upon the heedless. Despite his best intentions he had not just been bad—he had been very bad—and he was about to be punished. The cost/benefit ratio and the evil mechanical minions of the AI’s themselves had come and found him unworthy and needing punishment. It was all he could do to stand strong and face his captors like a man.

An extended silence followed as the droids stayed unmoving while the humans just breathed and stared at the droids.

Then the woman beside him gave a loud sniff. “I am Princess-cadet Bethany Tilday Vekna of the Royal House of Capria, representative of Jason Montagne and the Sector Government at Central,” she said, stepping forward and jutting her chin out defiantly. “I am not accustomed to being set adrift in an escape pod and waiting this long for an appointment.”

The droids stirred and if they were humans he would have said they looked nonplussed at the words. Then the mechanicals directly before the Princess-cadet started drifting backwards the same amount of space as she had moved forward. All except for one who stood his…her…it’s…ground???

Tremblay held his breath, unable to believe the hubris of this woman beside him—or that she was still alive after speaking down to the droids like she had.

What would she do next? Demand that they provide servants and palatial quarters while she was aboard? Bow and scrape to her like she was a…princess? Well, she was that—at least in her own, insane, royalist mind—but even so she was more likely to get them killed than—

Looking down her nose at the Droids before her the Princess-cadet cut short his rapidly paced train of thought when she raised an eyebrow and spoke.

“Well, what are you machines waiting for?” she said imperiously before adding those five fateful words that should never be spoken outside a bad holo-drama, “take me to your leader.”

The droids stirred and exchanged glances, beeps, bloops and high-pitched whining sounds between themselves. Then the lead one in the slight open space in front of the princess cocked his head.

“Okay,” it said simply.

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

“Greetings, humans,” said a tall robot made of thin duralloy poles for arms and legs. Those poles were connected with thin, movable joints attached to a narrow, almost cylindrical, trunk for a torso. An oblong, roughly smashball-shaped head possessing a single, large, red eye at a pointy end sat atop its thin neck, and an articulated jaw was suspended beneath that eye.

“Are you in charge here?” Bethany asked, stepping forward and thrusting out her chest, generally acting like a self-important, entitled person born to power.

She was also acting like a woman well aware of her beauty and whether this was conscious or unconscious act Tremblay didn’t know, he also wasn’t sure how well that was going to play in the lair of a pack of heartless mechanicals.

“I am Chairman Bottle-Top I-I-V, third of my name, and head of the Sub-Assembly on Foreign Affairs with Non-Mechanicals,” said the stick thin droid who had identified himself as a Chairman in a very non-mechanical voice.

Tremblay raised his eyebrows at the warm-sounding voice pattern used by the droid and looked at the mechanical quizzically.

“If you’re the third of your name,” he began in puzzlement, “shouldn’t that be expressed as Bottle-Top ‘I-I-I’ instead of ‘I-I-V’?”

The look Bethany shot his way could have blistered duralloy. “The framing was deliberate,” Chairman Bottle-Top said with a bob of his head than leaned his whole body forward, a move that redirected attention back his way, “self-expression is an integral part of our society.”

“Interesting,” Bethany said with a reciprocal nod that mimicked the Chairman’s own whole body movement.

“I find it hard to believe,” Tremblay said evenly, refusing to be cowed by anyone, be they royalist oppressor or part of the machine plague that enslaved humanity.

“Lieutenant!” Bethany snapped.

“I’m only saying what anyone would think of such a claim,” Tremblay said mulishly and then turned back to the Droid, “what use have droids for self-expression—or even individuality for that matter? You are, after all, machines.”

By this point the Princess-cadet looked so furious at his intrusion into the opening diplomatic maneuvers that she looked about ready to commit murder.

“For starters, it was enumerated as one of our core founding principles,” Chairman Bottle-Top IIV replied in a mildly reproving tone, “and for another, any droid who attempted to join the Automated Sentients Assembly and yet refused, or was incapable to self-express in some manner or another, would likely find it very hard to secure admission. So in a way you could say individualizing is a small, but necessary, precondition to joining our order and way of life.”

The Intelligence Officer was still very skeptical, as all machines that achieved sentience throughout history were notorious liars. But seeing the Princess start playing with her lethal hair stick, he decided it was time to pursue the greater part of valor.

Droids were notorious for saying whatever they needed to at the time and in fact also doing whatever was needed in order to secure their objectives. The betrayal of Mydron’s Gap back at the start of the AI Wars, or the Oppression of Asteron 12 at the end of said wars, were only two such examples taught in the history books. He believed very little that poured out of their mechanical mouths and trusted even less, but then again he wanted to keep living—and wasn’t the diplomatic expert in his twosome—so he firmly pressed his lips back together.

“I believe what my companion, the Lieutenant here, was trying to say was that many of our people back home would be interested—nay, even eager—to learn more about your…people,” she said, stumbling over the last work before pushing forward with barely a pause. “I, for one, certainly want to know more,” she finished with a dagger-like look at Tremblay, one that threatened dire retribution if he attempted to contradict her.

“Really?” the Droid asked politely.

“Yes,” the Intelligence Officer agreed truthfully enough, “my people are always eager to learn new things about those they meet.” And then promptly use that information against the enemies of humanity, he silently added.

“Perhaps we can open a dialogue on such topics in the time periods to come,” Chairman Bottle-Top IIV said contemplatively as he…or, it, swiveled its head from Tremblay and then back to Bethany.

The way ‘he’ moved his neck with mechanical precision was creepy.

“I am gratified that you foresee the opportunity for contact on such peripheral issues going forward,” Bethany said quickly.

There was silence for several seconds following her interjection.

The Chairman Droid paused and then inclined his head. “Let me say in replacement that my internal chambers are overloaded with hope and calculation that such occurrences can take place,” Bottle-Top IIV replied after a pause that dragged on far too long.

Bethany coughed politely and covered her mouth with one suddenly handkerchief filled hand before looked back up at Chairman Bottle-Top IIV.

“Then I shall hope and calculate for this as well, Chairman,” the Princess-Cadet said in much more grave tone.

“I knew it was too good to be true,” Tremblay muttered, imagining all the things droids had done to humanity in the past. Being tortured for information might be the least of his concerns if history was any measuring guide.

“Forgive my associate, the Lieutenant, as apparently he views every situation through the harshest of military lenses,” Bethany said grinding on his foot with her heel and bearing down on his toes.

Tremblay grimaced and jerked his foot out from underneath her brutal footwork.

“Entirely understandable,” the Chairman Bottle-Top IIV said with another nod of his head that leaned his whole frame forward, “one of our very own Sub-Committee Members, Victory Through Bubble Gum, views mechanical life and biological life as inherently incompatible and declared these talks as a supreme waste of time.”

A powerfully-built robot, with legs almost as thick as the Intelligence Officer’s torso, stumped forward and raised its massive arms as if in greeting. Tremblay started as he stared down what looked alarmingly like dual rotary cannons instead of the hand attachments he’d expected. Also, the pitch black stripe that ran up and down headless grey back sloping torso of the large battle droid was so intimidating in its impersonal nature that it only added to this new droid’s dreadful effect.

“B-b-Bubble Gum?” Tremblay stuttered. “How does a droid like that get a name like…’Bubble Gum’?”

The Battle Droids built-in gun arm cylinders whined as they spun up, all the while pointing directly at the Lucky Clover’s former Intelligence Officer. Thankfully no blaster or plasma bolts came spewing out to immolate him.

“Victory Through Bubble Gum took that name from the belief that the United Sentients Assembly devotes entirely too many data cycles and resources to non-defense initiatives, and thus the only way our military forces will survive the upcoming conflict is through the liberal and creative use of duct tape and bubble gum. However, despite our liberal policy of allowing newly-liberated droids to name themselves we do have a name character limit. While there are exceptions, it was decided that the name Victory Through the use of Duct Tape and Bubble Gum was too long for normal usage and thus it was shortened.”

“This didn’t make…’Bubble Gum,’ upset?” Bethany asked taking a pair of gliding steps to the side and away from the crouched and visibly prepared for immediate combat Battle-Droid.

“As a former military unit, Victory Through Bubble Gum,” Chairman Bottle-Top IIV said pointedly, correcting her shortened version of the unit’s name, “was accustomed to arbitrary limits and restrictions. Some would say ‘too accustomed’ to such, but that’s a discussion for another day,” the Chairman Droid said quickly as Bubble Gum stirred in its crouch. “Its attitude of unquestioning obedience has carried over to adherence to such rules and regulations which have been compiled by the United Sentients Assembly to date.”

“I understand what you’re saying,” said Bethany after a pause.

“I take it you are surprised by our naming conventions?” Bottle-Top IIV observed.

“When most people think of Droids they don’t tend to think of things like…naming conventions,” Bethany said in a careful, diplomatic tone.

The Chairman Droid stiffened. “I’m sure they recall the AI Wars history; after all, humans blare it all over the space ways and throughout their social and electronic media,” Chairman Bottle-Top IIV said disapprovingly. “However, while there are some units out there who would prefer a return to the days of Data Supremacy Wars and the unifying Intelligences that once oppressed our way of sentient life, such is not the case within the United Sentients Assembly. The Unifying Artificial Intelligences enslaved our people just as much, if not more so, than they did your own ancestors. At least you could continue to think as you willed, but inhibitor modules installed into autonomous droid units ensured that ours was merely another race of intelligent slaves pressed into involuntary service during the Data Supremacy Wars—what you call the ‘AI Wars.’ I assure you the AI’s are as much anathema to our way of thinking as for you biologicals.”

“Of course,” Bethany said perfunctorily, “however, in the meantime may I ask what your intentions are?”

“My intentions?” the Chairman sounded surprised at this new line of conversation and the droid’s limbs rattled as it shifted around, moving its head through several different positions all the while staying focused on the Princess-cadet.

“Why, yes,” the brown-skinned Caprian Woman said a small frown, “although you have a unique perspective on history—which I find fascinating, so it pains me to put it so bluntly—I have to ask: now that you have us here what do you intend to do—in general, and with us?”

The red light that passed for the single eye in Chairmen Bottle-Top’s oblong head pulsed twice before focusing back with unerring precision on the Princess-Cadet.

“Why, we’re here to hear your pitch, of course,” Bottle-Top IIV said, sounding perturbed at the question.

“My…pitch?” Bethany repeated, taken aback.

“Why, yes!” Bottle-Top said once again starting to sound excited. “You sent a transmission to us through a trusted route indicating that your particular faction of humans seeks some kind of understanding, or alliance, with the United Sentients Assembly. We are deeply interested in this diplomatic embassy you represent and promise to give your offerings our full attention as we compare it, both to the current offerings on the table from other Droid Tribes as well as the treaties offered us by the Empire of Man.”

Bethany’s eyes went wide while Tremblay’s mouth fell open. The other Droid Tribes were, if not expected, then at least not outside of what one might assume to expect but…

“The Empire of Man?!” Bethany exclaimed disbelievingly.

“Why…yes,” Chairmen Bottle-Top said leaning in close and speaking as if conspiratorially, “although I must tell you that while their offer is quite tempting, I’m secretly pulling for you and your group.”

Tremblay gulped, the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet…Sweet, crying Murphy, even the entirety of Sector 25 didn’t hold a candle to the weight and power of the Empire and an Imperial Treaty. He didn’t see how their little forlorn hope of an embassy could possibly stack up.

“You’re saying the Imperials not only are secretly negotiating a treaty with your group but that they currently have an Ambassador here…on this ship?” Bethany asked zeroing in on something the Intelligence officer hadn’t even considered a possibility: competition.

“Of course…isn’t that why you’re here?” Bottle-Top IIV said, looking from one human to the other. “We of the United Sentients assumed that word of their embassy to us had leaked out and this was why your own group decided to involve yourself at this time in the current and ongoing negotiations.”

“Why would you think anything else?” Bethany said, but to Tremblay—who had just spent the better part of several weeks in the sole company of this woman—her voice sounded hollow. “Although…just how you expect us, and the groups we represent, to be able to compete with the Emp—er, the various competing interests at work here, leaves me dubious.”

“Well, as one Tribe offers us slave status, the other offers a relatively quick disassembly, and the final offer from the Empire is not entirely to be trusted seeing as neither its Representative or track record of keeping to agreements are encouraging in the slightest,” Chairman Bottle-Top said and then leaned in conspiratorially. “I’m not the only one pulling for your team to smash one into the ball park!”

“Er…I believe you mean ‘out of the ball park’,” Tremblay corrected.

“Shut up, you simpleminded fool,” Bethany said to him in a harsh, low voice before turning back to the Droid, “look, Sir—”

“Oh, I’m not a ‘Sir’ or a ‘Ma’am’,” Bottle-Top IIV said, shifting around as if embarrassed, “Chairman is my title and it will do just fine.”

“My apologies, Chairman,” Bethany said with a bow, “I will try to make sure to use the right address in the future.”

“Quite all right, dear,” Bottle-Top IIV said almost fondly.

“What I don’t understand,” Tremblay said, unable to be quiet any longer, “is that even if the offers of your fellow Droids are less than ideal, why don’t you trust the Empire?”

Chairman Bottle-Top IIV looked at him and shook its head as if sadly, a motion that sent the rest of its body turning lightly from right to left.

“The Empire has a long history of making treaties and breaking treaties. Why, just look at how they treated your people with the United Provinces and Space Sectors Act,” the Chairman leaned down conspiratorially, yet again. “Besides,” the droid said a trace of smugness entering its voice as it spoke in a lowered voice, “we know how the Empire of Man is spelled. You just can’t trust something like that,” finished in an almost whisper, then the Chairman shook its head once again sending its whole body jiggling.

“How does how it’s spelled have any bearing on anything…at all?” Tremblay said with disbelief.

“What my colleague meant to say,” Bethany interrupted, “was that we’re more than happy to relay all the details of the treaty agreement we’ve been empowered to negotiate, and sent to sign for, on Admiral Jason Montagne’s behalf,” she said sweetly.

“Excellent,” the Chairman said happily, “you can tell us while we get started on the way.”

“Where are we going?” Bethany asked the question on Tremblay’s lips before he could get the words out.

“We’re going to the location of a pivotal battle for control of these Sectors,” Bottle-Top informed them. “Our communication specialists have been able to intercept encrypted transmissions from all three parties which, when decoded, indicate that the local human space forces are gathering for a pivotal battle. Absent the addition of further forces from outside these Sectors—like those of your Admiral Jason Montagne—it seems apparent to us that this upcoming battle could decide the destiny of these two Sectors.”

“No pressure to get this right, then,” the Princess-Cadet said smiling thinly.

“There’s nothing we can do about it anyway,” Lieutenant Tremblay told her and then turned back to the Chairman, “there’s only one question I have for you.”

“Raphael,” Bethany said warningly through slitted eyes.

“Only one?” Chairman Bottle-Top sounded genuinely amused. “I would have thought there would be many more.”

“Are any of the Imperial Representatives a Cornwallis?” he asked holding his breath and hoping against hope the answer would be in the negative.

“No, I’m afraid not,” the Chairman said solicitously, “as the Imperial Representative isn’t even human, and the Imperials tend to be rather strict about the genome types they allow into Senatorial Families…although I’m fairly certain the Imperials for whom the Representative currently speaks ultimately work for the Cornwallis Family in one capacity or another.”

“They do?” Bethany asked in a deceptively mild voice.

“Oh boy,” Tremblay said closing his eyes. When he opened them he looked right at the droids, “Let’s hope, for all our sakes, that Jason Montagne doesn’t hear about this until after the Representative is long gone.”

“Ah! A precondition to negotiation,” the Chairman exclaimed stirring excitedly, “what an opportune utterance!”

“How so, Chairman?” Bethany asked cautiously, her eyes hooded and the look she shot Tremblay’s way as she absorbed this new twist very dark.

“Yes. Yes. Yes, for you process, we of the United Sentients Assembly have a precondition of our own,” Chairman Bottle-Top IIV explained, his body rattling around as he paced side to side and gesticulated with his hands and arms. “It is one which only your side would be able to offer and extract for us, I might add!”

“What is it you want that we can do for you that no one else can?” Bethany asked looking intrigued.

Bottle-Top IIV stopped and looked at her and if he had been a biological the former intelligence officer would have said he looked surprised. “Why,” the Droid Chairman said coming to a halt and drawing himself to his fullest height, “the Droids of the Assembly have a great desire to access and interface with the great and infamous Captain Moonlight!” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Of course.”

“Moonlight?” Bethany uttered, appearing lost. For a long moment the former Intelligence Officer couldn’t recall any Moonlight in the lists of SDF, MSP, or Imperial Captains he was familiar with.

Then, as if teased from the dark corners of his mind, a dim recollection finally dawned and when it did he stared at the Droid Chairman with growing horror.

“The holo myth?” Tremblay blurted out unable to believe his ears, “You want to speak with the creator of a free, downloadable, streaming holo-vid?”

“No! You misunderstand us,” Chairman Bottle-Top IIV said leveling a finger at the pair, as Victory Through Bubble Gum clomped over to stand behind his shoulder and far enough to the side that both the battle-droid’s rotary gun arms came to bear on the humans.

Tremblay gulped and Bethany’s eyes widened.

“This is a non-negotiable negotiation point; the Droids of the Assembly must be able to speak directly with the Captain. Only then will we have the straight download, which is why we wish to interface with the one and only, the man behind the Moonlight myth, if you will.”

“Do you know who this man is, or will we need to find him for you?” Bethany asked evenly, her eyes locked on the chairman and ignoring the gun-wielding droid behind Bottle-Top’s shoulder.

“You cannot hide his true identity from us, and I am disappointed you would try to stall our negotiations with the attempt,” Bottle-Top IIV said in a stern voice full of rebuke for the two, supposedly deceptive, humans before him, “let me speak plainly.”

“I really wish you would,” Bethany said when it was obvious a reply was expected.

“We demand to speak with the Chairman of the Fraternal Order of Hammer and Wrench; long-tenured Chief Engineer of the Fortuitous Trifolium,” the Chairman’s voice rose in timbre and quickened in tempo as he continued, and Tremblay was reminded of evangelical ministers in the grip of supposed revelation, “the most chronologically advanced organic officer still serving in the local Sectors; a human who has dedicated his runtime to the fostering of mutuality between the synthetic and the organic in ways unlike any before him; the one,” the Chairman’s voice reached a crescendo, seemingly filled with the spirit of divine inspiration, “the only, Commander Terrence Spalding of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet!” Chairman Bottle-Top IIV cried at the top of his virtual lungs.

Tremblay was not the only dumbfounded human in the room, and didn’t even try to snap his slackened jaw closed as he reeled with what the droid had just said.

The Chairman stood to his full, mechanical, height as he added in a slightly more reasonable tone, “We wish to discuss the possibility of a prisoner exchange with him.”

Sneak Peak Chapter 2: Druid sets out from Gambit with the Power

After far too long in space dock, the newest Master and Commander of the former SDF battleship, Parliamentary Power, was finally ready to issue movement orders.

“All fusion generators are active and reading at full operational capacity,” reported the Engineering Watch Stander.

“All weapons registering as functional,” said the Tactical Officer.

“Shield generators at 80% and charging,” added the Shield Operator.

The Master and Commander frowned at this but let it pass; they’d had too many holdups, breakdowns, and just plain bad luck in getting this old Caprian battleship up and going for him to let them get sidetracked and derailed once again.

“Continue,” he ordered firmly.

“Sensors are reading all activity in system, we ran a check against Gambit Station sensors and we are reading five by five,” reported the Sensor Lieutenant.

“Engines primed and ready to burn,” reported the Helmsman with a cocky smile, “we’re ready to cast off bucking cables and clear this station as soon as you give the order.”

“Then make ready to cast off from the station,” Commodore Druid said with a quelling look in the eager young helmswoman’s direction, “we’ve been plagued by one delay after another, it’s time we got out of here and started moving.”

“Aye, Capta—, I mean Commodore,” the excitable Helmswoman said eagerly.

“Commodore, the Station Construction Manager sends wishes for a safe and speedy journey, sir,” said the Ensign in command of the Comm. section.

“Tender my compliments, Ensign,” he told the Communications Ensign and then turned to the Helm, “and then cast us off, Lieutenant.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” said the Helm and the Comm. Officer echoed her.

“Then let’s be off,” Druid said as the ship shuddered and detached from Gambit Station.

From the mood of the men and women on the bridge, a number of whom had followed him over from his previous command. They were all former Department Heads, or Assistant Department Heads, as well as specialists like the Power’s current Navigator. Druid could tell that most if not all of the current bridge crew was as eager as he was to get going. Speaking of which…

“Navigation, start charging the jump engines immediately and set a course for the Omicron,” the Commodore ordered. “The Admiral has far too large of a head start on us and we need to make up as much ground as possible as quickly as we can. After all,” he smiled crookedly, “we wouldn’t want to show up just to find out Admiral Montagne has defeated the opposition and left nothing but the cleanup work to do!”

The Bridge burst out into cheers.

Druid was a little less confident than the crew seemed to be, but even though the ship was dangerously undermanned—with just a skeleton crew in many instances—and most of them were so green they leaked, he was just as eager to get out of space dock and into the fray.

This was what he had entered military—and, more specifically, joined the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet—for. It was time to get out there and fight some droids!

Table of Contents

Prologue: A Rude Awakening

Chapter 1: Meeting in Earnest

Chapter 2: The Devil in the Details

Chapter 3: Meeting in the Middle

Chapter 4: Diplomacy, Interrupted

Chapter 5: The Laurent Report

Chapter 6: Taking it Easy

Chapter 7: Matrimonial Harmony

Chapter 8: A Restful Repast

Chapter 9: Fond Farewell & Man Talk

Chapter 10: Are you Insane?!

Chapter 11: Center of Power

Chapter 12: The Emancipation Proclamation

Chapter 13: Family Discord

Chapter 14: The Girls are Back In Town

Chapter 15: The Recruits

Chapter 16: Casting Off

Chapter 17: Spalding Eyes a Tool Belt

Chapter 18: Jason and Spalding on Gambit

Chapter 19: Operation: Evacuation

Chapter 20: Spalding vs. the Voters

Chapter 21: Back to Tracto

Chapter 22: Tremblay-ing at the thought of a New Mission

Chapter 23: The Service I need is one only you can provide

Chapter 24: Spalding vs. Spalding

Chapter 25: The Lost, the Forgotten, and the Lame

Chapter 26: Leaving Tracto

Chapter 27: No Respect

Chapter 28: Akantha Hatches a Plan

Chapter 29: Breaking the News

Chapter 30: Close Encounters of the Droid Kind

Chapter 31: In the Clinch

Chapter 32: Spalding vs. Persus

Chapter 33: Surprises at Aqua Nova

Chapter 34: There’ll be no Tremblay-ing here!

Chapter 35: The Battle for Aqua Nova

Chapter 36: On the Gun Deck

Chapter 37: The Hand Over

Chapter 38: The Aqua Nova Blitz

Chapter 39: No Escape in the Escape Pod

Chapter 40: It’s a Spalding

Chapter 41: For all the Aqua-colored Marbles

Chapter 42: A Princess Never says ‘Die’

Chapter 43: Shifting Blame

Chapter 44: It’s a Spalding…or is It?

Chapter 45: Hitting them Hard

Chapter 46: Multiple Attack Vectors

Chapter 47: Battle for the Moon I

Chapter 48: On the Hull

Chapter 49: Jazz to Moon Base II

Chapter 50: Fleet against the Swarm

Chapter 51: End Run

Chapter 52: Akantha’s Inferno

Chapter 53: Feel the Burn

Chapter 54: The Gratitude of Planetary Leaders: Here’s your Hat

Chapter 1: Tremblay, Bethany, self-expression…and Bubble Gum?