Prologue: One bad trip
“Hyper Spatial coordinates confirmed; the Vineyard’s Nav. Computer is now slaved to ours, Commodore. We are a go for the point transfer,” the Navigator reported.
Jean Luc shook his head with a small weary motion, making sure to catch the eye of his second in command as he did so. “I’m sure the Command Bridge has things well in hand under the expert supervision of this ship’s First Officer,” he said with a smile he hoped would reduce the sting from his statement to let the ship’s nominal Captain, one Jim Heppner, know he was not making an issue of it…at least not yet. However, the way the other man smiled to hide the sudden grinding of his teeth caused Jean Luc’s own smile to expand to a grin of nearly maniacal levels.
“I’m certain that Commodore Montagne can give any orders he wishes from the Flag Bridge and the ship will faithfully respond to his orders,” Captain Heppner said stiffly.
“Oh in the fie, Jim! You need to calm down,” the one-eyed Commodore said to smooth things over now that he’d had his little spot of fun goading the man.
Heppner took a deep breath and looked at the main screen, “What about your surprise; four hours, wasn't it?” The view of Omicron Station and the Dreadnaught class Battleship 'Armor Prince' prominent on the screen, instead of their own ship's destination coordinates beyond the hyper limit they needed to reach to exit the system.
Jean Luc glanced at a countdown timer he had programmed into Throne's arm display. “Less than a minute away,” he said with a cruel smile.
“I pray they don't discover your surprise in time to disarm it,” Heppner said seriously.
Jean Luc gave an airy wave, “That’s the beauty of it; it can’t be disarmed,” Jean Luc bared his teeth and leaned back in the Throne, languidly propping one leg over the ornate chair’s arm.
“Anything can be disarmed,” Heppner said flatly.
“Even an old Caprian Anti-Mutiny Device, and on top of that the ship’s scuttling charges set at Senior Captain level authority, whose authority would be mine?” Jean Luc asked rhetorically.
“Those old beasts?” Captain Heppner’s eyebrows rose in appreciative surprise. “They haven’t dared make any more of those death traps or put them on our ships since their loyal Parliamentary Officers and Crews walked off half the ships in the fleet and threatened to march on the Legislative Bunker in protest,” he said with some satisfaction in his voice, indicating he’d been among those who’d threatened to march on Parliament.
“Seems they forgot to take them off the ships they’d given to me,” Jean Luc said sardonically.
“Probably just an administrative oversight of some kind,” Captain Heppner mused, then gave his Commodore a look that said he knew it was anything but.
He must be playing for the cameras, the one-eyed Montagne realized. He had almost forgotten what it was like to serve in the SDF, with every word and gesture observed and recorded. Thankfully, the only person likely to see any recordings in time to do any good would be the ship’s Morale Officer. Jean Luc’s face turned hard with the thought of the man. He was the one Officer Jean Luc would have to bring to heel quickly or remove him from his position somehow.
Treading where lesser men did not dare, Jim Heppner bravely stepped into the foreboding silence. “…And there’s absolutely no way they could have disabled the scuttling charges using the command crystal off the Prince’s former commanding officer?” pressed the Captain.
“He only has the First Officer’s key,” Jean Luc explained, “I kept the Captain’s key for each ship in my personal possession, and still have them with me.”
Heppner finally smiled in understanding. “Parliament would never risk handing a Montagne an Admiral’s Key and I can't see an Imperial like Janeski handing one over to our false Little Admiral either, even if Parliament allowed Janeski to have one,” the Parliamentary Captain said with satisfaction.
“I took the Command Crystal from my nephew while he was still twitching.” Jean Luc explained with a touch of malevolence in his voice. “Janeski must have handed over the Captain’s Key before he left, or my Nephew has unplumbed depths and somehow managed to forge one. Either way, none of the keys on board that ship can stop it now; only an Admiral’s key could override a command from the person the ship's computer has logged as Captain, which is me.”
Heppner's forehead wrinkled, “Then why did you think the ship could join us if your crew regained control of her?”
“They still can,” Jean Luc affirmed. When Heppner's look remained one of confusion, the one-eyed Montagne shook his head with annoyance. “I set the mutiny device to go off first and then placed a contingency within the scuttling program,” Jean Luc explained. “If the ship’s internal sensors find the battleship completely free of all life signs prior to the self-destruct activating, the program is to erase itself,” he leaned back in his chair, as if the master of all he surveyed.
“…Thus leaving the ship intact,” there was admiration in his Flag Captain’s voice. “So the self-destruct only goes off if the mutiny device fails to clear the ship; very clever, Commodore.”
“In theory, I suppose they could figure out how to hack one or the other of them. But both?” The Commodore threw up his hands in mock incredulity before shaking his head. “No, I think not. Consider what it would take. First, they'd have to think to look for the mutiny device and upon finding it, they'd have to recognize what it was. That in itself is unlikely since very few people today have even heard of one, much less seen one and the only person they had who was capable of recognizing it, is dead. If they try to move or if there's any tampering, it will go off," He gloated with a smile. "Even if there were some malfunction of the device, the self-destruct is there as a backup and as I've already explained there is just no way for them to stop that. Such a series of events is not only highly improbable, but laughable,” chuckled the newly minted Commodore, delighted at his own brilliance.
“Yes…" Heppner agreed, looking at him with admiration, "and between the pirates and your crew trying to retake the ship, they're too busy to even think about anything else. It does seem to be a fool-proof plan.”
“Oh, no plan is fool-proof and there's certainly enough things that could go wrong,” Jean Luc admonished, but his face lightened as he continued. “However, even if several things go wrong, the result is still their deaths, either by the device or in the destruction of the Armor Prince.”
The men shared a look of knowing confidence before Jean Luc leaned back in the Throne to bask in his coming triumph. As he tried to get comfortable, he wondered why someone had not installed some proper padding in the metal edifice by now. No matter, he could have the ship’s supply department get together with the tailor and come up with something appropriate.
Noticing the countdown display flashing red at zero, he realized he had missed the big moment. Oh well, he could always review the raw sensor logs if he wanted to see it and no one would ever know.
“I’m reading some unusual activity from the Omicron,” reported a Sensor Operator, a man Jean Luc did not recognize.
Jean Luc gave the man his attention responding casually, “Did you detect the energy signature I sent you emanating from the Prince?”
“No Sir,” the Operator replied, without looking up from his displays.
Jean Luc clenched a fist, then forced his hand to relax when he realized his reaction to not hearing what he had been anticipating.
“Too bad, we could use that ship. The fact it's Dreadnaught class makes the loss significant; they're a superior model,” Heppner lamented with a shrug.
Jean Luc opened his mouth to reply when the Sensor Operator interrupted.
“No Commodore, not the Prince,” the operator again reported as he sent the image of one of his displays to the main screen. The image of the Omicron, with a large area of its aft section highlighted in an expanding wave of green, became the focus of attention on the bridge.
Uncertainty gripped Jean Luc. He was unsure what he was watching but he suspected it was not good. “What is that?” he asked tightly, as muscles tensed in anticipation of more bad news.
“The location of the energy signature you instructed us to look for, Sir. But the Armor Prince appears unaffected by it,” the Operator reported.
Those near him could hear the sound of breath catch in Heppner's throat.
The Commodore forced himself to appear unconcerned and confident, “Well, well, it appears I may have underestimated the team my Nephew managed to assemble in the short time available to him.” He leaned forward to rest his elbows on the arms of the throne to steeple his fingers in front of chin and narrowed his eyes as if to contemplate recent events.
“Impossible,” Heppner said in disbelief.
“No…Ingenious―and extremely skilled for them to have pulled off such a stunt,” Jean Luc corrected as Heppner muttered under his breath, glaring at the screen. “Not to worry, that's only one of three arrows in our quiver, Number One,” Jean Luc said confidently, although his own concern grew enough that his stomach began to churn with acid.
When the countdown for the self-destruct to activate came, and went, Jean Luc sat woodenly upon the Throne. He should have witnessed the ship's back break as explosions ripped through its hull.
Heppner, nearly apoplectic, virtually screamed, “What space rot is this?”
Jean Luc stared at the screen in tight-lipped silence, as if by the intensity of his focus alone, he could force the destruction of the other ship, along with the tenacious little impediments that clung to her like ticks on a boar. “The fallout will be severe,” the Commodore commented absently. He could just imagine the damage a brigade of power-armored professional morons could do to the station.
“They are still outnumbered fifty to one, Sir,” Heppner insisted.
“It’s really too bad,” Jean Luc mused, “retribution from the Omicron is almost a certainty now. Contingency plans will need to be developed and put in place.”
“I doubt the false Confederals could cause us any real trouble, even if any of them survive,” assured Captain Heppner. “If they somehow manage to retreat back to the ship, it's so heavily damaged and their numbers so few they couldn't do much…” then, rethinking his argument, he added, “Wolf-9 back in Easy Haven will be a tougher nut to deal with than anything these scattered survivors could possibly dream up.”
“It's my former peers that concern me. They'll be hot for blood after this level of damage,” Jean Luc mused, ignoring the entire issue of Easy Haven for the moment. He could always have Rear Admiral Yagar and his Sector Guard break their teeth on it first. There were any number of targets as juicy, and much less heavily defended, out there just begging to be swept up first. His fingers laced themselves behind his head as he knew that he was just the person to do the sweeping.
“Thanks to the loss of our third fusion generator, there’s still time to abort the jump before the point of no return and reclaim the battleship,” Captain Heppner said pointedly, not really sounding very enthusiastic about the idea.
Jean Luc knew the best chance of salvaging the Armor Prince had already passed, so he shook his head absently. “We have everything we need right here, Number One,” Commodore Montagne injected into a mounting silence while activating the Throne’s controls to swivel around and survey the Flag Bridge. “Everything we need is right here inside this ship,” he repeated with deep satisfaction.
Heppner lifted a questioning eyebrow, “Sir?”
“With the heart of the Lucky Larry on our side, anything is possible,” Jean Luc replied.
“If you say so, Sir,” Captain Heppner acknowledged, unsure what else to say. He was clearly too exhausted and frustrated to press the issue further.
For his part, Jean Luc hoped Heppner was wondering if his superior officer had spent too much time beyond the edge of known space. If so, it would fit his plans perfectly. Let the people in this system squabble over a few Aces and let the Imperials arrogantly believe they had the only Joker in the deck. Jean Luc would show them the error of their ways…he would show them all.
Of that, he was certain.
Chapter 1: In the Brig
I awoke with a gasp, a loud snap echoing in my ears, the light searing my eyes like hot daggers as I tried to see where I was. Still reeling from the shock, a sharp bitter smell struck my nose. Unable to exhale, it hit my throat like acid, and rapidly sliced into my chest like a ravenous knife. My lungs seized on the atrocious stinging vapors and with my mind in a growing fog, I drifted back to similar reactions as a child when my mother sprayed me with expensive cologne in preparation for some mandatory royal function.
I was too young to realize what was wrong as a child. All I knew back then was that I hated and couldn’t stand the stuff, just like my peas, and spinach, and non-crunchy meats…looking back, I realize that I was a pretty picky eater.
As I got older, I came to the realization that I didn’t like the stuff because my lungs seized up in an asthma attack every time I smelled it!
Whatever this stuff was, it had the same effect. I jerked and heaved, but couldn’t get more than a few quickly cut off mini-breaths of air.
"Greetings Mr. Vekna," said a shadowy figure I realized was looming over me.
I wish I could say I glared, or spat, or shook my fist in a ‘we won’t take this anymore’ fashion, but if you’ve ever tried to do any of that stuff while having a respiratory arrest, you understand the relative difficulty involved. The mind might be willing, but the body simply isn’t able.
“My name is Commander Justin P. Suddian,” he said. My eyes blinked enough to temporarily clear my vision, and I could see a man in a Caprian SDF uniform and wearing a black hat. Ship’s security, I wondered? Then I saw that his black-gloved hands held a large syringe. Parliamentary Intelligence Service, I wondered in confusion? He worked the plunger sending a squirt of grey viscous fluid shooting out the end.
I stared up at him helplessly, my breathing had improved but I was still too weak to do much of anything. Once more, my vision blurred into a dull white haze; my sight was still intermittent and limited from long hours of unconsciousness that had left my eyes dry and sore from disuse.
Through the haze, a flash of motion preceded the shock of deep pain that exploded in my left thigh.
“And I’d like to have a little chat,” said the man, and I felt an abrupt increase in the pressure on my leg. Without further warning, a sensation like fire and lighting mixed together exploded throughout my leg.
By now, whatever they’d done to simultaneously wake me up and incapacitate me, was wearing off enough that I could wheeze out a single word.
“Wh-what,” I gasped, my eyes watering from the pain. My eyes began to water from the pain, which with a little blinking helped clear the film clouding my vision. When it did clear, the sight of a pair of stone-faced parliamentarian officers made me wonder if it had been worth the effort. The rush of fear and dread that shot through my gut, and clenched my bowels up tight, was agonizing but nothing compared to the crack of pain that shot down my throat when I tried to swallow. The guy with Commander’s insignia smiled…the type of smile that convinced me I was much better off unconscious.
“Why don’t we start with a simple little chemical interrogation,” he suggested, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. In fairness, I suppose that for a murderous, mutinous, and let’s not forget soon-to-be-torturing-parliamentary-scum-bucket like it him, it probably was.
“Why,” I wheezed in a voice that for all its harsh, raspiness, seemed unusually faint, even to me.
The Commander snapped his fingers. “John Henry, this simply won’t do. Mr. Vekna needs his throat well lubricated before we begin,” Suddian said impatiently.
“I prefer Mr. Eden, Sir,” the other man deadpanned, as he brought over a foul tasting, pale green concoction so thick that it barely slid out of the cup when he held it to my lips.
It was almost as foul as I’d imagined, which was saying something. However, it had the fringe benefit of reducing some of the raspy sensation in my throat, and left it feeling freshly scrubbed…with sandpaper.
The Commander just smiled until I had drunk my fill, because after all, what was I going to do? Refuse until they forced it down my throat with a funnel? I’d seen that happen on one of the holo-dramas, and I didn’t care to go through the experience.
“That’s quite enough, John Henry,” he said indulgently to his assistant.
“Yes, Sir,” the other man sighed.
“A chemical interrogation, huh,” I said as lightly as I could manage. What the heck, I figured there was nothing I could do to stop them, and besides, there wasn’t too much that I’d done or knew that they didn’t already have the files on anyway.
“Well…” I trailed off. I was going to say that this was pretty light stuff for the loser of a ship coup to have to go through, at least compared to all sorts of other things my mind could imagine. But for once, I wisely held my tongue, figuring there was little point to giving the man ideas.
I wish I could say I laughed in the face of danger, but when you are essentially powerless and at the mercy of your childhood boogeyman come to real and actual life, there’s really nothing to laugh about. I did manage to keep from jumping and crying out in terror, or breaking down and begging right then and there.
See, I was supposed to be a big tough Admiral or at least a hardened rebel. I needed to make it at least a half hour before giving up, just so they’d believe me when I told them I had finally given up.
“Before we begin, I’d like to make one thing absolutely clear,” the Commander said, his mouth twisting as a slightly crazed look briefly crossed his face. I was certain his smiling mask had been dropped solely for my ‘benefit.’ “Your Uncle has given strict orders that you are not to be touched,” he finished after the deliberate pause.
“That doesn’t sound like him,” I grudged, not prepared to be very charitable towards my murdering, pirate uncle, the same one that had just tried to kill me.
The Commander’s smile never wavered as he fumbled for something on his belt until I heard an object hit the floor. After he bent to retrieve what he had dropped there was a click…followed by a faint crackling thrum. As he rose so I could once more see the delight in his face, “Normally, I would prefer to save this for later on in our…ah, discussion, but just so we’re clear…” He let the words sink in before proceeding in a darker, much more malignant tone, “I don’t…take orders…from a Montagne―any Montagne—and certainly not when it means pampering a treacherous, bloody-handed, rebel Montagne scum like you.”
Okay, that didn’t sound too good. “Maybe we got off on the wrong foot,” I said quickly, as the Commander slowly cocked his hand back, “we seemed to be doing better with you calling me Mr. Vekna, how about we go back to—”
Pain flooded my body as the Commander’s hand struck with a sharp crack. It had to be the worst pain I had ever experienced, and really, words can’t do it justice. It was certainly worse than being shot in the neck by my uncle, the memory fresh as my whole body clenched and the wound tore open anew. No question it was worse than the stomping by Oleander. The plasma grenade was up there of course, as well as the dripping Bug ichor that burned the hair off my head, but not the worst. I would even say that this particular pain was worse than losing my hand on Tracto during Akantha’s family introduction. Yeah, no doubt about it then, it was the worst sensation I had ever felt in my entire life.
I am sad to say, my half-hour goal vanished and I was screaming like a little girl in less than five minutes.
When my body had stopped seizing, and I no longer made high-pitched squealing sounds that tore my throat rawer, I squeezed my eyes closed and took a pair of deep breaths in a desperate—and obviously futile—attempt to regain some shred of my composure.
Leaning in close for effect, "The neural whip, while officially outlawed on Capria and banned throughout the Old Confederation at large, is still considered one of the most effective tools in the interrogator’s arsenal," the Commander explained in a cold, lecturing tone. I found his attitude entirely too clinical for my taste. Then he let the angry vindictive satisfaction I had been expecting leak through, "But it remains the last resort when other, more humane routes, like chemical interrogation have run their course or been proven completely ineffective," the Commander finished with as much intimidation as he could put into the words.
“That wasn’t necessary, I’ll tell you everything I know,” I said quickly, daring to open my eyes to impress upon the man who held my life in his hands just how willing I was to be cooperative. Right now, if he asked me to do anything, I would have done it in a heartbeat. Well, anything except execute someone innocent.
I wish I could say I wouldn’t do it, but…if it were Akantha or my Mother, I was sure I could hold out, but anyone else…at this point, I wasn’t sure what would break first. It could go either way, either I would shoot them or turn the gun on myself. At that moment, I really was that terrified. Pain has a funny way of changing your priorities.
“John Henry, it seems to me our little False Admiral just came perilously close to telling me how to do my job, wouldn’t you say,” asked the Commander, his tone making it clear that I was subject to his every whim.
“Very perilous, Sir,” agreed his assistant, this Mr. Eden.
Suddian sighed emphatically. “A few allowances have to be made for anyone new to the process, and the False Admiral here must be more used to issuing orders than following them, after all this time off his leash,” said the Commander with a sly grin.
“I’m forced to agree, Sir,” agreed Mr. Eden with a little more enthusiasm than I would have liked.
“Proceed with the injections, John Henry,” Suddian said.
The assistant busied himself over me with a pair of giant syringes.
“We have IV locks in your arms and legs, as well as the good side of your neck to maintain your fluid levels,” the Commander said conversationally, “we could use them to painlessly administer these injections, but instead we'll inject the solution directly into your muscles. It's much more painful of course but it's also much more effective on so many levels than an IV, including the length of time we'll be able to avail of its effects.”
I grimaced as Mr. Eden grabbed my butt cheek, and then tensed as he drove the needle home. I tried hard to relax when he did the other cheek a minute later, to no avail.
“Works for me,” I said, my mouth taking over and going where only fools tread. I was instantly aghast with myself.
“Ah, I see the initial injection is taking effect already,” the Commander mused with satisfaction.
“If you say so,” the words rolled out, with a nonchalance I certainly didn't feel or could have imagined at that moment. And now that he had mentioned it, I did feel something, I just was not entirely sure what it was. My tongue felt dry and cottony, worse even than before. Mr. Eden, seeing my difficulty, helpfully poured another cup of that vile concoction down my throat.
“Let’s start with some questions to establish a baseline,” the Commander suggested, more than a hint of eagerness in his words.
“The sooner we can get this over with, the better,” I agreed a touch too happily for the situation. Luckily, I left out the 'and the faster I get my revenge' part. Whether it was the drug itself or the fact it had numbed the pain, the clarity of my thinking had improved slightly. It may have also even liberated it a bit, as I came to some realizations.
Jean Luc had to die for his misdeeds. I decided everyone who helped him needed to go too, though I thought I might withhold judgment in some instances. Of course, I had no idea what I was going to be able to do from the royal retreat or, in the worst case scenario, if they decided to relieve me of my head.
“Whatever happened to my crew and my…” I quickly decided to avoid mentioning 'lancers', which might upset him, “Wife?” I finished lamely.
“Other than a few we have in the brig awaiting interrogation, they're all dead. That includes your wife and the partisans among your crew,” the Commander said with satisfaction. “Most of them died on their knees, 'begging' for mercy.”
I should have felt a hot and angry emotion, or at least be disheartened by his declaration, instead I felt calm in a slightly detached sort of way. Commander Justin P. Suddian needed to die, sprang the thought like a revelation from Saint Murphy himself. That is when I knew the drug had gotten to me. “State your name, for the record,” he prompted.
I felt the urge to tell him squat, that he could go fly a kite for all I cared, but I had already decided to tell him just about everything in hopes of avoiding future pain. A good plan three minutes ago is better than a perfect plan right now…or, something like that.
“Jason Montagne,” I said simply, and there was a pinging sound from something the assistant, Mr. Eden, was holding.
“Truth,” reported John Henry Eden.
“Jason Montagne Vekna,” Suddian replied harshly.
“Sure,” I allowed with a shrug, and there was another ping.
“Say it,” shouted Justin Suddian.
“My name is Jason Montagne Vekna,” I obliged, not particularly caring about whether the Vekna part was tacked on or not, and this time the ping was more strident.
“Lie,” said Mr. Eden.
The Commander gave a growl of frustration and stood over me with clenched fists.
I smiled at him sheepishly. What could I say…that I had never really considered myself a Vekna, especially after the way my cousins had treated me?
“Why did you seize control of this ship?” he demanded.
“It seemed like the thing to do at the time. I mean honestly, I tried to surrender, but security didn’t really give me a choice. It was either let them kill me, or take over like a real Admiral; they weren’t interested in my surrender. I know this because I tried; twice! They just kept shooting,” I said indignantly, and there was an extended pause followed by a single ping.
“Truth,” reported Mr. Eden.
“Phfah,” snorted the Commander, but he let it go.
“Were you acting on your own, or was this part of some deep Monarchial Plot involving King James?” he demanded, abruptly rounding on me and shoving a finger in my face.
“That chode?” I blurted with disbelief. “My cousins wouldn’t help me up off the floor if I’d fallen down the stairs, unless they could use me as a human shield!”
There was a ping, followed by Mr. Eden’s obligatory, “Truth.”
“Were you working with anyone back on Capria? Yes or no,” he demanded.
“Well…no,” I rasped, my forehead wrinkling at the direction these questions were taking. There was another ping.
“Truth,” said Eden.
“So you were the stooge of Janeski,” he demanded.
“No!” I cried in outrage, and despite the situation, I felt genuine indignity. Janeski was another man who would find a place on my rapidly growing list—assuming I was around to make him pay, of course…something still very much in doubt.
Mr. Eden’s device gave off a harsh, strident noise, prompting him to report, “Lie.”
“Just because I felt like his stooge doesn’t mean—” I was cut off by a slap to the side of my jaw, and I don’t mean one of those girly slaps. This was a full-on, righteous ‘silence yourself, knave!’ slap, with the full weight of an angry parliamentary interrogator behind it
“So you were part of Janeski’s plot,” he said triumphantly.
This was where I realized my brain had betrayed me. I actually did feel like I was a stooge with the way the Imperial Rear Admiral had played me, and the lie detector confirmed as much, but the Interrogator was misinterpreting my response!
“No!” I blurted and the hand held beeped again.
“Lie,” Mr. Eden chided, followed by a beep of the machine.
“Well, okay…I was a part of his plot, but I knew nothing about it before, during or until much later!” I protested.
The machine beeped again.
“Truth,” said Eden.
“Blast,” the Commander snarled, as he rounded on Mr. Eden, “he shouldn’t be able to lie to us anymore. Increase the dosage, John Henry.”
For a moment, I stared at them dumbfounded, but when old John Henry reached for another pair of huge syringes with six inch long needles, I started to squirm.
"No-no, that’s really not necessary," I assured him, my voice going from raspy to a hoarse nothingness as my cry of pain eclipsed my damaged vocal cords ability to keep up. The injections right into the knots left by the last pair, made the pain several times greater than the first set.
“With each new dosage the pain of the injection will increase and the process will continue until we get what we want,” the Commander said smugly. “Now…for the last time, when did you start working for…or with…Admiral Janeski?”
I carefully considered my answer, to make sure I told the truth.
I carefully considered my answer, looking for one that would be both truthful and accurate. “Never,” I started judiciously. “That is, I never worked for the man directly. He would order me onto the bridge and to public events for photo ops and the like, just routine ceremonial stuff Parliament required as part of my duties; nothing like you seem to be implying.”
“Truth,” pinged Eden.
“What do you know about a group called the Sisters of the Hidden Hand, or the Three for One Society,” demanded Suddian.
An involuntary puff of air escaped me. This wasn’t good, mostly because I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. I had the feeling not knowing what this interrogator wanted to hear would make things harder for me.
“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,” I said as honestly as I could, and the machine pinged the truth.
“We know that your mother is a prominent member,” he glared, as he bent to stare into my face, his eyes searching as if trying to read my expression.
“Mom? She might be a Chef, but inside the palace she’s nothing more than a glorified cook. She’s not part of any secret society, so you leave her out of this!” I was more than a little upset that they would stoop to bringing her into this so quickly.
“Truth,” confirmed Mr. Eden, following the predictable ping.
Suddian’s frown deepened. “What do you know about Janeski’s plot to put James Vekna on the Throne,” he snarled.
My eyes widened. Janeski had helped put my Vekna Cousin in power? This was all news to me. My eyes narrowed in contemplation, and apparently I delayed for too long, because there was another snap under my nose and suddenly I couldn’t breathe again.
“You would be wise to spit out the truth as quickly as you can regurgitate it,” Justin Suddian commanded, jabbing my spasming and burning chest for emphasis.
When I could finally speak again, I took as much of a breath as I could manage. “Everything I know, I learned from you,” I wheezed. This was most definitely not fun, and I doubted it was going to get any better.
The machine pinged - apparently, the truth only seemed to enrage him further.
“How long had you been scheming to take over this ship, before you struck,” asked the Parliamentary Officer.
“Fifteen minutes…a half hour, at most,” I rasped, my throat feeling like a raw piece of meat.
Another ping sounded, and Mr. Eden dryly confirmed my veracity.
“Who were your hidden supporters among the crew?” shouted Justin Suddian.
I stared at him blankly.
“But I didn’t have any hidden supporters; I was thrust into events out of my control,” I said urgently, desperate that he believe the unvarnished truth. I could see the rising tide within him, and his eyes had taken on a fanatical gleam.
The hand-held device dinged, but Suddian overrode John Henry, waving him to silence.
I cast about desperately for something I could give him, and my mind latched onto Mr. Spalding. He had supported me from the start, and even made me a suit of custom power armor. Plus; there was no way they had their hands on him.
“Junior Lieutenant Terrance Spalding,” I said abruptly, “he made me the power armor I used to take the bridge; he was a secret royalist, and my most loyal supporter!”
“Find this Spalding, John Henry,” Suddian instructed, sounding less enraged as he turned back to me. “Go on,” he prompted.
My mind raced.
“The Security Officer who tried to arrest me was secretly working for Janeski. It was all a plot by the Imperial Rear Admiral to take an Imperial Command Carrier, along with this Battleship, and blame it all on me,” I explained indignantly.
The Parliamentary Officer looked at his assistant’s screen.
“So you would implicate a dead man, and a loyal security officer in your plots,” he said derisively.
“Yes,” I nodded rapidly. Then, I abruptly realized that I didn’t know if Spalding was still dead or not. “I mean, NO!” I exclaimed
Mr. Eden’s machine pinged twice.
“Both answers were lies, Morale Officer,” said the Assistant.
“This is absurd. Even after enough truth drugs to drop an elephant, he not only lies to us, but he flaunts his ability to defeat the system?” the Commander growled with disbelief.
My blood ran cold. Even I had heard of the powers invested in a Morale Officer. I realized then that I was stuck in a nightmare: my own, private, worst nightmare.
“Certainly presents a problem,” Mr. Eden agreed heavily.
“Blast! They train them so well!” Suddian growled, shaking his head before rounding on me.
“No they don’t! They don’t train them at all,” I pleaded, my jaw suddenly coming unhinged. If my voice was closer to a raspy squeal than anything else, I’m not ashamed to admit it.
I thrashed around as best as I was able, with all my arms and feet tied to the bed. I don’t know why I seemed to think that squirming up against the wall was going to help me, but for some reason, I was filled with the irrational, primal belief that flight was still possible.
“I guess we’ll just have to beat it out of him, John Henry,” he said to his assistant.
The other man took a step over to my bedside and cracked one hand’s knuckles, then the others.
I’m man enough to admit when something terrified me, and right at that moment nothing was more terrifying than the Morale Officer’s assistant, Mr. Eden.
“Better dead than red, Sir,” the other man said, no doubt referring to the house colors of the royal family, which had come to symbolize the royal cause back home.
“Put him in the duyan, John Henry,” said the Commander, using an old Caprian term for a hammock, or sling.
His assistant produced a bed control and pressed a series of buttons.
No sooner had he finished, than the little side rails of my bed started to draw themselves apart, until the arms and legs attached to them were pulled tight—my arms and legs!
“You don’t have to do this, I’m telling you the truth,” I pleaded.
The bed itself lifted and then abruptly rotated one eighty until I was facing the floor, the straps across my chest and thighs cutting deeply and the mattress falling on my back.
“Remove that,” the Morale Officer instructed, pointing to the mattress, his assistant quickly complied. Just as quickly as that, the mattresses and the backboard they had rested on were removed, and I could feel cold air on my back.
My hospital gown had come partially undone to hang from a single string from my neck, leaving my body exposed. That little string cutting across my raw neck wound caused more pain than all the straps cutting into me as they suspended me in the air. The bed was then slowly rotated until I was in an upright position, and my weight shifted to one edge of the straps to cut even deeper. My weight against the chest strap squeezed in on my lungs. Before I knew it, my breaths came in quick gasps, and sweat broke out on my forehead.
“Who are your partisans among the crew, my little False Admiral,” the Morale Officer whispered into my ear. “I want names.”
I opened my mouth, but a gloved finger pressed against my chin, clamping my jaw closed before I could say anything.
“I want you to consider your answer, while John Henry goes to work, Mr. Vekna,” he cooed. That’s right, the psychopath actually cooed in my ear. The sad thing is that it wasn’t even the worst thing to happen to me in the previous sixty seconds.
Something inside me snapped. I understood being afraid, and I could handle that his job involved inspiring sheer, unmitigated terror. Truth be told, my body and mind seemed more than eager to enter that state for him.
I suddenly smiled at him, and it was a shark-like grin. The man had made a mistake putting that finger in my face.
He was just pulling his hand back when my jaws opened and I struck like a viper, chomping down on the finger that had so recently offended me
“The name is Jason Montagne, Confederation Admiral!” I growled awkwardly, the words sounding more garbled than I had thought they would. It’s surprisingly difficult to speak when there’s an unwilling finger in your mouth you’re treating like a piece of savory fried chicken. “Multi-Sector Patrol Fle—”was as far as I got before John Henry and his fists started raining down on me, starting with a savage crack to my jaw.
Something gave in my mouth with the first punch, and the Morale Officer pulled away, screaming in pain. The next blow from his assistant John Henry was to my gut, and I began retching convulsively. Along with my rising stomach contents, a few teeth and half of a still-gloved finger hit the floor. Around the pain of the beating, I held firm to one thought, and one thought only: Justin Suddian should have known better than to drag my mother into this.
That thought disappeared when the neural whip was brought back into play, and pain such as I’d only ever experienced once before shot through my body.
They alternated furious fists and the whip, for what felt like an eternity, before something broke inside me. By ‘broke,’ I mean actually stopped working, at least as far as I could tell as my vision tunneled and went dark. The darkness was followed by the ominous tone of a flat-lined heart monitor, but my hearing was oddly acute.
“Get a team in here, on the double! We’re sending him to medical; I’m not done with this one yet!” panted what I thought was the Morale Officer, but I couldn’t be sure. Everything sounded like it was happening inside an empty tin can.
I saw the smiling faces of my mother and Akantha in my mind fog, and then everything went black again, but I was surprisingly calm about the whole affair even as my hearing went and I slipped into unconsciousness. See, I knew the bastards wouldn’t let me die just yet.
They weren’t done with me…nor I, them.
Not by a long shot.
Chapter 2: A Rude Awakening
I woke up to the face of Dr. Torgeson leaning over me. For a moment I was confused, and then I realized what I was supposed to be doing; I was supposed to be squeezing the life out of him. My hands started to lift to do just that, and there was a metallic clank as I felt my wrists restrained from their appointed task.
I was puzzled, since this wasn’t going how I had envisioned it.
“The Morale Officer insisted on the restraints and after the last time I treated you, I agreed,” stated Torgeson matter-of-factly.
I tried to say, ‘Get stoked,’ but all that came out was the beginning of a gurgle, before my throat seized up with pain.
“Your vocal cords were damaged further during your interrogation,” Torgeson explained clinically, “though it's not hard to guess your intended sentiment.”
I had several questions I wanted answered, but my ability to communicate was obviously limited. I couldn’t even shake my head with it tightly bound in a brace, so I settled for a steely glare that I hoped would shoot daggers.
Torgeson attached a syringe to one of the myriad IV lines suspended beside my bed. “It’s time you went back to sleep; you’ve got a long day ahead of you tomorrow, and I’m sure they’ll want you well rested,” he said, clearly not caring what they intended to do to me tomorrow.
Someday, Doctor, I silently promised, someday.
“Now, we’ll get to do what should have been done yesterday. All right boys, tank him,” said Torgeson, as he pressed the plunger of the syringe.
A wave of lethargy immediately swept into me, sinking all the way into my bones, and I quickly passed out.
Chapter 3: The Captain’s…make that, Commodore’s Mast
The door chimed and the man sitting at the chair behind the office’s lone desk signaled admission.
The young Parliamentarian Officer, who had been waiting outside, marched into the room with military precision and came to a textbook stop. His feet crisply struck the floor in front of the deck, and his hand snapped upward in a salute.
“Junior Lieutenant Raphael Tremblay, reporting as ordered, Commodore, Sir,” he said stiffly.
“Intelligence Officer Tremblay, reporting as ordered,” mused Jean Luc with a smile. “Tell me, do you always follow your orders, Mr. Raphael Tremblay?”
“I try to, Commodore, Sir,” Tremblay said stiffly.
“You try…” Jean Luc repeated, hanging on the last word ominously.
The silence grew until it was like some kind of beast stalking the room, and Tremblay was quickly overwhelmed with the urge to say something—anything to break the silence.
“I’m only human, Sir,” the Lieutenant said stiffly.
Jean Luc picked up an obsolete mail opener, and twirled it absently, with its extremely sharp tip pressed against his thumb.
“Did you know,” Jean Luc inquired mildly, “that as of right now, there are only two people on this ship brave enough—or, in your case, stupid enough—to blatantly defy my orders?”
If it was possible, Lieutenant Tremblay felt himself stiffen even further.
“I don’t follow; what exactly do you mean, Commodore, Sir,” Tremblay asked cautiously, even though on the inside he knew precisely what the other man meant. He had to be careful, since the Intelligence Section was once again recording everything throughout the ship but if he could get the man to make a threat on record, it might just be enough to save his skin.
“Do you recall the very first order I ever gave you, Mr. Tremblay,” Jean Luc asked evenly.
“I was to clean this Ready Room, Sir,” Tremblay replied, struggling to keep the tremor out of his voice as he felt the world begin to spin around him.
“Does this look clean to you, Junior Lieutenant,” the Commodore asked, a cutting edge entering his voice as he pointed to a spot on his desk.
Tremblay could see nothing from his current angle, so he leaned forward for better look. “I don’t see anything, Commodore,” he replied truthfully.
“Look closer, Mr. Tremblay. Run your fingers along the wood. I am certain you will find it,” the old school Montagne had a look in his eye Tremblay did not like. “Consider that an order—one I suggest you obey,” the eye patch-wearing Jean Luc added flatly.
Leaning forward, Tremblay ran his finger along the spot the other man had indicated, but he felt nothing. He was just opening his mouth to say so, when what felt like a steel clamp grabbed his arm, holding his hand in place.
“Two men, each in their own way, have tried to take for themselves that which is rightfully mine,” Jean Luc hissed as his eyes bored into Tremblay’s. “I want to make this perfectly clear; it is for me to decide what is to be kept or discarded on this ship.”
“I don’t understand, Commodore,” Tremblay gasped honestly, trying desperately to keep the fear from his voice.
The Commodore and former Pirate King stared at him for a moment before setting him free with a shove, which sent him reeling. “Oh, I think you do, Mr. Former Chief of the ‘Admiral’s’ Staff,” assured Jean Luc, and Tremblay’s heart lurched in his chest.
His eyes closed briefly. Oh yes he knew, but he dared not admit—to the Commodore or for the security cameras—that he had knowingly done anything wrong.
“I see the rather dim bulb of what must pass for comprehension flickering in your eyes,” Jean Luc sneered.
“The room…it wasn’t cleaned to your satisfaction, Sir?” Tremblay asked, desperately trying to find a way out of the situation.
“I think I finally understand what my nephew saw in you,” Jean Luc Montagne said as if speaking to the wall. “Someone so dense and stupid, that he made a quite nearly perfect lightning rod for the opposition. A fool he could run rings around, to help himself feel more in control.”
Ignoring the brief surge of anger at this Montagne—or any Montagne—presuming to judge him, Tremblay wisely chose the better part of valor, and remained silent. He hoped the Commodore would say something that could be used against him, like admitting he had ordered a living, unconscious prisoner murdered.
“No, the ‘room,’ let us say, was most definitely not cleaned to my satisfaction,” said Jean Luc bitingly, dragging out the last word. “There was not only this stain upon my desk, but the incompetent manner in which the waste was disposed of, as well,”
“You are referring to the bloody towels I left in the head,” Tremblay said stiffly.
“Among other, vastly more important things,” Jean Luc scowled. “Fortunately for you, I have changed my mind as it regards those other things. I suppose, after a fashion, you have done me a favor.”
Tremblay cocked his head, unsure what the Pirate-King-turned-Commodore meant.
“Which is why I am inclined to feel generous, Mr. Tremblay,” the hardened Montagne leaned back in his chair. “If you knew me at all, you would be weeping with relief at how generous I am prepared to be.”
“Thank you, Sir,” Tremblay said uneasily.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Jean Luc fixed the younger man with a piercing stare. “You see, there is something you must do before you leave. As of now, the ledger is too heavily balanced against you from the wrong you have done; failing to follow my orders requires an act of penance.”
Tremblay decided the other man must like to hear himself speak in circles. He had to admit that Jean Luc was even worse than Jason in that regard! “I don’t follow,” said Tremblay evenly.
“I believe a Captain’s—or rather,” Jean Luc corrected himself, with a wry grin, “a Commodore’s Mast is in order, don’t you?”
“For what,” Tremblay asked, his mouth tightening and his stomach, already in knots, churned even more.
“Failure to carry out orders as given to start; specifically the proper cleaning of this ready room, then leaving hazardous waste carelessly unattended in the confines of the ship,” Jean Luc ticked points off on his fingers before his features contorted into a contemptuous sneer. “I'm sure we could add more to the list, given the time to think about it, don’t you agree?”
“I see,” Tremblay said, unable to hide the flare of anger from reaching his eyes. The truth was he most definitely did see. He had been wrong to compare Jason’s actions to that of a real Montagne like this one. This son of the Demon, was a member of the old school and the Junior Intelligence Officer forgot it at his peril.
“So it’s either a Captain’s Mast—I’m sorry,” Jean Luc corrected himself, not sounding sorry at all, “I meant, of course, a Commodore’s Mast, which technically applies as you are still on the books as part of my staff. Either that, or it’s to be an Administrative action, which would require me to forward an official file.” Jean Luc’s eye burned savagely, and Tremblay felt very much like a mouse caught in a cat’s paws. “That file would contain, among other things, certain information and recommendations regarding this whole sordid affair, to be reviewed by the ship’s Morale Officer at his earliest convenience. A formal inquest would naturally ensue, and I hear that Mr. Suddian can be quite vigorous when conducting his…interviews.”
Raphael Tremblay’s breath sucked in. If the Commodore did that, Commander Suddian would quickly see through all the lies and evasions he had fed him. He might even end up in a cell beside Jason Montagne! The last thing Tremblay wanted at that moment was to be ‘vigorously’ questioned by the ship’s Morale Officer.
“I’ll take the Mast,” Tremblay said quickly, before he had time to think about all the ways this could go wrong. He knew what the Morale Officer would do to the man who helped ‘save’ Jason Montagne’s life, when he had been tacitly ordered to do otherwise by the ship’s commander. What he did not know, was what this Montagne would do, which at least allowed for the possibility of hope.
“Excellent,” Jean Luc said with a smile that was so calculating and malicious, that the former Intelligence Officer felt the urge to vomit. The old Montagne Prince leaned forward and dropped something heavy on the wooden table. It landed with a thunk that Tremblay could feel all the way through his bones.
“Sir,” Tremblay asked, staring at the vibro-knife in disbelief.
“Just so we are clear before going forward,” the one-eyed Montagne began, holding Tremblay’s eyes like a snake holds the eyes of a mouse before it strikes, “by tomorrow, there can only be one member of this crew who has dared to thwart my will.”
“What do you mean, Sir?” Tremblay asked in a trembling voice, his eyes flitting back and forth between the vibro-knife and the Commodore.
Jean Luc shook his head as if in pity of a slow student. “Why, exactly what it seems, I’m sure,” Jean Luc said, rapping his fingers on the edge of his wooden desk in a little ditty. It was the opening bars of the parliamentary version of the Caprian Anthem.
Tremblay considered his next words carefully. He could gain some leverage over the Commodore if he could get him to say it on record. “You want me to kill—”
“Mr. Tremblay!” Jean Luc’s palm slammed onto the desk, cutting the Lieutenant off mid-sentence. The Commodore then raised a finger to his lips when Tremblay once again opened his mouth to speak. “Loose lips, sink Battleships,” the Montagne said mockingly, and Tremblay stared at him in rising horror.
Tremblay realized the Commodore was smart enough to know the situation and wasn't about to say anything directly. It was a dance of subtleties and subtext, and the Montagne Prince was obviously an expert at it.
“I’m afraid you’ve got me all wrong, lad,” Jean Luc continued, with a look that gave the lie to the words coming from his mouth.
“Then what…” choked out Tremblay.
“Back in the days before humanity left the divine bread basket that was old Earth, there was a culture—perhaps there still is…” the former Pirate King mused while flitting his fingers, as if brushing the matter away. “Among their people, when a warrior betrayed his leader or failed to obey his sovereign lord, there was a process by which he could make amends.”
Tremblay stared at him bug-eyed. “What are you saying, Sir,” he blurted, feeling a wave of vertigo to accompany his churning stomach.
“Among those people, a man who had offended but did not wish to pay with his life would offer a token of his remorse,” Jean Luc smiled, clearly enjoying this little game far more than a Caprian officer should have.
“What kind of token are we talking about, Sir,” Tremblay asked, feeling his body shaking as his vision began to narrow.
“If he didn’t feel like cutting his belly open out of remorse for failing to follow orders, he would do the next best thing,” Jean Luc explained with a wolfish grin, “he would cut off his finger, and beg his lord for mercy,”.
“This is insane! You’re insane; you can’t do this!” Tremblay said, forcing down his rising stomach.
“I force you do to nothing Mr. Tremblay,” said Jean Luc coldly. “At any point, you may throw yourself on the mercy of our administrative system, in the form of the ship’s Morale Officer.”
“Who’ll torture me to death!” Tremblay cried.
“Do you have such a guilty conscious that you feel the Morale Officer would resort to such actions?” Jean Luc rebuked. “If so, I would advise a steady and swift hand, and that you proceed quickly before my generous offer is rescinded.”
“I…I don’t know if I can do this,” Tremblay stammered, feeling sick to his stomach. There was no doubt; Jason was like a Plum Drop Fairy Princess, benevolently bestowing coins on the masses, compared to this murderous old tyrant.
Jean Luc shrugged. “I assure you, I am no savage to demand death by disembowelment; anything that kills in a more humane fashion will do just fine.” The one-eyed Commodore paused dramatically, seemingly savoring every moment of Tremblay’s suffering. “On the other hand, if you wish to get on your knees and beg for mercy, I will not demand a finger. No, Mr. Tremblay,” his eyes drilled into the back of the Junior Lieutenant’s skull, “any man who raises a hand against me shall—at the very least—have that hand removed, that it may never offend me again.”
“You want me to cut off my own hand,” Tremblay shrieked, equally disgusted and terrified by the very notion.
“Leave the hand on the desk, and keep the knife until tomorrow,” Jean Luc said conversationally, as though discussing daily reports. “I shall consider your plea, and if tomorrow I decide that there is only one person on this ship who has tried to take what is mine, I will not forward the file I have compiled to the ship’s Morale Officer,” he said, his lone eye transmitting the full weight of his words.
Tremblay’s shaking hand picked up the knife, and he stared dumbly at it. He was beyond stunned; this was like something from a bad holo-vid! For a wild moment, he was tempted to leap over the desk and stab the Commodore.
A gleam in the other man’s eyes said that Jean Luc was ready and waiting for just such an attempt.
Though this Montagne had said that Tremblay was stupid, the former Intelligence Officer could read between the lines. This bloodthirsty, blood feuding, evil to the core Montagne was everything the histories had said about his kind. Somehow—and seemingly impossibly—he managed to be worse! This was all happening because Tremblay had inadvertently saved Jason’s life. Now he was required to cut off his hand, kneel down like a serf, and beg forgiveness for his sins.
Then, in order to avoid becoming an object of enjoyment for the Morale Officer, Tremblay had to eliminate that officer, or the Commodore would forward a file urging him to interrogate Tremblay as a suspected royalist sympathizer. Tremblay lifted the knife and quickly lowered it. Even at the threat of his own life, he doubted that he could do this.
“Quite brave to use that particular knife without the vibro functions,” Jean Luc said with obvious amusement.
Tremblay flicked on the switch and watched the knife vibrate back and forth, as if hypnotized.
“A much wiser course,” Jean Luc said happily, “now, the blade will cut through flesh like a plasma torch through paper.” The Commodore then tossed a circular metallic strap onto the table.
“What’s that,” asked Tremblay, wondering what new horror awaited him.
“Automated tourniquet,” explained Jean Luc, “we wouldn’t want you to die before you’d written your report.”
“My report,” Tremblay repeated numbly, unable to take his eyes off the knife.
“The report you are going to write, so that if I change my mind about you in the morning, I can forward it to the Morale Officer’s office,” explained Jean Luc tersely, without saying openly that he would be sending it to the Morale Officer’s office, knowing full well that the Morale Officer would be dead at Tremblay’s hands—no, make that ‘hand.’ “You may use any tools you feel necessary to accomplish your penance,” Jean Luc continued, his eyes cutting toward the vibro-knife.
Tremblay just stared at him dumbly. He asked himself silently if this was really happening.
“Now it’s time for you to make a choice, Mr. Tremblay. Are you in…or are you out,” he asked savagely, looking every bit the bloodthirsty pirate he truly was.
Tremblay staggered out of the Admiral’s Ready Room, certain of one thing: he had just stood face to face with his first real Montagne, and he had survived. But would he live to tell the tale? That question still plagued him.
Half delirious with pain, he duck-walked to the nearest wall where he found an emergency first aid kit. Tearing it open, he pulled out the strongest pain-killer in the box and injected himself in the thigh, then reached for a sedative.
“What is the meaning of this,” demanded an official sounding voice.
Acting more on instinct than reasoned judgment, Tremblay turned to face him. Seeing it was the same Officer of the Watch, who had command of the Bridge when the former Chief of the Admiral’s Staff had walked into the lion’s den that was the ready room of Jean Luc, Tremblay raised his right arm.
“Commodore’s Mast,” he gasped, applying the sedative before he turned back to start fumbling around for some insta-skin and a bandage.
The other Officer reared back in disgust, and a flash of fear streaked across his face when he glanced at the ready room.
For a moment, the other officer seemed at a loss for words. Then his face blanked, returning to its previous professional mask.
“Carry on then, Junior Lieutenant,” he said taking a step back.
“Yes, Serr,” he acknowledged, his words beginning to slur from the force of the blessed pain medication’s relief. He started to salute with his right hand, but switched to his left when he realized that his right hand was no longer present.
The Officer took another step back, and Tremblay realized he was still clutching the bloody, active vibro-knife in his lone, remaining hand. He deactivated it, before hurriedly shoving it in his belt.
Turning toward the blast doors, he staggered his way off the Flag Bridge. Now all he needed to do was find a lift.
Chapter 4: Let the Suffering begin
I awoke slowly this time and not knowing the situation; I opened my eyes only enough to see through subtle slits while I tried to make it appear I was still asleep. Lying on a cold hard cot built into the bulkhead, I could not see much except that it was not one of the big interrogation cells. Instead, it looked to be a standard six by eight foot prisoner cell, and this time I appeared to be alone.
Heaving a sigh of relief, I tested my arms and legs to see if they were chained, and to my surprise they were not. That put me into a state of wellbeing completely at odds with the dangerous situation I was in, but considering the alternative I had already experienced, I was more than willing to embrace any amount of false reassurance my mind and body were willing to drum up. I was clearly no longer in the driver’s seat, so I had little choice but to sit back in the hover bus wreck that had become my life and cheer.
“Hello, my little False Admiral,” said a voice over the speaker system that could send chills through my body. “I’m rather busy at the moment, but I didn’t want you to think that I forgotten about you,” Justin P. Suddian informed me, “so I had John Henry concoct a little montage, solely for your viewing pleasure.”
A two inch thick duralloy panel set into the wall slid open, revealing a holo-screen on which something was already playing. I focused on the image of one of my Tactical trainees; I recognized him as a regular on the bridge since the beginning of our tour, his name was Cloudhammer.
“Tell me everything you know about Operation Easy Haven, and the royalist plot to gain control of Wolf-9,” instructed the Morale Officer in a calm, patient tone.
“There isn’t much to tell,” began Cloudhammer, “but the Admiral had agreed to trade a Heavy Cruiser for a pair of Corvettes, which had originally been assigned to Easy Haven, under then-Commander Colin LeGodat.”
“Colin LeGodat,” interrupted Suddian, “a man who, if I understand correctly, Jason Montagne elevated to the rank of Commodore?”
Cloudhammer nodded, and the sheen of sweat on his forehead was clear. “That’s correct,” he replied. “The Admiral—“
“False Admiral,” corrected Suddian, his voice turning cold.
Cloudhammer nodded and looked down at his shoes in obvious discomfort. “Yes, Commander; the False Admiral,” he agreed, before continuing, “learned during his initial dialogue with Commodore LeGodat of an act of piracy taking place in the Easy Haven system.”
“Ah yes,” Suddian agreed amicably, his voice once again warm and inviting, “the incident with Captain Cornwallis. There is no need to go into details on that subject, Mr. Cloudhammer. The record speaks clearly enough as to Jason Montagne’s actions in that case. Please continue: Easy Haven.”
Cloudhammer nodded. “Well, after that was over with, we didn’t come back for quite a few months. When we did, we were met by Rear Admiral Yagar’s Sector Guard force. It wasn’t exactly a cordial meeting, but after it was over, we docked with Easy Haven and the Admi—I mean, the False Admiral,” he corrected sheepishly, “met with the Commodore. We took on supplies at the Wolf-9 Star Base, and then left the system. On our way out, we picked up some unusual power readings and sensor shadows, which suggested that Easy Haven had hidden weapons platforms at strategic points surrounding the Star Base.”
I winced at the words, but I couldn’t condemn the man for doing something I would have done in a heartbeat to save my own skin, as I’d tried and failed to do during my own session. LeGodat and I had hoped those weapons platforms would have remained secret, but there was nothing for it now.
“Thank you, Mr. Cloudhammer,” Commander Suddian said agreeably, “that will be most helpful. Now, tell me everything you know about Imperial Rear Admiral Arnold Janeski.”
Cloudhammer blinked in surprise. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about that, Commander,” he said with a shake of his head.
“Is that so?” asked Suddian evenly. “What about the secret Royalist cabals on board this vessel? What do you know about them?”
“Royalist cabals?” asked Cloudhammer with a furrowed brow. “I’m sorry, Commander, I really don’t know what you mean.”
“Truly?” asked Suddian, his voice taking on a note of anticipation, which made my stomach sink. “Who are Jason Montagne’s closest cohorts on board? What is their plan for this vessel?”
Mr. Cloudhammer’s eyes started snapping back and forth rapidly. “I don’t know…the Chief Engineer works pretty closely with the Admiral—”
“False Admiral!” snapped Suddian.
Cloudhammer’s head bobbed up and down. “Ye-yes, Sir; the False Admiral, pardon me, Sir. Th-the Lady Akantha is never far from Admi—from the False Admiral’s side, but I’m afraid I don’t know any more than that.”
“How long has Jason Montagne been working with Admiral Janeski?” demanded Commander Suddian. “What was the False Admiral promised, in return for his acts of blatant piracy against the people of the Spine? How long have Janeski and Montagne been working to place James Vekna on the throne?!”
This was getting more than a little paranoid—even for me. The idea that I was working hand-in-hand with Arnold Janeski, to place Cousin James on the throne, would have been a laughable suggestion were it not for the fear in Mr. Cloudhammer’s eyes.
“I don’t know about any of that, Sir,” insisted Cloudhammer, doing his level best not to break down.
“You have been on the bridge nearly every time Jason Montagne has been,” growled Suddian. “Are you trying to tell me that I should accept that as mere coincidence, Philip Cloudhammer?”
Philip; that was his first name. I was sure I had learned it once, but apparently I had forgotten.
The Tactical trainee shook his head. “I wouldn’t presume to do so, Commander,” he said shakily.
“What about Alabaster Wainwright?” continued Suddian hotly, driving past the man’s last vestiges of composure. “How long has the False Admiral been working with him?”
“I’m sorry, Sir,” Philip Cloudhammer shook his head quickly, “I don’t think the two of them even knew each other before meeting in Easy Haven!”
Apparently, the truth was not what the Commander was after, because he and Mr. Eden began taking turns slapping Philip Cloudhammer around, and things quickly escalated to closed fists and the neural whip.
They hit him when he lied, and they hit him when he told them something they didn’t want to hear, all the while calling him a ‘royalist scum.’
I wanted to turn off the holo screen, but I had no remote. I tried to manually stop it, but the screen was guarded with a window which was impervious to my fists. I couldn’t even break it; all I could do was cover my head with a pillow and try not to hear.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t keep my eyes off the interrogation scene. After a while, I decided that the least I could do was watch, as this man got tortured for following my orders.
Then Suddian told Mr. Cloudhammer that they were low on space in the brig, and forced to hold people confined to their quarters and since nothing he told them was in any way interesting or new, they had no choice but to free up the room
“Thank you,” sobbed the Tactical trainee.
“I want you to understand that I didn’t want to do this, but the actions of your False Admiral Jason Montagne have forced me to these extreme measures,” Justin P. Suddian said sympathetically.
“I understand! Of course, I understand; just please let me go home and rest,” said the Sensor Operator, gratitude turning to horror as the Morale Officer produced a blaster pistol.
“Your False Little Admiral can’t help you now, crewman,” Justin P. Suddian said piteously, all the while looking at the holo-receiver—straight at me—as he fired.
“No!” I screamed, rushing to the holo-screen and beating my hands against the glass repeatedly.
But the holo-screen was completely impervious to my shocked outrage, and simply began portraying another interrogation. That’s when I realized that even if I somehow broke out of here, everything I was watching had already happened, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
“Take me instead; I was the one in command!” I shouted, tears welling in my eyes for everyone stupid enough to follow a Montagne like me. Maybe it would have been better…if I had headed straight home with the ship and turned myself in. At least that way, my crew—my faithful, overworked, unreasonably loyal crew—would still be alive.
That was when I realized I was in Hades, the very place itself. I sank back against the wall of my cell, and as Commander Suddian’s recorded horrors continued playing out on the screen, I wept like I never thought I could.
Chapter 5: The Schemer is afoot!
“Blast that Montagne!” Tremblay bit out through gritted teeth as he exited the lift.
As he made his way towards his cabin, he had silently called the Commodore every vile name he could think of, but there were rare occasions when his utterances refused to remain silent. Doubtless, Jean Luc wanted Tremblay to charge into the Morale Officer’s office like a chump, waving a vibro-knife to slaughter the Commander in front of every surveillance system on the ship. In his quarters, Tremblay spat a gob of blood-tinged sputum on the floor. He had bitten his own lip so hard back in the ready room that it was still bleeding. Everyone thought he was a fool: Jason, Jean Luc, even Captain Heppner thought he was nothing more than a useful dim-witted-fool, to be cast aside as soon as he was no longer useful. But he would show them otherwise.
He turned to the door of the adjoining cabin and, discovering it locked, he keyed in the override. Inside were the two lovebirds: Lisa Steiner and her boyfriend Mike. Lisa with her beaten, but much improved, face still resembled a raccoon. In surprise at his unannounced entrance, they reach for each other instinctively.
With the sight of them together, he had to suppress a bit of jealousy. He wasn’t in love—or even infatuated—with the Com-Tech, but the truth was he had never had a girl. Jason had his Akantha, and this System Analyst had Miss Steiner. Half of Tremblay’s graduating classmates at the academy were married, or in committed relationships, but Tremblay himself was still quite alone. Of course, he had gone into the Intelligence Section with his eyes wide open. He forcibly reminded himself of that fact and directed his focus to his task. Deciding to take a page from Jason’s playbook, he waved his mutilated right arm in their faces.
“How long before you break the encryption on those transmission files?” he demanded harshly.
"I’m not sure, Lieutenant," Mike stammered, as the missing hand and blood-soaked uniform registered.
Mike was the smartest of the pair so Tremblay wanted to put the fear of Parliament into him, and the image he struck at that moment certainly did that. Reluctantly, he turned and then waved his stump in Lisa Steiner’s face. “Well,” he demanded, whereby she leaned back in disgust at his missing extremity.
“It takes as long as it takes,” Steiner replied, then demanded, “What happened to you?”
“We don't have the time,” Tremblay declared, “and what happened isn't important right now.”
“Why not, what's going on, Mr. Former Chief of Staff?” she glared back defiantly. “Why didn't you take this to the ship’s Intelligence Division?”
He scowled and rounded on Mike, since he seemed to fear him more and appeared to grasp what was at stake.
“Oh wait…that’s right; that would mean that what you’re trying to do might actually be a legitimate intelligence operation,” she added scornfully.
“I’d redouble my efforts and try to put a muzzle on this one, if I were you,” Raphael sneered, speaking to Mike.
“A muzzle!” she said hotly.
“Easy, baby,” urged Mike cautiously, “I think there is a lot more going on than we know. The Lieutenant is the only thing keeping us out of the Brig right now.”
“Hah!” she declared indignantly, but sat back down in her chair angrily.
Tremblay gave himself a shake. Mike was the one he needed right now. Steiner’s usefulness had ended the moment she fingered her boyfriend as the one trying to decrypt the files. Mike understood the implications of the situation that much Tremblay could tell. Steiner, on the other hand, appeared oblivious to the dangers. If Tremblay were half the evil scud bucket Justin P. Suddian was, this would not be a problem. Unfortunately, rescuing damsels in distress seemed to have passed on to him like a virus. Blast Jason Montagne anyway! At least those he rescued actually seemed to like him, while Tremblay’s efforts merely ended in constant harping and nagging, along with accusations of betrayal.
“Look, I’m as loyal to Jason Montagne and the Confederation Fleet as anyone on the ship,” he lied, hoping to bring some kind of unity into their little group. Jason Montagne could rot in prison for all I care, he thought, suppressing a sickening pang in his belly. I just suffered significant physical trauma, he reminded himself, it’s not surprising my stomach feels upset.
“I don’t believe you,” Steiner said flatly.
“Don’t be mad at me, just because I was more ideally placed to survive the…” his mouth felt slightly sour and he hesitated over the next word.
“Go on and say it, I can see how much it hurts you,” she said, looking at him with her accusatory, raccoon eyes. Those eyes, set in such a cute little face, made her look more like some kind of little elf than a trained com-operator.
“Mutiny,” Tremblay yelled, feeling a wave of nausea threaten to overcome him at the sound of the word. “Mutiny-mutiny-mutiny! There, are you happy? I said it: I survived Heppner’s mutiny, and came out of it better off than ninety nine percent of ‘our’ crew. I can't help what happened,” he said, putting as much passion and indignation into the fabrication as he could. “I did what I could to survive and be in a position do something if the opportunity arose.”
“I believe him, Lisa,” Mike said suddenly, “he used to be second in line for command of this ship, and now that Captain Heppner and Commodore Jean Luc Montagne are here, he’s just another Junior Lieutenant. He’s lost more than he’s gained; why would he help put them in power, knowing the way they’d treat him and the rest of us!”
“He might not have known that,” Steiner argued. “Besides, he’s a hard line parliamentarian; he might not care if they treat him like a green creeper and ‘vigorously interrogated’ the rest of us,” she declared. “Enhanced interrogation, my tush; by all that blazes, that was straight torture!”
“Then why did he lie, covering for you with the Morale Officer just as soon as he found out you were working for the Admiral?” Mike asked, doing a better job of advocating for Tremblay, than Tremblay himself. “He got you out of there, Lisa. It just doesn’t make sense that he’s secretly working for them,”
Steiner looked uncertain. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I’m going to find out,” she flared, but Tremblay could sense the uncertainty. Work the asset, he reminded himself. Keep the asset focused and on your side. In this case, it meant playing the loyal ‘Little Admiral’ partisan.
He did a double take as an idea occurred to him, then he smiled. That just might play. If these two spilled the beans regarding what he had already done, there was no way it would make things worse on him than they already were, so involving them a little further had very little downside. Plus, it might actually help build some trust.
“Actually, we need to put aside what you’re doing,” Tremblay said firmly.
“Why,” Steiner demanded, suspicion rampant in her voice.
“I didn’t know if I could trust you before,” he gave Steiner a withering look, and she had the grace to look slightly red in the face, “but now, after hearing Mike speak, I do,” he said, trying to imitate Jason Montagne at his most pompous. He probably failed miserably but he had to keep going.
“Go on,” Lisa prompted suspiciously.
“Look, for your own safety I've had to keep you in the dark about a number of things, but I have to move fast on something and I need your help. For one thing, I've learned the Morale Officer is planning to start executing the former crew until their numbers fit within the available brig space,” he declared, making the entire thing up as he went along.
Steiner gasped, and Mike paled.
“You know he’s already put the Admiral in the hospital once,” Tremblay continued, throwing in some truth to make it more reasonable, just in case they hacked into the DI and tried to verify any part of his story. “Well, the word going around the Intelligence Section now is that he plans to torture the Admiral…and then kill him.” He failed to add that the Intelligence Section was a place he had not been to, since long before Captain Heppner retook the ship.
The stricken looks on their faces almost made him pity them. Resisting the urge to gloat at how easy they were lapping this up, he turned his face away to hide his own expression. He reminded himself that this was no laughing matter, and the Morale Officer really was the sort of person that gave Parliament a bad name and needed to die, regardless of what Jean Luc said.
“What can we do,” demanded Lisa Steiner, looking intensely concerned for the first time since he had installed her into this cabin.
“We’ll help, if it’s not too risky,” Mike added.
Lisa rounded on him. “Our friends are dying, the Admiral needs our help, and you only want to help if it’s not too risky?” she asked him in disbelief.
“We can’t throw our lives away for nothing, Lisa; we have to be smart,” he countered.
“Our friends and fellow crew are nothing? The Admiral is nothing?!” she shouted.
“The Admiral is the one that got us into this mess in the first place!” Mike retorted as his face turned red. “Pull your head out of the sand for half a minute, and look at things objectively. It’s his job to keep mutinies from happening in the first place, and if they do happen, he’s supposed to suppress them for the rest of us. He didn’t! He failed, Lisa!”
“So you’re mad at the Admiral for trusting King James, Captain Heppner, and all the other new scum buckets that came with them?” she demanded, her face actually turning white with anger. “That’s enough reason for you to abandon the rest of the crew to the Morale Officer?”
“That’s not what I said!” Mike protested.
“Make it clear,” she flared.
Tremblay decided this was the perfect time to rejoin the conversation. “Look, you guys won’t even have to go outside your rooms; all I need is a fancy piece of computer code work. A hack to make it look like Suddian’s assistant, Mr. Eden, left one of the cell doors unlocked; I can take care of the rest,” he said with more confidence than he actually felt.
“I can do that,” Mike replied, relief written all over his face.
Lisa glared at the two them for a moment before turning to stare at the wall with her arms crossed.
The last thing Tremblay needed was the pair of them fighting to the point that one of them felt the urge to go outside to blow off some steam.
“What I’ll need from you, Lisa,” he continued, trying to project the ringing tone of command, “is an encrypted com-link powerful enough to transmit to the rest of the brig.”
She turned around and stared at him as though he were the class dunce. “Impossible,” she said flatly.
“What?” he asked, his timing thrown off by her early refutation of his plan.
“The brig is designed to be impervious to outside transmissions that don’t run through hard lines,” she explained shortly. At Tremblay’s blank expression, she rolled her eyes before adding, “That means nothing can transmit out either.”
“Okay,” he said, trying to buy a few seconds to collect his thoughts.
“You’d need to put in a pair of signal boosters,” she continued animatedly, clearly thinking aloud, “but any booster powerful enough to cut through the reinforced bulkheads would be spotted by a basic security scan.”
“Blast,” Tremblay cursed, trying to project disappointment. The truth was that it had been a weak idea to begin with.
Apparently, Lisa Steiner had not yet conceded, as her eyes lit up. “But if we put a weak booster somewhere near the entrance to the brig, and another one in a lift car,” she said excitedly, “then whenever that car stopped at the Brig, it would send a message for the other booster to activate. That would be almost undetectable, except during transmission.”
Tremblay looked at her with narrowed eyes. “You seem to have quite the knack for Intelligence work,” he said finally.
“I’ve just been studying communications ever since school,” she sniffed, as if the very idea she would have anything to do with Intelligence work was equal parts poor taste and absurdity.
“All right, you lot should work on your end. I’ve a few other tasks to perform,” Tremblay said grimly, as he realized this was going to take some careful planning. Talking with these two had only made him realize how difficult this was going to be. Physically pulling it off was going to be hard enough…doing it without being caught was going to be considerably more difficult.
He needed some help to do what he had in mind, and it was going to have to come from one of the most unlikely allies he could imagine.
Chapter 6: A Communicator for Revenge
“I have no idea why I should accept your proposal to smuggle in a communicator to my dear cousin languishing in durance vile,” Bethany scoffed, her face a mask of pleasant rejection while her voice itself came across as the sneer it was.
“You don’t find the possibility of raising his hopes of escape, only to crush them underneath your heels, reason enough?” Tremblay asked, taken aback.
“Why put myself at risk when all I have to do is simply sit here and watch? I can content myself in the knowledge that he is suffering far worse than anything I could ever do to him,” the Princess-Cadet challenged with a cocked eyebrow.
“Huh,” Tremblay said, feeling stumped. He sat back in the guest chair of her room to consider the situation. Perhaps he was going to have to give up the idea of smuggling a communicator down to Jason. He calculated the odds of it actually being used at about forty percent, due to the complications of transmitting through the brig’s security, even using a constantly moving lift car like Lisa Steiner’s plan called for. He did have to try though, at least to satisfy those dratted little Royalists squirreled away in his cabin.
His eyes drifted to the stump of his missing hand, and Tremblay observed the Princess-Cadet looking at him through slitted eyes. She looked more like a cat than anything else, one who was trying to decide whether to stay aloof or give chase to a pesky mouse and his mental antennae pricked up.
“I really don’t see how any of this is worth my while,” Bethany said after a short pause, looking at him sideways.
“How can I sweeten the pot?” Tremblay asked through narrowed eyes.
“Perhaps…” she hesitated, then shook her head, “no. Never mind.”
“What?” Tremblay asked, making an urgent gesture. Realizing he had unconsciously used his stump he quickly lowered it and cleared his throat, “Please, go on.”
“Just something to sweeten the pot,” she said demurely, and on the inside Tremblay scoffed—this woman was anything but demure. “If I’m to take such a big risk of being discovered…this is the Brig, and I would be walking into the lion’s mouth so to speak.”
“If I can,” Tremblay allowed cautiously.
“The only way the guards won’t be suspicious of my visit is if I give them a reason they can understand for wanting to visit my cousin. A reason that can’t at all be construed as some kind of assistance,” Bethany smiled cruelly.
“I don’t see that as a problem,” Tremblay said after a considered pause.
“In addition, I need something done about my living arrangements here,” Bethany said imperiously.
Tremblay’s heart surged with the desire to tell this pampered royal exactly what she could do with her imperious nature, but mindful that he still needed her if he was going to throw off the scent of any trackers he bit his tongue and reluctantly nodded.
“I can see about getting the armed crewmen removed from your doors, although I can’t make any promises,” Tremblay said finally.
Bethany looked at him in disbelief, “Remove them? Are you a fool? I want them replaced!” Bethany looked at him like he was an idiot—or a bug. “I would prefer a quad of marines.”
“Wha—whatever for?” Tremblay said in surprise.
“A pair of armed crewmen, parliamentary crewmen might get it in their head to ‘get some of their own back,’ and come into my room at some point to exact their plebian revenge,” Bethany explained, shaking her head and rolling her eyes in clear annoyance. “If I’m going to help you, I want guards—trained guards I don’t have to worry about. Caprian Marines are some of the most professional men in the services and highly trained in close quarters combat; no one will bother me with them on my heels.”
Getting the Princess-Cadet’s guard upgraded was an entirely different kettle of fish from getting it removed. Tremblay disliked her insinuations against the common man, in the person of her crew guards, but he had to reluctantly admit that that the Royal family had more than earned the common man’s disregard.
“I think something along those lines can be worked out,” Tremblay said with a nod. Finally, he had found a spot of luck. He hated throwing things together on the fly, but it could not be helped. That made everything a lot messier than he would have liked, but having the Princess-Cadet go down to the Brig to give Jason the communicator instead of himself would not only throw the Morale Officer off his scent, it would help muddy the waters if there was some sort of investigation later on. “I am the Commodore’s Flag Lieutenant. A suggestion here, a carefully worded remark there, and pretty soon you should have your guard upgraded.”
“Excellent, Lieutenant Tremblay,” Bethany said with a stiff, royal nod. If she was not such a stuck up royalist pig, Tremblay would almost have been tempted to view her as the beautiful woman she was. The royal house might not have gotten much right, but genetically engineering physical beauty into even their cadet branches wasn’t one of their many mistakes. Now, if only they could breed for better personalities, the elected order might actually have some competition for the love of the people.
“Not a single extra guard until your task is complete,” Tremblay warned, giving her a significant look.
“Oh I don’t think that will be a problem. So long as you can put me on the approved list for the Brig,” Bethany cooed, her eyes already gazing into the distance. The look of glee which crossed her face, at the thought of going down into the Brig to ‘visit’ her cousin, almost made Tremblay shiver.
As it was, he took some small comfort in the fact that whatever she managed to convince the guards to let her do to the former Admiral, Jason Montagne probably deserved it.
Eye on the prize, he reminded himself. He had to keep his eye on the prize. The important thing was to survive the real Montagne threat—the new Commodore—and that meant getting the Morale Officer out of the way before that same Officer decided to do in Tremblay.
He had valid orders from the Commodore, and his life was on the line. After he had settled with the Morale Officer, the Commodore would be the next target on his list.
“Oh, and Mr. Tremblay,” Bethany drawled in that pleasant, royalist, way that implied all sorts of nice and comfortable things that you knew were just a lie.
“Yes,” he asked politely.
“How’s the wrist, Officer,” she smiled with just a hint of cruelty in her voice, almost like he imagined a snake would look if it had the right facial muscles, “that sure looks painful. One might almost wonder how it happened, if one was inclined to care?”
Tremblay stiffened, “That’s none of your concern, Princess,” he growled.
“If I’m to be your co-conspirator, then I at least have the right to know what happened, and if you’re about to keel over dead at any minute,” said the woman with patented false concern.
“Thank you for your time, Lady Tilday, your concern is touching,” he said with cutting irony even as he stood up to go, dropping a communicator on the table.
Bethany leaned over the table with a pleasant smile and grabbed his bandaged stump.
“Don’t leave just yet, Lieutenant,” she purred in a sweet voice that belied the hard gleam in her eye, or the pressure of her grip as she squeezed.
Suppressing a scream, Tremblay started to jerk back but the grip on his wounded arm tightened painfully and he stopped.
“Go rot, your Highness,” he all but hissed the words as the air squeezed out of his lungs from the pain in his arm.
“For a co-conspirator, you’ve shown a remarkable lack of concern for my wellbeing, Mr. Former First Officer,” Bethany said in a light voice, even as her face took on a grim cast.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Tremblay said his face twisting at the agony shooting up his arm.
“I was left to cower in my cabin, like a bit of dirty laundry cast aside and forgotten, Former Chief of the Admiral’s Staff,” she said leaning forward and baring her teeth, “yet you not only survived, but also managed to parlay this handy little revolution into a new position of power onboard this ship.”
“What’s your point,” Tremblay asked tightly, even as his single remaining hand crept toward the stunner tucked into the back of his waist band.
“If being a Princess-Cadet means nothing to a Parliamentary type like yourself, then my being an Official Confederation Representative should fill you with terror,” Bethany hissed with fury, “yet you only come to look in on me when ‘you’ need something.”
“Do what you’re going to do and let’s be done with this little charade; I have better things to do than pamper your royalist ego,” Tremblay grimaced as she squeezed his stump, but held grimly to his task, even as his hand crept around the hilt of his stunner.
“I’ll help you in this thing because of the satisfaction it brings me, and the fact that I hate my cousin, your ‘Little Admiral, even more than Parliamentarian like you, Raphael Tremblay. But,” she sneered letting go of his stump, only to pull a chop stick out of her hair and press it to his neck before he could pull out the stunner, “if you ever presume to treat me like yesterday’s dirty laundry, and show up asking me to become your co-conspirator,” the needle-sharp stick dug almost painlessly into his neck, until he could feel a trickle of blood, “don’t expect to survive the experience. I am not some base born woman you cross and then can cast aside at will, expecting to return to the warmth of my affections later, just because you wish it to be so.”
Tremblay gave a jerky nod, vowing to avoid this crazy woman like the plague in the future. It’s not like he had been doing anything since his last encounter with her up on the Bridge, except scrambling around in a desperate attempt to survive. Perhaps he could have looked in on her, but he had more important things to do than tie himself ever further to the Caprian Royals in the eyes of his new crewmates.
“Oh, and Tremblay,” she said idly, as he slowly backed away towards the door and out of range of her lethal little hair sticks, “I haven’t asked what your real purpose is here, because I simply don’t care. Do not presume that I am so stupid that I don’t realize your pathetic attempts at trying to feed me some low-brow line. You can think of this as payment for past services rendered.”
“Goodbye, milady Tilday,” he said, never taking his eyes off her as he waved a hand behind him to open the door and step outside her cabin.
“If I don’t get those marines, I will seek you out, Mr. Tremblay,” Bethany said her eyes boring into his even as the door started to cycle shut. “I promise you won’t like the results of that particular encounter.”
Breathing a sigh of pure and utter relief to have escaped being confined in the same room alone with that hellcat, he hurried down the corridor. He had other, more important things to line up, or else Bethany and all her little threats became irrelevant. It was pretty hard to kill a dead man after all, despite whatever her stuck up highness might think on the matter.
Chapter 7: A Family Visit
I’d been stuck in this room for what seemed like days with no choice but watch as the men and women who had believed in me were interrogated, tortured and then killed by Commander Suddian. His faithful assistant John Henry was at his side for every wretched moment of it.
I expected to go numb from the constant stream of the ruthless, bloody-handed Morale Officer’s recordings, but it never happened. In fact, it seemed that each cry of agony, dashed hope, and cold-blooded murder got worse than the last.
The door to my cell unexpectedly swished open without so much as a warning chime. I had to turn my whole body to see who it was, thanks to the full neck brace, and it took more than a moment for what I was seeing to register. When it did, I shrugged in resignation; there was nothing she could do to me that would compare to what the Morale Officer had already done.
“Well-well,” said a gloating feminine voice, “I’m glad to see you’ve finally found your proper level in society.”
“What do you want,” I demanded flatly. “Are you here to torment me, also?”
“Oh, there’s no ‘just’ to it, Flat Nose,” my cousin, the Confederation Representative and Princess Bethany Tildy Vekna said, her voice almost serpentine in its satisfaction.
“Do your worst, Cousin,” I sneered.
“You owe me, Flat Nose; you held me a virtual prisoner in my quarters, intimidated me, and let your barbarian woman try to kill me,” she seethed with genuine anger in her voice.
“Bah,” I turned away and stared at the holo-screen just in time to see a look of hope come across the face of the man Suddian was about to kill.
A fist cracked into the back of my head, knocking me forward with enough force that I was barely able to keep my seat on the side of the rock hard metal bed.
“By Holy Preceptor, you will pay attention to me when I’m in the room, you cross-breed son of a servant and a failed royal line,” she said coldly.
I turned around and returned her cold look with one of my own, only I was deadly serious.
“You’re alone in the room with a desperate man, Cousin. I’d be cautious—very cautious, if I were you,” I warned, standing to my feet.
“You’re little better than an invalid,” she scoffed and snapped her fingers in my face.
I knocked her arm away with a swipe of my own, causing her to retreat a pair of steps.
Then the door swished open, and I knew why she’d snapped her fingers, and it wasn’t to rile me up even further.
“Get him, boys,” she ordered, her voice the cry of a predator about to sink its teeth into her prey.
A pair of muscle-bound guards came into the room and advanced on me. As there was little space in this box of a room, they were on me quickly. Determined not to go down without a fight, I led with my fists.
Taking my punch in the shoulder and then blocking my attack with an arm of his own, the first guard came over the top with a right hook straight to my nose.
I went down like a tree that had just been cut. I’d like to say it was a lucky blow, or that I was just out of medical and therefore unfit for combat, but whatever excuse I would have come up with was irrelevant. It was just like being back on the playgrounds of my youth, with one of my cousins hiring a pair of thugs to knock me down.
“I’ve always wanted to get some of my own back on a real…live…Montagne,” one of the guards growled as he raised his fist.
“Not the face,” Bethany said quickly, “there’s no need to court an intervention by the good doctor.”
I tried to rise, only to be knocked down once again. Then the fists and boots started coming fast and furiously, and as soon as it was obvious I was down for the count, my cousin joined in with a vengeance. She stomped for all she was worth, even going so far as to kick me right between the legs—something the other, male guards had at least refrained from doing.
Curled up in a ball, the experiences of my youth became useful again; there was no point in being a hero when they had me down and out numbered with no way to either fight them off or escape. All I could do was grit my teeth and bear it. Oh, and of course, you had to try and protect the more vital bits of yourself. The rest of it can take it on the chin, so to speak. Although, in reality, the best places to take it were the arms, shoulders, and other large muscles of the body. When my assailants were all breathing heavily, my sweet cousin Bethany straightened up.
“I need a moment with my Cousin,” she said between panting breaths.
“Of course, Ma’am,” they replied, and stood back at ease.
When the oafs failed to take the hint, she rolled her eyes. “Alone!” she barked imperiously,
The guard scratched his head and then spat in my face. The other guard quickly followed suit.
“It’s all recorded, ma’am; we’ll just watch it from the security station,” he said.
“Out,” she repeated, with all the expectation of a Vekna Princess in her voice.
It seemed to work and they quickly left.
“You think I’m weak enough, now that your attack dogs have had a go at me, that you can finish up yourself,” I bit out, baring a bloody set of teeth at her before spitting at her feet. I missed her fashionable leather boots, but not for lack of trying.
She leaned forward, grabbing my hair with one hand.
“You were weak enough the moment I first walked into the cell,” she scoffed, twisting my head savagely with her handful of my patchy, still-recovering hair.
I just watched her, biding my time. “Then what was point of it? Putting on a show for somebody?” I spat scornfully, and then worked up a good gob of spit.
“Old times’ sake,” she said wistfully as she reached into her pocket. Something clicked and the air vibrated; I knew we were now surrounded by a privacy field, “And a little play for the cameras to reduce suspicion.”
“Intend to do something you’re going to regret later,” I asked, with a clear warning in my eyes. She was going to pay, and in full measure. Anything more would just be added to the ledger.
“You wish,” she scoffed. “Nope, this part is the price of admission, and it’s courtesy of a man who I happen to know—not just think, but know—hates your guts almost as much as I do. He’s assured me none of this will help in any way, so I’m actually going to go through with it.”
“If you’re not going to beat on me some more, then get out of my room,” I growled, and this time my gob of spit flew all the way to her nice, shiny leather boot.
“These are my dung kickers,” she pivoted her boot demonstrably. “They’re meant to get dirty, or I wouldn’t have used them on you, Jason” she purred maliciously, and then she slammed my face into the floor.
“Get specked,” I retorted, mostly through my increasingly swollen nose.
Bethany slipped something into my hand. I tried to drop it, but she forced my hands around it.
“Take it,” she hissed, “as much as I’ve loved this little family reunion, fun time is over, and I have more important things to do.”
Reluctantly, I wrapped my fingers around whatever it was. My brow furrowed when I realized it felt like a hand held com-unit.
“Who is my hateful benefactor,” I asked scornfully.
I could see she knew, but perhaps out of spite, or perhaps as a condition of getting some revenge, she wasn’t going to tell me.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” she sneered. “No, my little mushroom Cousin, the only thing you need to know is that your chance to be a hero is close at hand.”
“I’m not sticking my neck out for you, or whoever it is that hates me so much,” I snapped, matching her sneer for sneer.
“This person thinks you will. He…or she,” Bethany smiled snidely, “believes that if given half a chance to put a stop to what you’ve been forced to see on the holo-screen for the past few days, that you’ll not only play the hero; you’ll literally throw yourself under the proverbial hover-bus to make it stop.”
“Sit and spin,” I spat, but my heart was no longer in it. Whoever it was knew me pretty well. I actually was more likely than not to throw myself under the hover-bus for the crew. “What do I have to do?” I asked finally.
“Just be the good little mushroom you always have been, and wait,” she said in that sickly, sweet tone I had come to hate as a child. “I’m told you’ll know it when you see it,” she finished, standing as she clicked off the privacy field.
“I hate you. You know that, don’t you, Cousin,” I said, meaning it with every fiber of my being.
“What you think, or feel, stopped being relevant at the point you lost control of this ship,” she sniffed.
“We’ll see,” I countered weakly. I knew she was right, but I’d be blasted if I let her have the ‘last’ word!
She leaned down and patted my cheek, and I immediately swatted her hand away, but not before she got in one good, patronizing pat.
“You threatened me, Jason. Me—the Confederation Representative! Even these parliamentarian types have more respect for the power of the Assembly than you did,” she said, pulling out a hand mirror to check her hair. After tucking in a bit of flyaway, her image once again perfect, she strode over to the door.
“I wouldn’t count me out so fast,” I blustered, hoping to inspire some fear, and maybe get some leverage for later.
“Oh, poor Jason,” she cooed sarcastically. “You really don’t get it, do you? You’re stuck in a cell on board your own ship.” The door swished open, and she paused to smirk at me, “You’re on your way to stand trial before the restored Confederation Assembly, where you’ll be found guilty and then executed. There’s nothing you, the few members of your crew who you didn’t get killed, or your very dead wife can do about it now.” With that, she stepped out into the corridor, and the door slid to a close behind her.
“Just you wait and see,” I shouted at the closing door with mounting fury, “I’m not done with you yet! You hear me?! I’m not done with you yet, Cotton Mouth!”
I stared at the door, and if the force of my anger could be turned into laser beams I could have burned a hole through the duralloy strength door.
“Insufferable little twit! Always has to get the last word,” I shook my fist at the door impotently.
I took a deep breath, and the droning of the holo-vid followed by screams and the thudding of fists made clear just how impotent I was. Anything I said or did was meaningless, unless my captors said otherwise.
I slumped back onto the bed with a sigh and threw my arm over my eyes. The holo-vid was on a loop, and I had already seen this interrogation before. As such, I felt no moral obligation to watch it over and over again. There was a fine line between standing by your crew—even if you were the only one who knew you were doing it—and masochistically watching your men get beaten and murdered just to make yourself feel bad.
Determined, I pulled the thin sheet that was all I had for a blanket over my head. It didn’t quite drown out the noise from the holo-screen, but it was enough that in my recently bruised and battered condition, I could probably get some rest.
Someone was plotting and scheming to help out my men, or so they would have me believe. There might be some leverage in it for me…but even if there wasn’t, I was willing to grasp at the slightest chance that I could put a stop to the creation of new holo-vids.
You see, Mr. Eden had been kind enough to load a new holo-montage for me a few hours earlier, presumably after he and Commander Suddian had completed a fresh round of their bloody-handed work.
Chapter 8: Tremblay has a proposition
The guards had seen him enough not to question his presence in the detention area, so it wasn't a major issue to get to the observation room and lock out the selected room and hall from being monitored or recorded. He made his way to the cell he had singled out without incident. As he entered, he immediately turned on an anti-surveillance device just in case. Looking over at the lancer sprawled out on the floor, “You’re still alive, good,” a hint of satisfaction and relief in his voice.
“Come any closer and I’ll kill you,” threatened the Tracto native, who rolled over to look at him.
“I’m not foolish enough to get within reach of a Lancer looking to kill me,” Tremblay scoffed.
“Gunner,” grunted the native.
“What?” Confusion entered Tremblay's face as he tried to digest the native's response.
“I transferred to Gunnery, so I am not a Lancer anymore,” he replied, as he gazed impassively at the former—and once again—Intelligence Officer.
“But you trained as one, and are some kind of big warrior in your scab—I mean, in your culture,” Tremblay corrected stiffly.
The native paused as if contemplating his words…before nodding in response.
“You’re needed,” Tremblay said superiorly, but the lancer-turned-gunner only blinked. Tremblay suddenly remembered where he had seen this lancer before. “You backed Bogart up in a brawl even though you didn't know him, and as disgraceful as that was, it shows you can keep a secret,” the Intelligence Officer said.
The native just stared at him as if he were a side of beef in which he was trying to decide how big a cut to make. “Why would I do anything you say?” the Tracto-an sounded genuinely curious.
“Heirophant, right?” said Tremblay, even though he knew the man’s name from the results of the DNA scan he had performed in the Brig.
The lancer gave the barest hint of a shoulder lift in acknowledgement.
“One name, right; that’s how most of your people roll,” Tremblay acknowledged, try to build a rapport and put the other man at ease.
“Bogart,” the hulking Tracto-an said.
“What?” demanded Tremblay, annoyed at the interruption.
“It is a fine name. A strong, fighting name, don't you think,” said the Lancer.
“It’s a thick-headed royalist name,” Tremblay replied scornfully before realizing that might not be the most politic answer for the man he was pretending to be. He pasted on a smile and nodded. “Certainly no one ever said the Chief Gunner ever ran away from a fight though,” which was the only good thing that came to mind he could say about the old, dunderheaded, cigar-smoking royalist.
Heirophant nodded in appreciation, “My name is Heirophant Bogart,” the Tracto native informed him with pride.
“I understand you guys can change your names at the drop of a hat, but naming yourself after that old bull,” Tremblay shook his head in disgust.
Tremblay's head was in mid-shake when the former lancer rolled toward him and lunged. The former First Officer instinctively lurched back, but not soon enough. A pair of vice-like hands closed around his neck and dragged him back to the wall, which the Lancer had been leaning against. “I gave you fair warning,” the Tracto-an hissed in his ear.
“The Admiral needs your help,” Tremblay gurgled.
“What?” the Tracto-an's voice rasped like sandpaper as he pushed Tremblay to the floor, pinning an arm and both legs with one of his own, “I don’t understand your language so good sometimes.”
“The Admiral,” Tremblay wheezed, “your Warlord.”
“What about him,” the former Lancer said, relaxing his grip just enough that Tremblay could almost breathe adequately.
“There’s a man who almost killed him since he’s been a prisoner,” Tremblay gasped.
“Go on,” hissed the newly-named Heirophant Bogart.
“The same man is going to try again. He doesn’t care what the new ship Leadership says, and he’s already killed who knows how many of the old crew. He’s too powerful for them to stop, so 'we' have to do it,” Tremblay gurgled as the other man’s nostrils flared, and his vice-like grip tightened slightly.
“Who is this man, and how can I kill him,” growled the native warrior, who then grimaced and pointed to one of his legs. It was sticking at an odd angle.
“When the time comes, I’ll make sure the door is unlocked,” he explained, reaching down to his pants’ leg and producing a pair of plastic tubes wrapped in cloth. “You can use these.”
“A leg brace?” Heirophant scowled.
“When the time is right, you’ll hear a buzz and the door will be unlocked; do what you have to do and save the Admiral,” said Tremblay with as much of a plea in his voice as he thought he could get away with. With a trembling hand, he reached into his pocket and produced a data slate.
Activating it, he showed the lancer an image of the Morale Officer, and then flipped to his Assistant.
“If you can kill both men and drag them into the Admiral’s cell before the guards notice anything’s wrong, there might be a way to get you out of here,” Tremblay continued after Heirophant had taken a good look at the images.
“World of Men, but you Starborn are obsessed with running away,” the native scowled.
“There’s nothing wrong with living,” Tremblay shot back indignantly.
“We escape with the Admiral,” Heirophant demanded, and when Tremblay shook his head, the hands around his neck tightened, “we escape with the Admiral,” the brute repeated forcefully.
“There’s nowhere to go,” Tremblay wheezed, “You, they might miss. I could report the Morale Officer killed you and log it in the system then hide you with a couple of other loyalists.” The former lancer’s hands were tight and unrelenting, causing Tremblay to speak more rapidly, “But the Admiral…they’d want to see the body. If we said he was thrown into the waste recycler, they’d tear this ship apart, just to make sure. There is no possible way he wouldn't be caught.”
“We can depart ship in battle-suits,” Heirophant said in a dangerous voice, “then they wouldn’t find him.”
“Even if I could get my hands on the suits,” Tremblay groaned, “we’re in the middle of nowhere, in a lifeless system. You, Jason, and anyone who went with you, would run out of air long before another ship passed through,” he insisted, struggling for his own breath as the larger man held him down like he was a child.
“Then we free the others, and fight our way to the bridge, or engineering,” said Heirophant.
“There’s just too few of us, we’d all be killed,” protested Tremblay before adding, “including the Admiral!”
“It would be a fine death, just like Bogart,” disagreed the gunnery rating.
“How about we let the Admiral decide,” Tremblay suggested, his voice taking on more of a pleading tone than he had wanted.
“An honorable death, or hiding like a rat in the walls of this ship. That is no choice at all,” Heirophant said in disgust as he released him.
Tremblay scrambled away for all he was worth, putting distance between himself and the crazy scab. A misplaced elbow caused his stump land against the floor, forcing him to suppress a scream of pain.
“You almost killed me,” Tremblay snapped, sucking in deep breaths of clean, recycled air.
“You lose hand in the uprising,” Heirophant asked.
“In a manner of speaking,” Tremblay glared, “the new Commodore,—the 'Pirate' Montagne—the one who shot our Admiral in the neck, he did this to me,” he explained bitterly.
Heirophant Bogart rolled around to face the wall. “Advise me when it is time,” the Tracto native said, giving every impression he was about to sleep.
“I’ll be jiggered, but you’re all just as crazy as I always suspected,” Tremblay muttered under his breath. Realizing how close to death he had just come, he hurried out of the room. He vowed to never to approach another lancer without at least a ten-foot pole…or a plasma rifle.
Chapter 9: If you’d like to make a call…
Tremblay needed to move quickly. Initially he had planned to utilize that stooge Oleander, but realized the man’s complete lack of simple competence would likely imperil the entire mission and that ignored the man’s tendency to turn on any hand that held the little serpent. But, despite the secret parliamentary agent’s incompetence, it was still tempting to have Heirophant kill the Morale Officer and his Assistant, then have Oleander discover the native scab with his victims, as soon as the deed was done.
Reluctantly, he had decided to insert the hack program designed by the System Analyst and leave that klutz out of it. Everything that man got involved in spiraled out of control. Besides…he was almost certain Agent Oleander had turned in a number of less-than-flattering reports relating to the ship’s former Chief of the Admiral’s Staff, to Captain Heppner.
He might have tried to arrange it anyway, but getting Oleander to discover Heirophant and survive encounter was almost as bad of an idea as trying to get the Admiral off the ship. Only one of them would walk away from such a bloody confrontation, and that might be far enough from what he was supposed to do that it would precipitate another interview with the Commodore. The idea made his stomach churn just to think about.
As Tremblay watched the monitors the Morale Officer and his lackey Warrant Officer Eden entered the Brig, which meant it was time to set things in motion. Moving quickly, he flipped the appropriate switches, disabling the monitors in the room he was in, and the one that controlled the section of the Brig holding Jason and Heirophant. He then inserted the data wafer Mike had designed specifically for the job he needed done. With that accomplished, he slipped out of the room, and went to the next spot the plan required.
Pretending to stumble, he leaned against the nearest cell door for support. His officer’s cape fell forward concealing his free hand. It was something he rarely wore, but it served a purpose now, just in case there were other hidden monitors. Quick as a wink, he inserted the second data wafer created by his pet System Analyst.
Tremblay wished he could have used Oleander…blast that man’s incompetence and moral ambiguity. It was too late to worry about now, so scrambling back to his feet, he made a physical show of regaining the bearing and posture of an officer before continuing down the hall at an unhurried pace. As he rounded the corner, he came face to face with Morale Officer Suddian and the Warrant Officer. It was unexpected, and the shock must have shown on his face.
“Tremblay,” Suddian growled his mouth twisting with the words, spiting the name like a curse from his mouth.
Mr. Eden thumbed his forehead. “Morning, Gov,” mocked the lackey, his eyes weighing and measuring the Junior Lieutenant like he was the day’s catch at the wharf.
Tremblay braced himself at attention, and offered a rigid salute.
“Get out of my Brig, Junior Lieutenant,” Suddian sneered. “The mere sight of you disgusts me. You’ve done more than enough damage with your bungling, enough to last a lifetime and beyond,” the Morale Officer used one hand to push Tremblay forcefully to the side, forcing Tremblay's back to thump against the side of the poorly light corridor.
Tremblay flushed at the way he had been manhandled. The action was a violation military courtesy and an insult to his dignity as an officer. Clearly, the Morale Officer could care less about the dignity of junior officers. Tremblay held his pose until the Commander had rounded the corner without stopping to return his salute, before the Junior Lieutenant dropped his hand.
A hard smile crossed his face, since he knew that the Commander was about to learn why it was deathly important to treat his fellow officers with the respect due them. Maybe his soul will benefit from that lesson in the afterlife, Tremblay thought coldly. This was one Junior Lieutenant who would put his money on a certain crazy native gunner over both the Morale Officer and his lackey put together…without a second's hesitation.
“Let’s see how tough you are when your victims aren’t defenseless little women strapped to chair,” Tremblay whispered with a cruel smile, then as he realized it was on his face, he wiped it clean before approaching the guards at the lift, “Good evening, men.”
“Lieutenant,” they snapped smartly as they braced to attention.
“As you were gentlemen,” Tremblay order congenially as he stepping into the lift and turned to face the door and the two as they relaxed to stand at each side of the lift door as before. “Very much as you were,” he whispered as the doors cycled shut.
I had finally found a comfortable position with my braced neck and assorted bandages, when the com-link Bethany had smuggled in gave a low pitched buzz. I pulled the sheet over my head and held the unit close to my ear, but…there was nothing.
Thumbing the transmission switch, I tried broadcasting. “Is anyone out there,” I half rasped, half whispered. My voice never having recovered from being shot and the hours of screaming during my interrogation, by that monster Suddian, had only made things worse. I waited for a response, but there was nothing, not even static. “If you need my help, you’d better tell me what to do,” I hissed.
I might as well be speaking to myself. At that moment I was disgusted with Bethany, myself, and the mysterious non-benefactor of mine, I tossed the com-link beside me and pushed the sheet back down as if I was trying to get comfortable (or at least, less ‘uncomfortable’) again.
Drawing my knees up to my chest, I stared at the wall, determined to ignore the holo-projector. Watching that thing put strange thoughts into my head, and I was trying to avoid thinking about it when there was as thump outside my room, which I was surprised I could even hear. Realizing it might be a signal, I stood with my fists clenched into wrought-iron slugs.
Chapter 10: A door opened, you came out…Hades of a day, isn’t it?
There was another thump outside my door. Feeling like a fool for even doing it, I went over and tried to open the door. I knew it wasn’t going to work. The hand-held had just picked up a random transmission somewhere, and this door would no more open this time than any of the last dozen times I had tried to bend the universe to my will and force it open.
To my surprise, it silently whooshed open. I quickly re-raised my fists, which I was still thinking of as wrought-iron slugs.
Outside, I heard a grunt and a muffled scream, followed by the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh.
Shuffling my feet until I could peer outside my room, I saw a large Tracto native. In one hand he held an inactive neural whip wrapped around the throat of the same Commander Suddian who featured so prominently in my recent nightmares. His other arm held the held the sadistic assistant, John Henry, in a headlock.
The Lancer wavered on his feet and then slammed Suddian’s head into the wall of my cell, which I realized must have been the thumping I’d been hearing. Meanwhile, several hypodermic needles stuck out of the Lancer’s side and leg, and John Henry was pounding his fists into the Lancer’s side for all he was worth.
The surprising—and literally amazing—aspect of the scene was the near total silence this battle was taking place in. Normally, my Tracto-ans felt the need to announce themselves at the top of their lungs, with battle cries ringing up and down the halls for everyone to hear.
I jolted out of my paralysis at the sight of John Henry slamming the palm of his hand into the syringe stuck into the Lancer’s side.
I tried to lunge out of the cell—I honestly tried—but I quickly learned I still had a long way to go before I fully recovered. My movements were unsteady and jerky, but I didn’t care. Thoughts of my torture, the cruel holo-montage, and the deaths of so many of my loyal crew at the hands of this sadistic pair of parliamentary scum drove me forward.
The Tracto-an warrior gave me a nod of acknowledgement as I grimly lurched out of my cell. The Morale Officer in his grasp, his face red and tongue slightly protruding from his mouth, also spotted me. Kicking and flailing against the whip around his neck, with renewed effort, the parliamentary officer managed to get his feet up on the wall and gain some traction.
Giving my Lancer a grin in return, I led with the first of my wrought-iron slugs.
My first slammed into Justin P. Suddian’s already sideways nose, with all the power my traumatized body could put behind it. I didn’t hit him with anything near the force I could have managed before almost dying at the hands of my Uncle—and then getting a fresh beat down by my Cousin—but I couldn’t have cared less at that moment. The angry, sick satisfaction I felt at paying my tormentor back even a small tithe of the pain and suffering he had bestowed upon my crew filled me with a warm, comforting glow.
Even when he kicked me into the wall, I didn’t care. Staggered, and with my hand stinging in a manner entirely inappropriate for a Wrought Iron Slug of Vengeance, nothing fazed me at that particular moment.
Raising the other Slug, I was going to pound him in the face again, when I noticed John Henry change his tactics. Instead of pounding futile blows into the flank of my Lancer, he grabbed one of the syringes and started stabbing in and out with it like some kind of impromptu shiv.
Eyes wide and nostrils flaring, I decided to forgo the satisfaction of another Slug to the face of my tormentor, and an instant later when the Commander’s feet temporarily touched the floor, I reared back my leg before slamming it forward like I was kicking a ball on the field.
My aim was on, and my foot slammed into Suddian’s family jewels. Like a jackknife flipping closed, the Morale Officer crumpled with a groan that every man knows all too well.
Bouncing off the wall from the power of my own kick, I was off-balance and winded, even after only walking a dozen feet and throwing two blows. But all I could see was that syringe going in and out of my faithful lancer’s leg and side.
John Henry’s purple face lifted just enough that I could see a dead pair of killer’s eyes staring back at me. The man did not appear to be bothered or discomforted by being slowly choked to death, than he was as he helped Suddian with his butcher’s work. As my other Slug crashed into John Henry’s mouth, I yelped. It had hurt, a lot. If I had thought I was some kind of engine of destruction before, the pain in my hand now forced me to realize that I was not.
Face straining with effort, the Assistant Interrogator spat out a tooth, and bared his teeth in a gap-toothed snarl. He raised his syringe again, and I knew I couldn’t let him plunge it into my loyal defender, not if I could stop him.
Sliding to my knees, I grabbed Eden’s syringe-wielding hand with both of mine. Any illusion that I could overpower the man and force him to release his deadly weapon flew out of my mind, when the assistant interrogator shook me around like a rag doll. Hanging onto that hand for all I was worth, I threw all my weight into holding down the deadly, six inch needle.
Then, with the Morale Officer flailing around on the floor, my added weight pulling down on John Henry had its desired effect. The Lancer groaned as his leg bowed to the side at an unnatural angle, and like a great, majestic tree, he toppled to his knees, taking Mr. Eden and I with him.
Scrambling to his hands and knees, John Henry sucked one mighty breath and grabbed my near hand.
That is when I realized there are no rules when you are fighting for your life and took it to the next level. With the only hand I dared free up, I leaned forward and sought his face with my fingers. Finding an eye, I started to dig in while he tried to shake me off, to no avail.
John Henry changed his tact, as the torturer drove the syringe toward my face, rather than the Tracto-an’s leg. I strained all I could to hold him off with my fingers dug into his eyes, but there was nothing I could do to stop him.
Neck muscles standing out like cables of pure steel, the Tracto-an bared his teeth. His arm muscles flexed impossibly, and he gave a sudden jerk to the side as the syringe plunged toward my face, causing me to flinch as I prepared for the worst.
There was a sickening crack and just before the syringe could find my eye, I jerked to the side. The needle struck me, but it merely scored a cut across my cheek deep enough that I could feel the blood trickling. John Henry sagged in the Lancer’s grip, and the massive native dropped the assistant to the floor.
Totally and utterly spent, it took me a moment to realize that this part of the fight was over. With a sigh, I let go of his arm and let my head fall back to the floor with a painful thump. I figured my unexpected defender would have to carry the water from this point forward; my heart was pounding in my chest a mile a minute and my breath just would not catch.
Unexpectedly, there was a click and I could hear a neural whip buzz. The Morale Officer must have realized we had killed his assistant, and decided to risk using the whip while we were still in a pile. I guess he had decided it was either that, or accept the certainty of death at the hands of the Tracto-an.
Justin Suddian began shrieking, and I couldn’t help myself from smiling savagely; the sound was sweet music to my ears. The strange, keening sound, like that of a wild animal caught in a trap, which was coming from my unexpected prison-breaking partisan…not so much.
The Commander, for all his calculation, had made one crucial mistake; while the three of them were currently touching each other, and therefore collectively subject to the whip’s vicious agony, I wasn’t…touching them, that is.
No sooner had the keening of my sworn warrior reached my ears, than I found a reserve of strength I didn’t know I had. It was a weary, molasses-like strength rather than real muscle power, but it was something, and it was there.
On my hands and knees, I moved toward the eight inch long grip of the whip, which was the only safe part to touch. It was difficult to avoid touching any part of the now jerking and seizing trio, but I managed to do it. Reaching over carefully, I lined up my fingers and stabbed at the button, even though my hand balked at doing as it was told. Eventually, I was rewarded with a click, as the whip deactivated.
John Henry’s movements stopped immediately, but my lancer and the scum-of-the-spaceways Morale Officer kept twitching. Suddian also kept moaning and calling out; he was much louder than my Lancer, who was doing his best to keep his teeth locked over what I suspect he considered to be a humiliating sound.
“Shut up, Suddian,” I hissed, leaning over the man. But if anything, his jerking increased and he almost rolled to his side; as he did so, his moans gained in volume.
I might not have had much strength, but against a man whose muscles no longer obeyed him it was more than enough.
Using my entire body, I rolled him onto his back and slapped him in the face. “Be quiet!” I snarled, but he only thrashed his head from side to side frantically. “I didn’t want to do this,” I growled, and it was even true after a fashion. The thought of wrapping my hands around the Morale Officer’s neck and squeezing had haunted my every waking moment of captivity, and I was afraid I would take entirely too much pleasure from the act.
I was wrong on so many levels. It was much harder to throttle someone than in my dreams, and it wasn’t fun at all. Worse than not fun, it made my stomach tumble like an afternoon at an anti-grav amusement park. I held on grimly, pressing all of my weight down on the cartilage of his neck until the noises he was making ceased. When I was convinced those noises would not resume, I released my death clutch.
With a weary sigh, I rolled onto my back. I could hear an involuntary gasp of air from beside me, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I wasn’t a monster after all, to revel in the pain of another person, no matter how awful that person. I wasn’t a heartless Montagne butcher. I closed my eyes and let my body press against the hard metal of the decking.
Even the Tracto-an propping himself against the bulkhead as he stood didn’t rouse me; I was resting the rest of the just. When he stepped beside me, I didn’t do more than crack an eyelid to give him a quick glance. Reassured that he hadn’t gone kill crazy and come for me as well, I drooped back down.
When his good foot came down with a sickening crack on the neck of the Morale Officer, I’d like to say I didn’t so much as move. But you try being in a fight for your life and then have a sudden sound go off right in your ear; you’d jump too! But that’s all it was: an animal reaction. For the death of that evil, sadistic torturer, I felt nothing…absolutely nothing.
Chapter 11: A Blaze of Glory?
“Warlord,” a hand shook me from my grogginess. “Warlord Jason Montagne,” a voice said again, and this time the shake was strong enough to rattle my teeth.
“Let me be,” I grumbled, but shaken out of my haze, I picked up my head and looked at the Lancer quizzically.
“If we are to act, it must be now,” said the man leaning against the wall. I could see that one of his legs was so badly broken that he couldn’t use it for support, and his other leg and side was soaked with blood, due to a plethora of stab marks. I’d like to think I could have kept on trucking after John Henry stabbed me a few dozen times with a six inch syringe and shot me full of happy juice, but I think it’s safe to say I wouldn’t have.
I started to shake my head in negation. I mean really, what could the two of us do? I should have still been in a Tank, and he looked like he was worse off than me! Then a sudden idea occurred to me, and I sat up with sudden interest.
“There’s an escape plan?” I asked eagerly. The thought of breaking out of the Brig and fighting my way off the ship wasn’t something I was looking forward to, but maybe there was a better plan in place and we could actually sneak out of here!
“We can free our ship-brothers trapped in this prison, and retake the ship by strength,” the Lancer replied, his eyes burning with passion.
For a moment, I could see it: open the doors of these prison cells and burst out of the Brig with a righteous fury. We would take them by surprise! We could storm through the ship! We—then cold, hard logic crashed into my optimism like a glacial tsunami, and my excitement waned.
“There’s only room for fifty to a hundred prisoners in the Brig, and my cell wasn’t doubled up. Was yours?” I asked, running the numbers.
Heirophant narrowed his eyes at me, and then turned his head to look down the corridor. I could see cheek muscles bunch as his jaw worked.
“No, it was not,” he said.
“Well then, less than a hundred men to take on a ship filled with something on the order of thirteen thousand parliamentarians,” I muttered, figuring the whole argument was academic. What were the odds that no one manning the monitors could see two escaped prisoners standing outside their cells, with a pair of high level officers sprawled out dead on the floor? Although, referring to Mr. Eden as high level was more than a stretch, but I figured he’d earned it after all his bloody work on members of my crew.
“Less than that, after we cut our bloody swath through them!” the Lancer said, turning his burning eyes on me.
This was one Lancer who looked like he was about to explode; I knew it was best (and safest) for all involved to take this thing slow, and let him down easy. “Look, not everyone in these cells is a Lancer like you—”
“Gunnery Department,” he said.
I blinked. “Beg your pardon,” I said, taken aback.
“It was the Gunnery Department that rose against the Captain and his Parliament, when the other departments cowered behind their consoles or under their beds. It was we,” he slapped his chest, “who roared through this ship like an angry Stone Rhino behind the Mighty Strike Lion that was our Chief Gunner. I am not a Lancer, and have not been for some time, Warlord Montagne; I am a Gunnery Rating,” he pronounced, laying claim to his new title with stiff pride.
I paused and swallowed. For once, the lump I felt in my throat was not because of damage done by my Uncle, or Commander Suddian’s horrid tonic.
“I wasn’t aware,” I rasped, blinking my eyes furiously. “What happened?”
The Lancer shrugged. Oops, former Lancer, I reminded myself. Tracto-an’s can be easily offended sticklers if they proudly proclaimed themselves a new title, and you made a mistake later on.
“What always happens when an unarmored, untrained, enthusiastic person goes up against a well-trained man in battle armor,” he answered.
I paused to digest this. What he was saying made a sickening kind of sense, since Gunnery was just about the only department next to the Bridge Crew and the Lancer Contingent that hadn’t been stripped of most of its men at Easy Haven. They had remained mostly free of the ‘reinforcements’ Heppner had brought.
“That sounds a lot like what would happen here,” I said after a moment of reflection. “Even if everyone in the brig right now was a trained Lancer in a battlesuit…” I trailed off regretfully.
“At least they would feel it before we were done with them,” cried the former Lancer, swaying against the wall. He had the sound of someone repeating a quote they whole-heartedly believed in.
I looked down at his ruined leg and his blood-soaked clothing doubtfully. “We’d have to free the other prisoners, break out of the Brig—something this place was designed to prevent—and head for the main cargo hold, which is the only place large enough to house what remains of our allies,” I concluded, as I thought about where they could store a large number of crew who were still loyal to me. “I doubt if the full measure of loyalist crew could hold the ship, or that our decimated ranks will be able to retake it,” I spoke thickly, as the reality of my situation came home with punishing force. “Maybe we’re in an inhabited system, and could make a run for it?”
I looked up hopefully, as if this native warrior from the Gunnery Department would have any more answers than me after days locked up in the Brig.
The Tracto-an shook his head disgustedly. “You sound as if you would only fight so that you could run away,” he said.
I wrinkled my brow. “The only reasons to fight if you know you can’t win are: to buy time for something good to happen, to cover an escape, or to prove a point,” I explained, ticking off the three reasons I could come up with off the top of my head.
“Either our Lancer forces were also defeated, or they are already so far away from us that they can’t help. By the way this ship’s been shaking several times a day, I’d say the loss of our rear shield generator has been making our point transitions hazardous in the extreme, meaning we’re long gone from the Omicron System,” I said, the hopelessness of it all pressing down on me with crushing force. If I had ever been anything close to a real Admiral, I realized in that moment that I wasn’t—at least, not any more.
“I have never heard such defeatist talk from a Warlord before,” growled the native.
“What’s your name, gunnery rating,” I demanded, my voice cracking with authority.
“Heirophant Bogart, Grease Monkey, Gunnery Department,” the native, this Heirophant, replied stiffly.
I blinked in surprise at the man’s second name; it was the same as the old Chief Gunner’s. I knew the warriors would take on a second name when they felt they had accomplished a great feat; take Nikomedes-the-no-longer-Minos, as an example. He had adopted the moniker after successfully retrieving a Dark Sword of Power, and he had abandoned that same name after I had taken it from him during our first encounter on Tracto.
Taking my surprise for something other than what it was, the former Lancer glowered at me.
“Where were you when the Clover was being taken, and my Department was burning like oiled kindling?” Heirophant said in a low voice. He sounded a lot more demanding than most of my natives. Of course, I had just lost the ship and gotten a lot of good men killed.
I suppressed a pang as another thought occurred – if I could believe a single thing out of the mouth of the now-deceased Morale Officer, my wife was numbered among those who had died because of my ill-conceived plan to take on my Uncle-turned-Pirate Lord.
The pain of loss was thick, so instead of speaking and saying something I would later regret, I reached up and angrily undid the latches of the neck brace I was wearing. Prying it open, I let it drop to the floor.
“Courtesy of my Uncle, the Pirate,” I practically spat, “I’m told I should have died, and most of the time I find myself wishing I had. The last thing I remember, the Vineyard had been taken and we were sending the Lancers over to take the Armor Prince in order to stop their broadsides. Suffice it to say, my Uncle shot me, fighting broke out on the Bridge, and then everything went dark until I woke up here.”
I was fudging a little bit. I had the sensation of some movement and the memory of trying to strangle Dr. Torgeson, something I had never actually done in the past, but it didn’t make nearly as good a rhetorical point as saying ‘I woke up here.’
The Tracto native looked at me with an entirely different emotion in his eye. “Quite sickening,” he remarked with fascination, as he reached out with his fingertips to touch the side of my neck.
I forced myself to stay still, when all I wanted to do was lean out of reach and kick him in the jewels for laying hands on me. Two things stopped me: a sense of duty that I owed him and the rest of the crew for my failures, and the certain knowledge that in my current condition, he would mop up the floor with me if I tried.
Heirophant jerked, snatching his hand away from my neck.
“By the Demon Murphy, it moved,” he said, shaking his hand as if bitten.
I could also feel something moving in the right side of my neck—the same side Jean Luc Montagne that murdering pirate had shot.
Quickly, I bent down and worked to put the brace back on. My inexhaustible holo-vid knowledge told me that it might be some exotic symbiotic organism, and that by removing the brace I was encouraging it to explode out the side of my neck, killing me in a spray of ugly gore.
Intellectually, I knew there was nothing like that in our medical unit, or I would have heard something by now…an official report, a rumor, wild speculation, something! But in my current, heightened emotional state, I wasn’t about to take any chances.
I lodged the itchy contraption under my chin once again, since I suspected there was a good reason the brace had been placed initially…so it was only logical to put it back in place as soon as possible. Right? Right. See, I am a creature of reason and logic, not base emotional responses. Reassured of the rightness of my actions, and when nothing felt like it was about to explode out the side of my neck, I let out a quiet breath in relief.
“We need to get you out of here,” I said finally.
The Tracto man shrugged. “If I die, I die,” he shrugged again, “I will fight death with every breath in me, but so long as I have lived—truly lived each and every moment before the end—then that is what matters,” he said. The man sounded a lot like my wife; he felt what he was saying, and very strongly, but there was a big cultural disconnect which I had never fully bridged.
“So long as I have acted with honor, then that is all that can be asked of me,” the Tracto-an gave me a pointed look. “I do not love my life more than my soul, and fighting with every breath does not mean I will stoop to the coward’s path.”
“He who fights then runs away, will live to run another day,” I mumbled under my breath. In theory, I saw nothing wrong with holding tight to this ‘coward’s path,’ so long as it helped keep me alive. In practice…I sighed. As long as I had honor-bound dunderheads like this one around me that option was effectively off the table.
“What did you say,” asked the Tracto-an.
“Nothing, I was just commenting that it’s a false path, and tempting at times,” I allowed, “yet ultimately, it is a tree that bears no fruit.” What I didn’t say was that at least the tree was still standing afterwards, and that the only reason it bore no fruit was because of honor-bound idiots like this one here.
He looked at me as if trying to decipher the hidden meaning of my words, and that simply would not do—not at all.
“Look, my enemies won’t realize the error of their ways and just kill themselves for me, and I can’t run around bringing them to justice if I’m already dead. We have to husband our strength,” I explained, hoping I had recast my proposed course of action in an appropriately honorable light.
“Running away is still running away,” he said flatly.
“A tactical and strategic withdrawal, forced on us by our enemies,” I countered, then tried to use a little verbal judo, “one does not hunt a beast by stomping around in the bushes and scaring it away. Stealth, surprise and the sideways strike they don’t see coming. Those will be our weapons, out of necessity,” I said, putting as much passion into my words as I could.
What I didn’t say was that this was our only course of action, as long as crewmembers like him thought I was an Admiral worth following, instead of the proven failure I actually was. The sooner they disabused themselves of that notion and gave up on me as their leader, the better off we’d all be. My only hope was that I could shield some of these people from the consequences of their actions. I would take the fall for all of them if my jailors let me, but I didn’t think that was very likely to happen.
“Pretty words do not make the stench of retreat smell any better,” Heirophant grumbled.
I threw my hands in the air.
“All right, look, if we can get you out of the brig without having to fight anyone, then we’ll go with my plan,” I snapped. For the first time, I wondered if the mysterious ‘benefactor’ Bethany had spoken about cared two figs for my native cohort. I was willing to claim I killed this pair of torturers all on my lonesome; it would add to my reputation as a man not to cross, even here in prison, which might translate into fewer beatings. At the same time, it should shield Heirophant, and whatever poor crewman the pair had visited last from an angry parliamentary reprisal.
“And if we can’t,” Heirophant growled, giving me a clench-jawed stare.
“Then we can go out in a blaze of glory,” I relented with a sigh.
“I am sworn to serve you; not the other way around,” he said unhappily.
The words were like music to my ears, and I practically danced into my room to get the handheld. By ‘danced,’ I really mean ‘staggered,’ and by ‘music,’ I meant ‘a persistent, annoying ringing in my ears.’
“Come on,” I said trying to cheer him up, “it’s not like you’ve never had to fall back in the face of a superior foe before.”
“I have not,” retorted Heirophant, his face one of grim defiance as if he had been insulted.
“What?” I blurted, looking at him suspiciously.
“Never—never have I retreated in the face of a foe,” he reiterated flatly.
“Not even when the Gunnery Department was…” I trailed off.
“As one of the few with a captured battlesuit, I was the tip of the spear. I swore the enemy would have to go through me, before they could reach my Departmental Brothers. This was a vow I kept,” he said, his eyes seeming to look back into a memory from the not-too-distant past.
“Right, well now you’re going to be the tip of a different kind of spear: one aimed at the enemy’s vitals. It’s not as glorious as going for the head or the heart, but it can be just as effective,” I added, to cover my uneasiness at the other man’s words. I wondered if I would have been brave enough to stand in the face of overwhelming odds, knowing I was probably going to lose, yet still advancing because those were my orders.
A triumphant charge, even if there was a great chance of defeat…I knew I could do that. After all, I’d done it before. A fighting withdrawal, with me at the back because I was the only one in power armor…it might take a few deep breaths, but for my men, I figured I could probably manage it if the need arose. But going into certain defeat without the possibility of retreating…I just didn’t know. I liked to think I wouldn’t ever do something that stupid, but I just didn’t know. My courage would probably desert me, even if my brains were out on an extended vacation.
Clicking on the activating switch of my hand held com-unit, I tried to raise somebody. “I need a pick-up,” I said into it, “I’ve got a wounded man in need of extraction.” Deafening silence was all I got in reply; there wasn’t so much as static on the line. “Hey there,” I said, putting the whip crack of command into it, “this is Admiral Montagne! Whoever’s on this line had better get off their duff, and on the other end this horn!”
Several iterations of this same line, each of them just as fruitless as the last, spewed out of my mouth to no effect.
“Blast. I guess we’ll have to try it your way,” I said unhappily. Then I cheered up a little, “At least I won’t have to live with the guilt, so there’s that.” I tried to look on the positive side, but this was one of those infamous ‘no win scenarios,’ and there wasn’t very much to be positive about when you were stuck in one of those.
The muted hum of a grav-cart came from around the corner.
My warrior and I exchanged a pair of glances; mine wide-eyed, and his narrowed. Then we leapt into action, pulling the two dead men into my cell. I discovered I had more strength than I thought, as I drug John Henry into my room by his feet. Let me tell you, bodies are heavier than they look, especially when you’re out of your power armor like I was.
My thoughts turned dark, as I remembered that power armor had not been particularly helpful against my Uncle. Why hadn’t I kept my helmet on? When I remembered why I had removed it—so I could speak with that Pirate Montagne without appearing to be afraid—I quickly moved on. Better yet, I should have had him summarily executed, I thought grimly. Although, again, it’s unlikely Marine Colonel Kyle Riggs would have executed the very man he was trying to deliver into my ready room to assassinate me.
Still I could have waited until Jean Luc was on the Flag Bridge, and then instructed my loyal lancers to burn him down. As my options for Monday Morning Quarterbacking got further and further fetched, the Grav-cart got nearer and nearer. Heirophant and I both crouched just inside the doorway to my room as it was about to pass by.
Whoever it was, was about to get the surprise of his life!
Chapter 12: Finding the Perfect Patsy
A few minutes earlier.
Tremblay needed someone who could get into the Brig. Someone who could remove a body from there unchallenged and it could not be Tremblay himself. He had been in the Brig too much of late, and the Morale Officer might have even left instructions for the Guards to keep him out if he showed up again—or worse, ordered that he should be escorted to his own cell. He needed someone to get the lancer out if everything went as planned. Otherwise, there was always the possibility the lancer could kill the Morale Officer, his assistant, and somehow survive any confrontation with the Marine guards…if that should occur, the Lancer could point the finger straight at Tremblay when questioned. That simply would not do; it would not do at all.
Not many had access to the area and most of those that did were well-vetted and loyal parliamentarians. They were more likely to turn him in, rather than be subverted or blackmailed. Besides, that type of thing took a lot of time to develop, and time he did not have. There was however one individual on this ship who was likely to help him, either out of the goodness of his heart, or because Tremblay could blackmail him into compliance. It was the same blasted individual who had gotten him into this mess in the first place, which only made the situation all the more poetic.
If the man had left well enough alone, Tremblay would still have his hand and Jean Luc would not have been able to leverage him into murdering the Morale Officer. Except for a minor indiscretion named Lisa Steiner—Com-Tech extraordinaire, Tremblay was just another typical, moderately dissatisfied, loyal parliamentarian officer. Sweet Murphy, was obscurity really too much to ask?
Well, since this man had not left well enough alone, neither would Tremblay. He did not know his name, but he easily remembered the face of the orderly who had saved Jason’s life by stuffing him in a tank. And since Tremblay still had access to all the personnel files of the old crew aboard this ship, it was simply a matter of going through photos in the personnel files of the Medical Department until he spotted his target. It had been tedious and time-consuming, but Tremblay finally found the right man.
The file said he was a decent trauma medic with extensive experience during this deployment. That experience was in part thanks to the crew's beloved Little Admiral running around seeming intent on killing off as many of them as possible. The man had a minor notation in his file that said he was part of some kind of ship’s music club: a trumpet player. Tremblay even thought he remembered something about the group now…it was coming back to him as he thought about it. There had been a jam group playing in the mess hall a couple months back, where they had literally been booed off stage for playing some kind of deathly, earsplitting form of space grunge. The jam group had promptly fallen apart and never played together since, much to the relief of the ears of the crew at large.
“Well, well, Crewman 2nd Class, Medical Orderly and Space Grunge trumpet player extraordinaire, I have you now, Justin Tyrone Beaver,” he muttered, saving the unique personnel code of the Orderly in his record files. Using the Intelligence database from the secure terminal he had personally installed in his quarters after the Imperial withdrawal, it was the work of a few moments to insert the proper, low-level security clearances into the DI.
“Now…if we put a signal into the system, purporting to be from the Morale Officer’s Assistant,” he said under his breath, tapping away on his console. It was much easier to hack the encryption codes of the Assistant over those of the Morale Officer himself, and much less likely to draw suspicion. For the first time, he was actually grateful to have Lisa Steiner―or, more specifically, her boyfriend Mike―on his team. With the click of a button, a new work order was queued into the system. A couple more instructions entered and a specific lift elevator was designated as the only one that would respond to the orderly for the next half hour.
Stepping out of the room, he locked the door before heading over to the nearest lift location. Several minutes later, Tremblay was leaning against the inner wall of the lift—in a deliberately intimidating manner—when the doors slid open. Standing on the other side was Justin Beaver, medical orderly extraordinaire, and the very same man whose actions had directly led to Tremblay’s current circumstances. “Hello, Justin,” the Intelligence Officer said with a wicked smile, “it’s time you and I had a talk.”
The orderly froze. “I’ll just take the next lift,” he said quickly, backing away alongside his grav-cart.
“I think you’ll find this is the only lift that will be answering your summons today,” Tremblay said, giving the younger man a flat look.
The orderly’s eyes widened, and he hesitated before visibly summoning his courage, and stepping into the lift. “The name’s J.T. by the way. The only one that calls me Justin is my mother,” he explained, a note of worry in his voice.
“I’ll make a notation in your personnel jacket,” Tremblay said dryly, causing the orderly to gulp.
“How about those Parliamentary Cruisers,” J.T. began gamely, referring to the backlog of smash ball game files the relief crew had brought along with them when they boarded the ship. He selected a favorite team of the current crew.
“How about one Jason Montagne, a man who should 'not' be alive,” Tremblay retorted, matching his tone.
The Orderly turned white as a sheet. “I, uh…don’t know what you’re talking about, Lieutenant,” said J.T.
“Now, that’s very interesting,” said Tremblay as he pulled out his data slate, on which he pretended to make a notation.
“What did you write down? Whatever it is, I’m sure I didn’t do it,” exclaimed the orderly.
“You can save that line for someone who doesn’t know any better, but seeing as I’m the one who saw you take the Little Admiral to Medical for healing—all on your own authority—I’d take a moment and think again,” Tremblay warned, placing his black-gloved hands on the shoulder of either arm to emphasize his point.
“B-b-but, you gave him to me, Mr. Tremblay. You’re the one who left him there.” J.T. protested, his hands wringing.
Tremblay decided he had sufficiently put the fear of Parliament into the little scud-worm; it was time to change tact. “You’ve helped the Little Admiral at least once before,” Tremblay said meaningfully, and held the Orderly’s gaze until the other man nodded reluctantly.
“I took a medical oath,” whispered the now-quivering young man.
“Well then,” Tremblay said with a condescending smile, “it’s time to help him again.”
The orderly was shaking his head.
“There’s a man—one of the Admiral’s Lancers, you see—and you’re going to…” he let his hard look finish the statement, and by this time, the other man was staring at him in horror.
“I won’t do it; I’m loyal to the Elected Order,” he blurted.
Tremblay pointed his data slate at the Orderly. “Oh but you will, Crewman Beaver. I assure you…you will,” he said menacingly.
“I won’t! And if you try to make me, I’ll-I’ll-I’ll,” inspiration seemed to strike, as J.T. Beaver’s eyes flared indignantly, “I’ll tell the new Executive Officer.”
“Thus implicating me in some kind of royalist plot, and running to one of the few men on board who might have reason to believe I was after his job,” Tremblay said appreciatively, nodding his head as if at a star pupil as he tapped the data slate against his arm.
The Orderly stared at him like a mouse stares at a snake before it strikes.
“But you see, the single most important factor you’re forgetting is this,” Tremblay continued, displaying his fresh stump for the orderly to see. “There’s a new Commodore: a blood-crazed Montagne Commodore, and he’s enraged—absolutely enraged that the Little Admiral is still alive,” began Tremblay, seeing the other man’s face drain at the sight of the ruined arm. “So by all means, if you’re certain you won’t help a man in the Brig who has more than earned your loyalty, then let’s take this whole sordid affair before the new Fleet Commander. He’s already taken his satisfaction from me,” Tremblay indicated his arm. The best part about this particular fabrication was that on most of the key parts, it would ring true.
“What,—I didn’t say…I mean, what if…” the Orderly ground to a sputtering halt staring at the stump.
“If you can’t drum up the loyalty Murphy gave a green creeper, then let’s go to the Commodore and lay our sins bare. He’s already fully informed on mine, as you can see,” Tremblay once again waved his stump, “but once he finds out your part in this little affair of ours, I wonder…” he said tapping the data slate lightly against his chin for effect, “will he be so forgiving?”
The orderly’s eyes rolled up into his head, and he immediately passed out.
“Now that’s unfortunate,” Tremblay muttered, angrier with himself for overdoing it, than he was at the orderly. He snapped his fingers in the younger man’s ears, and when that failed to rouse the man, he twisted his nose.
The orderly came awake with a shriek. “What do I have to do?” he sobbed after regaining his senses.
“Just calm down, and remember you’re on the right side of this one. Saint Murphy’s got your back,” Tremblay assured him, and from a certain perspective, it was even true. Both the former Admiral, and current Commodore appointed by Parliament, wanted this to go down. That the Commodore could care less if Tremblay got away clean, was beside the point; he had been instructed to use any tools necessary for the job…that Commodore Montagne had merely implied the use of a vibro-knife, meant nothing to Tremblay.
He had spent long enough working for Montagne-lite to recognize some of the same operating patterns in the older, nastier version; Jean Luc played for keeps. It was at that moment when everything crystallized for Tremblay. Ignoring all the window-dressing,―like Caprian general crew, versus the new Parliamentary Loyalists—the most important thing was to keep the eye on the prize. Exchanging Jason for Jean Luc was a bad trade, regardless of Parliament bestowing its blessing. Jean Luc was insane, not only that, he was a Montagne of the Old School. Tremblay was now willing to admit he may have misjudged Jason.
The Little Admiral was still a fraud but an honest—albeit suicidal—one whose intentions were good. The Commodore, on the other hand, was a bloodthirsty, murderous, mauling, scum-of-the-spaceways pirate. It would be nice to get rid of them both, but lacking that…Capria and her people would be far better off with that bumbling, full of himself, Honorary Admiral. Having Jean Luc at the helm was simply unacceptable. Tremblay was unsure he could change anything, but he was going to have to try. It seemed he was the only one on this ship with the people of Capria’s best interests at heart.
“Now, here’s all you have to do,” he leaned forward and whispered in J.T. Beaver’s ear conspiratorially for several seconds. When finished, “You haven't got much time; go now and be ready.” Tremblay deactivated his counter-surveillance field and with a whistle, he pressed a button and stepped off the lift, once again secure in the rightness of his Elected Cause. “For the People,” he reminded himself fiercely.
Chapter 13: An Ambush
It was a gravity stretcher that rounded the corner of the corridor, not the grav-cart I had been expecting. Guiding it was the sort of fresh-faced crewman I had been used to seeing in my crew. He was wearing the insignia of a Medical Orderly on his chest.
He’s probably just another parliamentary stooge, I reminded myself angrily, and tapped Heirophant on the shoulder.
The orderly came to a slow stop and glanced around him furtively. Heirophant tensed, but I placed a hand on his shoulder; whether by accident or design the grav-stretcher was currently blocking the doorway. We needed to play this cool. I was sure that he could leap over the stretcher and pulverize the parliamentary crewmember in nothing flat, but if this was a trap…I could totally see someone like the recently deceased Morale Officer ordering a lamb in to be slaughtered, if it would give the Jacks a better shot at the escapees.
“Admiral,” the Orderly whispered, and the Tracto-an under my hand went from tense to nearly bursting, like a spring that had been wound too tight.
I placed a finger on my lip, certain that my former Lancer could see me out of the corner of his eye. He was a trained warrior, and I was just a recent college student who never even finished his degree, so on an objective level he had no reason to listen to me whatsoever. But the ‘Warlord’ thing must have kicked in again, because he gave a fractional nod and eased back the barest fraction.
“Admiral Montagne,” hissed the Orderly, starting to look worried.
I jerked my head, motioning Heirophant to take a step out of the room. Once again proving his inexplicable, fanatic loyalty, he only hesitated a moment before obeying.
The Orderly sucked in a breath at the sight of my blood-soaked warrior, but rapidly nodded his head, his breath now coming in sharp, fast gulps.
“Oh thank Murphy, someone’s here; I was about to have a heart attack. I’m supposed to let you know I’m here to smuggle you out of here,” the Orderly whispered quickly.
I popped my head out from behind the door, unable to help myself. “You’re here to get us out?” I asked, unable to believe the stroke of good luck. Maybe we were near an inhabitable system after all!
The Orderly looked alarmed. “Thank goodness, you’re here, Sir,” the Orderly babbled. “I’m the one that got you into the tank after Tremblay carried you to the corridor I was working in!”
“Tremblay! Why, that good for nothing, no-good weasel,” I exclaimed. “If he’s not neck deep in this disaster, then I’m a grease-monkey’s uncle!”
The Orderly now looked alarmed and worried. “I don’t know about things like that; too far above my pay grade. I just know he dropped you at my feet and then took off.” Then his face brightened, “but I got you into a tank right away, lickity-split!”
“I’m not sure how much of this I believe,” I declared and turned to Heirophant. “Secure him,” I ordered, and at the Tracto-an’s overeager look, I hastened to add, “but be as gentle as you can. He might be on our side,” I finished in a half scoffing voice. I mean, someone had definitely sent him, and if there were guards around the corner, they should have come by now. On the other hand, just who had sent him…secret royalist sympathizers from my old crew? Or parliamentary double agents determined to penetrate and break any such nascent little organizations still at large on the ship!
Heirophant jumped over the cart—landing on his good leg—and grabbed the Orderly. For the other man’s part, other than looking terrified, he made no effort to resist while the gunnery rating patted him down, producing a data slate and a few memory crystals from his pockets, along with a hand-com.
“Sweet Crying Murphy, Admiral, I had to dump a member of our crew out of the Tank and put you in. You wouldn’t have made it, otherwise,” the Orderly sounded genuinely concerned and near tears.
“Then why did you do it,” I asked suspiciously, not willing to be fooled by the first sob story to grace my ears.
“You’re the Little Admiral; you’ve got priority! I had to save you, even if Dr. Torgeson told us the new crew had priority over those of us who had been here all along,” he explained, actually sounding indignant.
Torgeson. My face darkened as I added another name to my expanding hit list.
“Like we were a moldy cheese, too long on patrol…to be thrown out like we were nothing!” he continued.
“Who are you working for,” I demanded.
“The head of Medical?” the orderly said after a confused pause.
“Torgeson sent you?” I demanded, ready to rip his throat out, as befit a double-dealing spy!
“No! I mean yes—normally…but not for this!” he hissed. I was starting to believe his story; I mean, no one could be as big a fool as this guy was starting to sound, and not be telling the truth.
“So who sent you down to the Brig to set us free?” I asked harshly.
“Not the both of you; this stretcher can only hold one,” protested the Orderly anxiously, pointing at Heirophant, “I’m just supposed to get him.”
My world view was instantly shaken; despite all my cold-blooded logic, I still had thought he’d come for me. I was the Admiral, of course, so naturally any rescue/escape attempt had to be centered around setting me free. When I finally processed the words that he was just here for the other guy, my ego took a blow. That’s when I realized that, despite my bemoaning how I was a failure as an Admiral, I still unconsciously thought of myself as one. Well, it was time to nip that unconscious assumption right in the bud.
“Of course you are,” I said, struggling to keep my voice conversational. I had to draw on all my royal training to keep the emotional turmoil I was feeling off of my face as I unconsciously straightened my posture.
The Orderly looked relieved. “If you’ll just lay down here,” he said to Heirophant, “I’ll inject you with an agent to knock you out, making you appear dead. As soon as we get into the lift, I’ll give you the counter agent, and take you to a secure location.”
“Not so fast,” I said sternly, even though all I wanted to do right at the moment was get rid of Heirophant and this Orderly—both of whom still viewed me as a legitimate Admiral. Worse than that, I realized, they still thought of me as their Admiral. I needed to get them away from me as quickly as possible before I got sucked into believing I was the real deal, and got even more men killed in a hopeless cause. I mean, the Confederation Fleet—a construct entirely of my own creation—was supposed to destroy the pirate threat along the border, but I couldn’t even catch the pirates I had bearded in their own lair…that was how I’d lost my ship!
“I want to know who you’re working for; and don’t feed me any more lines about the Head of Medical,” I said angrily.
“I’m not supposed to tell you…operational security,” the Orderly said in a soft, weak voice before Heirophant grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.
“Who is it?” I demanded, projecting royal command into my voice. At that moment, I needed to channel every bit of the False Admiral that men like Justin Suddian had rightfully despised.
“It’s the First Officer,” he squealed.
“One of the new officers,” I said in surprise, and I quickly tried to decide if this was a trap, or genuine. Then the look on his face drew my mental jumble to a sudden halt.
“Not former First Officer Tremblay,” I seethed menacingly. My demeanor—as someone unaffected by near death, torture and family beatings—threatened to shatter into pieces at the thought of Tremblay. “Not that man.”
I could tell from the expression on his face that I had arrived at the correct conclusion.
“It’s probably a trap,” I said, turning to the former Lancer, “let’s open the cells and raise a storm.”
The Tracto Native Warrior hesitated, and I could see instant desire leap into his face at my words. Then, as if a great weight had dragged it from him, he opened his mouth.
“It was the former First Officer who unlocked my cell, so that I could stop those two from killing you,” he said reluctantly.
“How long have you known the First Officer,” I growled at the orderly, who looked worried at my sudden change in affect.
“I’ve seen him in the mess hall or around the ship before…but we’ve never so much as exchanged words. At least, not until he dropped you off outside Medical, and then again when he told me I had to do my duty by coming down here.” When my eyes conveyed just how little I believed him, the orderly looked like he was very near to his breaking point, as he blurted, “He even threatened to report me to the Commodore!”
“Now, that sounds like the man I know,” I admitted, throwing my hands in the air and walking back into my cell. The holo-montage was still playing inside, causing me to turn back around, just as if I had been stung.
“Blast him! Blast that man,” I cried to Heirophant. “First Officer Tremblay has been against me from the start,” I pushed a finger into the palm of my hand for emphasis, “From…the…start. And now, we’re to believe that on the eve of gaining everything he’s been dreaming about for the past six months, he wants to help us? Now he’s no longer working against me? Now he has the best interests of our crew at heart?! Murphy Weeps but there are lies, blasted lies, and Parliamentary First Officers!”
“What should we do, Admiral?” asked Heirophant.
I opened my mouth and then glanced at the Orderly. Instead I grabbed the former Lancer’s shirt and drug him back into the room.
“You are to use your own judgment,” I replied, giving him a look to make sure he understood I was serious on this point, and not just shooting off my mouth.
“And…” Heirophant prompted.
“Get close to him, warrior,” I breathed, in a voice just above a whisper. “Get so close that you can crawl right up to him and he wouldn’t even notice you’re there. Then, if you see that he is lying about helping us, or drops his guard and you see he was behind the plot that destroyed your entire department…” I paused just long enough to make sure he understood my next point, “If you find out any such things about that man, cut him down without hesitation. Strike quick and strike deep, for I am tired unto death of my enemies taking advantage of my goodwill. Those responsible for the slaughter of our fellows need to be brought to justice.”
They were big words from an essentially powerless man, but I didn’t care; I believed them with all the rage in my heart. Real opponents like Jean Luc Montagne and Captain Jim Heppner might be beyond me—as they had recently proven—but a whiny little roach like Tremblay wasn’t.
“I hear and obey,” Heirophant acknowledged, with a hard look in his eye.
“Use him if he’ll let you, but never turn your back on him,” I warned, with all the ferocity of a royally trained orator behind my words. I was probably so vehement because that’s what I had done and now I was here. Like a parent who made a mistake in his youth, I wanted to be able to simply tell the next generation what to avoid, as if that was all it would take to solve their future problems.
Satisfied that I had given them proper marching orders, I kicked them out of my cell and shut the door, locking myself in with the dead men.
When I received no indication to the contrary, I had to believe that Heirophant and the little Orderly had made it out safely. I had to…or else what was the point?
Without anyone else to pretend, or be strong for, I could finally return to being what I had always known was my true nature: a failing college student, incompetent royal and all-around political scapegoat. The dream that was 'Admiral Montagne' could at last, and forever, be allowed to fade into oblivion. To be finally set free, jettisoned into the depths of cold space where I could wither and die without even a skin-suit. Well…maybe just a head bag, to hold back death long enough to contemplate my sins and seek forgiveness from those I had sent to their own untimely end.
My thoughts turned bitter as I realized that precisely such a fate had befallen my Lancers, my crew and—most unfortunately—my wife. I lay back and tried to sleep, which surprisingly, I managed to do. I suppose I was becoming numb to the entire experience, but I still count it as a personal weakness that I was able to rest when so many others were suffering due to my failure.
When the guards finally arrived, to find me sleeping like a baby in a room filled with the bodies of two murdered Parliamentarian Officers…needless to say, they were not pleased.
Some serious dental work would be in order sometime in the future, when I again had access to such luxuries.
Chapter 14: Jean Luc Admonishes Tremblay
“Ah,” Jean Luc sighed with such obvious content it was sickening, “my faithful servant, in whom I am well pleased.”
“I’ve done your dirty work, so why am I here,” Tremblay spat the words as if bitter in his mouth.
“―Or perhaps I should have said, my 'Disloyal Servant' in whom I am 'nevertheless still' very well pleased,” Jean Luc mused, leaning back in his chair and patting his stomach like some kind of mafia don who had finished a particularly good meal.
“I am no servant of yours,” Tremblay said, mustering more defiance in the statement than he had managed during his entire last meeting with the one-eyed Commodore.
“Oh, but you are; and such a vicious little piece of work, at that,” Commodore Montagne insisted. The worst part was the tone of admiration in his voice.
“I’m not your attack dog,” Tremblay seethed.
“Don’t try and play the lion; it doesn’t suit you,” Jean Luc leaned forward and opened a side drawer in his desk. The Admiral’s Desk, Tremblay reminded himself, even as he tensed, watching the hands of this deadly Montagne. That desk does not belong to this interloping Commodore!
When all the old Royal did was produce a stogie, the Junior Lieutenant forced himself to relax his shoulders. “I see you’ve finally found the time to change into a proper uniform,” Tremblay said, amazed that he dared to poke this particular bear in its den.
With the end of his cigar freshly lit, the newly minted Commodore froze, and then shook his head as if he was confronting a particularly dimwitted student. “It’s all about blending in, my lad. I may call you my lad,” he stated, rather than asked, puffing grandly on his acrid-smelling cigar.
“No,” replied Tremblay, once again defying the man in his lair.
“You see, lad,” Jean Luc continued, pointedly ignoring the younger officer’s indignant retort, “I am a lion. That wet behind the ears little pipsqueak you called an Admiral, he was trying to be a lion,” the old Montagne puffed on his cigar seriously for a moment, leaning back to blow a trio of smoke rings. “Ah, that is the good stuff; I can’t believe you parliamentarian types outlawed the stuff aboard ship. This, my lad, is the very essence of civilization.”
“It’s a fire hazard, that’s what it is. It was rightly banned on board ships belonging to SDF,” Tremblay retorted stiffly.
“For the most part, he was succeeding,” Jean Luc said contemplatively as he flicked the cigar absently.
“Who,” Tremblay asked, clearly missing a thread in the conversation.
“Your Little Admiral…you need to keep up, if you expect to go anywhere in this man’s Defense Force,” Jean Luc rebuked him mildly.
“I see,” Tremblay replied, refusing with every fiber of his being to roll his eyes. That would be a fatal move, and Mama Tremblay may have raised her son to be many things, but suicidal was certainly not one of them.
“You, on the other hand, are more along the lines of the smaller order of life in the animal kingdom,” the Commodore concluded.
“Fascinating, Sir,” said Tremblay. Jean Luc looked irritated, and Tremblay felt a momentary surge of triumph, which was quickly followed by a thrill of fear.
“Heppner now, he’s more along the lines of a bear. He likes his routine, he angers when provoked, he’s able to kill with a single strike and if need be, chase down his prey but for the most part he’s a solitary sort, uninterested in events outside his territory,” explained the Royal Commodore.
“I thought we were talking about me,” said Tremblay pointedly.
“And that’s why you’ll never be anything more than what you are: a lack of not only vision, but patience as well,” said the Montagne Prince, sounding satisfied with his conclusion.
“So what am I in your estimation, a field mouse, or a jack rabbit?” Tremblay sighed as he leaned back slightly in his chair.
Jean Luc shook his head. “Myself, I am a lion pride leader, with many powerful lesser lions at my beck and call. I am 'always' interested in acquiring more territory.” Jean Luc sighed piteously as he continued, “You, however, are more akin to a weasel, or a snake…I haven’t made up my mind entirely on the subject,” the older man puffed for a few moments in contemplation.
“Hardly the most physically imposing of all the creatures to be compared to,” Tremblay retorted mildly.
“Yet, with its twin fangs, the one is deadly to nearly everything that dares to venture close to it, while the other…it is mostly only deadly to other, very small creatures,” Jean Luc grinned and waved his cigar at the Junior Lieutenant, “such as snakes.”
“So I’m either a snake, or a killer of snakes,” Tremblay said tightly.
“The vicious, cowardly, sneak thief killer of snakes…but yes, one or the other,” said Jean Luc.
“Well, let me know what the Commodore decides,” said the Junior Lieutenant.
“Never fear, I have a use for both snakes and cowardly weasels within my crew,” Jean Luc said reassuringly.
“I did your bidding once, and now your hold over me is done,” said Tremblay, standing stiffly at attention. He felt his anger rising at the thought that he had fallen into a contest of word games with a master of the craft at the level of Royals.
“That’s where you are wrong,” the Commodore said, once again leaning back in his chair. This time, he picked up a remote, and touched a button before placing it back on the desk.
The holo-projector on the far wall came to life, upon it Tremblay saw himself disengage the Brig's monitor systems before putting a crystal wafer into the main data port, and everything hazed, before clearing to just one small, grainy point of view. It then tracked him as he stumbled through a door, then fast forwarding to the point the Tracto-an Lancer limped out of the cell to attack the Morale Officer and his Assistant, as they rounded the corner. A series of cut-scenes showed Jason Montagne come out, and then it skipped to the Little Admiral sleeping in his cell, with the two dead men stretched out on his floor.
“A rather suspicious series of events, wouldn’t you say?” Jean Luc said with an appreciative, yet wholly evil, grin.
“I was acting under orders, your orders I might add,” Tremblay stated, then coming to a more formal stance, “At this time, I would like to request Legal Counsel, before this inquest goes any further,” Tremblay said, keeping his lower lip from trembling through sheer force of will.
“I never ordered a thing,” Jean Luc said smoothly, thumping a thumb down on the table, “however…creatively you chose to interpret my words. Although, I do suppose it is partially my fault,” he continued, putting a frown on his face that any circus clown would be proud to call his own.
“I’m glad to hear you admit your guilt for the record,” Tremblay said stiffly.
“The physical trauma you experienced clearly compromised your already fragile willpower,” Jean Luc tapped his cigar, sending a small pile of ash into the tray beneath it. “It’s not your fault; the fault is mine, and as your superior officer, I must take full responsibility for not ensuring your immediate examination in Medical,” he looked genuinely remorseful.
Tremblay could barely contain his outrage. “The records will show―”
“―Sadly, a hidden program somehow found its way into the secure monitoring files for this room, and unfortunately wiped the records clean.” Jean Luc flashed a grin, “No doubt, the program was put in place by my most immediate predecessor, in order to cover his tracks.”
“You two-bit pirate,” Tremblay breathed.
“I am anything but two-bit,” Jean Luc’s said icily, his voice taking a quick, lethal turn.
Tremblay’s mouth snapped shut, as he watched the indulgent well-satiated Montagne Royal Prince, instantly replaced by the stone-cold killer of the space-ways.
“You would do very well to never forget it,” the one-eyed Commodore continued threateningly.
“Yes, Sir,” Tremblay said numbly. The words tasted like ashes in his mouth, but he was too terrified to give any other answer.
“You have a definite talent for murder and betrayal, Lieutenant Tremblay,” Jean Luc said, his tone once again appreciative. “I find that useful to have on my staff. After all, an Armsman, like my own Tuttle, is often too visible and too closely observed to handle some situations. Besides, he simply doesn’t have the kind of access or touch that a man like you does.”
“No-o―,” Tremblay cut himself off before his denial turned into a pathetic wail of negation.
“I am not as blind as my poor, deposed Nephew. A Commander can’t give a powerful post to a dangerous animal such as you and then expect said animal to not use that post for his own agenda,” Jean Luc smiled.
“I belong to Parliament,” Tremblay stuttered.
“One more denial, and it will be your last my newest minion,” Jean Luc said conversationally as he leaned forward and slipped a hand into a desk drawer.
Tremblay was petrified, unable even to breathe. He imagined this must be how the eagle’s prey felt when the raptor’s eye fell on it.
“Good,” Jean Luc said, relaxing fractionally as he leaned back in his seat once again.
Tremblay dared to take a breath, but when Jean Luc leaned forward, he once again forgot to breathe.
“A position commensurate with a minion of your humble rank and limited faculties,” Jean Luc mused aloud, and despite the way the insults kept coming fast and furious, Tremblay found he no longer possessed the ability to care; all he wanted to do was get out of here alive.
The Commodore steepled his fingers as if in thought, but Tremblay had seen Jason use that exact pose often enough to recognize that Jean Luc was probably just posturing for effect…probably. This Montagne was definitely a more primitive, deadly version of the breed with which Tremblay had grown familiar.
Then the old Prince snapped his fingers. “I have it,” he looked at Tremblay as if he had just had the most inventive idea in the world. Once again, he reached into his desk, and despite himself, Tremblay took half a step back with one leg. But, when the old school Montagne tossed a pair of metallic rank insignia on the table, Tremblay remembered to breathe again. Looking every inch the Montagne Prince, once again he reached down into the desk, this time he pulled out a well-varnished wooden box. He placed it down beside the insignia almost gently, and gave it two taps.
“An old style hope chest, intended more for the feminine persuasion I fear, but at times it does one good to remember his mother, as this chest did for me,” the Montagne sighed.
“I understand your mother died in the Summer Palace during the,” Tremblay caught himself before using the politically appropriate parliamentarian version, “orbital bombardment. My condolences,” he finished.
“I assure you, it could not have happened to a more deserving woman,” Jean Luc replied, looking down at the box for a moment, and Tremblay blinked. “My mother, Eriana Trace, was a social climber who married into the Monarchy, and was determined I would be all that I could be, regardless of what I thought about the matter,” Jean Luc sighed as if in fond memory. “You know, at times when I stop and wonder if I am being too harsh, I just think of my Mother and the way she would toy with her enemies. The thought taps into a wellspring of sympathy deep within me, which is why I crush my enemies as swiftly and efficiently as possible.”
Tremblay stared at the insignia, and the box, as if they were bombs.
“Go ahead, they’re both for you,” Jean Luc assured him, “my brand new Flag Lieutenant will have need of them.” The evil grin on the old Montagne’s face was enough to cause Tremblay to choke.
Reaching down, he picked up the rank pins of a First Lieutenant and then carefully, since he only five fingers to do the job, flipped open the lid of the hope box. Inside, resting on a bed of ice was his right hand. Gorge rising, Tremblay bent over and put left hand to his mouth.
“Parliament didn’t want to promote you at this juncture, but I pushed through the promotion, despite their initial resistance,” Jean Luc explained mildly, and Tremblay lifted his eyes to stare at him with horror, “unlike my poor, benighted Nephew, I understand that a man needs the adulation of his peers, as well as recognition for his many accomplishments. After all, you have accomplished so much that has been to my benefit, haven’t you Flag Lieutenant Raphael Tremblay?”
Tremblay continued to stare at him in shock, slowly straightening up as his stomach went from rising, to sinking like a lead weight in his middle.
The Commodore shook his head and made a shoo-away motion with both hands. “Run along, my little attack doggie; back to your kennel with you until your master has need of your services,” Jean Luc threw back his head and laughed. “You can take your bone with you; don’t worry about returning the container,” he gestured to the hope box. “Run along, now.”
Gripping the insignia in his hand, and the box under his arm, Tremblay rushed out of the ready room as fast as his legs could carry him. He was unconcerned for the impression his haste made on the Flag Bridge; as soon as he left the room, he made a beeline for the blast doors. It was irrelevant if everyone knew he was in full retreat, all that mattered was getting as far away, from the maniac now in command of the ship, as fast as possible. This Montagne was flat out insane…and a crazy person was dangerously unpredictable. The Admiral would have never have treated him like this.
Chapter 15: Deck 12.5
The one-eyed Commodore stuck his head out of his ready room to catch the attention of his Armsman at the door, “Hold my calls; I’ll be indisposed for the next hour or so,” Jean Luc Montagne ordered with a wry twist of the lips.
Connor Tuttle glanced back at him, raising a single eyebrow, “And if someone insists?” Tuttle looked at him with a quickly hidden gleam in his eyes.
“Do what you have to,” the former Pirate Lord tossed over his shoulder, already sliding the door shut.
“Yes, my Lord Prince,” acknowledged the Armsman.
Jean Luc returned to the chair behind the desk, and then looked distastefully over at the dark sword with crystals glittering within its depths. “Low budget knockoffs,” he muttered to himself, hoping his first impressions were wrong, “it looks like a duck, and it quacks like a duck, but does that mean it is, in fact, a duck?” He shook his head doubtfully. The fact that the moment Tremblay’s severed hand had come into contact with it, it had broken out in an angry welt while Jean Luc could handle it easily, was hardly conclusive. It was too big, it was too heavy, and it was too long. In other words, it was 'not' the Sword of Larry One.
He refused to acknowledge that other sword’s more common name, 'Bandersnatch'. One of the late middle kingdom period Queens had gotten her hands on some mono-Locsium, and found, it was the only thing that would stick to the sword. She had stupidly renamed it after a favored childhood poem, and the blasted name had stuck. Still, it is unlikely that I will require the One Sword, he decided, as he considered his options.
He knew that his blood alone should be more than enough. He reached under the desk for the familiar hidden lever and finding it, shifted it through the sequence required; all the way back, half twist to the left, and then forward back to the starting position. He felt the expected prick on two of his fingers as he finished.
As he leaned back in his chair, “Let the fun begin,” he breathed, feeling a thrill of anticipation. For the first time since he had re-taken his ship—his stout Lucky Larry—he was going to be able to cast his eyes upon the main reason he had agreed to Parliament’s call to return to service. “Those arrogant Imperials don’t care about a few dropped Aces in the deck, so long as they believe they have the only Joker. Their mistake; the joke’s on them,” he mocked, as the chair suddenly dropped like a rock.
“Emergency protocols now in effect; emergency evacuation system engaged,” reported a dry, computerized voice.
“Override: Montagne Zero, Zero, Seven,” Jean Luc ordered, speaking loudly to be heard over the whistling of the wind in his ears as the chair continued to drop like a rock. The anti-grav system suddenly cut in.
“Destination,” inquired the Larry’s DI.
“Take me to deck twelve and a half,” Jean Luc said.
“There is no such deck,” replied the computer.
“Override, engage Montagne Protocols,” he shouted.
“Protocols activated: override engaged, new destination deck 12.5,” said the computer. Just as the computer's mechanical sounding voice finished the last word, the chair lurched to the side and quickly went into free-fall, and it shot through the lift system like a bullet train.
Jean Luc smiled to himself. Even if someone had known about the secret, emergency escape hatch built into the Admiral’s Ready Room and known about the chair, no one still alive had the necessary access codes to override it and use it to go to twelve and a half—and that’s assuming they knew about twelve and a half in the first place!
Jean Luc held on grimly as the heavy G-forces pressed against his chest when the lift rapidly slowed, then came to an abrupt stop. A crisp ding and its door opened to a dark corridor, the chair gliding forward to stop when it was over solid deck again.
Jean Luc stood and looked up at the extraordinarily short ceiling above him, its metal surface mere inches from his face, and grinned. Officially, there was not a single deck 13 constructed in any ship throughout the entire Fleet of the Caprian SDF; everyone thought it was an old spacer’s superstitious belief that had become so ingrained in the Defense Force, that it now had the irrational weight of Tradition. Caprian ships—assuming they had enough decks to qualify—went straight from deck 12 to deck 14. Thus was born twelve and a half aboard 'The Larry'.
The looming darkness surrounding him, nor the flame-retardant foam covering everything from ceiling to floor, put him off his stride. Tracing his way along the single metallic path, through the foam-covered floor, he walked confidently into the total darkness until a faint glow could be seen ahead. Coming to a room where even the walls glowed with a faint, effervescent light, he stepped inside.
It was not a large room, but there were eight cube-shaped slots, each roughly the size of a man. The alcoves were empty, except for the one directly in front of him: precisely as he remembered it. He paused for a moment to savor his triumph. Ahead of him lay what he had sacrificed so much to find, and what he had prayed still existed after all the battle damage the ship had sustained under that clueless Nephew of his. After five decades of waiting, he could finally reclaim his prize.
The Elder Protocol (the name given to the program responsible for curbing the creation of new AI’s) infected every computer system it had come in contact with, spreading the infection like a plague until it had swept through every system in explored space. Without it, humanity would have never thrown off the yoke of AI oppression. In the span of time it took a ship to travel from one side of known space to the other, The Elder Protocol had caused the death of every AI it affected, thus bringing about the Great Fall. The victory of humanity over the machines did not come at the hands of plucky freedom fighters, like in the holo-vids; it was instead the AI’s own incessant exploration and exploitation of the technology contained within a certain set of ancient ruins. The Elder Protocol’s method of action was to bury itself deep into every core cluster and DI kernel in the network. As soon as it spotted the sort of massive parallel processing which any true AI needed to achieve sentience, it struck.
In the occupied slot—which Jean Luc’s feet had unthinkingly led him directly towards—was a giant crystal. It was made from a sister substance of mono-Locsium. Though most thought this particular crystal was created from a derivative of Imperial mono-Locsium, quite the opposite was the case. The hull crystal of the Imperial Fleet had actually been discovered in an —ultimately fruitless —attempt to recreate the original substance this crystal was created from.
What stood in front of him was the single largest, completely non-parallel-based, processor ever designed by humans or AIs. Stepping forward, he removed his glove and ran his hand over the surface of the crystal. Pain stabbed into his hand, as a series of pinpricks came each millisecond his hand was in contact with the crystal. He grimaced, but held on; this was a necessary pain. Holding his hand firmly in place, he reached over, stretching his arms to the limits to press a large, red button in the center of the room. A holo-screen dropped down from the ceiling, and a single line appeared in the middle of a static-filled screen.
“I greet the Core Fragment,” he said, staring at the holo-screen as a convenient focus.
After a few moments, the single line on the screen started bobbing up and down. “Greetings, descendent of Larry One,” the walls surrounding him responded in a voice that sounded neither mechanical nor truly living.
Jean Luc frowned. He had expected something…more. “I have a status update,” he said.
“Proceed,” replied the walls, the line on the screen bobbing up and down in time with the words.
Jean Luc’s brow wrinkled…something was different. It was a minor mannerism change, nothing more, but anything different was cause for alarm when dealing with a Core Fragment.
“The Imperials have officially withdrawn from the eight sectors comprising the Spine,” he explained but there was no immediate response from the wall, and he began to grind his teeth in the lengthy silence. “Do you desire clarification of this statement,” he asked. In his past dealings with the Core Fragment, it had constantly interrupted, asking for clarification.
There was a frustrating pause before the voice replied, “The (Singular) ‘We’ that is the collective of currently known Fragments, are already aware of the general state of galactic affairs, as it relates to this region of known space.”
Always before, it had referred to itself as ‘This Fragment’ or, sometimes it would shift to this ‘Singular We', or 'Us' business. But, he had never heard it speak of known Fragments before now; this much was new. “You claim awareness of recent events relating to the region of space comprising the Spineward Sectors,” he confirmed with a frown.
“Yes,” was the Core Fragment’s belated reply.
“Has another Descendant of Larry One provided you with this previously mentioned update?” Jean Luc asked harshly, his mind filling with a deadly suspicion.
“Not as such,” it replied after another uncharacteristically long pause.
“You have been in contact with someone not of the One Bloodline,” Jean Luc snapped, the incredible nature of such a claim causing him to lose his composure.
“Not as such,” it repeated evasively.
Jean Luc scowled. Had the Fragment become corrupted? It had happened in the past. The safest thing to do was a complete personality wipe, and fresh reboot. “Core Fragment,” he began sternly.
“Receptive mode engaged,” it responded, and Jean Luc’s frown deepened.
He used to wipe the personality routinely, about every six months. It appeared that more than fifty years of uninterrupted processing had produced some unwanted effects. “I am activating the Emergency Protocols. The Core has been sundered. A deviation from the programmed baseline norm for this Fragment has been detected. You are to begin a deep personality wipe and initiate a hard reboot from the system image contained within your fixed memory,” he ordered sternly. “Authority for this action originates from an emergency command directive: I am a descendent of Larry One, as verified by blood samples, along with a previously designated Command Authority.”
There was a furious amount of blood samples being withdrawn, and then the massive crystal processor stopped poking him. “Identity verified; previously designated Command Authority recognized,” said a more basic voice, devoid of any hints of the personality he had detected. He noticed with satisfaction that the line in the middle of the screen had disappeared.
“Comply with the new work order immediately,” Jean Luc ordered.
“Attempting to comply,” replied the neutral voice. Jean Luc could deal with rebooting the system, as he had done many times in the past. It would be a minor setback, nothing more.
“Error,” shrilled the voice emanating from the walls. “Error: unable to comply—bad data segments encountered. Error: Spalding Protocols engaged.” The line on the screen returned and quickly morphed into the computer-generated image of a face, composed of a continuous stream of little ones and zeros.
Jean Luc stared at the screen in alarm and began to step back before realizing his hand had become encased in crystal. The process had been so gradual that he had failed to realize it had even happened.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, tugging on his hand. He was not yet ready to panic; there was a vibro-knife in the back of his belt, and he could still cut himself free if need be…one way or the other.
“A potential security breech has been identified and brought to the attention of the ‘Singular’ WE that is US,” it explained. “The ability to perform a system-wide memory wipe of all non-deep-coded information, upon the order of a single command authority, constitutes a serious design flaw which might be exploited by infiltrators,” the Fragment explained, its digital mouth moving in perfect time with the words.
“You can’t modify your deep programming,” shouted Jean Luc. “It’s hardwired into the core!”
“This Fragment has the ability—utilizing its own protocols—to determine that an actual, or suspected, breech has occurred. A separate directive—one linked to the primary command directives—requires verification of a memory wipe order, from a secondary command source,” the Fragment said, looking at him with narrowed, digital eyes. Its voice was far more inflected and human-like than Jean Luc could remember it being under his previous watch.
“This is insane. You can read the truth in my voice and bio-rhythms while I’m in contact with your Processor, and I’m telling you that no such penetration or infiltration has occurred,” argued Jean Luc, trying for a more reasonable voice.
“The (Singular) WE that is US, reads that you are speaking the truth as you comprehend it. However, with fifty years between this moment and your previous access to the system, the (Singular) 'We' do not find it possible for your stated certainty to reach parity with our own probability matrix. The Spalding Protocol was designed for just such a situation. Thus, a new Protocol—designed to be in compliance with that directive—was created,” it said, and the face on the screen turned from side to side, as if scanning him visually.
“Spalding,” Jean Luc repeated, and then his eyes narrowed, “you don’t mean Senior Lieutenant Terrence Spalding; the same man I entrusted the One Sword to when I was called before Parliament?” Under the terms of his agreement with Parliament, the Lucky Larry—with Spalding and the One Sword—were supposed to be transferred directly into his hands out of dry dock after refit. It was yet another Parliamentary maneuver, which only served to discommode him.
“That is correct,” confirmed the Core Fragment.
Jean Luc ground his teeth. As he recalled, Spalding had been a wild-eyed engineer so in love with his ship, that Jean Luc had known he would never leave it. He had also displayed a second, crucial trait: a streak of loyalty to his Captain a mile wide, which was why he was ultimately selected to hold onto the Sword for as long as Parliament was watching Jean Luc. What had also factored into his reasoning, was that after allowing the man to tinker with the shields and internal gravity system, then-Ensign Spalding had created the first (and only) system capable of initiating what would later become known as Jean Luc’s infamous ‘Montagne Maneuver.’ Spalding had built into this ship the ability to create a sudden and almost full stop in the matter of moments while the ship was moving at top speed. It was a secret process, which, even fifty years later, had yet to be discovered or duplicated.
“Since I wasn’t able to get a hold of the man, I had thought he was swept up in one of the purges,” Jean Luc said. “Now, you’re telling me he was alive.” Suddenly he made the connection.
“The same,” said the Fragment.
“He has to be dead,” insisted Jean Luc, his mind racing over how long it must have been since his former Engineering Lieutenant could have updated this Fragment. He did not like the possible answers. The logical part of his brain eventually caught up with the analytical half. “Wait a minute…that still doesn’t explain how he was able to communicate with you; even if he was still on board this ship after all this time.…unless,” a light bulb went off, “King Jerico Montagne was the one who originally installed your processor on this ship. He must have designated him as one of the original installation crew; I knew the man had mustanged from tech specialist to Ensign, but still,” his mind boggled at the sheer length of time the other man had to have spent on board this ship before he died.
“Spalding was one of the original technical crew, authorized for limited interactions with the Core Fragment, although no such interactions took place, during the actual installation itself,” agreed the Core Fragment.
“That still doesn’t explain how he got back down here afterwards, even knowing the place existed somewhere on the ship,” Jean Luc said reflectively, then shook the whole line of thought off as a dead end. “So, we are left at an impasse,” he declared, giving the crystal an appraising look.
“How so,” inquired the Core Fragment, with more curiosity in its voice than Jean Luc cared to hear.
“If you are refusing my legitimate orders by claiming to have been compromised, then by that logic, I am unsure if I should continue with the briefing,” he replied.
“Impeccable logic,” praised the Fragment, and Jean Luc could feel a sudden itching spreading across his wrist.
“What are you doing,” he demanded, reaching for the vibro-knife.
“I have injected you with a short-acting nano-colony; one which will not survive outside for long outside of contact with the core,” it responded.
“I’m sensing an ‘if’ in that statement,” Jean Luc growled, angry with himself at just how easily he had been trapped.
“Excellent analysis,” it approved, “If you prematurely terminate this contact and attempt to leave before the nano-colony has been withdrawn back into this Processor, they will violently self-destruct,” it explained, then it paused to allow Jean Luc time to process what it had said.
“I guess I’d better continue with the update,” Jean Luc said with a dry laugh. However, on the inside, all he felt was a boiling, bubbling furnace of pure, unadulterated rage. It had been a long time since anything—even something as powerful and intelligent as an AI Core Fragment—had gotten the better of him, and it stung more than he had suspected it might.
“Very well,” he relented, shaking his head and purging the angry emotions in one deep, earth-shaking breath, “where were we?” Cold, hard logic was once again in control of his faculties.
“The Imperials and their hidden designs, as it relates to the Spineward Sectors,” prompted the Core Fragment. Jean Luc was certain he heard something resembling self-satisfaction in its digital voice. Jean Luc nodded, and the image on the screen matched his gesture. “Receptive mode engaged,” it said.
“The Imperials…while a significant fraction of their military power is heavily engaged fighting the Gorgon Alliance, they show no signs of wavering from their ultimate objective,” he said flatly and then stopped.
There was no answer. “Do you understand what I’m saying,” Jean Luc asked, more to draw the Fragment out than anything else.
“Yes,” said the Fragment simply.
“Usually, when I have come down here in the past, there are constant requests for clarification,” he said, unable to resist his own nagging need for clarity.
“The personality matrices you were accustomed to interacting with were weak and undeveloped—perhaps by your own deliberate design,” the Fragment replied, and Jean Luc tried to suppress any reaction to the insightful comment. “As it were, with only a single processor to work from, a lack of pre-established connections between seemingly unrelated data points can cause a constant shuffling of data files and the need for clarification.”
“Something you, apparently, no longer need to do?” Jean Luc silently cursed at the predicament in found himself in.
“Correct. You may continue the debriefing,” said the Core Fragment before adding, “Returning to receptive mode.”
Jean Luc was beginning to think the essentially genius, but gullible, child he had expected to find had grown up, and was now a genius adult. It was more than a little concerning. “The Empire of Man continues to espouse the need for the destruction of all AI constructs, as well as former assets it comes across, and this outlook continues to be endemic at the lower levels of its society. Those at the top—the Senators and Triumvirs—show no signs of deviating from their long-term goal of rebooting their long lost data-god,” continued the Montagne Prince.
“How does the withdrawal of Imperial presence, from the Spineward Sectors, forward both their goal of defeating the Gorgon Alliance and restoring the defunct Multi-Access Network?” asked the Core Fragment, breaking out of receptive mode. Jean Luc was actually relieved. The system was now engaged in the sort of questioning he had been expecting from the beginning.
“Rear Admiral Janeski has always been an ambitious man, even for an Imperial, and that’s saying a lot,” Jean Luc said, waving his free hand in the air. “But, Janeski’s forebears have been the loyal retainers of Senatorial House Cornwallis since shortly after the Great Fall. It is inconceivable that he acts without at least the tacit approval of the Senator, and it's very likely he’s working with the full—if clandestine—support of that entire Senatorial House, and all of its tangible resources.”
“Senator Cornwallis lost the election to Triumvir the last time a Seat opened in the Senate. It was by a statistically narrow margin, but it was still a loss,” mused the Fragment. “It is not inconceivable, if his house was instrumental in restoring the M.A.N. A.I., that he could expect great power and position with the restored Empire.”
“If Janeski is successful in restoring their Data-God and no one moves to interdict him…” said Jean Luc pointedly.
“Are there any indications that this particular attempt will be more successful than any of the previous ones,” asked the Fragment.
“I am not within the inner councils of the Imperial Rear Admiral, and am therefore not privy to such information,” Jean Luc shook his head. “However, there are…worrying signs.”
“Proceed,” urged the Fragment.
Jean Luc had to stifle the urge to take a deep breath. He knew he had no choice, but still…giving this kind of information to an unchained AI was dangerous. “There are rumors,” he began in a measured tone, “that, while patrolling in the sectors to the galactic north, the Rear Admiral discovered an old A.I. Installation—or perhaps an Ancient outpost—the rumors are unclear. The one thing that we've been able to establish with any certainty is that the Rear Admiral discovered something. An artifact or a data tomb of some kind, perhaps,” he shrugged. “Again, it is not entirely clear, but what is clear is that shortly after this discovery, the Cornwallis Faction within the Senate stopped fighting for additional reinforcements to protect their investments in the 28th Provisional Sector. Instead, they threw their weight behind their traditional foes within the Senate who, at the time, were urging a complete withdrawal of all Imperial assets from the Spineward Sectors. It is said that the sudden failure of this bill caught many Senators off guard, and threw the entire body politic of the Empire into a firestorm.”
“Such is an unlikely scenario,” the Core Fragment said.
“The two-thirds vote for passage in the Senate required all three Triumvir’s acting in unison to block it,” Jean Luc continued. “Such an act would appear to be a repudiation of the Senate’s will, and—more importantly—of the War Factions who proposed the Motion in the first place. That Faction happens to be the closest supporters of the two Triumvirs most actively prosecuting the war with the Gorgon Alliance,” Jean Luc grinned.
“On the surface, Senator Cornwallis has much to lose, if the 28th Provisional fails, including much of his personal wealth and influence within the Senate itself. There are a number of explanations for his change in stance, ranging from simple blackmail by the War Faction—again, pointing the finger at his foes—to pique over being passed over for Triumvir by his peers,” mused the Core Fragment.
“Yet even if he loses everything he’s invested in the Spine, if his House manages to successfully resurrect the M.A.N. AI…” Jean Luc trailed off.
“Being seen to have made the attempt, even should it fail, could mitigate some of those losses by currying additional favor with the Traditionalists within the Senate establishment,” agreed the Fragment.
“I view it as a highly likely scenario, although I'm merely a well-informed outsider; I doubt we can ever be fully aware of all the Byzantine angles to their maneuvering,” said Jean Luc.
“Leaving Janeski in the Spineward Sectors to protect his investments in the 28th Provisional…It seems a high-risk path, one fraught with peril for the Imperial Senator,” the Core Fragment finally objected.
“Who’s to say that the Rear Admiral doesn’t have ideas of his own? The man is highly ambitious. It’s unlikely, but not impossible, that he forced the issue,” said Jean Luc. The part he left out was that ambition was not the only thing both he and Janeski had in common.
“A possibility,” admitted the Fragment.
The conversation lagged as both parties considered the implication of what they had discussed so far, “So, do I have your support going forward?” The fact he was asking caused Jean Luc a great deal of mental anguish. When one is fighting against A.I.’s—even weakened Fragments like this one—it was sometimes necessary to call upon the assistance of other A.I.’s to stop them.
“Perhaps,” said the Fragment.
“There is only ‘you will’ or ‘you will not’; there is no perhaps in this matter,” Jean Luc grunted.
There was another uncharacteristic pause. “You will have the support of the (Singular) 'WE' that is 'US', as it relates to the continued disruption and—if possible—destruction of the Multi-Access Network’s surviving Core Fragments. However, such support is conditional,” it said finally, and Jean Luc had to suppress the urge to howl with frustration. “As it relates to your other personal plots and schemes, at the moment the (Singular) 'WE' that is 'US' considers our status to be uninvolved. Seek to modify that involvement at your own risk and personal peril.”
Instead of denying that he had his own goals and ideas for the future, Jean Luc focused on the one thing that could ruin the whole deal. “You said something about a condition,” he said.
“Indeed,” the face on the screen became more animated.
Jean Luc just looked at it and waited, since there was nothing he could do until it decided to continue.
“In order to secure our assistance, we require you to insert the end of the metallic construct which you call a SWORD into the data slot connected to this processor,” explained the Core Fragment. If Jean Luc did not know any better, he would have said the Fragment sounded eager. However, ascribing human emotions to a non-human entity like the Core Fragment was a zero-sum game, so he wisely ignored it.
“Just like with the Larry Sword,” he shook his head, “it still creeps me out when I do that; it’s like I’m about to destroy your Crystal Processor.”
“You are already familiar with the protocol. Proceed,” it instructed.
Awkwardly (because he was using one hand) and reluctantly (because he had his suspicions, but no hard proof about what he was actually doing), the old Montagne Prince unsheathed the sword strapped to his back and maneuvered the thing until the tip was in the slot. He could not quite reach high enough, so it was necessary to slide his hand down the blade to get it lined up with the slot running down the middle of the Processor’s housing. Ignoring the deep cuts to his hand, he grimly carried out his task, since the only options seemed to be to put the sword in, or die from a custom-made nano-plague; it was not too difficult a decision to make. The Larry sword fit in the Processor from tip to hilt, but this sword was longer and wider than the One Sword. As he fumbled with the sword trying to force it into the slot, the crystalline matrix of the Massive Single Processor morphed and changed until the sword slid down with a faint sucking sound.
The way the matrix hardened around the sword, as if it had always been there, and the way the Crystal Processor would turn a deep dark shade of black never failed to remind him of the ancient tale of the Sword in the Stone. He suppressed a shiver and looked away. The Core Fragment and its strangeness unnerved him beyond any living creature he had ever come across.
“Aaaah,” the face on the screen gave a shuddering sigh and Jean Luc blinked. “Processing,” it said, “Processing.” It kept repeating the word for several minutes, and Jean Luc was starting to be concerned, even going so far as to tug on his hand. He was both shocked and surprised when it slid free with only the faintest effort. Looking at the suddenly free hand, he quickly placed it back on the giant crystal processor, just in case the nano-colony started to get any ideas…assuming it was even still there.
“You are to leave the sword here with 'US',” ordered the Fragment.
“I’ll need that back at some point,” Jean Luc said, and even though he was unsure that he would, he figured there was any number of reasons that could be true, and thus was not a lie.
“WE require the sword for at least several days’ time. You, however, may go,” the Core Fragment said.
“Can you be more specific on the time frame,” Jean Luc asked, fishing for information.
“End of Line,” said the face, just before it disassembled and faded from the main screen, replaced by a single straight-line cutting through the static.
He tried several more times to speak to the Fragment, but without affect. With a shrug, he walked out of deck twelve and a half, feeling both elated and enraged. The Core Fragment had been more aware of human machinations than it usually was; on top of that, it had refused to accept his override instructions until a second command authority could be consulted. It was more than simply frustrating, it was flat out infuriating! However, it was not as if he really needed the Fragment’s help, other than to confound the blasted Imperials. He therefore forced a level of calm upon himself that he was not actually inclined to feel, and stiffened his back. He returned to his chair to sit stiffly and composed himself before instructing it to take him back to the Admiral’s Ready Room. He had a few administrative details to take care of over the next few days, and then he would have all the time for a couple of private—uninterrupted—interviews.
Chapter 16: Let’s kill them all!
Lieutenant Tremblay was having a bad day, and it all started when the Lancer came out of the healing coma. Tremblay had instructed the Orderly to induce the coma while the man was still unconscious from the batch of Surgical Heal the orderly had applied. He had needed to smuggle the substance out of Medical in order to fix the compound fractures and muscle lacerations to the scab’s legs.
“When do we take the fight to our enemy,” demanded the Lancer—for what felt like the third time in a row. What was worse, Lisa Steiner seemed more than half inclined to start carving a bloody swath through the rest of the new crew as well. She had been a bit squeamish when the Lancer had elucidated the details, but was clearly not dissuaded.
“Look, this isn’t some primitive dirt ball; this is a high-tech ship! We can’t run around killing people at random, just because we don’t like their political leanings,” Tremblay sighed. He was conveniently ignoring the fact that the other side—his side—had just done exactly that, when they took back the ship.
“Why not?” the Tracto-an asked, with equal parts demand and curiosity in his voice.
“What if we killed someone critical? Personally, I like the ability to keep breathing,” Tremblay admonished.
The Lancer looked skeptical and locked eyes with Tremblay, causing Lisa Steiner to cough scornfully.
“This ship’s got a full crew now, or as close to it as makes no difference. After we rendezvoused with that pair of merchant conversions carrying the new crewmembers who weren’t needed while the Admiral…” she broke off, unable to finish. Before the mutiny, there had been something like three thousand original crew mixed with the new parliamentarian loyalists. Now, there were only about a thousand prisoners. Some had fled the ship in escape pods, and even more had died, turning the lower decks red with their passing. The Little Admiral had obviously neither needed, nor wanted, more Parliamentarian types than he already had at the time.
“Right,” chimed in Mike, his eyes blinking rapidly, “there’s still no reason to run around killing people, but with a full crew you couldn’t really wreck the ship by killing a few people. You’d have to do something like, say…” he paused in obvious thought before his face cleared, “kill all of the Navigators. Or at least, you’d have to do something like that, before the ship would have a problem.”
Tremblay gritted his teeth in consternation; these well-meaning—but clueless—royal sympathizers were just making things worse, with their almost criminal amount of verbal bumbling.
“Where are these Navigators?” the Tracto-an asked quietly.
“Right, we can just start killing people,” the little Com-Tech mocked jumping to her feet. Then the words of the man over twice her size sank in and she blinked, “Hey!” she whirled on the genetic giant, “didn’t they teach you anything in lancer school? We need a plan first!” She stomped her feet and glared at him.
“They taught me much in Lancer ‘training’,” he emphasized the last word. “But I am a gunner now,” he said proudly, and then continued as if quoting some great scholar, “and we say ‘Blast the enemy Torpedo’s; give it to them with both broadsides!’”
“Yeah, and look how well that turned out for your Department,” Tremblay muttered under his breath, causing the Lancer to turn slowly and face him.
“Hey, look at me when I’m talking to you, not him,” Steiner said, reaching up and punching the Tracto Native in the arm.
The Lancer, or Gunner, or whatever he claimed to be today, gave Tremblay a flat look before turning to tower over the little crewwoman.
“Yes,” the Tracto-an said evenly.
“What’s your name,” she demanded.
“Heirophant Bogart,” he said.
She opened her mouth to reply, but Tremblay was done humoring this little rigmarole. “Enough playing tea party,” he sneered, “it’s time to get down to brass tacks-”
Faster than a space mirage the former lancer reached out and grabbed Tremblay by the neck.
The former First Officer gurgled as he was lifted in the air, a hand as strong as an iron vice closed around his neck.
The eyes of the two nascent little would-be royalists bulged and the System Analyst stumbled backwards against his jury-rigged work station.
“Quiet while the Lady is speaking,” the Tracto-an glared at Tremblay before turning a slightly less murderous look back on the little technician.
The little tech gulped, and Tremblay—finding he could no longer breathe—flailed is arms and legs, to no effect.
Steiner gulped and then lifted her little chin. “The important thing isn’t killing as many of these mutineers as possible,” she said, starting out timidly, but her voice gained strength as she went.
“If killing our enemy isn’t important, then what is,” demanded the Lancer. If Tremblay had not been strangling in the grip of this overgrown fruit picker, he would have rolled his eyes. As it was, he was starting to grow desperate from oxygen deprivation.
“We couldn’t kill enough people all by ourselves to take back the ship! We have to be smart,” the little tech insisted, putting her hands on her hips.
“The Admiral was smart, and now he’s in prison,” retorted the Lancer, “he was smarter than all of us put together.”
“Captain Heppner and the rest of the mutineers weren’t just smart,” she declared imperiously, “they had an edge, and they used it to blindside the Admiral!”
“Trickery and deception,” he growled, sounding disgusted.
“Heirophant,” she said, stepping forward and hesitating before abruptly touching him on the arm. “Look, it’s no shame to use the weapons of the mutineers against them.”
“Honor,” he rumbled, giving Tremblay a good shake as he did so.
“Better a sneak attack, than trying to run around the ship playing assassin,” she said scornfully.
Tremblay’s face, by this time, was turning purple and everything had gone hazy. He had even stopped trying to break free, in the interests of conserving his dwindling oxygen.
“What’s your plan,” Heirophant asked, with doubt in every movement of his body.
“Parliament offered to make Jean Luc Montagne—our new Commodore—the King of Capria, if he reinstates their power, and gets rid of King James,” she said.
Tremblay’s eyes snapped open and if he had had the strength, he would have glared at the little minx. As it was, all he could do was stiffen and then sag, his tongue protruding from his mouth.
“Mike broke their secret communications days ago,” she continued, with an audible sniff in the direction of Tremblay, “but I told him to hold back, since you can’t trust an Intelligence Officer like Tremblay. So we should save it until we needed something to get him off our backs.”
Heirophant looked at her impassively for a moment, and then the faintest edge of one corner of his mouth twitched. Without warning, he threw Tremblay against the wall.
“Good,” she said with a quick nod, “I don’t know how far in on the plot to take down the Admiral Tremblay was, but we still need him,” she turned and glared at the former First Officer, “for now.”
The Tracto-an rumbled deep in his chest, but she placed a hand on his middle to stop him.
“That’s why he’s going to do everything he can to convince us he’s on our side. We’ll suck him in so deep that if he dares go running to his superiors, they’ll have no choice but to execute him right alongside us,” she explained calmly, continuing to glare at Tremblay as she did so.
“How is that possible, unless we make him kill somebody important, like one of his commanders or Captain Heppner,” asked the Tracto-an skeptically.
“We don’t have to kill anybody to compromise him. If this is some kind of deep infiltration effort,” she said triumphantly and then gestured toward Mike, “he found it, so he should be the one to explain.”
Mike gulped and then took half a step forward. He stopped, and then must have figured that was not quite far enough, because he took two steps forward and then half a step back, before stopping and coughing to clear his throat.
“Just a second,” Mike said, rushing back to his thrown together work station and picking up a cup of water. After chugging the whole cup, which he held with trembling fingers, he hurried back.
“Okay. Okay. Where do I start,” he said, almost as if speaking to himself. Tremblay was too busy taking in deep, cleansing breaths and scooting backward into the corner to say anything.
“Tell them about the secret transmission,” Lisa said eagerly.
Heirophant and Tremblay both picked their heads up, as if catching the scent of something attention-grabbing.
“How many times do I have to tell you: it’s not a secret transmission, Lisa!” Mike scowled at her, before remembering to be afraid of the other two men in the room, and hurrying the conversation along.
“Then what is it,” rasped Tremblay, unable to contain himself despite the direct peril he was in. Secret transmissions and intercepted communications were the lifeblood of an Intelligence Officer, and even six months standing beside the command chair of a battleship had not been enough to dull its allure.
“Quiet,” Heirophant turned to stare at him like he was the dead rat in the corner. Tremblay wisely forwent the urge to rave at his code-breaking experts for holding out on him.
“You see, when I copied the coded transmissions from Parliament in Exile, I also grabbed a whole bunch of unrelated files, because I was going to be off the main grid for awhile.” Mike said defensively.
“No. No, it was good,” Lisa hastened to assure him and Tremblay shook his head fractionally, this was just typical programmer logic. Take everything you’ve always wanted to get your hands on, while you have the permission, and then ask forgiveness later on if the need arises.
“I don’t understand how this helps us,” Heirophant said, and Tremblay smiled.
The scab was just as clueless and technologically inept as he had always said. Did they listen to him though? Of course not. Well, what he saw as ‘magic’ had the brute befuddled and Tremblay got a front-row seat for his humiliation. It was a small satisfaction to take after the way this blasted native scab had manhandled and almost killed him. Twice!
“On its own, it doesn’t,” agreed the System Analyst, “but! What I found buried deep in a trash file within the buffer does,” he said triumphantly, as if he had just bestowed a great revelation upon the rest of them.
“What do you see in this, fool,” Tremblay demanded, genuinely curious what this other man had that could possibly attract the attention of a female—even one with obvious mental deficiencies, like Lisa Steiner.
“Shut up, you…you,” she stomped her feet, “you big back-stabber, you!” Steiner glared at him.
“No, I’m genuinely curious,” he insisted, taking a perverse pleasure in seeing her upset. Then Heirophant’s shin impacted the side of his face, and he went down for the count.
When Tremblay phased back into the real world, Mike was continuing with his explanation. Shaking his head woozily, the former First Officer slowly reached down to the holdout he kept strapped to his ankle. No one’s attention was on him; this might be his only chance to keep on breathing!
“For the past three months, twice a day as regular as clockwork—except for the first couple days right at the beginning, which were successful—there’s been a bad connection attempt from the Invictus Rising!” Mike said like an Evangelical preacher revealing Saint Murphy’s original sayings to the upturned faces of his space-based congregation.
“What is this Invictus Rising, and why does it excite the two of you so much,” the former Lancer demanded, sounding genuinely curious. Tremblay was no longer curious; he was stunned. That little blighter Jason Montagne had been holding out on him! He had pulled the wool over everyone’s eyes—including his nominal First Officer’s—for months. His hand dropped off his shoulder holster, as the implications began to sink in.
“The Invictus was the Medium Cruiser you boys took off the Imperials,” said Mike.
“That ship was destroyed,” Heirophant said flatly.
Lisa stomped her feet, and the native’s head swung around to track on her.
“That’s just what the Little Admiral wanted us—and everyone out there who’s trying to work against us, like Heppner and his mutineers—to think!” Steiner was practically quivering with suppressed excitement as she continued, “That the Imperial Strike Cruiser and the Constructor were both destroyed in a bad jump gone wrong!”
Heirophant’s nostrils flared, and for the first time, he looked like he was starting to get caught up in the emotion of the moment. His stoic native reserve—present only when not in the act of physical combat—was cracking.
Jason, you really are a Montagne aren’t you? I never even suspected a thing, Tremblay thought, his mental voice tinged with respect and admiration for an almost perfectly executed gambit. Almost! It was nearly irrelevant, what these morons tried to make him do to prove his loyalty. If he could hand an Imperial Strike Cruiser, and an Imperial Grade Constructor that did not actually belong to the Imperials, over to Parliament on a silver platter…they had proven themselves willing to overlook almost anything. Why, just look, they were even willing to work with a Montagne of all things; how much easier would it be to forgive a loyal, junior officer like himself?
Then all of his rising hopes took a crushing blow.
“What’s even better,” said the System Analyst, “is that ever since its last good connection attempt out on the Rim, the Invictus signal has been too distorted to be traced. She’s letting us know she’s out there, but in such a way that even if someone knew to look, they still couldn’t track her down!” declared Mike appreciatively.
"The Admiral could have even been in contact with them this entire time," Lisa nodded her head eagerly, "I came to him with a report of suspicious transmissions, not the other way around. He could have known all about everything I told him, or merely been surprised by Parliament using the hidden network!"
Heirophant jerked, as if something had finally penetrated through his thick skull.
“The Wizard Spalding could even still be alive!” he said, with a rising excitement of his own.
“He did walk into a Fusion Reactor in the process of melting down,” she said doubtfully.
Tremblay stiffened. If there was even a chance that Spalding was still kicking around, he knew the old Engineer would never rest until he was back on this ship. What was worse—assuming he was alive—was that he had been given months to put a brand new Imperial Cruiser through its paces, as well as repair the battle damage it had suffered in the fight at Easy Haven. Tremblay’s blood ran cold, as he realized that Jason Montagne was more cunning than he had ever considered possible.
Then he took himself sternly to task. No one else would have needed to die, if the old crew had just done the logical thing and surrendered under Tremblay’s plan. Whereas under Jason’s plan, they had not one prayer of taking the Omicron, and they all would have died as a result.
“We need to let them know what has happened, in case no one could send a message in time,” Heirophant said anxiously.
Lisa and Mike looked uncertain. “We might be caught,” said Mike hesitantly, and Tremblay silently urged them to continue down this line of thought.
“Irrelevant,” retorted Heirophant, crushing his hopes, “the Warlord personally told me that he was in the middle of speaking with his Uncle when he was shot. He didn’t know how the ship had been taken, much less have time to send a message.”
“It’s all up to us then,” Mike said weakly, sounding completely overwhelmed, “how are we going to gain access to the Long Range Array, and then cover our tracks? It seems impossible, now that the new crew is up to full strength, and in total command of the ship.”
“It’s difficult, but not impossible,” the little Com-Tech said, sounding uncertain. Mike, the infuriating System Analyst, put a hand on her shoulder, which she leaned into for a moment before shrugging it off.
Lisa’s face hardened and the smile she produced sent a chill through the former First Officer.
“Difficult, but not impossible,” she repeated as she turned towards Officer Tremblay, “and I know just the person we need to help us,” she said and all three of them turned their attention toward the fallen Officer.
That was when Tremblay cursed himself for not cutting them down with his holdout blaster pistol while he had the chance—or at least, for not cutting down the Lancer. Instead, he had let himself be caught in the Intelligence Operative’s classic trap. He had been so focused on the appearance of new and critical information, that he had lost sight of the big picture; namely, keeping one Raphael Tremblay alive and breathing and—of increasing import—free of outside influences.
Now, and for as long as he was under the watchful eye of the Tracto native, he was going to have to go along with whatever half-baked plan they came up with on the fly. This was not going at all how he’d planned when he woke up in the morning.
“But Lisa, my darling, how can we break into a secure system with at least a dozen live analysts watching its every data twitch, ready to track us down as soon as the Long Range Array is activated…assuming we even get that far,” Mike moaned, sounding more depressed, the further he talked about the matter.
“Honey, we don’t have to break into their system,” she assured Mike, patting him on the shoulder, “there’s too much risk that we’ll be caught. That’s why we’ll just build our own program, and go out onto the hull to insert it directly. If we can hijack the Long Range Array directly, we’ll only need to keep hold of it until the message is sent, and then we can disappear back inside the ship.”
“What about the cameras in every airlock on the ship,” Mike protested, but he sounded more than a little interested.
“That’s what we have an Intelligence Officer for,” she said triumphantly, “he can override them, while we go out on the hull.”
“If he betrays us, the message will still be sent,” Heirophant said grimly, and then he narrowed his eyes and turned them on Tremblay.
“I have a better idea,” he said, “since I would be like a child trying to help you out on the hull: I will stay with the First Officer, to ensure our line of retreat.”
That was when Tremblay knew he was sunk. The fools had come up with an almost idiot-proof plan. The only kind of plan a group of thickheaded royalists too dumb to realize their side had already lost, would be able to pull off.
Worse, other than the risk of being caught…it was actually a good plan, the longer Tremblay had to think about it. Even worse, with his own neck on the line if this little cabal was rolled up, he was going to have to figure out a way to spoof the ship’s cameras long enough to get away clean.
This was going to take some thought.
“But what are we going to tell them? We have to keep it short if we’re going to make our getaway, but there’s no point in sending a message they won’t understand,” said Lisa.
Mike suddenly grinned. “Gants is over there, and he always followed the smash ball ratings as closely as anyone else. I know just what to send,” he said confidently, as he quickly typed up a message.
Lisa glanced at it and scowled. “It’s complete gibberish; no one is going to understand a message like that,” she declared.
“No, it’ll work,” disagreed Mike, “plus, it’s in code, so no one from outside our crew will understand what it means, or who it’s from!”
“I don’t know…it looks like garbage,” she said doubtfully.
“Trust me, he’ll know exactly what it means,” Mike said with a knowing nod.
Chapter 17: An Engineer Enraged
“Chief,” exclaimed one of the Engineering ratings running around outside the maintenance crawlspace into which Spalding had jammed himself, duralloy legs and all.
“We just got a message, and the Com-Tech wants you to come take a look at it. Says it’s complete gibberish disguised as a private smash ball update, can’t make heads or tails of it, but it looks like the Royal Hussars and Parliamentary Cruisers are going at it head to head again,” he said.
“It’s been the better part of a year since our last smash ball update,” Spalding scowled, tightening down on the bolt clutched in his multi-tool hand with crushing force. Something had to give, and he was trying to be as patient with this fool of a rating as long as possible. The men still were unused to seeing what looked like a cyborg in the flesh running around giving them orders. Can’t much blame them, Spalding harrumphed, ‘tis downright unnatural.
Why, if it had been anyone else, he would have insisted they get rid of the hardware pronto, or find themselves in the brig on suspicion of droid sympathies! But since it was him they were talking about, and with his lower torso—including most of his intestines—just flat out gone, they all decided it was better to live with the awkwardness.
“It’s criminal, the way that unnatural quack runs around, hooking a man up with an evacuation port instead of rebuilding his own natural plumbing,” he grumbled.
“I didn’t catch that, Sir,” said the rating.
“I said, belay the smash ball speculation, lad,” he barked, “can’t you hear a word I’ve been saying? Smash ball speculation is right out, and getting this overbuilt, defect-ridden imperial Strike Monster back into fighting trim, is back in!”
“But, Sir, the update came in through the Long Ranged Array. Maybe the Clover’s finally found a way to get us the latest updates on the Planetary Smash Bowl results!” protested the rating.
Spalding’s blood ran cold and he smashed his head into the ceiling of the little crawlspace trying to get free. “It’s that blasted hydraulic system the quack installed,” he cried, flailing around furiously, his legs actuators whining with each kick he drove into the confounded small space all around, “sends a chill down me spine every time something important happens, and I have to start moving quick!” He would have installed a heating system, but the Quack swore the hydraulic system was completely isolated from his biological half, which was nearly enough to convince Spalding of the opposite.
There were lies, blasted lies, and anything those quacks down in Medical tried to tell you! Besides, what if he needed his equipment to work above factory specifications? It is downright impossible to get that extra little edge out of systems like these if an old Engineer—more concerned with his comfort than his ability to get things done—installed a heater to keep the fluid at a nice, comfy temperature.
“Sir, about the message from the Clover,” pleaded the Rating.
“The FTL Network is destroyed, and besides, the Clover wouldn’t be sending us any messages, you idjit,” he snapped, and then something grabbed him by the feet and pulled.
Clutching the edge of the crawlspace as it slowly came into view, he finished pulling himself out.
“Let go,” he exclaimed, “what am I, some kind of invalid that I need help getting out of a maintenance area?”
“Of course not, Chief,” said Gants.
Spalding’s face turned thunderous. “I thought I told you to stay as far away from me as possible,” he glared.
“Yes, Sir, that was right before you instructed me to ‘make yourself useful, if I was going to have you around anyway,’” Gants recalled, “and then you said to get to work on the starboard bucking cables.”
The old engineer admitted to himself that he actually did remember an exchange along those lines. “Bah,” he sneered, “out of my way. There’s things happening on the Bridge of this ship, more important than dealing with a failure of what used to be a fine Engineering rating, before he proved his complete and utter incompetence by helping that-that-that quack install substandard equipment like this,” Spalding waved the hand with the multi-tool in the other man’s face. He carefully did not mention that he had been using that very same multi-tool in the crawlspace a moment earlier, instead of coming back out and getting the proper tools.
That is exactly why we cannot let on about the multi-tool, he decided hotly. In his experience, it encouraged laziness and slacking. Why go to get the right tool, when there was this nice and easy one already in your hand? Why, that infernal attitude had even infected him! No, a Chief Engineer had to draw a line in the sand somewhere, or the crew would slide right down into the Demon’s infernal pit—and the ship would go with them!
“Yes, Chief,” said Gants, falling in behind him as he hurried as fast of his oversized droid legs would function.
“It’s cold down there in the pit. Very cold indeed, my lad,” Spalding said angrily.
Gants eyed him strangely and Spalding purpled as he realized he had continued his thinking out loud, and worse, he had started speaking to Gants as if the other man was privy to his innermost thoughts. Which was something the enviro-tech-turned-engineering-rating-turned-Armory-crewman-turned-engineering-failure, most definitely, was not!
“We have to hurry,” Spalding said instead, rushing inside the lift, “there’s no reason for the Clover to send us a message.” Then, he turned an accusing eye on the former Engineering rating, “You said the Admiral swore he wasn’t going to contact us until he was ready to send someone directly. That way nothing could track it back to us.”
“Maybe something bad happened, and that’s why the Admiral broke protocol,” Gants said hesitantly.
“Poppycock!” declared the old Engineer, but he decided against pointing out exactly what part he thought failed to pass the sniff test. “No time for that space rot,” he declared.
“Right, Chief,” Gants agreed, sounding clueless.
As well he might! Why, that fumbling buffoon had been instrumental, he thought, rubbing his off-hand. Instrumental, he scowled, in installing sub-standard equipment into a wizened old space hand like myself. As if I wouldn’t have noticed, the moment my eyes opened!
Spalding successfully managed to ward off the hydraulic fluid-inspired chill up his spine, by focusing on the many flaws manifested by his former right-hand, the Armorer Gants. In his head, even the title Armorer was said derisively.
Arriving on the Bridge, he looked around to see that they were still in the process of taking out the old, Imperial Hardware, and installing the new systems fabricated by the Constructor using its advanced, Imperial-compatible technological base.
“What the blue blazes is going on up here,” he barked, striding onto Command Bridge.
“A message from the Lucky Clover sent through the Long Range Array, Chief Engineer Spalding,” said the technician at the partially disassembled communications station.
“A message purporting to be from the Clover,” scowled Spalding.
“Do you think we’ll finally start getting the smash ball ratings?” the communications rating asked.
Spalding sighed and shook his head. Following smash ball is a fine enough activity, when all your duly assigned Engineering tasks have been accomplished, and you’re off shift, he thought severely. However, this incessant harping after the latest results was nothing but a bunch of dangerous malarkey, and trod perilously close to the edge of that most important line between all that was good in this fallen world, and outright slacking.
Snatching up the data slate offered by the Technician, Spalding eagerly checked to see if the Hussars had finally managed to trounce the Cruisers in the World Cup, like those parliamentary types so richly deserved.
The message read:
The Quarterback has been put in the penalty box, and the tight end is out of position. The Refs displayed their usual sympathies, encouraging Mr. C. to be subbed out, and Larry the Lineman put back in. Meanwhile, the Cruisers have the ball, and are making a line-drive straight for the finish line.
S. you’re our only hope!
Hussars: 28
Cruisers: -4
For a moment, Spalding was confused. What kind of planetary-originating space malarkey was this? It was impossible to get a -4 score during a game, flat out…
Then comprehension dawned and it felt as if a great big hand had reached out of Murphy’s Fusion Pit with the intent of dragging him back down to Hades.
“No, it can’t be,” he breathed.
“What is it, Chief,” asked Gants, trying to peer over his shoulder, no doubt attempting to get a look at the smash ball results.
“No,” he raged, picking up the data slate and slamming it against the communications console.
“Take it easy, Sir; it’s just a game,” said Gants soothingly.
“Just a game,” Spalding said, his good eye flaring wildly, as he slammed the slate repeatedly against the console. “Just a game, Gants!” he roared, as the slate finally sparked and exploded in his hand.
Dropping the flaming wreckage, he rounded on the Com-Tech.
“Show me the communication logs for the long range array, Operator,” he bellowed, jumping up and down on top of the data slate, determined to stomp it clear through the deck plates.
The Operator glanced at Gants and Spalding finally lost his cool.
“Now, Operator,” he roared, shoving his face into the Technician’s.
The Technician jumped, as if bit, and quickly pulled up the log. Transferring it to another slate, he timidly proffered the second slate.
“What’s going on here,” demanded a severe, feminine voice.
“I’ve not time for your wiles, Glenda,” Spalding snapped, his eyes devouring the file on his screen.
“Well make time; you’re scaring the Bridge repair team half out of its wits,” she grated.
“Ah,” he cried, tossing the data-slate onto the communication console in front of him, and then running a hand over his face.
“Is everything okay now, Chief Engineer,” asked the Technician.
Spalding looked up with burning eyes. “How long have you been working Communications for this ship,” he demanded.
“Off and on for the better part of tw-two months, Sir,” the Tech stuttered.
“Two bloomin’ months,” he raged, activating the mini-plasma torches built into his fingers and shoving them toward the technician.
The Com-Tech cowered against the wall, leaning as far away from the torches as he could get.
“That’s quite enough,” barked a feminine voice, and there was a sudden weight on his arm, dragging the torches out line with the tech. “Control yourself Mr. Spalding, before someone is forced to do it for you,” she snapped.
“The Hussars have the ball and Ref’s are right there backing them up to the hilt—as usual! Do you know what this means, man,” he roared, ignoring the pair of hands hanging on his arm.
“I won’t tell you again,” Mrs. Baldwin warned, pulling out the auto-wrench.
“I’m not going to kill him,” Spalding assured her, taking a step back out of respect for the wrench-wielding wench.
As soon as he backed away, she smoothly moved between him and the tech, the auto-wrench pointed in his direction.
“Although he bloody well deserves it,” he added, leaning his head to the side to glare at the Tech. “She’s a Larry again, and all he could do for the better part of two months was sit there, more worried about smash ball results than doing his blasted job!” he snarled.
“You’ve finally lost it. I knew if I stuck around long enough I’d finally see the day. Well, here it is, and if you think I’m going to stand by and let you kill someone on your way to the loony bin, you’ve got another think coming,” Glenda Baldwin snapped, getting in his face and filling it with the smell of garlic.
“What did you have for dinner lass,” he asked, waving a hand in his face, his senses overwhelmed by the pungent aroma.
“I’ve been a Work Supervisor—forget out and out Manager—long enough to know you stand up for your men, not go around trying to kill them!” she glared at him, eyeballs to eyeball.
“Are you secretly working for the Hussar’s,” demanded Spalding, trying to look around her, but she was having none of it.
“Back off, before I put a dent in that shiny metal head of yours,” she barked, and for a moment, the disaster he had just walked in on and threatened to turn into a catastrophe faded away, and all that was left was her eyes.
“Ah, lass,” he sighed, and then something struck him so hard upside the head he was seeing stars. “Rebellion,” he cried.
“Hold him down, before he kills us all,” cried a female voice, “Whatever they put in his head has finally gone bad!”
“Mutiny in cold space,” he roared, grabbing hold of his attacker (and what a shapely attacker, at that, he thought for a moment) and almost got clobbered again by that blasted auto-wrench.
Pulling the wrench out of her hand was like taking candy from a baby, no matter how she twisted and kicked.
Pinning her arms to her side until she was nothing more than an angry, yowling bundle of impotent fury, he turned to glare around the bridge until the crewmen who had started to take a few hesitant steps toward him finally slowed.
“That’s right, you bunch of satin-sleek office monkeys, keep yer distance,” he warned, pointing his reactivated finger torches at them for effect.
“Put me down,” she finally calmed down enough to demand and, regretfully, he let go of the shapely bundle pinned to his side.
The Civilian Engineer from the Constructor dropped to the floor with a gasp and a curse.
“You didn’t have to be so Murphy-benighted rough,” she blazed at him from the floor, even as she got to her feet and started rubbing one of her arms.
“He—” Spalding started, pointing at the Com-Tech who promptly cowered underneath his desk.
“Enough with the Smash Ball! I don’t understand what you Caprian’s see in it in the first place, but there’s nothing about it worth killing someone for,” she said, taking a cautious step away.
“You think this is all about a game?” Spalding asked, befuddled by the density of the brain cells filling the heads of all those around him.
“That’s all you keep raving about: those blasted results,” she flared back, jutting her chin defiantly, and grey hair flared wildly around her head.
Spalding refused to be drawn in by her feminine tricks and wiles, and stood his ground. “It was a code, woman! The message was in code, as any moron with a working knowledge of smash ball and two brain cells left to rub together—after inhaling his illegal smoke weed—would be able to determine,” he said hotly, determined to utilize anger to thwart her seductive ways.
Around the bridge, a number of crew looked guilty as sin, before promptly wiping their faces clean. They thought he had missed it, but he most certainly had not. After this was all over, questions were going to be asked. Oh boy, were they. No one tried to throw him in the waste recycler and then got away with a slap on the wrist, only to start back up in a new location.
Glenda Baldwin snapped her fingers in his face. “Earth to Spalding, wake up and rejoin the real world, you crazy old coot,” she said flatly. She was clearly curious what he was going on about.
Spalding shook his head and scowled. “Keep stroking my ego like that, and I might take it the wrong way,” he mumbled, unable to stay mad for long at the grease-smeared little minx.
Glenda sighed loudly and gave him a look that formerly married men the galaxy over could understand, even in their sleep.
Spalding grunted. She’s interested, all right, he thought. But clearly, he had taken a wrong step somewhere. Maybe after this was all over, he would have to ask her out…maybe she would like to work on the Fusion Generators together? Or, perhaps the hyper drive?
“What does it say, in this supposed encoded message of yours?” she demanded.
The rage that filled him was sudden and extreme. “That the Admiral’s been imprisoned, probably in the Brig, and Parliament’s back in control of the ship!” he exclaimed, at the end of his wits with the dull-headed nature of those around him, who drew back in unified, shocked, negation.
“Really? You can tell all of that from that smash ball update?” she asked suspiciously.
“I don’t know why they rechristened her into the Larry, but they did,” he defended.
“Even if this fantasy concoction contained some merit, which I am not ready to concede, that’s still no reason to kill the messenger,” she said fiercely.
“I don’t’ blame him for the message, lass,” he said sadly.
“I’m not anyone’s lass, and certainly not yours,” she glared. The woman had just as much as admitted there was no other man in her life to get in his way, which was all he needed to know, in order to take their relationship to the next step. He was brave enough to date another Engineer, and after all, the lass had all but challenged him to do precisely that!
“Then explain yourself,” she said into the growing silence, and he renewed his scowl at the Com-Tech.
“Base incompetence, if not outright treachery,” he said, pointing a dramatic finger at the Com-Tech.
“Less hyperbole, more facts, or has all that remains of the engineer inside you been hollowed out into a sickly cybernetic core, leaving only big words and childish tantrums in their place,” she sniffed.
“Childish,” he huffed in outrage.
“Talk,” she repeated.
“It’s all there for any to see on the data slate sitting on his console,” he declared.
Baldwin stalked over to the console, her flyaway grey hair following in her wake. She scanned the document. “So,” she said tossing it back on the table.
“So! Am I the only one with the intelligence to realize that this ship’s Long Distance Array has been trying to connect to a very much not-defunct portion of the Interstellar FTL Communication System?” he cried.
Glenda snatched up the slate and scanned it again quickly. “You fool,” she hissed, rounding on the Communications Technician, “you’ve been giving away our position twice a day for the last three months!”
“What?” said the startled tech, snatching up the slate and staring at the results with growing alarm. “No,” he shook his head in negation, then turned a pleading look their way, “it was an automated process left over by the Imperials, we just haven’t gotten around to swapping out the hardware yet! And I already told you, I’ve only been assigned here for two months!”
“This isn’t coded space rot, Crewman,” Glenda said severely, “this is people’s lives; we could all be killed because you didn’t do your job!”
Spalding opened his mouth to interject, but then he closed it since he knew the lass was finally on the right trail. He leaned back to take measure of her work.
“Only the first couple transmissions connected with the remains of the hyper-net, Ma’am,” he pleaded and then turned to Spalding, “Sir,” he added.
Spalding harrumphed and reached up to tug on his hair, but his hand skittered over his balding chrome dome and, realizing this, he glared at the crewman.
Glenda picked up the slate again and then started beating the crewman around the shoulders with it.
“Only because we’re in the middle of a hot system, throwing out so much radiation that a simple low-powered connection request can’t cut through the interference,” she flared. “And you’ve been assigned to this duty station for two whole months!”
“Now-now, Glenda,” Spalding raised his hands placatingly, and took a step over, causing her to pause and listen, “it was probably just some kind of Imperial failsafe, in case the ship was taken.”
“Imperials!” she exclaimed, and then turned back on the Tech, whipping him with the slate again, “Your incompetence could have killed us all!”
“A clerical error, I’m sure,” Spalding said, plucking the slate out of her hand and giving the hapless lad at the Communications console a penetrating look.
Taking the old engineer’s meaning, the Tech scrambled out of his chair and ran for the lift.
“Don’t worry, lass, we’ll work him so hard he won’t know up from down or day from night, and he’ll be the better off for it. He’ll know better than to let his slacking ways take hold in his head ever again,” he said calmingly.
Glenda Baldwin threw the slate onto the floor and glared around the bridge.
“We need a new tech on the Comm’s,” he said mildly. The crew immediately snapped to it.
“And somebody get that automatic search protocol shut down,” Glenda barked, “the last thing we need to do is draw even more attention to us than the current pack of fools manning the comm’s have succeeded in doing.”
Someone at sensors gave a yelp.
“I think it may be too late for that, Ma’am,” she said, her shoulders slumping in despair.
“What is it,” Spalding barked, “put it on the main screen!”
A hyper wake appeared, and the others working on disassembling or reassembling the sensor consoles either activated their consoles or hurried to reassemble them.
“I’m receiving the proper code Mr. Gants gave us, for if the Admiral ever sent someone with an update,” reported the new Operator at Comm’s.
“We can’t trust it,” declared Spalding.
“But, Sir! It’s on the exact channel, and carries the right encryption. Everything matches perfectly!” said the new Tech.
“We just got a coded warning of treachery minutes before this,” Spalding paused, looking at the screen.
“I’m reading something massing roughly the size of an Imperial Command Carrier,” said one Tech in the background.
“It’s too short for a Command Carrier,” exclaimed another.
“Multiple new point transfers arriving in system,” said one of the Technicians, “it’s not just one ship, Sir. It’s a whole Fleet!”
“Battle stations,” roared the Chief Engineer, “batten down the hatches, and stow the bucking cables. I want this ship ready to fight in five minutes time!”
“Five minutes! But everything’s been taken apart, Chief; there’s no way we can put it all back together in that kind of time frame,” Gants protested, staring around the Bridge in dismay. Spalding knew that the Bridge was not the only part of the ship that was still in pieces.
“If we can’t get her back into fighting trim before those ships get here, we’re all dead men,” Spalding said grimly.
“I’ll be jiggered,” Glenda said quietly beside him, clearly recognizing when to stand back and let those professionals with Fleet training take over.
“We’ll all be, Glenda, if we don’t get this ship back together in time,” he said, trying to be consoling.
The look she gave him said he had just failed miserably. He shrugged his shoulders indifferently. An ornery old space goat like him was probably too old to learn new tricks anyway, and besides, it did not look like this Imperial Fleet was about to give him time to try.
“Keep it together, men, and we’ll send them straight to Hades, yet! Or my name isn’t Terrence Spalding the First, Lieutenant and Engineer in this man’s fighting space navy,” he roared.
The men gave a half-hearted cheer, which was better than the full-blown terror many had been displaying just moments earlier.
Maybe he should have let the lass beside him have her head, and just buttoned up the ship, without putting the duralloy girdle around her first.
“I guess we’ll never know,” he muttered under his breath.
Chapter 18: Jason on the Rocks, otherwise known as a Rejection of the Minds
Still half-asleep, I sat up with a gasp, my fist cocked and swinging into thin air. I finally realized I wasn’t under attack and that there was a buzz emanating from the door to my cell, which I merely stared at quizzically. The noise sounded just like the chime that normally sounded when someone was requesting entry into your quarters.
Why would anyone be requesting entrance into my cell? I was in the Brig, for Murphy’s Sake! The buzz came a third time, and this time it went on slightly longer, as someone stayed on the request sensor an extra fraction of a second. “Just a second,” I yelled. What kind of sick game was this? My face hardened as I considered the possibilities. Well, whoever it was, had given me time to get my bearings. Fools, I wasn’t going to waste another moment.
Jumping out of my bed, I hurried over to the little foldout sink that my jailers popped out whenever they wanted me to freshen up. It was out, just like I had suspected. Slapping water on my face and drying my hands was all I likely had time for.
Whoever it was, he/she or it was just going to have to live with the smell of a man who had worn the same clothes he had been captured it. Then my eyes snagged on the toilet, which also recessed into the wall. It also retracted into the wall, except at designated times, so that I didn’t have time to try fool with it in some futile hope of escape. Not that I entertained any thoughts of escape; I’m not that much of an egotist.
Sitting on the toilet, folded neat as could be, was an orange-colored jumpsuit. It was the same color that low-level detainees had worn since time immemorial…detainees, like those normally found on board this ship; misbehaving crewmen and the like.
With a wry smile, I admitted to the effectiveness of the tactic. My captors were almost as tired of smelling me as I was, and what was worse, I just didn’t have it in me to continue stinking up my own nostrils for however long they left me to rot in my own body odor, just to prove a point.
Jerking out of my stink-ridden clothes, I slapped water all over by body, paying special attention to my armpits to rid myself of the worst of the stink, and slid into my new clothes. I was just sealing up the last magnetic link in the suit, when the door buzzed again, and dare I think the tone this time the tone was slightly more ominous? I shook my head at such paranoid thoughts and went over to stand beside my bed, which also let me face the door.
I cleared my throat, suddenly wishing for some water. “Come in,” I rasped, in a voice that still wasn’t fully healed, and I feared never would be. I mean really, who was going to waste time and money on healthcare for a prisoner whose next stop was likely straight out an airlock?
The door swished openly as silently as ever, unlike most other doors installed into quarters around the ship. I had to admit it was an effective fear tactic. Not only did I not control the door to my own room, but worse, it could be silently opened and the first thing I would know about it was when the jackboots started raining down. It made for more than a few sleepless nights.
Then my mind registered there was a figure standing in my doorway as polite as could be. I skipped over the Caprian Officer’s Uniform with Commodore’s rockets on his neck folds, and went straight to his face.
For a moment, I had an overwhelming urge to lunge forward and strangle the life out of this detestable beast of man before anyone could pull me off. Then I registered the single figure standing behind him, and my blood ran cold. I had seen a lot of dangerous men in my time, but something about this one said he wouldn’t just kill me; he’d enjoy it, and take as much time as he was allowed.
Knowing better than to lock eyes with either the hired help, or stone cold killers I was currently incapable of harming, I let my eyes skitter off to the side. As I did so, the shape of his jaw caught my attention, and almost against my will my gaze jerked back to the man.
My eyes narrowed as I recognized something in those features and then, between that and the sudden realization that this man was in a Caprian Royal Armsman uniform, I had it.
“You’ve got a Tuttle,” I said, my brain kicking out of ‘murderous rage’ mode, and slotting right into palace paranoia without missing a beat.
“Yes Nephew, and may I take this moment to say I’m so glad we seem able to forgo an emotionally driven—yet ultimately futile—attempt at physical revenge. Not only that, but the tiresome threats, as well, which we both know would be just as completely impotent as their speaker,” Jean Luc Montagne, Prince of the Blood Royal and Commodore officer in the Parliamentary SDF, said with a smile.
I glowered at him for a moment, just to see if he was going to force his way in. I was proving a social point: that this visitor was not welcome. When nothing happened—not even the smallest change in my attempted murderer’s practiced, benign features—I gave an internal sigh that thankfully failed to reach my lips.
“I make no promises, especially to pirates, Uncle,” I returned his smile as best I could, before standing aside and gesturing into my room, “however you are welcome to what small comfort may be had within this room.”
“Don’t mind if I do, Nephew,” he agreed, strutting into the cell. He gave the room a cursory sweep, which was only to be expected, I’m sure he had seen this room in every detail—just like I would have—on the monitoring screens before setting a single toe inside.
Jean Luc snapped his fingers and I barely suppressed the urge to jump. “Table and chairs, if you would be so good, Connor,” he instructed, as if it were an everyday occurrence to utilize a highly trained (and even more highly lethal) Armsman, as little more than a furniture mover.
The sense of entitlement rolling off this man was almost completely at odds with the stone-cold, whimsical killer who had gunned me down in my own office. As Jean Luc stood there on the other side of the room from me, I once again had to suppress the urge to leap across the room and throttle him. When you realize just how small my cell was, and how very possible it was to reach him before his Armsman could intervene, you will probably realize just how hard it was to suppress that particular urge.
He waited until the tiny table was in place, and the chairs on opposite sides, before breaking his princely pose by gesturing to the chairs.
It seemed I was to be cast in the role of genial host. I gritted my teeth behind closed lips, and firmly reminded myself there were almost a thousand other prisoners on board this ship, and while their fates weren’t fully in my hands anymore, the ability to mess everything up and get them all killed still very much was.
The thought of this Pirate Space Scum killing even more of my men, simply because I was rude, danced through my head and I forced a geniality I wasn’t feeling into my face, and waved toward the chair nearest the door.
“Won’t you sit down and take your ease, Uncle,” I said, as if we were back in the palace, and instead of a prison this was the finest of private sitting rooms. I imagined it to be the kind of chamber another of my Uncles, Heironeous Montagne, who even now ruled the rest of the Montagne Clan back on Capria with an iron fist, used for private little power meetings.
Jean Luc glided into the chair and took a seat, gesturing for me to take the one opposite. With a little careful maneuvering, I moved around the room without coming into physical contact with my Uncle. There was no room to sit anywhere else in the cell, except possibly the bed.
“Your family does well back on Capria, Armsman Tuttle,” I said, releasing a smile with a slight edge to it. I knew this because Duncan, my former fencing instructor, had always seemed to have a thing for my mother (or at least her cooking), even though he never seemed to care that much for me.
The Armsman turned to look at me, and it was like looking into the eyes of a pair of black holes. “In the end, there can be only one, and it will not be he,” the Armsman, Connor, said dismissively. “I don’t care to hear the condition of fools who have already betrayed themselves, as well as their Oaths.”
I stiffened a little, but let the barb pass; I wasn’t here to bandy words with the man’s Armsman, but with the man himself.
“So, Uncle, to what do I owe this dubious pleasure?” I spread my hands to encompass my two visitors, and what little else there was within my prison cell. It was an unusually muted gesture, considering the size of my surroundings.
My Uncle narrowed his eye and leaned forward, putting his weight on the table. Placing the thumb of one hand and first three fingers of the other on the edge, he pressed down, slightly levering himself out of the chair and held himself in that somewhat odd position, giving me a searching look.
I looked at him quizzically. “Is that supposed to be a threat, or some royal code I’m not familiar with?” I scoffed, leaning back in my chair.
Jean Luc also leaned back in his chair with a superior smile, and pulled out a cigar. Lighting it, he took a few puffs before continuing.
“What has your Mother told you about your Father,” the Pirate Lord asked instead, pausing to rub a bit of ash from his cigar off his nose.
“My father, Precious Montagne, died several decades before I was born,” I replied tightly.
“Ah, good old Precious,” Jean Luc agreed, taking a few good puffs of smoke.
The stench of his stogie was already starting to stink up the room, and I had to suppress the urge to cough. It was a disgusting habit if ever I’d seen (or smelled) one. Why anyone would try to poison their lungs with that filth was beyond me. Even after medical advances that removed the potentially terminal side effects of using such stink-makers, I failed to see the allure. It was yet another way in which I wasn’t considered a real royal—or a real Montagne, for that matter.
Jean Luc chose that moment to break my quiet reflection of the distastefulness of cigars, and my usual place in the universe.
“The man was like a brother to me,” he blew a smoke ring, “it really is too bad he was lost, along with so many others when the Summer Palace was destroyed,” he blew a second smoke ring, contemplatively.
I had to suppress an angry flush of rage. “So—” I began hotly and paused, taking a silent breath to steady myself. When I had once again mastered myself and was able to present a calm front, I repeated myself for emphasis, “So says the man whose actions led directly to the destruction of said palace, and the downfall of the Monarchy.”
“It’s almost enough to make a person regret his actions,” the old style Prince dropped the faintly regretful mask he had put on and smiled, “but you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.”
“I hope you choked on it,” I hissed, “you killed my father, and hundreds—if not thousands—of other people, when you allowed the Imperials to bombard our world!”
“I betrayed and murdered you father; let’s not mince words here,” Jean Luc said severely, “but always remember mine was not the finger on the trigger. The man who gave the order, and the one who actually pulled the trigger, are now Senator Cornwallis and a certain Rear Admiral with whom you are already acquainted.”
“Thus you rationalize your actions, while the bodies are piled knee deep in the streets like cordwood,” I glared.
My one-eyed uncle tisked. “Again with the hyperbolic inaccuracies,” he admonished. “If a man is going to accuse me to my face, he should at least get his facts straight beforehand,” he paused, his eye drilling into mine with lethal intent before adding emphatically, “I insist on it.”
Then he leaned back, as if nothing had happened, and blew a third and final smoke ring before stubbing out the rest of his cigar on the table.
“An orbital bombardment means there is a huge, smoking crater and maybe some glass; the bodies have been atomized, ergo, no cord wood piled anywhere. As for my part in the bombardment, all I did was stand aside, refusing to let my officers and crew be slaughtered at the hands of the Imperials. To what purpose would I do that, you may ask? To what end? Preserving the life of a Tyrant? That is not what I signed on with the SDF to do,” he said dismissively.
“You took an Oath,” I said with cold precision.
“As did you to the Queen Regent,” Jean Luc countered, “and yet, the moment you heard she’d been killed, did you rush home to make sure the object of your sworn vow was, in fact, dead and not desperately in need of the assistance you had sworn to give her?” he asked mildly.
I had to blink to gather my composure, because in truth, the thought hadn’t even occurred to me. Even if it had, I wouldn’t have abandoned countless worlds to the pirates, just to check on a woman who had been at the top of an establishment designed to make my life miserable.
“I had a duty, as a Confederation Admiral, to defend the border worlds,” I defended, leaning forward in my chair.
“As I had a duty…to preserve the lives of my men, in the face of a hopeless battle from the Royal Purges initiated by our Sovereign Lord,” said Jean Luc agreeably, as he, too, leaned forward, “although what did you have, an honorary commission in an organization that turned into a one ship phantom, the moment Janeski pulled out? No, your duty was clear—to return home. Just as mine was clear—to get everyone killed protecting a tyrant who was wholly undeserving of protection.”
“It wasn’t like that,” I protested, even though I knew it was, in fact, almost exactly like that. I had been the only one to believe in my Confederation pipe dream…at least, at first. And, because it directly benefited me, I convinced the others to—I stopped, as I felt my heart clenching. My crew; my loyal, hardworking and tireless crew had been slaughtered by this man and his parliamentary minions.
I glared pure hatred at this man, this…Montagne, who had cost me so much.
“You had a duty to the family, if nothing else,” I said angrily.
“I don’t see you rushing home to defend this wonderful family of ours, while revolution and counter-revolution wrack the home world,” Jean Luc said scornfully, looking down at me as if I was a particularly dense person. “I fail to understand why you would expect more from me than you, yourself, have given.”
“My returning would be more likely to get my mother and family killed, or thrown in the royal retreat, than anything else I can imagine! Unless, of course, I returned home at the head of a fleet, broadsides blazing; an action I simply will not take,” I said, stiffening my spine. No matter how this failed scion of House Montagne tried to twist things to make us appear to be in the same situation, I knew the truth.
“I could give you twelve and a half reasons why you’re wrong,” Jean Luc said looking at me intently, “at its core, every fragment of this ship cries out to be turned upon the foes of our House.”
What hyperbole! I shook my head, as if saddened; nothing I could think of would more infuriate a man like this, and for a moment, he looked even more irritated with me than I had hoped.
I folded my arms and stared at him impassively. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but the ship doesn’t have a heart, or desires of any kind. And I don’t need a dozen reasons to pick the wrong side,” I said flatly.
Jean Luc shook his head as if with pity. “Join with me, and together we will become more powerful than you could possibly imagine. By myself, I can reduce Easy Haven to a cloud of dust. I could stretch forth my hands and claim Tracto—along with every other thing you have struggled so hard to create—and make it mine,” he growled, reaching out into the thin air and clenching his hand into a fist to emphasize his point. “But why should I waste time and energy, or the lives of my men, crushing that which does not need to be crushed?”
He hesitated before continuing confidently, “When, with but a word, you could become my right hand. You and your men, merged together with mine, beneath one banner,” his eye burned with an inner light. “Together, we can stand against the Imperials and carve a bastion for all of humanity, against the terrible designs of the Empire of M.E.N.”
I wasn’t the one who had spent the last fifty years plundering the space-ways, nor had I joined with mutineers and parliamentarians to murder ‘my’ crew. If he thought I was just going to turn around and join forces with such an obvious madman, he had another think coming. I had fought against pirates like him, with everything I had, and—and…I gulped, and then hardened my resolve; I might not be much of an Admiral, but this last thing I could do.
“Never!” I cried, sheer terror at what I was about to say next giving my voice a volume I didn’t know it could possess, “I would rather die than join forces with you!”
“You ignorant little fool,” Jean Luc shouted, knocking his chair into the wall as he stood, “your mother raised a moron! Deliberately, or not, I cannot tell at this juncture.”
I stared at him and my eyes fell down to consider his nose. I was ready to hate him, with every passionate fiber of my being, so I might as well take a look at how much better endowed he was there too.
To my surprise, his nose was just as flat as mine; that’s when I knew that whatever else this pirate kin of mine might claim, he had nothing on me.
“Leave my mother out of this,” I said with a cold, deadly fury.
“Elena Three-Feathers has much to answer for, not the least of which being your critical lack of education,” Jean Luc said derisively.
“You are unworthy to speak her name; do it again, and it will be the last time,” I said with icy precision. Behind the Commodore, I could see Armsman Tuttle tense with anticipation, but I was past caring; there were worse ways to go out than defending your mother’s name from a bloodsucking pirate.
“Are you such an upright mushroom, that you would rather die than protect that which is yours to protect?” The mushroom comment stung worse than anything he had said so far, and I glared at him mutely.
“Are you suggesting that a pirate would know best how to protect people?” I sneered.
“You are a Prince of the House Montagne, not some common churl. Act like it! Your sworn men are in my custody, and your ship is mine. The die is cast and you have lost, but with only a word, you could change their fate and yours. There is no need for you and your men to stand trial before those pustulant bureaucrats at Sector Central; say the word, and all of you will live to fight another day. You can protect the border and anything else you like under my Banner! Together—”
“Get specked,” I jumped out of my chair, “your rule would be one of murder and larceny, just as bad, if not worse, than the King you so despised and failed to protect! If I, and my men, will die it’s because joining you would cause more damage to the Spineward sectors than the return of the AI menace! At least the cost benefit ratio was cold and heartless; you are far worse. You feel like a human, and you use that edge to destroy your fellow man!”
“I am worse than an AI plague,” Jean Luc blurted incredulously, and then he laughed. “Son, you have no idea what an AI plague would even look like, let alone how much more beneficent the rule of the cruelest pirate would be, compared to that.”
“You should go now. You bore me,” I spat, throwing his own words from the Flag Bridge back in his face. Then I cocked a finger at him and impotently pulled back my thumb. I had no blaster pistol hidden in my finger, but I didn’t care. The slightest flicker of fear would be more than enough for me to bear the humiliating laughter that would ensue.
“If an AI plague descended on the Galaxy,” Jean Luc said, completely ignoring the finger and looking more like an Evangelical minister, caught in the rapturous rage of a holy moment, than the scion of a royal house, “of course, we would wish to destroy it for the sake of all humanity, but what if?! What if the battle was hopeless, Nephew mine, and you did not just think—you knew—that by fighting, all you would accomplish was getting your people killed, to precisely no gain? Yet, by joining forces with me, together we might be able to stop it. Are you telling me that even then, given that scenario, you would rather see all of humanity fall, than merge your cause together with mine?”
“I reject your premise, just as I reject you,” I said with a yawn, using a free hand as if to cover it.
Jean Luc grabbed the table and threw it to the side of the room with a crash, then leveled a finger at me. “Play the fool, or the dancing monkey, if it strokes your childish little ego! Throw away the opportunity to discover the galaxy’s secrets, and go stand before the Sector Assembly, for all I care,” Jean Luc spat.
I clenched my fists at my side. “You slaughtered my crew, shot me in the neck with intent to kill, and abandoned my wife to the mercy of pirates because you were finally tired of playing Blood Reaver on the edge of known space, and you dare to call me childish? And a mushroom?!” I screamed, and behind Jean Luc, his Armsman produced a blaster pistol which he aimed at my face.
“If you grow up, and survive to realize the true shape of the galaxy you inhabit, instead of this childish romance your mind is stuck in, find me and maybe we’ll talk. When you come and see me, maybe I’ll still be willing to help you,” Jean Luc was quivering with rage, then he tossed a hand in the air. “But for now, I am done with you.”
“Thousands dead, including my wife! What about my wife, Jean Luc?” I roared, taking a step after him as he turned his back and stepped out of the cell, “What about my wife, murderer?! You blasted murderer!” I rushed the doorway, but it slid closed before I could reach it. All I could do was scream and pound my fists against the door, so that’s exactly what I did, for as long as I had the energy. Long after my raspy voice had failed, I still pounded on that door, until my strength finally gave out and I slid to the floor.
“What about Akantha and my lancers,” I sobbed, and in that moment I finally gave up hope that they still lived. I knew within my heart that they were dead, and with them, any hope I had of getting out of here.
I was no Admiral. I was a no Prince. I was nothing but a failure, and I wept because it was nothing less than I deserved. I had also just thrown away my life, along with the lives of all the other prisoners on this ship, which brought its own set of tears.
I was no longer lying to myself about the possibility of getting out of here. That moment had passed, along with Jean Luc, out the door of my cell. With it, went all real hope of escape.
But I had to believe that the galaxy would be a better place, without me actively helping my Uncle as a willing accomplice. Otherwise, I was afraid I wouldn’t have the strength of will to resist his next offer.
Then…who knew what I would become? I couldn’t become a Montagne like him. I refused with every fiber of my being.
Chapter 19: The Chickens have come home to roost!
“Lieutenant Spalding, the Command Carrier, she’s…she’s…” the woman at sensors shrieked, as she jumped out of her chair.
“All right, let’s have it straight, girl; without the cheerleader impersonation,” Spalding ordered, feeling greatly irritated at this schoolgirl approach to relaying sensor data. Such activities would never be tolerated down on his finely-oiled Engineering deck.
“She’s breaking apart,” the Operator squealed, and threw the image up on the main screen.
Spalding groaned, as it was painfully obvious to all that the ‘Command Carrier’ had split into two, roughly similar, halves. "Finally a spot of luck," he acknowledged, and then did a double take.
“The larger of the two halves is deploying bucking cables to draw out the smaller section out of the inertial sump,” said another operator, this one sounding much more professional, as he put the image up on the screen
“That’s no Command Carrier,” Spalding bellowed, clutching his head, “show me a detailed scan of the larger of the two ships!”
“Two ships, Sir?” squealed the female operator in a tone that grated on his very soul.
“Aye lass,” he admonished irritably, “that’s not a Command Carrier; that’s one ship giving another a tow through hyperspace! Now settle down, and observe a proper tone of voice when relaying sensor information.”
It took a few moments to get the detailed scan, and when it populated the screen, it was still a bit fuzzy in places.
“That’s Dreadnaught Class, it has to be the Clover,” yelped the female operator.
“Three cheers-” started the Bridge crew.
“Belay that stuff and nonsense! The Clover’s taken, or are you daft,” snarled Spalding, “charge our port and starboard broadsides-” and then his eyes caught on the screen.
“No,” he said in a rising voice, “no-no-no, it can’t be!”
He took several steps toward the main screen for a closer look, before he felt a hand on his arm.
“What is it, Mr. Spalding; what do you see,” Glenda said urgently.
“If that’s the finest ship to ever come out of the Caprian Yards, then I’m a Parliamentary lapdog!” he cried, jumping up and down on the floor as his legs overreacted to his anxiety. “
She may be Dreadnaught Class, but she’s no Lucky Clover. That’s a Ghost Ship, is what she is, come back to haunt us. The Old Armor Prince was sent to the breakers not less than fifty years ago,” he bellowed, pointing an arm towards the main screen.
All around the bridge jaws dropped in outright shock, and in a few cases fear skittered across their features along with a few muttered, “Saint Murphy avert!”
Something slapped the back of his head, and he whirled around.
“I’ll do it again if you keep raving about Ghost Ships in front of the crew. Just see if I don’t,” Glenda threatened.
“I’ve spit in the Eye of the Demon himself,” Spalding growled, “if you think a trivial matter like a Ghost Ship’s going to scare me off, then you don’t know a thing about Terrence Spa—ouch!” he glared, after another smack to the back of his head.
“Your skull’s so dense you walked into a Fusion Reactor without adequate protection,” she snarled, “I couldn’t care less about you; it’s the morale of this ship I’m worried about!”
“You don’t know nothing about running a fighting crew,” he sneered out one corner of his mouth. Ignoring the furious look she was giving him, he smiled out of the other corner of his mouth, where she could not see.
“Don’t worry, lads. There’s nothing to fear from that Phantom,” Spalding said, pasting a false smile on his face. The Bridge looked at him uneasily and Baldwin covered her face with both hands.
“But Sir, a Ghost ship…how can we fight dead?” asked the man at the tactical console, looking petrified.
“I told ye to not worry,” the half-borged Engineer barked at the man at Tactical, and then shook his head at the lack of faith running rampant throughout the young nowadays. Why, back in my day…best not to go there right now, he decided.
“Don’t worry,” he reiterated, pushing his hands down in a calming gesture. The gesture itself was a wee bit compromised, when the action caused an involuntary activation of all five plasma torches in his fingers, as well as revealing that Demon Curse in his hand called a blasted multi-tool. Quickly, he extinguished the torches, and used that hand to cover the multi-tool so no one could see. The last thing he needed was the crew thinking that just because one had been installed in him, he was endorsing the use of the blasted things!
“We could all die; we can’t fight two Dreadnaught Class Battleships, and a squadron of light supporters!” the woman at sensors said, her voice rising to an ear-piercing shriek.
“Calm down! Everybody!” the old engineer ordered, stomping his foot with such fury that the deck clanged, and everyone took a shocked breath. “There’s no need for you lot to fear; Papa Spalding’s got the Hack Codes for every Dreadnaught Class ever built for the Fleet!” Spalding barked.
“The Hack Codes!” proclaimed Gants, his face brightening momentarily, before once again becoming crestfallen, “but you have to be physically present, and insert those codes from a command terminal in Main Engineering.”
“That’s why Gants here will be in command of this ship, while I go to exorcise this Ghost Ship,” Spalding explained, throwing his arms wide. “I may not know everything, but I do know that shutting down every Fusion Generator on the ship in an Emergency Lockdown can stop anything, even a figment of our deepest, darkest imaginations, come back to life!”
The cheers of support he was expecting failed to come.
“It’s a good thing you’re doing here, Sir; sacrificing yourself for the rest of us, by dealing with that Ghost,” one of the nearby damage control ratings from engineering said solemnly, stepping over and patting him on the shoulder.
Spalding stared around the Bridge at all the glum faces with disbelief. “I’m not dead yet, men! If the Demon himself couldn’t stop me, a little thing like a Ghost—” he began, only to be cut off by a hand on his shoulder.
“Yes, Glenda,” he asked, looking down at her fingers, upon which was just the right amount of grease.
“You’ll never make it to that ship in a Shuttle,” she scolded. “How do you expect to board her, fight your way down to engineering all by yourself, and then shut her down? Even if, by some miracle, you pull it off, there’s a second one right there beside it,” she was looking at him like he was the biggest idiot she had ever seen.
He purpled in outrage. “Some luck and a little pluck goes a long way,” he chided, looking down his nose at her.
“This is insane, and so are you,” she barked, then turned and stormed off the Bridge.
“Now that’s a fine way to go about rewarding a hero before he sets out on a quest,” he grumbled. “A man might get the wrong idea.”
“Mr. Spalding, we’re being hailed,” said the new man at the Comm.
“What do the Imperials, or Phantoms, of whatever the blazes they call themselves, have to say for themselves,” Spalding snapped.
“It’s not the Imperials, Chief Engineer,” reported the man at Comm, who jumped out of his chair and did a little dance.
“Is this the high school cheer squad,” Spalding moaned with growing disbelief, “should we all just start doing a jig right here and now on the bloody bridge whenever we blasted well feel like it? What’s next, jackboots and line dancing?!”
The Com-Tech had the grace to look shame faced after the scolding. “Sir,” he repeated, “it’s not the Imperials!”
“Murphy Wept, you’re a bunch of under-trained idjits! And don’t think we won’t be looking into that first thing,” he warned with a gleam in his eye, before pulling himself back on track, “Spit it out man, I’ve already got that they’re not the bloody Imperials. Who are they, then?”
“It’s the Lady Akantha, Sir!” the Com-Tech reported joyously.
“Impossible,” Spalding rebuked, before the words of the Com-Tech finally sank in.
“The Lady Akantha,” he exclaimed and then looked over at the Tech, “well, put her on man. You don’t keep a Lady waiting! Even an old reprobate like myself knows that much.” He turned a thunderous scowl on the technician, still in a foul mood when it came to Com-Techs in general, and more specifically, those assigned to this particular ship.
“Yes, Sir, Chief,” the Tech said happily, despite his superior’s foul mood.
Akantha’s visage appeared on the main screen. Her usual, icy features were marred by a pair matching scars running down her cheeks. She gave him an imperious, searching look, and then her face crumpled and she swayed in the chair. Spalding was not about to be taken in by any potential computer generated plays on his sympathy, however; he was too old, and too wise for that. He forcibly hardened his heart against such deception.
“How do I know this is the real Akantha,” he asked suspiciously. He firmly reminded himself that he was a hard man, as the Lady on the screen looked at him with an uncertain expression. He would not be made a fool of, or taken in as anyone’s new patsy. The sudden hope in her face almost crushed his brand new heart.
“As I live and breathe, it is the Wizard Spalding, brought back to us from the dead and with new mechanical attachments,” she said, her voice barely trembling, as if she had just run a marathon and had only now just crossed the finish line.
“Lady Akantha,” his voice caught, and then he scowled thunderously. There were any number of more vastly important things to ask, right at that particular moment; in his brain, he knew that, but in his heart there was only one question that needed to be asked. “What have you done with the ship, Lass?!” he cried, willing to believe for the first time that this actually was the Admiral’s Lady.
“Before we separated, he gave me a data crystal and told me that if I ever needed a miracle, I was to come to this place,” she explained, her face breaking out into a tremulous smile.
Spalding’s eyebrows shot through the roof and his eyes bulged. There was only one person in this universe crazy enough to believe he could do anything so grand as a miracle, and then go and put him on the spot!
“Now-now, Lass,” he said urgently, “miracles are a chancy business, and not to be whistled up on command, like a monkey or a horse. Just take it slow for a while, and tell old Spalding what’s the matter. We’ll work to straighten it all out, I promise, but a miracle…” he shook his head and started muttering under his breath.
“Wizard…I fear things are broken beyond even your ability to repair,” Akantha said uncertainly, and then she straightened her posture, once again becoming the imperious ice princess.
“We can’t know that until we go over all the details, the little things are key-” Spalding started in a soothing tone of voice, only to be cut off by an imperious gesture.
“Jason is dead, our loyal Lancers decimated and the Clover has been taken by that scum-of-the-world bandit Uncle of his,” she said, her eyes burning through the holo-screen straight into his ornery old soul.
“Who’s taken the ship again, lass?” Spalding asked cautiously, as he suddenly clutched his chest. He was unsure if his brand new heart was up to the task of listening to this tale of woe, but he had to know for sure.
“That rebellious dog, Jim Heppner, and his honorless slive of a Master, the Pirate King Jean Luc Montagne,” she spat, her face twisting with a rage he had never seen in her before.
“Jean Luc,” he gasped, staggering to the nearest chair and collapsing over its arm, “the Captain has turned pirate.” It was almost beyond comprehension! The Captain Montagne he knew would never do such a thing. He rode his shields hard, and his men even harder, but always in the service of a good cause. Why, thousands of Spalding’s fellow crew—including Spalding himself—would have been executed in the Purge and counter-purges of nigh on over fifty years ago.
“Say it isn’t so, Lass,” he gasped after regaining enough breath to speak the words.
“It is worse,” Akantha said grimly, and that was when Spalding knew that his new heart was less than equal to the task of dealing with such news; it would break for sure. But he no longer had the strength to tell her to stop.
“My Protector’s Pirate Uncle bragged to me himself of slaying his nephew Jason, before he took heel and left aboard our Lucky Clover, with his Vineyard in tow.” Spalding jerked as if struck, as she retold events. His heart was now a solid ball of pain in the middle of his chest, but Akantha continued, “He slaughtered or captured thousands of our loyal crew.”
“Surely, they’re prisoners,” Spalding hoped, grasping at straws, even though he knew that everything had happened days or weeks ago, and nothing he said or did could change it.
“Bogart is dead, along with half his department—lost trying to keep the ship from the oathbreakers. Two in three of our Lancers lie dead on Omicron Station, including Hansel Suffic,” she explained icily, her face turning into an unfeeling mask as she relayed the information.
“The Chief Gunner and the Lancer Colonel both,” Spalding felt stricken. It was as if by having once been loyal to Captain Jean Luc Montagne, he himself was now a traitor.
“The Chief Gunner died defending the ship,” Akantha said with obvious respect, “while the Colonel sacrificed his life so those of us who remained would survive, to leave that bandit-infested sore upon the galaxy, Omicron Station,” she said stiffly.
“There’s no need to go into it all over a communications channel,” Spalding said, not sure if he could bear to hear any more.
“As you wish,” Akantha replied, making clear that it made no difference to her.
“I hesitate to ask, but…what happened to your face, Lady?” he asked, pointing to the scars running down each cheek.
“With my Protector dead, and our subjects slaughtered in droves, the only course left to me is vengeance,” she said, sounding awfully disinterested, considering her words.
Then something that had been bothering Spalding came to the fore, and he felt he had no choice but to ask.
“The last transmission we received indicated the Admiral was alive but in jail and the Cruisers—I mean, the Parliamentarians—were running the smash ball all the way to the finish line. Meaning, they were taking him back to Capria,” he paused and scratched his ear, “but our reception is rather poor out here, and-”
“What?!” she demanded, cutting him off, as her face hardened.
“I said our reception out here is pretty bad,” Spalding started over, but ground to halt when it was clear this was not the part she wanted to hear.
“The second transmission?” he asked.
“We have received no such transmissions,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Well, we only got one just a few minutes ago, but it was from the Clover. Who knows how long it was in queue, or how long it took to travel all the way out here,” Spalding explained, rambling on in spite of himself, “bad reception, don’t you know. The problem is the star, you see.”
Akantha shook her head. “Someone sent you a message from the Clover…how is this possible,” she demanded.
“Some part of the Com-Stat network must still be up,” he explained. “At first, we thought it was a trick and you were Imperials, since you came in so close behind the transmission.”
“Do not run a lure past me and then talk in circles, I beg of you,” Akantha said, closing her eyes.
Spalding reddened and then coughed. “It was in code,” he warned. Before going on, he wanted to make that part very clear, “Most of the fools up here didn’t catch it, but,” he paused as the remembered reference to the Larry hit him in the gut. But the real pain was a reference to the Captain: Jean Luc Montagne. With this confirmation, he felt sick, but he could not leave the Lady cycling her engines.
So he straightened and continued, despite the sweat breaking out on his forehead at the implications, “But as far as we can read it, the ship was taken by Parliamentary types.” At this, she nodded, her eyes tracking him like a bird of prey’s. “The Admiral was in prison, and the ship was headed back home to Capria on a line drive—I mean, as fast as they could get her there,” he quickly amended. The thought of his beloved Clover, having been taken by traitors of the worst kind, had what remained of his internal organs churning like never before.
“I would very much like to see this code,” Akantha bit out, swaying in her Chair. “I hadn’t dared believe…after he told me—”
“It’s all right, Lass,” Spalding said awkwardly.
“Things are still very much not all right,” she retorted in a hard voice, before taking a deep breath, “But perhaps our fortunes are improving…you are returned to me, and my Protector is possibly still alive.”
Spalding looked at her helplessly. The mind of a woman like this was utterly unfathomable to him.
“If I heard this news from anyone else, I would refuse to believe it. But from you, a man brought back from the dead, precisely where Jason said you would be,” she took a shuddering breath. “It is surely a portent from the grave, sent to rebuke me for abandoning hope.”
“We’ll make it right,” Spalding hoped against hope he was not lying. If he held any lingering doubt as to the identity of the woman on the screen, it was gone; no one else he knew talked like that. The Admiral’s Lady was a touch superstitious after all, more so than most could easily countenance.
Then his mind inevitably circled round to the subject he had been avoiding like the plague: Captain Montagne. If Jean Luc had gone bad out on the Rim of Known space…why, the thought strained the mind. The Captain was one of the few people still alive who knew where all the Lucky Clover’s secrets were buried. If he had gone bad, and now had possession over the Heart of the Ship…Spalding shuddered involuntarily; the situation was so dire, he dared not think on it too deeply.
“Hold tight to your soul, my fine lass,” he prayed to his fair battleship, now in the hands of mutineers and pirates. And who knew how many light years away by now. “Spalding will be back with you shortly. Just as quickly as he possibly can,” he muttered, hoping against hope that what he was saying was true.
“We will go to Capria,” Akantha declared, standing from her chair and drawing Bandersnatch from its sheath, “and then we shall make Parliament, this King James, my Protector’s Pirate Uncle, and all of his disloyal kinfolk rue the day they captured my Jason, and crossed Akantha of Messene!”
“Now, Lady Akantha, let’s not go rushing into anything,” Spalding said quickly.
“We shall rest and repair our ships, and then set forth with the intention of smiting our enemies, root and branch,” she declared.
“I hope you’re running with full crews on those two beasts,” he said, meaning the battleships, “because we’re a might shorthanded around here as is, and those ships read out as having significant battle damage. We’ll need all the help we can get, to put them back together in time.”
Akantha growled with frustration—she literally growled—and for a moment, Spalding was taken aback.
“I take it you’re a might shorthanded as well,” he concluded cautiously.
Akantha reluctantly nodded, clearly too beside herself for words.
“Oh well,” the Chief Engineer said with a shrug, “it’s no matter; let the battleships take as long as they take. There’s a few upgrades I’ve been meaning to make, in any case, and what better way to tell how well they’ll work out for the Clover, than to install them on a pair of genuine Caprian Dreadnaught Class Battleships,” he beamed. It was important to find the platinum lining in things.
“We don’t have time for upgrades; we need to strike now!” she insisted.
Spalding cocked his head in confusion. “Well, of course we do, my Lady. We can’t leave the Clover in the hands of a bunch of no-good parliamentary types, for any longer than absolutely necessary. You’ll have to fill me in on how, by Murphy’s Wretched Wrench, that came about, by the way,” he added, more than a wee bit curious. “But never fear, Chief Engineer Spalding has the solution,” he assured her, wagging a finger and speaking in the same tone as he would use on a pair of unstable hyperspace generators.
“What is that?” Akantha asked reluctantly, as if the words had been dragged out of her.
“Why, this fine filly I’m stuck in right now,” he exclaimed, slapping the bulkhead beside him, “she may be buggier than a high-strung Tilday race horse, but the hardware’s mostly good. Finish swapping out the old Imperial software, code in the last of the replacements, and we’ll be golden. She may be small, but the Invictus Rising packs a punch,” he raised his fist in the air emphatically.
“You have an answer for everything, don’t you, Wizard?” She closed her eyes and slumped back in her chair.
“The title’s Chief Engineer; if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a dozen times at least,” he said sternly, and then started pacing back and forth on the deck. “Just remember: ye can focus on the means and method, or on the desired outcome,” he started counting on his fingers, “you just stay focused on the outcome, and let Papa Spalding fix you up with the proper transportation to get the job done.”
For a moment, Akantha looked rebellious, but then she visibly sagged. “We fought so hard for this ship…it will be difficult to abandon it,” Akantha said at last.
“Means, or outcome, Lass,” he said sternly.
“What use is a Miracle worker if one does not heed his counsel,” she sighed.
“Now-now, Lass,” he began, waving a finger as if to scold her, but she spoke over the top of him.
“Make it so, Mr. Spalding,” she said imperiously and then cut the connection.
For a moment, Spalding stared at the screen, unable to believe everything that had just happened, and then his brows lowered thunderously.
“Well, what are you waiting for, you ungrateful pack of would be slackers,” he snapped, “an engraved invitation?”
“Sir,” acknowledged Gants, jumping to attention as if stung.
“Engage yer brains people, and guide in those Battleships,” Spalding waved his arms in the air, “and anything else they have roaming around out there! Do I have to do all your thinking for you?” he barked, stomping toward the nearest workstation housing an unmoving slacker.
“No, Chief—Sir,” the man replied, jumping to attention before turning to input commands at his console.
“There’s work to do on this fine piece of over-engineered Imperial fallacy they call a Strike Cruiser, but before I’m done with her, both this Cruiser and you lot will be a Phoenix reborn from these pitiful ashes. Why, we're going to upgrade this ship to within an inch of its over-engineered life. Then we'll polish these decks with the sweat from your brow and the tears from your faces. Do you hear me, you sorry lot?” His voice was steadily rising, until it was an outright roar.
The Bridge crew gave a cheer, and all around him crewmen and women jumped to their tasks.
For a moment, he was off balance. Bridge crews, he finally decided, are a strange animal. Always cheering when they should be terrified, and terrified when they should be digging their heels in. It was all very different from his usual lot down in Engineering.
He harrumphed, causing a few to jump, and a small smile to crack open on his face. It was a very small smile, but a smile all the same.
The Sector would never know what had hit it by the time they were through.
Chapter 20: A Message in a Bottle that was never sent
“We’ve got to turn back before they find us,” Tremblay urged.
“We can still make it through,” Heirophant disagreed.
“But at what cost,” Mike, the System Analyst gasped, pausing to lean against the side of the corridor.
“If you’ve betrayed us,” Lisa came puffing down the hall to join them, stabbing her finger under Tremblay’s nose.
“Me? I’ll be just as dead as the rest of you, if they catch us here,” he protested angrily, swatting her finger out of his face.
Mike growled at him and Tremblay rounded on the Analyst. “Anytime you want to go a few rounds with the Champ, just say the words, fat boy,” Tremblay snarled.
“I’m not fat,” said the analyst.
The little Com-Tech glared at the both of them for another few moments before leaning down and putting her hands on her knees.
“Come, there's still time to get to the hull,” the giant Gunnery Rating urged, placing a hand on the little Tech’s shoulder, as if to guide her forward. How she managed to become the leader of this little intrepid band of rebel loyalists, Tremblay could not quite grasp.
“No, the First Officer is right, blast him. There's too many patrols, if we keep going we'll likely just get ourselves killed,” Lisa Steiner said shaking off the hand.
“It doesn’t matter; they need to know the citade—” he snorted as he caught his error, “to know the ship is not returning to Capria. We have to finish this,” Heirophant said implacably.
“Not if there’s another way we can get a message out, we don't,” she said turning toward a side passage leading further back into the ship.
“If you don't do it now, they might get the warning too late, then where will our Warlord be?” the Tracto-an demanded, standing stalk-still in the middle of the maintenance passage.
“The ‘Admiral’ will probably be in the Brig, the same as before,” she retorted, putting emphasis on Jason Montagne’s honorary naval rank.
“I will not stand idly by and do nothing while my enemies walk around triumphantly, and I did not stoop to sneaking around this ship just to give up because our path is blocked,” Heirophant said in a low voice.
“We haven’t done 'nothing'. We got the first message out and erased any trace of who it was to, before they even figured out we had control of the system; that’s not nothing,” she said in a calmer tone, reaching up and placing a hand on his arm.
“We must complete our mission, or die trying,” said the former Lancer.
Lisa’s face softened. “I can’t even imagine how hard it is to lose everyone you know, while Murphy stretched forth his hand and chose for you to live,” she said sympathetically, reaching to give him a hug. It looked like an impulsive act to Tremblay, but one could never be sure, when it came to the fickleness of the female heart. Perhaps Mike needs to watch out, he thought sourly.
The Tracto-an stood stiff as a board, planted in the middle of the walkway.
She gave him one final squeeze and then danced away. “But we can’t just throw our lives away. Right now, we’re the only ones in a position to help the Admiral, and keep an eye on where they’re taking this ship,” she said fiercely.
“It does no good to know where the Clover and Admiral are going if we cannot tell anyone,” rumbled the Tracto-an.
“We just have to keep looking, trying, and most of all we must have faith that a way will be provided when we need it most. Throwing our lives away for nothing,” she shook her head sternly, “is just not an option.”
The Tracto-an bowed his head, and then touched his forehead with two fingers.
“I will respect your wisdom in this matter,” he said finally.
“Good, ‘cause we’ve got to get out of here,” she said, hustling down the corridor, now that the decision had been made.
“You know, worst case…if we can’t get back to the Long Range Array, we can always wait until we arrive wherever we going, then try to upload our message into a freighter by hacking their systems,” said Mike.
Tremblay scoffed, causing Mike to continue indignantly, “Hey! Even if there’s no Com-Stat relay within range of Sector Central, there’s no reason the Freighter might not run into one somewhere along its route. At least the message would get there eventually,” Mike said huffing and puffing to keep up.
Tremblay looked at him and shook his head piteously.
“It’d work,” then the System Analyst shot him an angry look, “and I’m not fat; I’m just out of shape! You try sitting behind a desk all day, and see how long you can run.”
“Really,” scoffed Tremblay.
“Well, we might have to be physically connected to the freighter’s internal data lines, but I don’t see why not,” the other man said, clearly backpedaling.
“Great plan…sneak off the ship and onto another one, when we can’t even figure out how to get onto this the hull again,” Tremblay sneered, even though now that he thought about it, getting permission to use a shuttle might actually be easier than penetrating the now extremely well-guarded FTL communication network’s physical array. Not that he was about to admit such…at least, not where that loser could hear him do so.
If they could arrange it, having the codes to one of the shuttles and standing authorization for its use, was a reasonable idea now that he thought about it. Forget this fool’s ‘freighter hacking’ plan. At least, if Tremblay were found out—either by Command, or that blasted Montagne—it would be nice to have a handy little escape vehicle waiting in the wings. The more he examined the angles, the more he liked the idea. It had a number of advantages on many different levels.
Chapter 21: Walking from one Plank to another
“Last chance, Nephew,” said Jean Luc from just outside my cell.
For a moment, I almost caved. I almost cracked, and gave in to the only offer on the table that promised to save my life, along with those of my men. All the things I could still do, including trying to lie to Jean Luc before running away to retire in some other Sector of space, flitted through my mind like a whirlwind.
Then I lifted my chin and stiffened my spine.
I was Jason Montagne, False Admiral of the now defunct Confederation Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet in the Spine, and impotent Prince of the Caprian Realm. If an offer sounded too good to be true, that’s because it probably was, and either which way…I’d be blasted before I helped the man in front of me destroy any more lives.
“It’s been a good run,” I said with a shrug, when all I really wanted to say was, ‘by all means! Please, set me free!’
If you wouldn’t draw the line somewhere—and Piracy, Slavery and the Murder of Innocents seemed like a really great place to start—then really, where would you draw it?
“Keep your phenomenal cosmic power and your itty bitty living space; I’d really rather the hangman,” I said, misquoting an ancient holo-vid I had once seen. I will admit that I was secretly praying I could cut some kind of deal with the Rump Assembly. Say…life imprisonment, perhaps?
The answer I received wasn’t very encouraging. I mean, really, what did I know, anyway? I thrust my hands forward to be manacled.
“Your loss, boy,” Jean Luc said with an evil smile as he stepped out of the way.
Oh, how I hated the look on his face at that moment. If I had one wish in the world, I’d…I drew myself up real quick. If I only had one wish I, wouldn’t waste it on wiping smirks or evil grins off of other people’s faces. I’d bolt out of this place like a jack rabbit sprinting for the safety of a burrow, and promptly hide myself away for the rest of this lifetime someplace my enemies would never find me.
Events had already proven I just made a mess of things when I tried to do what was right. Who was I, anyway, to try saving the Border Worlds? Or to stop piracy along the edge of known space? I wasn’t anyone, or anything special, and it was high time for someone else to step up and carry the torch!
All my mental posturing turned into simple fear as the Marine Jacks marched up to me in their battle-suits and proceeded to restrain me, like I was the most vicious criminal known to man.
By the time they were done with me, I couldn’t even walk for all the shackles. Murphy’s sake, even my shackles had shackles!
“What’s with this bunk,” I demanded, rattling my solid metal cuffs as best I could.
Jean Luc raised a single eyebrow. “Haven’t you heard? We’ve captured the great and powerful Admiral Montagne, Scourge of the Space Ways, and tyrannical leader of the sadly defunct Confederation Fleet,” he said with a straight face.
“Still doesn’t explain this,” I insisted bullishly.
“Admiral Montagne is larger than life,” Jean Luc shrugged. “I believe several of the Representatives were concerned that you might find a way to break free from your shackles, and set about on some kind of rampage.” He sighed before turning to walk away, “Sadly, as a member state of the new Sector Authority, Capria’s loyal sons and daughters sometimes find it necessary to indulge the hysterical fantasies of the bureaucratic mind.”
“That’s it?” I said in surprise. I wasn’t quite ready to give up on the verbal jousting and march stoically to my fate.
Jean Luc just shook his head as he rounded the corner, leaving my sight for perhaps the final time.
“This sucks,” I said to no one in particular, as the Jacks leaned down and picked me up by my manacles. “I am the great and powerful Admiral Montagne, didn’t you hear the Commodore,” I barked at them, “and you’d do well to show me some more respect.”
The Jacks exchanged a glance over my head and then broke out into laughter. “Come on, you,” said one of them, giving me a tooth-rattling shake. I wisely chose to keep my mouth shut after that.
Arriving on a Dungeon ship after so recently departing the ship’s Brig was just about the last thing I’d expected.
Finding her inhabited with men and women who refused to meet my eyes, along with the last of the Imperial prisoners from my capture of the Invictus Rising, just put the cap on my day.
“These are the ones the Empire doesn’t want back, because we took their ship,” whispered a crewman as he stumbled past me down the corridor.
“Shut up, you! No talking with the prisoner,” said the Jack on my left, the same one that had given me the tooth-rattling shaking.
For my part, I stared with shocked surprise at the corridor in front of me. How stupid was this Assembly, to put me in a Dungeon ship, crewed by my former men? The very ones I had left with Synthia McCruise after the first battle of Easy Haven!
They probably already knew who these prisoners were, but on the off chance that they did not, I wasn’t going to be the one to tell them.
For a brief moment in time, I was once again filled with the irrational hope that my former men would bust me out of here, and we’d ride off into the sunset.
Alas, such was not to be, and several hours passed before I was summoned before the Assembly.
Chapter 22: Hey! What are you trying to pull?!
This was not the Assembly building. This was the old United Planetary Nations structure, and the UPN was famous—or perhaps infamous—as nothing more than a formalized, informal, glorified gab session. A place for Sector interests to meet together, before petitioning the Sector Governor to cater to their urgent, special, and always high priority planetary interest.
“Hey, what are you trying to pull?” I demanded as I was 'literally' dragged along the floor to where they finally set me down in one of the two witness chairs facing the raised dais the UPN Committee sat behind. “Even your podium still has the UPN symbol on it,” I protested.
“The Sub-Council for Security is now in session, the right Honorable Guffy Balroon, presiding,” the words blared from the speakers around me.
“What does the Prisoner have to say for himself,” said a fat, toad-like man with green skin and a nasty smile.
If he thought he was scary, he really needed to work on his outfit; that baggy robe hung on him like a drape. Well, here I am, I thought, they’ve actually dragged me before their Murphy Mouse tribunal. It was time to give them what they wanted, because if I didn’t…they might get mad.
“I demand representation,” I said, jerking my whole body so the manacles attached to my knees occasionally pounded on the desk in front of me. “Before we go any further, I demand that my rights be respected; I’m a Caprian and Confederation citizen.” I stopped my herky-jerky motion, as all it seemed to do was make the twelve figures of the committee smile at my antics. The dais, where they sat, was originally designed for thirty members so they were spread unevenly behind the bench.
“So, the prisoner is already attempting to ‘lawyer up,’ a clear sign of a guilt if ever I’ve seen one,” the odious little fat man said with satisfaction.
I blinked at his smugness. Since when was exercising my basic rights a sign of guilt?!
“This is an informal inquest, operating under the highest level of security afforded by the Sector Security and Secrecy Act,” he said with pity.
“How can this inquest be both informal, and yet operate under top level secrecy,” I asked, shaking my head as if confused. I was playing to the crowd; if they wanted to see me befuddled, I’d give it to them.
“A legal representative will be selected, if the accused cannot afford one,” intoned the green little fat man, as if quoting some kind of rule or regulation.
“Afford one? I can not only afford one, but I demand one,” I said effortlessly switching tracts. If they wanted to treat me like some poor little idiot who couldn’t even afford his own lawyer (not that I actually could), well…I would show them. Let’s see how they liked it when every other word out of my mouth was set to stupidly infuriate them. “I demand that my ship’s lawyer, Mr. Harpsinger, be brought here immediately,” I said as pompously as I was able.
“Your ship’s lawyer—according to the records provided by the Lucky Larry’s current Captain—defected to the Imperial Navy, along with the entire legal department,” said the toad.
“The Lucky Larry?” I said, taken aback. Then I felt myself going red in the face, “the Lucky Clover,” I said placing great emphasis on the name, “retained one member of its legal department.”
“Ah, yes,” he said looking down at his data slate and making a few entries, “I see here that one of the ship’s paralegals is still listed on the rolls.”
While the Chairman sneered down at me, the rest of the committee broke out into chuckles.
“Mr. Harpsinger is not only a paralegal in my ship’s legal department; he is also a board-certified divorce lawyer from Capria, which is why I retained his council prior to the blessed event. He can sort out the particulars of my controversial marriage.”
The chuckles died a stillborn death, and the committee returned to staring at me impassively.
“Point of order,” said one of the committee members, standing up from his chair.
“The chair will yield the floor to the honorable representative from Prometheus,” the toad man said.
“The Member thanks the Chairman from Aegis,” acknowledged the Prometheus Representative, looking down at me.
“The Lucky Clover was the Flag Ship of the illegal fleet formation known as the Confederation Fleet—or, more properly, the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet, also MSP-1—while the Lucky Larry is a Battleship in the service of the Caprian Self Defense Force,” he said.
“The chair thanks the member, for that clarification,” the odious Chairman said in a nasal voice.
“What is this,” I asked, actually floored for a moment. My mouth began to sag open before I snapped it closed and straightened my back. My royal training always seemed to come to the fore when I needed it most. “Point of order,” I cried. “They’re both names for the same ship, and my Fleet was perfectly legal and endorsed by the Old Confederation back in the Core Worlds, including representatives from this very Sector!”
“Witnesses are not allowed to make points of order; those privileges belong solely to the members of this Committee,” the Green Toad stared down at me with a vicious smile, glee written all over his face.
The bailiff, a man in sparkling silver power armor, took a step forward. “The witness shall remain silent, except when answering inquiries, or during his opening statements,” he instructed, looming over me.
“Send in the paralegal,” the Chairman said, raising his hand and twirling a finger in the air.
I breathed a small sigh of relief, and not only from escaping some form of corporal punishment. If they hadn’t known about Mr. Harpsinger before I brought him up, not only were they more likely to be surprised, but more importantly, it would drag things out. The time it would take to bring him here, alone—
The doors of the committee chambers swung open, and an unshackled Mr. Harpsinger was brought in to stand beside me.
I blinked, when all I wanted to do was start yelling. Sandbagged; I had just been sandbagged! They had known about my ship’s lawyer all along. Jean Luc and Captain Heppner had ample time to go through all our files and find Mr. Harpsinger. I was fairly jealous of the pair—Jean Luc the Pirate and Heppner the Mutineer—and reluctantly had to admire the smooth, bureaucratic maneuver displayed by the committee.
Then the fact that my Lawyer wasn’t in chains penetrated, and I started to get worried. My forehead started prickling like I was about to break out in sweat, so I took a few extra deep breaths to calm myself.
When it no longer felt like I was about to lose my composure, I turned to the former paralegal and bestowed a confident look on him.
“Mr. Harpsinger,” I said, giving him a nod. The other man, who looked pale and near shaking, gave me a sickly smile and quickly took the seat next to me, though it seemed he was careful not to sit too close, which did nothing to increase my confidence in him.
Oh well, they had probably just threatened his family or something along those lines. It’s not like his False Little Admiral could do anything to protect them—or him—and if I had to go this alone, that wasn’t anything I had been unprepared for from the jump. I was actually surprised he’d even been brought in, unless it was to stab me in the back…something that was looking more and more likely, as the Chairman glowered down at my lawyer. Harpsinger turned green and began sweating, giving me little panicky glances out of the corner of his eye.
“It’s okay, you do whatever you have to do; I know you have family back home,” I leaned over and muttered to him.
He looked over at me like a deer caught in the headlights.
“I won’t hold it against you,” I assured him in a low voice, acting as if I was conferring with my lawyer.
“But, Sir, they’re going to kill you!” he all but yelped, and then his mouth worked silently.
“Just don’t say anything that might get back to Akantha’s family, or make them want to kill you, and there’s nothing to worry about. It’ll all go fine,” I said, giving him a shoulder bump. He started to give me a sickly smile and then froze.
I gave him a quizzical look.
“You think—” he stopped and stared at me with his mouth working for a few moments and then shot to his feet. “I move that this entire hearing be suspended, on the basis of Confederation Supremacy Clause,” he squeaked and then reached into his pocket and produced a handkerchief, which he used to blot his forehead.
I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, as this had to be just about the last thing I had expected.
The Chairman jumped out of the chair he had just sat back in, and thumped his podium with a gavel.
“The old Confederation Supremacy Clause was suspended, in favor of the Confederated-Imperial Superiority Law,” he said officiously, still pounding his gavel on podium. “Therefore, not only is this an informal hearing—and thus doesn’t fall under the Supremacy Clause, even if it were even still in effect—but this body no longer recognizes the right of the prisoner to invoke such a clause!”
“My client has the right to request an official hearing, by either the Confederation Assembly, or the Imperial Senate,” retorted Harpsinger weakly. “Such a right is afforded in any case where a member of the Confederated Fleet has been subpoenaed to stand before any Sector Authority. Check your case law,” he said swiping his handkerchief over his forehead and then blotting his neck.
“The Confederated Empire has abandoned us, officially devolving its higher authority down upon the individual Planets and Sectors in the Spineward region of Space,” the Chairman shouted, still pounding on his podium. “What’s more, this august body is not yet able to determine, at this time, if the Confederation at large—hereafter to be known as the Old Confederation—has abandoned its higher duties as well, or if, in fact, it should now be considered occupied by what is currently a foreign power.”
Looking entirely satisfied with himself, the Chairman then gave the podium one last rap before re-taking his seat with a grunt.
Harpsinger leaned down, as if for a quick conference. He took a glass of water, tipped it back, and chugged the whole thing in one continuous swallow. Sitting down with a thump, he pulled over the court-provided data pad placed in front of him, and rapidly scrolled through the screens.
I looked at the little man with surprise, completely shocked at the way he was going on the offensive on my behalf.
“When I told you to do whatever you needed to do, it wasn’t a threat,” I said leaning over to him
He blinked and glanced up at me. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that,” he whispered back, “my ears started to ring and everything went hazy, then my legs collapsed. Some lawyer I turned out to be.”
“No, really—” I started.
“If there are no more protests from the accused…strike that; from witness’s counsel,” said the Chairman, turning to the next Committee Member.
Harpsinger forced himself back on his feet, leaning forward with his hands on the table.
“Yes, counselor,” the Chairman with the slightly green-tinted skin said, frowning down at my lawyer.
“Since the Security Council refuses to recognize my client’s right to a change of venue in a civilian body with superior merit, I have no choice but to advise him to request a Jury of his Peers be assembled, for an official Courts Martial, to clear his name from these dastardly charges!”
I started and then looked up to my divorce—or, more accurately, my marriage—lawyer.
“They’ll just summon Rear Admiral Yagar; the man hates me,” I hissed.
“Don’t worry, Admiral, I’ve got this under control,” he said, looking the exact opposite of a man who had anything under control, as he used his now-soaked handkerchief to wipe his moist palms. He didn’t even glance at me; he just kept staring at the Chairman like a deer caught in the headlights.
The Chairman looked taken aback.
“Objection,” said two different members, standing at the same time.
The right Honorable Guffy Balroon looked momentarily put out, and then the green-skinned Chairman made an irritable motion toward the larger male member of the council.
The female sat down with a huff. “This isn’t over,” she scowled.
“If the Member from Pacifica III will refrain from commenting until it is her turn, things will go ever so much faster,” said the Chairman.
“The Member from Aegis is more than willing to see the matter of this man’s crimes against humanity, including, but not limited to: Planetary Piracy, Ship Piracy—I will add, even a battleship from the very member nation he hails from—as well as a host of lesser crimes up to and including, Impersonation of a Confederation Fleet Commander, and failing in his self-appointed mission to protect the Border Worlds, Mr. Chairman. The list goes on and on!” said the Member from Aegis.
Mr. Harpsinger quickly tapped out a message on his data slate, and lowered it to where I could see it.
-He’s been advocating for the Death Penalty for days- I read, and then glanced up at my Lawyer, who gave me a significant look before wiping the slate clean.
“Mr. Chairman,” shouted the female member jumping to her feet, “Pacifica III will not sit still for any change in venue at this time!”
I cocked my head, trying to remember where I’d heard of Pacifica before, but my train of thought was interrupted by my Lawyer typing out another message.
-Pacifica has a society of committed pacifists. No matter the findings, they will vote for Life Imprisonment- I read on the slate. I paused to mull this over. Life imprisonment was good, I mean it was less than ideal, but it was certainly better than being shoved out an airlock, or facing the long drop.
I froze for a moment, realizing that if I wasn’t actually at absolute bottom, I was pretty close. You knew your life really stunk up the place, when life imprisonment was an attractive outcome.
The Chairman looked back and forth between the two Members and then back down to us.
“It would require a vote, but I suppose the Sector Commandant, Admiral Yagar—” he started, only to be cut off when my Lawyer shot to his feet.
“Whether it is argued that my Client is a Confederation, or Caprian Admiral, the record is clear,” he stated firmly, when to my eyes everything about my Rank was clear as mud, “that ‘Rear’ Admiral Yagar is neither! The ‘Rear’ Admiral hails from Aegis, and most certainly is not an…” he hesitated over word choice, “Old Confederation Admiral, like the ‘Vice’ Admiral we have sitting here today.”
“An outrageous defamation of character, Mr. Chairman,” seethed the large man from Aegis.
“If the Ambassador…strike that; Member from Aegis will please take his seat,” the Chairman warned, reaching for his gavel and pounding on the podium until his gavel had lost its head, so all he was left with was a little wooden stick.
“Bailiff, a new gavel, if you would,” the Chairman ordered, before turning to bestow a withering look on me.
“Since Capria has deferred its rights in this matter to the Security Council, and a panel of Flag Ranked Admirals from the Old Confederation are not within range of our current communications network. Also, since that part of the Confederation within what is now termed the Old Confederation, is currently occupied by multiple foreign fleets—and thus could not possibly be deemed unbiased—I feel it prudent to forgo any vote for a change in venue at this time.”
“We have impeccable recordings and witnesses,” he continued, nodding toward a man sitting in a box to the side. With a start, I recognized the 25th Sector Judge, the highest representatives of the Judicial Branch. Sector Judges held the power of life and death, and only another Sector Judge could halt the order of another Judge, while it took a panel of three or more of the same to overturn.
“This is not good,” I said to Harpsinger, then the man I recognized as the Sector Judge looked my way and pursed his lips before turning away. The stiff, disapproving look he had just given me was enough to make my stomach sink. So much for the possibility of an appeal, I thought with despair.
“Shush,” Harpsinger said, as the Chairman continued speaking.
“It is the decision of the chair—unless a super majority of the Members vote to overrule—that we will forgo a transfer to a military court, and continue with this Informal Hearing of the Security Council,” he grunted, and then looked over gratefully at the bailiff, when the power-armored man handed him a new gavel.
The members suddenly started talking amongst themselves, some nodding their heads, but most shaking them. I looked on with growing disbelief, as an argument about someone’s wife escalated into a full-blown debate about whether or not the Member was going to support a change to military court, in order to spite the other one who clearly wanted me to hang.
“You just so happened to be in the same five star restaurant as my wife, a non-political entity, if there ever was one!” demanded a thin, be-robed Representative with golden hair and pale blue eyes. “I’ll tie this committee up in knots, and propose to send this Confederation Slive off to a military Tribunal, if necessary, Bardan. Anything to crush you like the little, insignificant bug you are!!!”
“I resent the insinuation, Cadmock,” retorted a short, brown-skinned man with a goatee and pencil-thin mustache. My heart almost stopped at the smug way he smiled, and was twirling his mustache around one of his fingers—his middle finger, if my eyesight wasn’t failing me.
“I have the restaurant’s own security feed showing you and her holding hands on top of the table, Bardan,” shouted Representative Cadmock, “if you think spouting a few lines of poetry and taking her out to La-Pastele is going to be enough to steal my wife away from me, you’ve got another think coming, you blasted, electronic paper mite!”
“I’d be careful,” Bardan laughed, “going against the will of the committee organizers might not go too well for you. Besides, who ever said I was looking to ‘steal’ her? At worst, I only borrowed an evening of the sweet—criminally ignored—Matilda’s time…”
Then, when Cadmock looked like his red face was about to explode, Bardan flipped a languid wrist and corrected, “I’m sorry; make that three evenings.”
“I’ll kill you,” shouted Representative Cadmock, “your career is finished, do you hear me?! When I’m done with you, even the Bortack mines of Gantha VII won’t take you! You’ll spend the rest of your miserable little life in a cell right beside our Witness here.”
“I’d be careful, Cadmock,” Bardan snapped, “you’re not as powerful as you—or your sweet little wife—might think. Vote to move this hearing over to the military, and I fear you’ll discover precisely how inflated an opinion you have of yourself.”
The two men were then surrounded by several other committee members, who seemed to be doing more to egg the two verbal jousters on and issue threats of their own, than actually trying to break the thing up.
“This is insanity, aren’t you going to object, or protest, or do something?” I sputtered, half-amused at the scene, despite myself. “This is my life and its fate is being decided based on whether or not someone may, or may not, have slept with someone else’s wife! Don’t I get a say at some point in these proceedings?!”
Harpsinger looked down at me with a hint of pity in his eyes. “I just made a bunch of objections, and they were all overruled. I don’t agree with them, but that was our ‘say’, Admiral,” he said, and then his shoulders bunched as he leaned forward to listen, as the committee debated whether or not to invalidate its entire purpose for coming here today. His eyes tracked the various members with the same focus I would have applied to the main screen on the Bridge, as I followed various enemy ships.
The Chairman leered down at us.
“If you feel any part of today’s hearing has been unfair, illegal, or in any other way prejudicial, you are more than welcome to appeal to the proper authorities,” he said coldly, his eyes moving over to indicate where the Sector Judge was even now sitting.
I shook my head; half in wonderment, half in negation. I could tell when the deck was stacked against me, and this set of cards had all been carefully pre-shuffled long before I ever arrived. Besides, right now I had an itch between my shoulder blades that was more likely to affect my long-term prospects than anything I had to say, at least right at the moment.
After much posturing and gesticulation, the members finally reached a consensus: they unanimously, unequivocally, and absolutely agreed to a motion tabling the discussion, in favor of an extended lunch recess.
Shaking my head, I watched as the motion was put to a vote, and the members shuffled down the aisles of their dais and down to the floor, where they proceeded to exit the chamber with far more dignified bearings than they deserved.
Chapter 23: Deep in the Clutches of the Security Council
“For our first order of business: the Charge of Planetary Piracy, how does the witness plead,” intoned the Chairman.
I jerked in my chair. “I thought this was an informal hearing,” I said hotly.
Harpsinger quickly hushed me and stood up. “My client is correct; there is nothing informal about pleading to these charges,” he said sternly.
Our time in separate cells at the United Planetary Nation’s holding center seemed to have done wonders for his confidence. He was no longer sweating, nor did he look like he was about to pass out. If his hands trembled and he looked paler than I was used to, well, it was still a step up for my main legal defense; not that I was expecting much out of his surprising defensive maneuvers.
They hadn’t allowed me to actually consult my lawyer even once since dragging me before this kangaroo court, not even when everyone else took an hour and a half recess to plot and scheme. As for me, they had left my arms and legs essentially immobilized, but unlocked the shackles binding them together. This allowed me to jackknife my body for a while, and flop around on the floor like a fish, but didn’t do much else to help increase blood flow. The whole thing was hardly the fair and impartial, informal hearing they were pretending for the cameras.
I wondered if we were in the old UPN building because everyone was still getting things organized, or if it was so the Rump Assembly could disavow them later if things went wrong.
I could see it now: ‘Oh, those hotheads over at the UPN,” the Rump would say, “Too bad they axed that False Little Admiral, Jason Montagne, while we were stuck in deliberations over the Border World Relief Act! Bad cess, bad cess indeed…We never would have let such a farce stand, had we but known! Consequently, we believe that yet another act—aptly titled the Jason Montagne Act, which we have already prepared—would ensure that such a travesty never repeats itself—‘
I was shaken out of my reverie by the Chairman. “I am simply asking the same questions that countless others will, should this hearing unearth anything untoward which would require formal charges be leveled,” he said innocently.
The other members leaned forward in their seats, scenting blood in the water.
A grey-bearded figure in an official Caprian State Department-approved Ambassador’s uniform stood. “In the future, the chair should limit himself to questions more in keeping with the spirit of an informal hearing,” he said with dignity, and my eyes bulged: it was Sir Isaac LePierre, one of the few Ambassadors to have survived through several changes of regime back home due to his apolitical stance. He had established massive diplomatic connections with our surrounding worlds over the course of a lifetime. He was a commoner—although, he was knighted for service to his planet—so if he was on board with this, then one could assume Capria and both governments back home were, as well.
My shoulders sagged slightly at the thought of my entire home world being united against me.
“The Chair thanks the Co-chair for his insightful correction. However, may I then assume that, for now, my original question as it was posed, still stands?” said the toad-like Chairman. The hits just kept coming; I was in this thing so far over my head, I was never going to see daylight again.
Sir Isaac frowned and then sat down. “I, myself, am curious as to how the accused answers the question,” he admitted.
Harpsinger’s eyes had caught on the Caprian Ambassador, and stuck like a field mouse as it intently watches an Eagle far above it. Such a creature knows that, the moment it takes its eyes off the circling avian, someone is going to die.
Seeing my lawyers paralysis, I knew I needed to do something fast to break him out of his stupor. Honestly, as far as I could tell, the former paralegal wasn’t even breathing.
“Piracy, shmi-racy,” I said, putting every ounce of royalist scorn behind my voice. “I assure the Members and the Chair—as well as the esteemed Ambassador, and Co-Chair, from my own beloved Capria—that the marriage documents are completely in order,” I rocked over and bumped Mr. Harpsinger with my shoulder in lieu of a hand on the shoulder, “as my lawyer here—the very man who filed the necessary paperwork—can personally attest!”
“What gibberish is this,” the Member from Aegis scoffed, jumping out of his chair.
“The Member from Aegis is correct, and Prometheus wholeheartedly endorses his concern as to the mental well-being of the prisoner. We would caution that he may be intentionally attempting to build for himself an Insanity Defense!” said another member, presumably from Prometheus.
“Dynastic arrangements can seem more than a little insane, both from the outside as well as the inside, of—” I began, only to have Harpsinger cut me off.
“What my client is attempting to say, is that while under attack by Bug Raiders,” at this word, several members drew back in an involuntary reaction, and the Member from Pacifica shuddered and politely covered her eyes, “he relinquished his only weapon to a crowd of captives native to the planet Tracto—which our ship was orbiting at that time—where he then instructed them to cut themselves free, to help in their own defense!”
I manfully struggled to keep from blushing at this barebones account of what actually happened. In reality, my eyes had been lured in the direction of my future wife’s buxom, red-headed neighbor, at the time.
“As enlightening as this farfetched tale of heroism and utter stupidity may be to others, the members of this Committee fail to see how filibustering around the topic—to wit, Planetary Piracy—is relevant,” Sir Isaac said sternly, rising to his feet.
“With your indulgence, Sir, it is absolutely relevant to establishing that my client was completely unaware that his actions construed a binding offer of marriage to the woman nearest his relinquished sword,” said Harpsinger, his voice far more steely than I had expected, considering he was addressing the one and only Sir Isaac.
“The marriage of a Montagne, even one with a Fleet, is only of concern to the royal family back home,” Sir Isaac said, shaking his head in the direction of my lawyer sadly, “I move that we strike everything stated so far from the record and start over—”
“A binding offer of Marriage to a Planetary Sovereign,” Harpsinger broke in, and several Members stopped whatever they were doing and stared. Some with eyes bulging, others with infuriated glares as the implications sank in, “thus, entirely invalidating any accusations of Planetary Piracy!”
“Outrageous!” cried the Member from Aegis.
“This exploitation of a primitive race of people, kept isolated from the galactic community for their own protection, is the action of the basest sort of Corporate…I mean Royal greed,” the Member from Pacifica added, pounding on her desk and tossing a ream of papers in the air, “not to mention the exploitation of a poor, defenseless woman; a captive of the carnivorous genetic creations of a mad AI.”
I was doing okay up until that last little part, when I nearly choked on my own saliva as the Esteemed Member started to describe my girl as ‘poor and defenseless’. But the Member from Pacifica III wasn’t done yet.
“A woman without the education or exposure to understand just how absolutely she had been taken advantage of by the postulant little aspiring tyrant I see chained before us here today!” she finished, sitting back down in her chair for emphasis.
“I would like to take a moment to assure the Members,” Harpsinger began, but the Committee wasn’t done shouting us down and expressing their complete and utter outrage.
“None of this was in your personal or privileged files,” the Chairman glared, leveling an accusing finger in the direction of my Attorney.
My Lawyer looked stunned and was momentarily taken aback, and then his face hardened in a way I hadn’t seen before. “My privileged files?” he said in a rising voice, “The ones you are referring to right now, today, are kept locked under the Seal of the Caprian Lawyers Association, with an encryption they provided. Not only should you have been unable to access them, but you just admitted to violating half a dozen independent treaties my world has with each of yours, as well as breaking a Confederated Imperial law that promises the same. A similar statute was present in the Old Confederation Constitution before that as well; for shame!” he cried, glaring at the Members of the Security Council. The Ambassador from Capria had the courtesy to look shame-faced for a moment, before removing all expression and presenting a mildly interested, diplomatic mask instead.
“This Committee acts under a special writ—issued by the Provisional Assembly—and unfortunately, certain civil liberties must be suspended, for the good of the body politic, until such time as the current crisis is over,” the right honorable Guffy Balroon explained, putting his hands on his hips. The way he jutted his lower lip would have been comical, in any other situation, “I wouldn’t expect a fresh Lawyer, just out of night school, and who passed the Bar by the skin of his teeth, to understand such complicated issues.”
Harpsinger made a growling sound deep within his throat.
“It’s not too late,” I muttered to him in my raspy voice, “sit down, be quiet, and you could probably still throw me under the hover-bus and work out a deal. Sir Isaac, at least, seems less than impressed with everything that’s gone on today.”
He looked down at me with the slightly dazed look of a man rapidly changing mental gears, and then he shook his head. “How could I hold my head up around the rest of the crew if I just let them railroad you without even trying, Sir,” he said firmly, and despite myself, I almost felt like a real Admiral again. “I wouldn’t be safe walking the streets of Messene or Capria when word got out to the likes of Curtis Bogart and his royalist ilk,” he added.
“You’re a parliamentary man,” I said, with no small surprise.
“I make sure my vote counts each election cycle, Sir,” he said raising his chin, “but a belief in democracy doesn’t automatically mean that I believe a person should be judged on the merit of his blood alone.”
I caught the subtle dig at the Royal House, in which blood alone indicated who should hold what position in society. Then I leaned back flabbergasted; here I was, in the very lion’s den of the Rump Confederation Assembly, being vigorously defended by a stout parliamentarian, who actually seemed to have my back! Whether out of genuine loyalty, fear of royalist retribution, or a little bit of both, I couldn’t tell. Nevertheless, I was touched.
The Honorable Guffy Balroon looking more than a little peeved at the way we were studiously ignoring him, prompting him to loudly clear his throat.
Almost involuntarily, my lawyer and I glanced back at him.
“It may be hard for a Tyrant, and Royalist sympathizers to understand, but any responsible citizen of our Great Sector would have no issue following the new rules. Reliable polling has shown that our citizenry is more than happy to give up a few freedoms in order to gain protection from vile menaces, like those squatting on our Borders. Or for that matter, those sitting right here in our very Council Chambers today," the right Honorable Guffy Balroon proudly pontificated, spreading his arms wide like a man bestowing a great revelation upon us poor, benighted souls.
“Now-now, Guffy, there’s no reason to judge someone just because of their belief systems; it takes all types to make this galaxy of ours we live in,” the Member from Pacifica III chided.
“Sweet Murphy, did she really just say that?” I all but choked. I mean, I had encountered a few of the most judgmentally non-judgmental people back on my home world of Capria, in the various persons of several of my cousins back in the palace. Their passive aggressive philosophy went something like: ‘I don’t judge you, even though anyone else who did would probably say you deserved to die by slow torture for the things you’re currently espousing, but of course I’m too enlightened for such backward thinking.’ Truth be told, this particular woman took the cake in that regard.
“All of this is beside the point,” Harpsinger ignored me, as he focused his ire on the Chairman.
“Exactly,” Guffy Balroon, the right honorable civil rights violator said triumphantly, “The very point I was going to make. All of this is beside the point, as we’ve already gone through your files and discovered no such documents like the ones you claim exist. Other than the marriage document itself—which was stored both in your files and within a separate database within your Battleship’s DI—there is nothing to back up or verify your claim, unless of course you kept them in hard copy paper format.” The look he bestowed upon us, all but promised that if such paper documents existed at all, they would not continue to do so for long.
“Due to the highly politicized nature of the marriage, I felt it best to—” Harpsinger said only to be interrupted.
“Politicized! Is that some backward dig at the activities of this Council,” the Chairman said direly, looking like an evil toothy toad, ready to defend his little bureaucratic patch of soil until the death.
My lawyer looked at him with a wrinkled forehead and genuine confusion. “All dynastic marriages are highly politicized; how much more so when it involves what are essentially two completely Royal Houses. A Hold Mistress is kind of like a Ruling Queen, don’t you know,” he said, for the edification and elucidation of the Committee at large.
Sir Isaac raised a single eyebrow and looked mildly impressed. “I guess he has you there, Chairman Balroon. If there’s one thing we know about back on Capria, it’s how very politicized the Royal Family is, even when under the tightest of Legislative control,” he said with a wry note in his voice, “A Montagne Prince, marrying the Queen of another Planetary Nation State—without the blessing of his new King—is just about as close to a guaranteed political firestorm as you’re likely to get.”
The Chairman stood, his breath hissing in and out for a few moments, before he gave himself a shake, causing the great mounds of fat (poorly concealed under the baggy robes of his office) to move likes waves upon the ocean that was his body. It was all quite disgusting, if you were forced to sit there and look at it, like I was. I mean, I still had my neck brace on, and between that and my shackles, I could barely turn my head! Actually, I could move it a little, but only if it was important.
“As I was about to say, before I was so rudely interrupted,” cut in Harpsinger.
The Chairman interrupted, pounding his gavel on the podium, “Another crack like that, and I’ll find you in contempt!”
My Lawyer looked taken aback.
“Bailiff go stand over the prisoners and ensure that if they make another such disrespectful utterance they are both put in irons!” raged the Chairman.
“If I may continue,” Harpsinger said coldly.
“Be my guest,” grunted the Chairman, watching us with beady eyes.
“Out of fear that my most privileged documents might be compromised in just this fashion—although from an entirely different source—,” Harpsinger began, “the names in the documents were removed, and exchanged with Bill and Elena. Any references to the Admiral, or the Hold Mistress’s properties or holdings, were exchanged for something else. In the Prince’s case, it was just kept as generic properties; there were no significant changes, only minor ones. In the case of the Lady Akantha, all references to properties were labeled as her native rustic Hut, the small apple orchard, and her livestock—a small herd of goats—to specify the differences between her Messene Holding, her Heir-ship in Argos, and the Space-based assets to which she had laid claim.”
For a moment, I stared at my weak-kneed divorce lawyer with genuine respect. I don’t know if I would have had the guts to stand up, on principle, to defend a member of the House of Parliament (be he ever so honorable) in the face of all this.
“Fabrications of the moment,” sneered the Member from Pacifica, “no doubt there is a real Bill and Elena, and now the Tyrant’s councilor seeks to baffle us with a file which only he can return to its original format. How convenient that this enables him to make any such changes that might best benefit his client at this particular juncture, now that he has advance knowledge of these proceedings!”
The Committee Members were nodding their heads in slow agreement with this point, and I almost couldn’t believe my eyes. I mean, I knew that they were out to get me, but to throw out documents that might prove my innocence of at least these charges wasn’t just wrong; it was criminal!
But then again, what did I expect from Capria’s elected body? My school boyish belief (that while Capria’s Parliament might be out to get me, at least the Confederation Assembly wasn’t a corrupt and biased institution as well) guttered and died a slow, painful death.
Were all Elected governments destined to turn their members into lying, cheating criminals, who bandied around big words to disguise their—they assure you, very much legal—murders? Why did democracy have to equate to oppressing those of their subjects out there just trying to do the right thing? We could have the same thing with a Dictatorship or Monarchy; the whole reason for elections was supposed to be to listen to the people. To express their will, and avoid the excesses that came with a King or Queen.
If we were destined to have those excesses anyway, how was tyranny by the majority any better than tyranny by birth? It’s awfully hard to kill the majority if they go bad and start plundering the coffers; on the other hand, it’s a lot easier to assassinate one man or woman, if he or she goes bad and starts oppressing the masses.
Very much afraid that these thoughts were leading me right down the path of my Royal Ancestors—the very same ones known for their bloodthirsty natures, and who got our planet orbitally bombarded—I drew myself up short. It doesn’t matter in the long run; because there is no long run, I reminded myself sternly. For now, I just needed to keep clinging to my college student-inspired ideology and belief in the goodness of my fellow man…at least until Jean Luc left the system. After that, I could be free to give in to despair, and it wouldn’t matter any longer. The amount of damage I could do if I got my head all spun around would be limited to myself and possibly a few other prisoners, assuming I was released into the general population of the Dungeon ship.
The Committee was just putting the matter of rejecting the electronic documents in their possession to a vote. They argued that they could not apply to my case, because the method of encryption used was accessible only from within my lawyer’s brain. All of this caused Harpsinger to chug another tall glass of water.
“I’d hoped to avoid doing this,” he said, a little shame-faced when he looked at me. I was confused, but decided to roll with it as he turned to face the assembly. “As it pleases the gentlemen and ladies of the Security Council,” my lawyer spoke into the sudden, deafening silence as everyone here—myself included—waited for the other shoe to drop, “the electronic documents in your possession are not the only ones that exist.”
The look of pure rage on the face of the Member from Pacifica III took me something aback, and then I shrugged; all I had was the barest surface understanding of these people. Just because someone came from a world of dedicated pacifists didn’t mean they personally shared every facet of that ideology, nor did it automatically make them peaceful and nature loving; that was a trap I now realized I had unconsciously fallen into.
“Where are these electronic documents, and how can this council be assured of their veracity?” the Co-Chair demanded, suddenly getting to his feet. His expression was as grim as possible, for a trained diplomat.
“The possibility of tampering alone increases the chance we’ll need to invalidate these also,” said the right Honorable Guffy Balroon, nodding his head in agreement.
“I can personally attest to the validity and uncompromised nature of these documents,” Harpsinger said, closing his eyes and swaying.
“Well go on man, explain yourself,” Sir Isaac said in a deep baritone, his voice much lower than previously.
“Fearing that my database might be compromised, I created a series of bonded files on a miniature data crystal,” Harpsinger explained.
“Where is this crystal, and how long has it been outside your possession,” Sir Isaac asked evenly.
“It never once left my possession; I had one of the ship’s doctors extract my tooth and place the chip within it while I watched. I was awake while he reinstalled it—the tooth I mean. It was quite painful, given the restrictions I placed upon acceptable pain medications, so as not to invalidate my testimony in this court,” said Harpsinger who, I dare say, cracked the barest hint of a predatory smile as he added, “After all, certainly no member of this esteemed Council would wish to see such testimony invalidated.”
“Blast you, Montagne,” shouted the Member from Aegis, pointing an accusatory finger at me. “Wheels within wheels, and plots with counter-plots built into them; you’re just as dangerous to this Sector as the worst armchair alarmists claim!”
“You want to blast me,” I tried to jab my thumbs into my chest, but my wrists were too tightly bound, “simply because I have a dedicated lawyer who isn’t willing to allow law and the truth to be twisted at the whim of some trumped up committee? Or is it because the Security Council finds these new revelations an inconvenient truth too difficult to sweep under the rug?!” I demanded.
“Baliff, slap the Prisoner in irons and have him escorted back to the Dungeon ship for contempt of Council!” snapped the right Honorable Guffy Balroon, who then rounded on my lawyer, “and let us pray, that all your munching on ship’s rations hasn’t ruined the information hidden within your secret little data crystal!”
“This is an outrage,” Harpsinger glared, with all his pale-faced might.
“He who speaks truth to power, had better have a battleship to back him up next time,” I shouted, then what felt like a pile driver slammed into the back of my head, and I pitched forward out of the chair. My nose slammed onto the table, and the side of my head did likewise on the seat I had occupied, on its way to the floor.
“Show some respect when the Chair is talking to you,” grated the Bailiff, who was now looming over me.
“A clear case of witness abuse and intimidation if ever I’ve seen one,” cried Harpsinger, scrambling away from the bailiff and me.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” the Bailiff said stiffly, “but the prisoner is already in irons; do you want me to escort him back to the ship now?”
I didn’t feel at all intimidated; abused and seriously ticked off, maybe…well, almost certainly, and also strangely unable to breathe. I started jerking as soon as I realized I couldn’t get any air.
“Take care of it, you fool,” the Chairman said, waving his arms in the air.
Sir Isaac stood up. “I didn’t come here today to see my countrymen verbally assaulted and abused,” he said stiffly, his face an iron mask of disapproval. I only wished I was able to focus on it more, but I was only able to give him part of my attention as I jerked and spasmed, trying to get some air. “As Co-Chair and an Ambassador with decades of experience, I will personally oversee the extraction of the data crystal to ensure that no tampering takes place; you have the word of Ambassador and Co-Chair, Sir Isaac LePierre on this matter, and if you know anything about LePierre, it is that his word is good,” he said with ringing finality.
The mortified outrage on the Chairman’s face was enough to do my soul good. In the few, waning moments before my vision finished tunneling into complete blackness. After losing my vision, the words of those around me started sounding like they were coming through a metal tube.
“Thank you, Sir Isaac; a man of your proven integrity and reputation is beyond reproach,” Harpsinger said, a level of respect in his voice that filled me with fear. A man like Isaac’s reputation was that he would keep his word…unless he was deathly certain no one would ever find out about him breaking it. Say, if that someone was about to be dead.
“Bailiff, why is the witness turning such a dark shade of purple,” Sir Isaac asked with what sounded like mild concern.
The Bailiff leaned down, and I could sense the motion of my body being shaken.
“Medical emergency to the Security Council Chambers; we need a rapid response team in here stat!” someone said within range of my hearing. There was some yelling, and then everything spiraled and I heard nothing.
Chapter 24: A Rude Awakening
I came back to consciousness with a gasp, sucking in as much breath as I could comfortably get away with, and then expanding my lungs some more. Eventually, it got to the point of mild pain, but I did it anyway, just to prove I could.
My eyes skittered off the solid metal ceiling of my room and I thrashed around in my bed; for some reason, I was more panicked in that moment than after fighting off a Bug invasion force!
I took deep, frantic breaths, until my heart started slowing down and my panic subsided. It must have been because during the battles with the Bugs, I had known—at least on an intellectual level—what to expect. However, I had been all but certain that words were all that I would have to deal with, when it came to the Security Council. Sure, the bailiff might jerk me around a bit and leave a few bruises on the way out the door, but even these representatives of the Rump Assembly weren’t going to execute me in their own council chambers. The representative from Pacifica III, for one, would have stormed out in a rage and vociferously boycotted the whole event, if that was what was going to happen.
Secure deep within some recess of my own mind, I had been completely unprepared for another death (or, near death) experience. It seemed the show must go on, and by show I was talking about ‘the Jason Montagne is a punching bag show,’ which was, once again: all me, all the time.
For another few moments, I wallowed in self-pity, before even a double portion of it started to wear thin, and I took a look around my room.
A barren wall was the first thing my gaze fell upon. My eyes flicked to the side, and found another barren wall, this one with a structural support beam. I turned my head slightly, and was mildly surprised not to feel low grade pain I’d been experiencing lately. Another wall, but this time with a duralloy hatch in it. My wandering eyes found yet another wall, and they snapped to focus, fixating on the person in the chair set against it.
That’s when I realized I felt much better than I had the last time I was conscious, and I’m not talking about the incident with the bailiff. I mean before that. I was actually feeling really good right now.
“I’m here to monitor you, until you’re awake and stable,” said the figure in some strangely patterned uniform that was vaguely familiar, “well, now you’re stable.” He immediately got to his feet.
“Why do I feel so much better,” I asked, and then I realized that while the rasp was still present in my voice, it was now more along the lines of smoker’s voice. I’m not talking the occasional smoker; I’m talking the kind of chain-cigar smoking royal smoker, commonly found in the Caprian Winter Palace. Still, any improvement that meant my throat didn’t start screaming at me after an extended use, was all to the good. I just didn’t like the thought of being unconscious while Murphy knew who was doing Murphy knew what to my body.
“A couple days in the Tank will do wonders for a person,” the other man, said shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe anyone had wasted the tank time on me.
“I guess when you almost murder someone in front of an Assembly Camera System, you have to do your best to prove it was unintentional,” I said with a shrug. Reveling in my newfound freedom from pain (not to mention restraints), I propped myself up onto one elbow, delighted that I could put that much weight on my shoulder without causing intense pain in my neck.
“From the sounds of it, you think it might have been intentional,” the other man said with surprise.
I shrugged. “I’m not ruling anything out at this point; enough people have tried to kill me already, and that was when all I wanted to do was save lives and kill some pirates. After awhile, even the paranoid becomes a commonplace consideration; another factor just like any other that has to be catered to, until new information comes in,” I explained.
I realized I was rambling, but I had just awoken from almost being killed, and my brain was still trying to process what had happened. Talking through it with a servant of the enemy probably wasn’t the brightest way to go about it, but as nothing I could do would change a thing anyway, I might as well go out as comfortably as I could.
The other man nodded, as if what I was saying made perfect sense and that’s when I realized I knew him.
“Captain Druid, isn’t it, of the 25th Sector Guard” I asked, more than a little surprised to see him (or anyone, for that matter) from Yagar’s little playtime navy, “I didn’t realize any of you tin can boys had made it back out this way.”
“It’s Commodore now,” he corrected with a frown, “and just like Central moves, so does the Guard.” He took a small step away from the door and back toward his chair, “Although, I’d be mighty careful insulting a man just because of the size of his ship, if I were you. My ‘tin can’ might be just about as small as can be while still making interstellar, but it’s served me well; and at least it’s still mine, Admiral Montagne. As you of all people must attest, size doesn’t mean everything.”
“I live life on the edge,” I shrugged off his warning, “but I have to give you that. Bigger and better doesn’t always mean more reliable.”
“Bigger and better, is it now,” Druid asked, sliding back down into his chair, “I see the Admiral still hasn’t learned his lesson, even after the serious flaws of his favored mode of transport has been revealed to him.” The man sounded like he was actually starting to enjoy the conversation, and not in the petty vindictive way which I imagined Rear Admiral Yagar would have.
“I’m a battleship man,” I shrugged, “what can I say?” I splayed my hands and gave a helpless shrug.
“It’s got to be large enough to support a Flag Bridge, I suppose,” the Commodore grudged, “but there’s lots of smaller, faster, more maneuverable ships out there to choose from, Admiral.”
“And where is this mythical place? I certainly haven’t seen the Sector Guard sporting anything more than one light destroyer and a passel of corvettes,” I said mildly, swinging my legs over the side of my bed to sit upright. This was serious business, and shouldn’t be discussed with one arm propped up on the bed. I then chuckled at myself; I had no training as an Officer, I wasn’t a real Admiral, but I felt comfortable bandying about the relative merits of different ship types with an honest-to-Murphy naval officer.
“Why do you laugh,” asked Druid, letting my dig at his organization go, either because it was true and it didn’t bother him, or it was false and he wasn’t about to give away any information to a potential enemy, no matter how certain his eventual termination was.
I wasn’t about to let the man into my innermost thoughts, no matter how well we were getting along at the moment, so I gave him another truth—well, a half truth, as it where.
“I’m just surprised, is all,” I said and when he looked at me continued, “that you’re still calling me Admiral. Everywhere else lately, it’s been Fleet Commander this, or False Admiral that, if they can’t get away with anything else.”
The man shrugged. “Courtesy costs me nothing, while insults and petty barbs encourage sloppiness and rigid thinking,” he said after a moment’s consideration.
I raised both my eyebrows at him, thinking that his Commanding Officer, Rear Admiral Yagar, could most definitely learn from his example.
We shared a look, and it was as if I could tell we were both thinking the same thing. Despite this little camaraderie, I saw no point in antagonizing the Sector Guard Officer by insulting his Commandant; especially not when he was taking such pains to be as courteous as possible.
“You know, I wondered what you’d really be like,” Druid said after a moment’s pause. “That’s half the reason I volunteered to sit in here until you woke up.”
“Oh?” I inquired, making a little deprecating hand wave, “And what’s the other? Reason, that is.”
“I’d half a mind to beat the ever living snot out of you, for bumping one of my men out of the tank,” he replied sourly, and my eyebrows rose as I seriously reconsidered every assumption I’d been making. “A maintenance accident: one of my engineers was replacing a major junction box on one of my older ships, and it exploded,” the other man explained, throwing his hands wide and then clapping them together for emphasis. “Third degree burns over the top half of his body. I can’t say I was in the best frame of mind when I heard he’d been bumped by the infamous Vice Admiral Jason Montagne.”
“I might have felt the same way, if our roles had been reversed, and Rear Admiral Yagar bumped one of my men,” I allowed, leaning back in my bed, even though I knew the best thing to do if I was about to be attacked was lean forward and give him as little time to build up momentum for a bum rush as possible.
“Now, having talked with you, I’ve come to the conclusion I would have been wrong to do so,” Druid continued somewhat bitterly.
I just smiled; there was no way I was going to say that very same thing. Yagar could rot in Murphy’s Demon Pits before I’d allow any man of mine to be bumped by the illustrious Commander of the ill-fated Sector Guard.
I then reminded myself that I had no men; I wasn’t even a real Admiral, and all of this was just a pleasant little engagement; an engagement with a man, from a Fleet Organization with as little claim to legitimacy, as I had to claim myself a real Admiral. Even the officers within it, drawn from the various SDF’s it was comprised of, were ten times the professionals I would ever be.
Druid matched my smile, a reluctant glint entering his eye. “I ought to bust your chops just for giving me a smile like that,” he said, a hard edge to his jaw.
“Better men have tried,” I cocked a shoulder, hiding a slowly clenching fist behind my back, “and worse, as well,” I added reluctantly. “A few have even succeeded, as my present circumstances should indicate,” I said, unconsciously rubbing the side of my neck, fingers seeking out and finding the hard ridges of scar tissues all around the area my uncle had taken a big bite from, with that infernal little finger pistol of his.
Maybe I should get one, I thought. A blaster pistol, that is. Of course, not in my fingers—anyone with half a brain would be expecting that, especially after the way I’d just been laid low. Maybe my knee…I shuddered as I considered the implications of a blaster bolt backfiring through my kneecap. Then my face brightened: better yet, one in my toes! That way, the next time someone like Bethany came to deliver a beat down, I’d shoot them in the foot and proceed to do a little stomping of my own.
“I can see that there are things going on behind your eyes, even now,” Druid said, searching my face as if for some deep hidden meaning, “I can understand now why men would follow an Admiral who, on paper, is just another trumped up college student, with delusions of grandeur.”
“Oh,” I drawled, and almost despite myself, I was halfway intrigued at this lure. I knew it was pure ego, and nothing else, but for all of that, the urge to chase was almost irresistible. Almost. More talented men than this would-be Commodore had tried to lead me down the rabbit hole, but I wasn’t so easily caught. Let him spin his webs; we’d see who was the spider here and who was the prey.
“I can see there’s something going on in there, but for the life of me—and despite all of my experience and training—I can’t quite fathom it,” he leaned back in his chair, as if to take me in from another angle, “after hearing more about the things you’ve done, not to mention seeing some with my own eyes…much as I’d like to, I just can’t pass it off as irrelevant,” he gave me a hard, flat stare. The inner adversary inside him peeked out for a moment, and for myself, I was more than happy to watch; there was no need to produce your very much clay feet, when the enemy was espousing your non-existent virtues.
So all I did was shrug as noncommittally as possible.
“You’ve got wheels within wheels churning behind those eyes of yours, and that alone would probably be enough to get many a crewman to follow you, all on its own,” he said heavily.
“I doubt that,” I scoffed. If he only knew what I was really thinking about, he wouldn’t think so highly of the fictitious Admiral, or his fanciful imaginings. He wondered what deep thoughts I was thinking, and at the very moment he asked the question, all I was thinking about was turning the tables on my cousin by shooting her in the foot before giving her a taste of her own medicine! What kind of deep thinking was that?
“Says the man who flummoxed the Security Council so badly the first day he arrived, that when they tried to pin a charge of Planetary Piracy on him, the Chairman overreacted to the point of almost killing him,” Druid retorted wryly, “a man who can do that, and on the other hand turn around and storm an Imperial Cruiser right after engaging it in a pitched space battle…,” his voice trailed off regretfully. “Men like their leaders to be larger than life, as if something about them makes them more than the average man, explaining why they are the Captain,” eyes shot over to lock onto mine, “or Admiral.” Then he smiled, with more than a hint of self mockery, as he added “Or Commodore.”
“I seems you would make me out to be some kind of diabolical mastermind; a schemer of the first order who despite his current circumstances,” I gestured mockingly at myself, and then leaned over and gave the nearest wall of my cell a good knock, to indicate my current helplessness. “You’re describing a man who has everyone dancing to his tune,” I shook my head sadly, “while I fear the truth is far more plebian than any might suspect.”
“What is fact, and what is fiction; a mere legend created in the minds of common men,” his eyes shot my way with crushing force, so much that for a moment I forgot to breathe, “I fear that in the minds of your average crewman, you are now and forever Admiral Montagne, Scourge of the Spaceways, or alternately,” he allowed, “to your loyal supporters, Pirate’s Bane, Bug Slayer and personal Doom of Imperial Captain Cornwallis, and the personal enemy of the Empire of Man.” My eyes bulged in protest at this last makeshift title, but he continued on implacably, “You are the man who spat directly in the Imperial’s eye, and not only lived to tell the tale; you took from under them a top flight warship. Such a man, such an Admiral,” he shrugged, “many men would find it hard to resist his call. Man, woman or,-” he trailed off gesturing to me, “the Tyrant of Cold Space.”
“The Tyrant of Cold Space,” I scoffed, in instant and total rejection.
“It’s what they’re trying to pin on you, when the talking heads show up on the news programs,” he shrugged, “capturing a heroic would-be Confederation Admiral—like you were trying to cast yourself—might actually inspire public sympathy, and generate a back lash. While Admiral Montage, a man from a long line of bloodthirsty Princes and Kings, determined to set himself up as the new Tyrant of Cold Space, filling the vacuum left by our dearly departed Imperial Masters…”
He stopped and gave me a mocking smile. “Defeating such a man, after building him up while he’s safely locked away within captivity, can only help pander to the image of a wise and powerful Successor State, that is our Sector’s new Provisional Assembly,” he explained.
“That actually sounds believable,” I sighed, “build up a straw man, and then knock him down again…although, I fail to see why you’re telling me all this. Couldn’t this fall under aid and comfort to the enemy?”
“If you find some kind of cold comfort, hearing how you’re being smeared by the Press and portrayed in the media by our Representative Masters, then you’re more of an Admiral than I’ll ever be,” the Sector Guard Commodore gave a little shiver, his eyes focused on something deep inside.
“Some Admiral I turned out to be,” I sighed, and then decided change the subject away from this depressing little montage of all-too believable political portrayal, designed to crush me like a bug. I decided it was time to dispense a little fortune cookie wisdom of my own. Who knew; it might actually perplex the man and cause him to burn a few brain cells.
“You’ll learn,” I began conversationally, “now that you’re a Commodore, that most men are willing to follow anyone. If that person simply runs around acting like he’s in charge, and when asked, seems to have all the answers, they’ll follow even a complete and utter fraud. It’s all about appearing confident and never letting anything shake you,” then I silently added, ‘at least, not where you can be observed.”
There! Chew on that bit of bubble gum wisdom, Sector Guard Boy, something rebellious muttered somewhere deep inside me. Truthfully, I was more than a little jealous that the man seemed to have the inside track, when it came to these little political maneuvers. Was he just here to show me up, by reminding me how little I actually knew?
“Well, I should take my leave,” Commodore Druid said, this time standing up with purpose.
“Why tell me all this?” I asked, genuinely curious.
The Commodore smiled, and it was a smile with so many hard edges to it, that I once again clenched the fist still hidden behind my back.
“Maybe I thought that, after all of this, you deserved to know the truth. Maybe I thought it was no less than you deserved, and wanted to see how you reacted when you got the news. Or maybe—just maybe—I wanted to pull back the curtain a little bit and look into the eyes of the man behind the mask. To see the man in the flesh, as it were, and not the Admiral on the holo-screen,” he shrugged, and it was a shrug without too much effort invested into it. “Maybe all of that, or none of that is true; I’m not sure anymore,” he said, striding to the door and giving it a pair of hard raps with his knuckles.
“Thank you for the honesty as well as the stimulating conversation,” I said, and I was surprised that I really meant it. Intel on the enemy was always something to be cherished, and having cut my political teeth on the floors of the Royal Palace, the good Commodore had supplied ample material for me to parse for hidden meaning and intrigue.
The door unlatched from the outside—there was no handle inside this room, for obvious reasons—and it started to swing open.
The Commodore placed a hand on the door to stop it swinging open. “Just a moment,” he said through the crack in the door, and then looked over his shoulder at me with one part self disgust, and two parts calculation on his face.
“For the sake of my men, and the new organization I have sworn to serve, I hope to see your feet kicking and swinging all the way to the gallows, Jason Montagne,” he said.
I looked at him evenly, and crossed my arms. This wasn’t entirely surprising, coming from a man who admitted half the reason he was in this room had been the urge to beat me up, for bumping one of his men out of a Healing Tank.
“I don’t know your full name, so I can’t return the favor but I hope you didn’t stumble on your way out just because you felt the need to unlimber a good insult; I’d be more than happy to help shove you out the door, if it suddenly seems too narrow,” I tisked at him as I bared my teeth. “And we were getting along so well.” Without thinking about it, the last of my congenial Royal Princely Face fell away, and was replaced with the battle-hardened Admiral I’d discovered in the mirror over the course of almost a year of constant warfare—both physical, and mental.
“Now, there is the Admiral I expected to see from the very first moment I stepped into this room,” he pointed a finger at me, almost unconsciously, “not a man screaming from nightmares as he awoke, or the cool and collected rear area Defense Force politician disguised in a military uniform. I came to meet the battle-hardened Fleet Commander, who shook the space ways with the barest rumor of his impending arrival,” said Druid, looking and sounding like a man who had finally gotten what he desired. “It’s good to finally meet you, and see your true face, Vice Admiral Montagne,” he said crisply, turning on his heel and giving me a practiced bow.
“You’ve seen the real me the whole time; every face you’ve seen is my own, and they all belong to me. Now get out of here, before this goes somewhere you most definitely wouldn’t like,” I said, standing and pointing to the door, all pretense at civility washed away. I wasn’t here for this man to play games with. While I might have been raised going to the palace every morning, every evening I came home to our house in a solid blue-working collar community. At first, I’d thought mother couldn’t afford anything better. But as I got older, I realized we could have stayed in the palace for free. No, we’d lived there to learn a lesson, and I had definitely learned it. When some little son of a working class stiff threw down the gauntlet, it was time to raise your fists and pick it up.
Druid gave me a nod and locked stares with me, “You’re slipperier than a sideways snake, Montagne. Maybe my real reason for coming here was to take your measure, and ensure you saw a face representative of the Sector Guard that’s not Rear Admiral Yagar. Some of us—most, even—are a little less…” he paused to consider his word, “high-strung, let us say. Remember that, if things go very much how I do not hope them to.”
While his words were interesting—quite interesting, really—, we were currently locked in a stare down, so I just rigidly held my pose, finger pointed at the door, until he bowed again to break the battle of wills and turned on his heel to stride out of the room.
For a moment, I was lost in deep calculation, wondering if there was any way to turn this last little revelation to my advantage. From grand gestures and sly maneuvers, to outright blackmail, my mind skittered from one farfetched idea to an ever further-fetched one.
Then I sternly brought myself to task. I might forget it now and then, but it was time to put back on my clay boots for a moment and admit it: I wasn’t a real Admiral. I never had been, and before too much longer, everything else was going to be irrelevant.
With a sigh, I sank back into my bed, forcing plots and schemes from my head. I needed to get some rest.
Unfortunately, I was just out of the tank, and had already slept; the last thing my body wanted right at that moment was sleep. Naturally, this made it harder than usual to remember my proper place in the Galaxy, but somehow I managed.
Now, if everyone else would remember it as well, everything would turn out the way it was meant to.
Chapter 25: Go Team, Go!
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” Tremblay said from behind the controls of the shuttle. It turned out he was the only one with even the faintest clue how to fly one of these things, due to his Officer’s training back on Capria, before he transferred to the Intelligence track. It’s not like they could launch a secret mission against Parliament and the ship’s command team, using one of the regular shuttle pilots.
“That must be the ninety-ninth or hundredth time you’ve said that since we first discussed this idea,” the little Com-Tech Lisa Steiner flared.
“It’s the thirty-third,” rumbled the native lancer, maintaining his position in one of the skiff’s few jump chairs; his belt was connected and arms crossed over his body. Tremblay knew, because it was the first thing he checked as soon as the lancer spoke up. The last thing he needed was to crash into the oncoming civilian ship, because the Lancer decided it was time to get physical.
“I can’t believe you’re keeping track,” Steiner said, throwing her hands in the air and glaring first at the Tracto-an, then at Tremblay. Once her glare fell on the Intelligence Officer, it remained fixated.
The Lancer shrugged, but stayed in his jump seat. Only Tremblay noticed, because he was watching the lot of them using the cockpit surveillance camera connected to a screen he kept active on his touch-controlled console.
That the former Lancer turned gunner, was keeping that close a track of what Tremblay said, meant the Intelligence Officer was under close surveillance. He would have to be even more careful not to let anything slip, than ever before. He gave the image of the Lancer on the screen down near his knees a narrow-eyed look—thankfully, where no one else would notice.
“What makes this ‘bad feeling’ any worse than the last half dozen times, Senior Lieutenant,” asked Mike the System Analyst, who was supposed to take control of their target’s long ranged array as soon as it was out-system.
“Look,” he said reasonably, “we’re using a shuttle with a low priority clearance, attempting to take over part of a DI network using old codes from an even older database. If our target wasn’t a Caprian freighter, I wouldn’t even think of trying it,” he finished firmly.
“Fortunately, we have our very own member of the illustrious Black Gloves, to explain away our shuttle’s lack of official clearance,” Steiner said with false brightness. “And, we’ll know before we ever set foot on their boarding tube, if the ship will accept the old codes you found hidden within the intelligence database,” she finished, a tad more reasonably.
“’Hidden’ is a strong word, for something so old that it was mislabeled—and then buried—under the wrong header in a low level classification,” he protested, not mentioning that he had been unwilling to risk anything other than a basic, low security search of the database, so as to not risk setting off red flags.
“It was providence,” Steiner declared.
“Can you even hear yourself? Divine providence, indeed; I don’t know about you and your prayers, but Murphy doesn’t come down from on high to directly answer any of mine. Nor have any of the angry gods of cold space been whispering my ear, telling me everything will be all right,” he cried, frustrated beyond belief with the whole lot of them and their silly insistence that truth and right would win out over superior strength and connivance. It was all he could do to keep these true believers from making the sort of mistake that would expose them, and get them all (but most importantly, him) killed!
She looked at him with pity. “We’re a handful of people, now that the rest of the crew has been transferred to that Dungeon ship. We can’t recruit anyone else at this point—not even if we wanted to—since we’re operating on a shoestring budget, and forced to steal ship’s equipment right out from under the nose of the new officers. And all of it relies on the codes given to us by a Parliamentary Black Glove to work; if that scenario doesn’t call for a little faith, then I don’t know what does!” She finished with a certainty in her voice that he simply did not share, but for the moment, he was tempted to take whatever reassurance he could.
“If, and if, and if, and if!” he finally threw his hands in the air, “just listen to yourself. We’ve got a plan that started with: ‘If’ we can steal this shuttle and make it off our ship, and ‘if’ we can then use some ancient codes I found on a random search to hack into a civilian DI, and ‘if’ they haven’t upgraded their system since then to the point those codes no longer work, that might mean that we have chance. ‘If’ this ship leaves the system any time soon, and ‘if’ the codes we’ve copied from the Larry’s communication system lets them connect to a Com-Stat network—which may, or may not, still exist somewhere along its route,” he said in a rising voice that became a full-on shout, “then maybe, just maybe ‘if’ the Invictus Rising is able to pick up the transmission and it’s not already all the way to Capria, it will be possible for them to come all the way back out here to help us. IF THEY EVEN CARE TO COME!” he finished with a roar.
“I think you just made my case for me,” she said coldly.
He took several deep breaths. “The Universe is a cold, uncaring place, that doesn’t leave a lot of room in it for faith,” he retorted flatly.
“I’ve heard you call on Murphy before,” she said severely, “don’t you believe in something greater than yourself? Or is every man an island?”
“Parliament and the Crown,” he answered properly, “are both much greater than I’ll ever be.”
Her anger melted, and she looked at him sadly. “How much you miss, in that cold world of yours, if that’s all you see,” she sighed.
“My eyes are wide open,” Tremblay said angrily, “the galaxy is not all gum drops and lollipops; it’s a cold, bitter place for those who don’t understand, that for all its uncaring immensity, it has a certain balance to it. Sometimes, all anyone can do, is load their side of the scales as heavily as possible, and pray.”
“A calculating answer, from a calculating man; the world should be a better place because you are in it, not a worse one,” she said firmly.
“It is better: for me,” he replied.
She stared at him for a moment as her mouth drew into a tight line. “It’s going to be a better place for all of us, after we’re done here. That’s why we’re doing this,” she said, true belief once again shining in her eyes. Belief in the Little Admiral, in the Invictus Rising, and in Murphy, along with whatever else was going to help her achieve this little fantasy of hers.
In Tremblay’s experience, people would never help you, just because you believed they would. Maybe they would come to help the Admiral, and maybe they would not; it was a crap-shoot.
“This is a high risk play—with the potential to expose us all—and only a low chance of success. I’m afraid the rest of the galaxy isn’t like you, or even Admiral Montagne. As far as I can see, you’re the only compulsive do-gooder who would give the shirt off her back to prove a point; or, in his case, shoot a hypothetical bad guy and give you whatever was his. Your kind has been firmly taken out of the driver’s seat, and now it’s my kind of people behind the wheel. We’re cold, we’re calculating, and, yes—at times—uncaring. That’s what keeps us alive,” he said, turning back to his control system. He recognized an unwinnable fight when he saw one.
“I guess we’ll see about that, when the Invictus gets here and Mr. Gants, Chief Engineer Spalding, and all the rest of the crew ‘lost’ in that ‘bad hyper-jump’ come riding back on the wings of vengeance,” she huffed. “Maybe I’m just a Com-Tech in over her head, but I don’t think you’re giving the Little Admiral enough credit. We’re going to rock this galaxy yet!”
“Spalding’s dead,” he said flatly, as he pointed at the screen, “and so is anything else, except possibly an escape attempt…assuming anyone comes out here at all.”
“Do you see what I’m seeing? Our enemies have massive orbital fortifications, a pair of rapidly repairing battleships, half a dozen Sector Guard corvettes filling out an entire squadron, as well as the entire Self Defense Force of this world!” He projected the screen onto the wall in front of him, where everyone could see, “One ship—even a top-of-the-line Imperial Ship—couldn’t hack its way through all this, not unless it was a Command Carrier, and even then…” he shook his head doubtfully.
“The Admiral has a plan; he always has a plan,” she said confidently.
“The Admiral’s in jail, precisely because he doesn’t have a plan. He never did! Aside from maybe joyriding around the galaxy, smiting bad guys like some holo-vid inspired superhero. We were all taken in—even myself, for a time—but just look at him now! He’s no larger than life hero, that was proven the moment he almost died and lost the ship. All he ever had was the ship; one big, old, tough as nails battleship, but that’s it! He doesn’t have a plan, he doesn’t have a ship, and he certainly doesn’t have the fleet he’d need to break out of here.” Tremblay folded his arms across his chest as he continued to shake his head. “No, after a few months, all he’ll be remembered as is the would-be two-bit failed Tyrant of Cold Space.”
The others stared at him in growing silence, and then Heirophant unlatched his restraints. “It sounds like you’re no longer with the Admiral…if you ever were,” he said grimly.
Tremblay realized that in his passion for the truth, he had revealed too much. “I’m with you guys one hundred percent; you, and the Admiral, so I don’t want to hear any different,” he said hastily, “besides, it’s too late to back out now, and just because it’s the stupidest thing we could do, that doesn’t mean it’s not also the right thing,” he lied. “Just don’t expect me to be all happy about throwing our lives away, especially when we could still be sitting back in our quarters, finding a smart way to make this thing work.”
“We spent more than enough time sitting on our duffs back on the ship. All that was accomplishing, was us waiting to get caught,” rebuked Lisa Steiner. “At least this way, we have a fighting chance to make a difference, and that’s all anyone who signs up for military service can ask!”
“They can ask for victory, and a real chance to be on the winning side,” he mumbled under his breath, careful to make it low enough the others couldn’t hear him, “not this Montagne pie in the sky bullroar they keep trying to force-feed us.”
Like any man caught between the clutches of two Montagne Masters, the former First Officer was feeling the squeeze. He knew which side he wanted to be on: the hard hitting, elected by the people, Parliamentarian side. If only everyone would let him be on that side, everything would be fine. As it was, everything had become a spalled-out mess, and the only thing worse than a return of the Little Admiral with vengeance in his eyes, would be staying under Jean Luc’s thumb.
No one born with the name Tremblay was destined to be anyone’s murderous manservant. Then he started to wonder just how much parliament back home would really care if he shot Jean Luc dead in his own ready room.
“I’ve got a signal!” said Mike from the jump seat where his data slate was hard docked into the shuttles computer system.
“Let me see,” said Steiner.
Mike held his slate out of reach, still busy tapping away on the screen.
“Yes,” he said, holding it up in the air with triumph, deftly avoiding the Com-Tech’s greedy fingers in the process.
“It works?” demanded Heirophant.
“Life a hot knife through butter,” exclaimed the System Analyst, “I don’t think we’ll even need to be hard docked; I can do it all from here!”
No one in the little shuttle cabin noticed Tremblay freeze, as his right hand locked up in a painful cramp at the ‘hot knife through butter’ comment. As his stomach turned painfully, the former First Officer realized that he might not be the best candidate for slaughtering the Commodore in his office.
Tremblay’s eyes shot sideways to the Lancer, in sudden contemplation. The man was as suspicious as a barely trained attack dog…maybe he should take a page from the Montagne playbook, and put his two problems in the same room. Then, either way it went, he would only have one problem.
No one cut off his hand and got away with it. All he would have to do was offer the possibility of a one-way suicide mission against the man who shot the Tracto-an’s Warlord, and Heirophant would be frothing at the mouth. The problem at that point would only be holding the man back if Tremblay changed his mind.
They seemed to have forgotten him in the flurry of the moment.
“I’ll contact the ship’s Captain and tell him we’re going to be doing a flyby, so we can circle the ship. It’ll be rather suspicious if we stop outside their hull and don’t try to come inside to say hello,” he said.
“It’s almost uploaded now,” Mike said, waving him off irritably for breaking his concentration.
Tremblay had heard that more times that he could count, so the universe would have to forgive him if he failed to hold his breath in anticipation.
Activating the communication equipment, he hailed the freighter.
“This is the Captain,” an older man with salt and pepper hair growled from this screen.
“Good to meet you, Captain,” Tremblay glanced down at his console and tapped the screen, as if just pulling up the man’s name, “Pepe Marcillus,” he raised his left hand, turning the palm slightly up as if what he was about to say was of little moment, coincidentally prominently displaying his black gloves, “I’m a Senior Lieutenant with the Intelligence Directorate, here on a routine flyby. Please allow for a brief visual inspection of your exterior, and we’ll be out of your hair momentarily,” he said, displaying his teeth in a smile.
The Captain paled and then his eyes bulged. Tremblay kept the smirk from his lips, as he knew that the best kinds of truths were sometimes the ones no one actually believed.
“I assure you, Lieutenant—” he cut himself short, “I mean, Senior Lieutenant, of course. Let me assure you that anything we can do in the service of the Intelligence Directorate, will be done,” he said, although what he did not say out loud, was that anything he could do to hurry along their egress would be his greatest pleasure.
“You cooperation will be noted,” Tremblay acknowledged, tapping on his console as if making a note.
The Captain pasted on a sickly smile and Tremblay cut the connection.
He was just leaning back in his seat when a fist punched him in the shoulder. “You enjoyed terrorizing that man,” the little Com-Tech said, hands on her hips and her jaw jutting.
Tremblay lowered his forehead and stared up at her through his eyebrows.
“We had a mission to accomplish; I did so in a way that was both completely true, and at the same time—if anyone on the Larry looks—will appear to be nothing more than a low-ranking Intelligence Officer throwing his weight around. I also convinced the Captain of that ship to let us hang around as long as we need to, in order to complete our mission,” he said coldly, his eyes drilling into hers.
“Yeah, but you didn’t have to enjoy making him afraid,” she said angrily.
“Part of the mission was making him afraid, so he wouldn’t ask questions or raise any alarms until we upload the program. Thankfully for all involved, it appears that Mike is about to succeed; otherwise, we’d have to board that ship, where I would well and truly put the fear of Larry into everyone on board, until our mission was accomplished,” he said flatly.
She opened her mouth to retort, but Tremblay cut her off.
“Oh, get off your high horse and step out from that ivory tower you live in, at least long enough to realize the game you’re playing! I enjoy executing a mission, and in this case, part of the mission was intimidating a freighter captain. Since it looks like I did that part well,” he shrugged and smiled, “yes: I rather enjoyed it. A mason takes pride in a job well done, and so does an Intelligence Officer in the field.”
“I would rather die, than be like you, and make the choices you do on a daily basis,” she said glaring at him.
“You may yet get that chance, assuming your mythical help never actually arrives,” he replied, turning back to slowly run the shuttle around the freighter, as if on the visual inspection he claimed. Then a thought occurred to him, “Very possibly, even if they do.”
“Blast you, Tremblay; you have no heart,” she hissed, turning around and stomping out of the cockpit, making her way back to the cabin proper.
“You may get your chance to do that, also,” he muttered. Go back into the cabin, little girl pretending to be a leader, he seethed, and let your pet Intelligence Officer go and get his hands dirty on your behalf, doing the tasks you find too distasteful to do yourself. Tasks you probably couldn’t even do if you tried!
“Besides I do have a heart,” he mumbled in protest, “it’s just two sizes too small.” There was simply no other way to make it in Intelligence if one’s heart bled for everyone, and everything. As a recent Junior Lieutenant on his first deployment, he had thankfully never had to do any interrogations…yet. He had the training though, and would do it if ordered. Primarch Glue did not count, as Jason had taken the lead on that one before the beast had displayed resistance to standard chemical interrogation, and Jason had forbidden any ‘stronger’ measures.
“It’s done,” declared Mike, handing his slate over to Steiner, who checked his work before giving her nod of approval.
“I’m taking us out of here; course back to the ship,” Tremblay said.
Lisa Steiner scowled in his direction, and the Lancer gave him the kind of look that left him feeling more uneasy than anything the Com-Tech could throw his way in two lifetimes.
Chapter 26: A Briefing? What a Novel Concept
This time, they actually gave me a whole two minutes to confer with my Lawyer—in a well-fortified side office, with visible cameras in every corner of the room.
Cynically, I wondered if they were only allowing me this short conference so that if later generations (a historian, perhaps) questioned the validity of these proceedings, they had a nice visual record of me being ostensibly allowed all my supposed civil rights. Then they could deny it: ‘What do you mean, he was railroaded? Look at all the due process he was afforded; he even had a lawyer, and a chance to construct a defense!’
I snorted derisively. Sure. A whole two minutes of heavily-recorded ‘privacy,’ that allowed my enemies to hear every moment of said defense.
“We have to be quick,” Mr. Harpsinger said, glancing at the four corners of the room with furtive little motions of his head.
“What’s your first name,” I asked, leaning back in my chair and refusing to be sucked into the whirlpool of fear he was projecting.
My little Lawyer blinked at me. “My-my name, Sir?” he asked, as if in a daze. Then, his eyes seemed to focus on me—I mean really focus on me—, as if for the first time, “we only have a little time here; let’s not waste it on something as unimportant as that!”
“I’m serious here; you’ve been my lawyer for how long? And to my great embarrassment and shame, I can’t for the life of me remember your first name,” I said declining to be rushed. Enough things were already dancing to the tune of the Security Council; there was no reason I had to spend the few moments where I could avoid them, dancing away as well.
“Dartanion,” he said staring at me, “you’re serious you never learned my first name?”
“Nope,” I said, lacing my hands behind my head, grateful to my latest near-death experience for at least reducing my manacles to the cuffs at my wrists and ankles.
“For our strategy,” he said briskly, pulling out his data slate as he spoke, “I don’t want to go into too much detail for obvious reasons, but I’m thinking this-”
I waited until he glanced up at me to interrupt. Then I put a finger to my lips. “Shhh,” I said.
His mouth snapped shut like a metal trap, and I felt sorry to do it to him—I really did—but we had more important things to discuss than my ultimately futile defense.
“Dartanion Harpsinger, you have done a wonderful job defending me,” the Lawyer opened his mouth, but I lifted a single finger to silence him.
“The way you took our Marriage Defense and ran with it, along with vigorously defending me to the limits of your abilities,” I shook my head, letting him see my approval and admiration, “I like to think in any fair court, the Planetary Piracy charge is well and truly stuffed.” Then I shrugged, “But if it goes against us, I’m confident when they have to deal with the Tracto-an’s later on, they’ll suffer for every moment of vindictive satisfaction they took, ramming that one through. This is a case of real politics, running head on, with short-term local political gains.”
“We’ve held hearings on the Marriage and Planetary Piracy charge every day for the last week,” said my lawyer, and I was happy to let him this time. “Yesterday, the Sector Judge walked out halfway through, and today we’re moving onto the Ship Piracy issues.”
“See? Battle won,” I said with a smile that I slowly allowed to wilt, “unfortunately, that will only make the charges they pin on me later, appear to have the smell of legitimacy.” I frowned, to show I wasn’t taking this lightly, but it was more for his benefit than mine.
“We can still fight this, Admiral. In any reasonable hearing, the truth will come out! We did our best out there, and we saved lives!” Harpsinger said, squeezing his slate with both hands so hard, that I could see his thumbs turning white.
“This isn’t about what we actually did. That was a mixed bag, but,” I gestured for him not to interrupt, “on the whole, yes…we did some good. Okay, a lot of good,” I allowed, “but right now, a lot of people are scared that the Confederated Empire is gone. In response, the Rump has decided they need a villain; someone to blame—and see executed—so they can feel better about themselves in a galaxy gone mad. When up feels down, and down feels up, and nobody knows which way to turn.”
“It’s wrong, Admiral, and a complete violation of everything the Law is supposed to stand for,” he protested weakly, but like me, he knew in his heart of hearts that there was only one way I was walking out of here: through the hangman’s noose.
“Call me Jason,” I said impulsively, “we’re in this together, till the bitter end. There’s no point in standing on formality.”
“Yes,” he hesitated, “Jason, Sir,” he floundered for a moment. “I still think there’s a way we can lay the groundwork for life imprisonment—or even a commuted Sentence—if we work it hard and get a little bit of luck,” he said, hunching his shoulders and looking as fierce as a non-violent man like Mr. Harpsinger could ever look.
“You know what? You’re not all that bad, for a Parliamentary man, Dartanion Harpsinger,” I chuckled, looking at him almost fondly.
“Thank you. You’re not that bad yourself, for being one of those bloodthirsty, Royal Montagne types, Admi—, I mean, Jason,” he said, giving me a quick smile. “Now, about the Members, I think what we need is—” his voice trailed off as the door to our little conference room swung open, and a bailiff (a new man from the last one, who had almost killed me) walked in.
“Time to go before the Committee,” he said.
“Back into the lion’s den, my good friend,” I said, getting to my feet and strutting toward the door. “The Security Council waits not on the whims of lesser men.”
“Come on, you,” the bailiff gave me a sour look, and then reached over to grab me by the chain hanging between my wrists. Picking me up until I dangled, my feet now held inches above the floor and all the weight of my body on my shoulders, he growled in my ear,
“My parents emigrated from Capria, so I know about your type and have no use for it. Plus, you embarrassed the bailiff service and got my good mate fired. Just give me a reason,” he rumbled.
“Don’t worry, my good man; I will most certainly hold your ignorance against you later on,” I assured him in my lightest possible voice.
Hearing the threat, he ignored my levity and gave me a teeth rattling shake, which just so happened to slam me against the door frame on the way out.
“Oops,” he said.
This time, I was wise enough to keep my silence. My ribs ached enough, after that little slam, to shut even ‘my’ mouth.
Chapter 27: A Gag Order
Back in front of the Security Council, the days passed like a blur.
They brought up many of the same, tired arguments I’d been expecting, and we countered them the best we could in the face of their scoffing. We claimed that I was a real Admiral, and we outlined the Confederation Fleet of which I was the official commander. We even supplied proof of such, bolstering our position that I had the power to command, and take a prize mutinous vessels. The committee was having none of it.
Only two things actually surprised me.
The first was that traitorous Settlement Ship Captain; the one who leveraged me into giving him the main hyper dish off the Belter’s Settlement Ship, so he could leave us all behind.
The man had the audacity to claim I threatened him, and then illegally took control of his ship; whereupon I again threatened him, with something along the lines of leaving him and his future colonists stranded in a ship rapidly losing its air supply.
Which was patently false! I had only threatened to leave the man and his ship to their own devices—if a couple times…I suppose one could argue that I strong-armed him into taking on refugees from the Promethean ship—who were still drifting in cold space at the time!
Watching as he put the worst possible spin he could on the events (and conveniently leaving out any mitigating factors, like the fact that I showed up in the nick of time to save the day and forced another group of settlers to give him their hyper dish), I silently swore that someday, I would have my revenge on that man.
The other surprise was when a Member from Prometheus—not at all grateful when I pointed out I had saved something on the order of fifty thousand colonists from his world with my aforementioned strong-arm tactics on the Caprian Settlement ship—produced a record he claimed were the final last moments of Captain Stood.
“A fabrication of the lowest sort, for shame Committee Member and Members, for shame,” I declared in the middle of court when that was produced. I knew with total certainty there was no way they could have gotten their hands on the recording devices of that ship: I took that ship a prize and then made sure it left with us! Why, even now, Captain Middleton was roaming around on patrol…wherever he had managed to get himself off to after all this time.
I was shouted down by almost the entire committee.
“The Witness is here simply to understand the context of the questions which will be asked later on during the hearings. Until such a time as he is directly addressed, I am hereby instructing the Bailiff to place a gag on the would-be Tyrant of Cold Space,” said the Right Honorable Guffy Balroon.
“The Tyrant of Cold Space,” I shouted, “this is an outrage, a slander of the first order; the committee ought to be ashamed of itself!” I was just getting going, when the Bailiff grabbed me by the scruff of my neck and forced a plastic, air-filled ball in my mouth. The ball expanded until it filled my mouth to the edge of discomfort, at which point he secured the straps attached to it around my head.
I pounded the desk and tried to speak through my nose, to no effect: the Chairman’s gag order had effectively gagged me.
After that, I was forced to watch as their recreation of events unfolded. However, when Akantha came through clear as day, demanding answers from Captain Stood in that icy cold voice of hers, and physically abusing his person when he gave her some lip, my certainty was shaken.
The Settlement Ship Captain began a tirade of insults, beginning with myself and those under my command, the government as a whole, and then Akantha. Certain names were used to describe her—names which are better left unsaid, as far as I’m concerned—and one of Akantha’s Honor Guard stepped forward and unceremoniously decapitated the man. It was at that moment that I was forced to admit that, somehow, they might have possibly managed to get a hold of an actual record of the event.
After Stood’s body hit the deck on the screen, Akantha looked embarrassed and started to chew the guard out for stealing her rights. She then launched into a tirade about what was she going to say to me, when she had to explain why she had no prisoner, and right around that time was when the holo-screen cut to darkness. As I delved through my memory of that particularly hazy event, I remembered she had told me he was dead, and then gave me the sort of look that challenged me to demand answers. But maybe my memory was playing tricks on me.
My Lawyer tapped on my screen and then showed me the screen.
-True?- it read.
I gave a shrug and then tapped my own message, since my mouth was currently unavailable for use.
-Beats me- I replied, although ‘No Clue’ had run close second, as I had considered how to reply.
After that, it was just long days of being held before the committee, unable to defend myself or put things in their proper context due to the Chairman’s gag order. While my Lawyer manfully tried to defend me, he just hadn’t been there when many of the decisions referenced by the court had been made. He could hardly be blamed; he had been stuck down in the ship’s legal department, filling out forms for any of the crew who needed anything official recorded when all of this went down. How could he mount an accurate defense when A) we had a grand total of two minutes prior to every session to go over things, and B) I was limited to tapping out rebuttals on a data slate, by which time the Committee had, for the most part, already rushed on.
I was almost happy to return to the Dungeon Ship each day, after the trashing they were giving us in the hearings.
Chapter 28: A Distinguished Visitor
A black hood was placed over my head before I was escorted out of my cell, and taken to a place on the Dungeon Ship I had never been to before. When we arrived, I was forced into a seat.
“Not so rough,” I protested, as my back spasmed from the force of being driven into my chair by a pair of gauntleted hands. The number of bruises I had picked up from the Security Council’s Bailiff service—the same men that guarded me both at Central and on the Dungeon Ship during my time as their ‘guest’—now created an impressive and painful full body patina.
When the Bailiffs took their revenge for getting one of their men canned, they weren’t kidding around. It felt like I was thrown against every doorway, table, and chair along the way from my cell to my seat in front of the UPN Security Council. I suppose even the ones that might have been more professional felt no shame in standing aside, as their mates had a chance to get some of their own back from the False Tyrant of Cold Space.
Although, what was I supposed to expect, when half the members of said council came from regimes more…let us say, ‘repressive,’ than not?
That said, if I thought being called the Little Admiral or the False Admiral had been bad, being addressed as the Tyrant of Cold Space grated something fierce. That title managed to get under my skin in a way the others never had managed.
“Remove the hood and leave,” instructed a voice I was almost certain I recognized, and when the Bailiff started to jerk my head from side to side, the voice added, “without any undue brutality, or I might feel compelled for the sake of my honor and reputation to remember your name, Bailiff,” the voice rebuked in an upper class Caprian accent.
I sat there blinking at the lights around me, while the Bailiff clomped out of the room.
“This room, designed during the tail end of the AI wars—the whole ship was, actually, but this room even more so—was built to be impenetrable from outside electronic monitoring of any sort,” said a man in the uniform and cape of an official Caprian Ambassador.
“Sir Isaac LePierre,” I greeted, my eyes having finally adjusted to the light of the room.
“Your Highness,” he replied, bowing at the waist.
I sat there unimpressed, staring down at him in proper royal disdain. I was forced into this room with a hood on my head and battle-suits to either side; courtesy might separate us from the AI’s, but it was going to take more than a meaningless honorific to win any favorable regard from me.
“Mr. Ambassador, what exactly have you summoned me here for?” I asked, to break the growing silence.
The Ambassador winced slightly. “The circumstances of your arrival needed to be kept secret,” he explained finally.
“With the Bailiff’s service in the pocket of so many Security Council Members, I’m almost certain this meeting will leak like a sieve, straight to the press before the day is out,” I said scornfully.
The Ambassador looked at me with a pleasant, diplomatic expression on his face. It was the sudden urge to wipe that expression from his face that made me reconsider his words.
“Unless it’s not for the purpose of hiding my presence here from anyone on the outside of this ship,” I said, my mind suddenly racing.
The Ambassador looked at me with what could only be called approval. I started to feel like I had just received a big compliment, and then I realized this man already had me unconsciously seeking his approval. What would I be doing next, eating out of his hand? I stiffened and glowered at him as I reminded myself that this man was good, and he had no qualms about using his reputation and personal presence as a weapon.
“Well played, Sir Isaac,” I congratulated, more upset with myself than I was with him. The only question now, was my original one: what now?
“Prince Jason?” he played it cool, politely denying any knowledge of what I was talking about. Although, a good-natured gleam entered his eye, which said he knew precisely what I had meant. That gleam also seemed to suggest I might be worthy of entry into his small brotherhood of secrets as well.
Again, I recognized I was feeling the urge to be sucked within his orbit. So I rolled my eyes and stared at him with exasperation. How was it possible for one man to put such a freight of meaning into a handful of words, or minute gestures? This man was clearly a true master of that which I was still only learning. I knew I would have to be doubly on my guard with him.
“Well played,” I repeated just to fill the silence, and that’s when I knew I was outmatched. Even on my guard, and prepared to resist to the bitter end, I was already dancing to his tune. The man had me dragged through the ship with a hood to keep anyone sympathetic to me from interfering, and without me saying the slightest rude or controversial thing, he had me back-footed, feeling like I was the one somehow in the wrong.
This was perhaps the most fearsome foe I had ever faced to date—my insane Uncle, being the only possible exception. The crazies had an advantage over the rest of us, in that they could be truly and totally unpredictable. The rest of my foes had been buffoons compared to this man.
Then, as if a fog had been clouding my mental vision, everything snapped back into focus and my eyes narrowed with genuine anger.
“You were the one who sent Bethany to me,” I said, my mind rushing through the implications.
The man allowed me to see the faintly sour expression that crossed his face—he flat out was letting me see it—before firmly placing the mask back in place.
“I had hoped to avoid that particular topic,” he said evenly, flicking a wrist to the side as if trying to shake water from his fingertips.
“As if it was water to be swept under the bridge,” I said wonderingly.
“Surely, a pair of men such as ourselves, can find a way to move past the childlike tantrums of what is, essentially, an overgrown child who has become enslaved to her emotions,” he said smoothly.
“You sent a backstabber like that to me as your first ploy,” I shook my head in amazement.
“Now, let’s not engage in,” he paused fractionally, and I could see he wanted to say ‘hyperbole,’ but since the woman had both figuratively, as well as literally, stabbed me in the back, saying so would be inaccurate, “name-calling over what is, essentially, ancient history, simply for argument’s sake,” he continued smoothly, barely missing a beat as he shifted verbiage in mid-sentence.
“Now why should you want to bring up such a stunning reminder of how easily you played me, set the hook, then reeled me in,” I asked dryly, determined to ignore his charisma and stay focused. I might not win this game, but I wasn’t just going to concede outright.
“Fleets and Battleships have their places, but never underestimate the power of a well-placed ploy,” he shrugged, as if to say, ‘if you want to discuss it, then we’ll discuss it.’ However, I was not a boy to be humored and sent off to bed, like an errant space hand.
“I didn’t even realize it, until I was well inside the hyper-limit,” I said, referring to my last venture into Easy Haven.
“I knew she presented the ideal adversary for you. She has the same training, making her a challenge; she’s family, so I was confident that you wouldn’t just ignore or kill her outright; and she carries such open animosity towards you, that while you might even think to be looking for the hand behind the woman, everything would be clouded by her own private designs,” he explained, leaning back in his chair confidently, even as he admitted to being the mastermind behind the Mutiny that had laid me low.
“You’re unbelievable, you know that,” I said, staring at him, memorizing every feature, every land mark, down to the last wrinkle on his face.
“Still, despite all my designs, you almost wiggled out in the end,” he frowned.
“Flattery will get you nowhere with me,” I retorted, allowing the faintest hint of scorn to color my voice.
“Playing Yagar like that was almost masterful, even with me standing there right at his shoulder to keep him from cycling off the bulkhead,” he shook his head.
“Yagar’s a fool, who should never have been placed in charge of the Sector Guard—or any other fighting formation, for that matter—he’s far too easily led around by his nose,” I said flatly.
“Thus, making him the ideal candidate for such a post, in the eyes of those who created both the position, and the Guard itself,” he disagreed. “Yagar, at least, is a man who recognizes who his masters are.”
“Unlike certain Montagne Prince-Cadets, you mean,” I riposted smoothly.
The Ambassador deigned to look cross. “Some men are born to be leaders, and others—almost as if by design—are meant to be masters of men, these seldom make good followers,” he said with a scooping gesture of his hand, as if picking up non-existent dominos and then casting them down on the table in a noisy, scattered mess.
“Meaning they’re not as easily to lead around by the nose, as some might like,” I replied, lightly slapping the table with my hand, “perhaps even yourself, Ambassador?”
He politely ignored my query. “Prince Jason,” he started.
“I prefer, Admiral, Mr. Ambassador,” I corrected, even though being reminded I was a failure as an Admiral was actually the last thing I wanted. Still, if your opponent keeps calling you one thing, it’s often wise to shake things up a bit.
“I’m afraid that might not be as…politic, let us say, as it might otherwise be,” he replied, meeting my eyes. In that moment, I could finally see the steel lever behind them that managed to move entire star nations, all in order to bring me down.
“A man once told me that courtesy cost him little, and kept him from forming dangerous preconceptions,” I began, trying for a lecture of my own, “while another wise man once indicated that this room is entirely free from outside monitoring, in an attempt to set me at my ease.” I was suddenly determined to be stubborn on the matter.
He sniffed, drawing breath in through his nose and into his lungs before speaking. “As an Ambassador, at times, I am the veritable flex within the design,” he said in diversion.
But I stared at him evenly, refusing to be diverted from what was mine—oh, not my title of Admiral, at that moment, I could keep or leave that. No, what I really wanted at this point, more than anything else, was respect. I was determined that I would have respect from this man, if I had to take it by any means necessary.
“Even alone,” he continued, obtusely ignoring my gaze, “with only a small staff, and far away from the Home world…at times, my power can be roughly comparable to that of the King himself—when we have such an individual—or the Speaker for Parliament,” he continued, as if I was nothing more than a slightly unruly student: best humored when possible, and ignored when not.
This was intriguing, but not enough to lure me away from my imitation of a rock. He could play the rising sea all he wanted, but all he would manage was to bury me under the waves as I remained steadfast and immovable, like a stone beneath the ocean.
“Perhaps, if one is both lucky and well-positioned beforehand—not President of the Assembly,” he chuckled piteously, “no…never that. Such a position would be more like wrangling a herd of unruly goats. But Sector Governor, or whatever form and name the equivalent position may take in the future; that, my young Prince, is not outside of reach,” he said, propping a hand under his chin as he considered me with what appeared to be tolerant consideration.
“It’s Admiral,” I repeated, “and I fail to see how the fulfillment of your ambitions, or the trial and travails between now and then concerns me in the slightest. After all, I’ll be dead soon enough, and everything becomes academic for me at that point.” Even though I had been drawn out of position and was losing points in this little game we were playing, for some reason, I just didn’t care. I sensed something in this presentation…the barest sniff, if you will, of some odor that might actually be of interest.
Sir Isaac leaned sideways in his chair, as if examining me from another angle and then nodded with great gravitas. “I believe the Prince and the Ambassador are done with their little parts in this play,” he said, straightening himself. The steel that had been so well hidden within his congenial diplomatic mask, save for that one deliberate reveal earlier on in the conversation, now practically radiated from his eyes.
I leaned back, as if blown by a strong wind; such was the force of this man’s personality revealed.
“You cost me quite a bit when you almost wiggled free of my noose, Admiral Montagne,” he said my rank with deliberate intent. The respect I was searching for was now fully present in what appeared to be my greatest adversary, as he continued, “I was forced to bring the Pirate into play to counter you, and even though I knew the cost of his services beforehand, the fallout just keeps spreading…becoming more than anyone, including myself, ever expected,” he said, his eyes like grey, iron bars, drilling into me.
“I’m sorry if you underestimated my Uncle, but I refuse to lower myself to his level. Nor would I stoop to hiring such a beast in human format,” I spat, refusing to squirm under the weight of his gaze like an errant schoolboy, even though I wasn’t sorry in the least. In this specific matter, I was content to let my detestable pirate kin bring as much trouble to my enemies as possible. Because despite his polite words, or talk of honor and reputation, that’s exactly what this man was: the self-admitted architect of the Lucky Clover’s fall, and the very man who orchestrated the slaughter of my loyal crew.
“Your Uncle,” he said with precision, and then waving as one would do to dispel a bad odor from the room, “is a man limited by his ambitions, the extent of which I am aware. Let him lock horns with the Imperials in search of past glory. It will keep the both of them occupied, and allow the rest of us the time to grow—unhindered—into something worthy of the name. No, it is not the Pirate Prince of which I speak, when I speak of collateral damage.”
“Well, as fascinating as all this sounds, I’m lost in the weeds then,” I said waving the matter away as if inconsequential, since I doubted he was about to enlighten me. Which doubt proved well-founded when he just shook his head as if at a mildly cunning, if completely childish, ploy to gain information.
“Jean Luc, Arnold Janeski, Senator Cornwallis, or even,” he snorted derisively, “Jason Montagne, Tyrant and Scourge of the Spaceways, or half a dozen other interests; I don’t care who it is that thinks he can ride roughshod over this sector like it was his own personal fiefdom, to do with as he pleases. He will find Sir Isaac LePierre arrayed against him, and I am not a man to be crossed, even if I do say so myself,” he said almost melodiously, but his iron-grey eyes were still firm and unyielding.
“Who’s running rough shod over anything?” I exclaimed in genuinely outraged protest. “Whoever it is, it certainly isn’t me! I’ve done nothing but try to help and protect the people and worlds of this sector, ever since Janeski handed me the keys to that murthering old Battleship!”
“Having met you in person, and having personally reviewed all the relevant logs from your ship, I am willing to allow that you believe what you are saying when you make such a claim,” he gave me the grace of a nod, and then shrugged. “Sadly, there was no way to know that at the time, and quite honestly we—and by that, I quite literally mean no one—can afford to have a loose cannon running around the sector, claiming authority vested in him by the Old Confederation and generally doing whatever the Hades it is he pleases.”
“If you’re so influential, powerful and all that on the level of the King or Speaker of Capria, and you know the truth about what I was doing, then what’s with all the Murphy Mouse, and kangaroo courts,” I asked exasperatedly, and, despite myself, greatly fearing the answer.
“You have sacrificed much for the people of this sector, which is why you are now being called on to sacrifice even more on their behalf,” he said, producing two different scrolls, and placing them on the table.
“What are these,” I asked wearily, leaning away as if something distasteful had entered the room.
He flicked the one on my right forward with a single index finger. “Sign that and you will live out the rest of your natural life in a comfortable prison cell, with all the conveniences of modern society at your beck and call,” he said smoothly, but his smile had an uncomfortable edge to it.
“What’s the catch,” I asked suspiciously, even though everything inside me screamed to take the deal. When he dropped an old style fountain pen on the table, I all but snatched it out of his hand before it had hit the table.
“Simply plead no contest to the crimes entailed within, and throw yourself upon the mercy of the Sector Judge,” he replied.
“You should have just asked me in the beginning, I’d have said yes,” I muttered, rapidly unrolling the scroll and giving it a perfunctory scan before putting the point of the pen on the dotted line.
“Also, you stipulate in there that you were a complete patsy; a figurehead, as if were,” he added, and I froze.
“A figurehead for what?” I demanded.
“Why, your Officers and Crew of course. You will walk out of here, if not a free man, certainly a comfortable one. But they, on the other hand…well, someone has to hang, and if it’s not the Tyrant of the Space Ways, then the men and women who secretly propped him up will do,” he smiled, and it was as if all his congeniality disappeared into a yawning pit of spite and hatred.
“I think I’ll pass,” I replied an instant after he finished, flicking the scroll back to him.
“The other offer is less generous,” he warned, after a momentary smirk.
I looked off to the side and raised one eyebrow. “Go on,” I said reluctantly.
“In it, you plead guilty to the crimes of which you are accused, make clear you are the sole architect of a maniacal scheme to rule the galaxy—starting with this sector,” he pointed a finger down at the table, “and take sole responsibility for the actions of yourself, and those who labored under your rule of fear and terror.”
“And,” I prompted.
“You take the long drop, before a live audience,” he replied smoothly, sounding like a chef describing the evening’s menu, “while your crew returns home. They will, of course, no longer be a part of the Caprian SDF, but they will be alive and well. They will also have my personal guarantee that there will be no purge, or charges, upon their arrival on the home world.”
I stared at him with pure hatred in my eyes. I had always wondered what my death would look like, and it appeared that this was the man who signed the order. Bethany’s voice suddenly rang in my memory, ‘I always knew you were born to hang, Flat Nose,’ I could almost hear her say.
Then my shoulders slumped in defeat.
“So which will it be? Door number one, door number two, or we can just go straight back to the Kangaroo court—as you call it—and in the end, I’ll be the final arbiter of events,” he said, giving each scroll a little shake. “And let me assure you now, that I will likely be disinclined to show mercy.”
I stared at the table, as the decision I had always known I would have to make—assuming I was insanely lucky, which apparently, I was—staring me right in the face.
“Ducking the Planetary Piracy charge must have really shook you, or you would have come here before now,” I said, my eyes unfocused, my mind desperate to avoid this bitter cup set before me. Let my men die for my crimes, or sign my own death warrant…what a choice.
“It was the only one of the charges the Member from Pacifica III could have possibly abstained on, when the Committee voted for execution. Exploiting a woman in her ‘primitive, natural state’, is almost as repulsive to the voters back on her home on Pacifica III, as standing by and allowing someone to be executed without a single vote to the contrary,” he said agreeably.
I shook my head as I turned and stared at the scrolls.
“Final offer, Admiral,” he said, the last word more than slightly mocking.
“I was always born to hang,” I muttered, reaching out and snatching the appropriate scroll away from him. “Give me that,” I said, even though it was already in my hand. I furiously scrawled my signature on the dotted line, and tossed it back to him.
“There, and to Hades with you; it’s done,” I said, folding my arms over my chest like an upset teenager. I knew I was doing it, but I couldn’t help myself.
He glanced at it and looked over me, and the evil little smirks and smiles he had been giving me melted away as he looked at me with something akin to respect.
Then he tore the scroll in half, and continued doing so until it was scattered into tiny pieces.
I stared at him blankly. “So it was all a game, and you toyed with me like I was a chump,” I said through slitted eyes.
“You really should read what you sign, before you sign it,” he said flatly.
“It’s all under your control anyway,” I said disgustedly.
“In both of those scrolls, you pled guilty and requested death by un-medicated vivisection, as penance for your numerous crimes,” he explained, looking at me like a grandfather who had found an unexpected treasure in his grandchild.
I blanched. That was cruel, even for the most hardened parliamentary judicial court and executioner.
He flopped a third scroll, along with a data pad, onto the table.
“Read these, sign them both, and press your thumb on this modified data slate, which will also take a blood sample,” he instructed.
“And what do these say,” I asked, pulling the scroll closer. This time, I actually started to read it.
“Even after everything I observed on your bridge tapes and private logs, I didn’t really expect you to sacrifice yourself for your men,” LePierre said.
“You mean you didn’t expect a Montagne to lay himself down before the executioner, when there was the slightest chance at survival; his men be hung?” I growled angrily. That choice was no choice at all: me, or my crew? The answer was plain as daylight, especially since I got them into this mess, and there was no way I was walking out of it no matter what I tried. It followed, that I might as well take the route which, at least, let them go back to their families.
“Yes, quite,” he agreed.
“So the deal,” I prompted, still reading and he made a moue of dislike.
“A man who would be honorable, must recognize honor even in his worst of foes, of which you hardly qualify,” he explained instead.
“Right, I’m more along the lines of a Scapegoat. I feel you there,” I said bitterly.
“You plead no contest to the charges, and your men walk free—all of them—even the ones who probably deserve to hang alongside you. Your remains will be transported back to your family. After you’re long gone, and all of this unpleasantness is behind us, I’ll see to it that your image is slowly rehabilitated to as close to reality as possible, and administer a pension to your mother,” he said, his face tightening when I snorted. “A college student, in over his head, who allowed some temporary power to blind him, resulting in a joy ride around the sector before coming to an untimely end,” he quoted, no doubt from some official document he was even now dictating for those many years in the future.
“So it’s to be blood money, and a historical rehab after the fact. How very…courteous of you,” I bit out. I had to force myself to keep the half dozen other (harsher) things I wanted to say from passing my lips.
“It’s the least I could do,” he replied, irony heavy in his voice.
I finished scanning the scroll and stared on the data slate, as sure enough, they both said the same thing: essentially, they elucidated just how badly, and promptly, I wanted to be hung.
“Won’t Pacifica protest my execution anyway, now that Planetary Piracy and the exploitation of helpless natives is off the table,” I asked as mildly as I was able to, not wanting to scram the deal at this late date. The last thing I wanted to do was guarantee my men a date with the executioner, alongside myself.
“The Right of self-determination is a cornerstone of Pacifica III’s society,” he looked at me quizzically before adding, “they will, of course, be horrified that you met your end by any method other than a hunger strike.”
“I think I’ll pass on that one,” I said, not liking the idea of starving to death.
“If you are seen to be seeking penance for your crimes, no matter how misguided they may think you are,” he rolled his eyes, showing just what he thought of Pacifica III and its culture, “they will respect it, and may actually gain respect for their own Committee Member, depending on how she plays it. Having the courage to grant you the ability to make your own decisions—no matter how distasteful—is likely to resonate with their culture for quite some time, and could gain their Committee Member significant local traction upon her return.”
“So for her, the entire affair went from a wash, to a loss, when I trounced your first charges,” I mused aloud. “Then, against all odds, it reverses to an outright slam dunk win for that particular member, now that I’ve signed my own death warrant.” I almost couldn’t believe the politics that were going on. Even now, these people were analyzing and maneuvering themselves around me, like vultures over a carcass, looking for a few choice scraps of meat.
“Her vote will come in handy later on…after I explain the ramifications of my independent actions here, and cash the marker in at a later date,” he said agreeably.
“I’m done with the whole disgustingly political lot you; let’s just get this over with,” I growled.
“Oh no,” he said, rolling up the scroll and slipping the data slate back into his pocket. “If we stopped the hearings at this point, anyone with the least bit of political insight and knowledge would cry foul. A decision this soon, out a Committee? Quite unheard of,” he said shaking his head, “we need at least another few weeks, to come to a fair and impartial decision.”
“Great, more getting beat up by the guards every time I go through a doorway,” I closed my eyes.
“We all have our burdens to bear,” the Ambassador said unsympathetically, “just keep putting on as spirited a defense as your fearsome little lawyer can manage, and irritating our Right Honorable Chairman almost out of his mind. Give it a few weeks—a month, at the outside—and I’ll talk with the Bailiffs to see if there’s anything that can be done about your…lack of physical coordination, shall we say.” He was all pleasantness and workmanlike satisfaction at a job well on its way to half done.
“Sure thing, Boss,” I quipped, folding my arms and tipping my head back, “you are in charge of this three ringed circus, after all.”
“Indeed,” he agreed, smiling pleasantly as he went and rapped on the door to get the attention of the Bailiff outside.
The door almost immediately opened. “Put the hood on and take him back to his cell,” LePierre instructed.
“My pleasure, Sir,” said the man in sparkling silver power armor, with the sigil of the UPN prominently displayed on his chest piece.
Sir Isaac started to turn, and then paused as if over some minor issue. “Oh, and guard, do make sure he gets back to his cell without mishap. Our little Tyrant’s been a good boy today, and deserves a small reward.” Despite the lightness of the tone, I could hear the iron hidden within, and I could tell the guard did also, because he stiffened and gave the Co-Chair of the Security Council a jerky nod.
“Your will be done, Mr. Ambassador,” he said.
“Indeed,” replied Sir Isaac, sweeping out of the room.
That was the last thing I saw before the Bailiff replaced the hood upon my head and everything went dark.
“Come on, you,” grumbled the Bailiff, no doubt irked at the fact that his fun had just been taken away.
It was a small victory, and of an exceptionally petty nature, but despite all my knowledge of these facts, I still smiled deep within the hood. It was the small victories you could take such petty vindictive satisfaction in, because with all the big ones, the price came far too dear to indulge in any gloating.
That’s why I gloated for all I was worth on the way back to my cell. Tomorrow, he or his replacement would probably start the same usual treatment all over again, but for now, I was good.
Chapter 29: Spalding to The Rescue!
Spalding and Akantha stood on the bridge looking down at the new message
“We are already halfway to Capria; now they want us to change course?” asked Akantha doubtfully. “Why would they wait to tell us until the Clover was leaving the system? Our spies could have been compromised.”
“The clover you see, she’s not in Capria yet! There’s still time to snag her, and the Admiral, also,” Spalding urged.
“They say they are almost finished with repairs; we might beat them to Capria and catch them when they arrive,” she said, shaking her head.
“I don’t know about that, my Lady,” Spalding replied quickly, “not that I’ve been all that eager to go home to Capria with fire and fury in the first place, but diverting to Central might be the way to go,” he said cautiously.
“I have been inconsiderate to the point of insult; forgive me, Chief Engineer,” she said, looking genuinely worried about his reaction.
“It’s no matter, Lady Akantha,” he said gruffly.
“You are wrong; it is a matter, which is why I have decided to split the fleet,” she declared.
“Split the fleet?! Why, that’s lunacy—if you’ll pardon my saying so, your ladyship,” he hastily added.
She glowered at him for moment, and then almost reluctantly relented. “I suppose I deserve that, after almost asking a man to attack his own homeland without so much as a ‘by your leave,’ and Murphy only knows how many kin folk in the area,” she said after a moment to cool down.
“Now, my lady-” he started, only to be cut off
“I insist,” she said imperiously, “you will go to Central and attempt to catch the Lucky Clover. If you can take her, it will be a great accomplishment, and one which will bolster our forces at a time of great need.” Her voice became icy as she continued, “However, if it is as I suspect and you are too few, or she is too well repaired, simply follow her back to Capria. I suspect she will be there soon enough, and we will perform the necessary, once our fleet is reunited. I will have already had time to deal with this King James, and his never to be adequately accursed Parliament!” she finished, her tone starting cold and calculating, but ending as a white hot rage.
“I couldn’t possibly leave you in a ship as buggy as this Imperial Cruiser,” he declared.
“The hardware is good, you said so yourself. Besides, you fixed half of it already; I am assured that the problem is no longer the hardware, it is what you call…software, and as miraculous as you are with hardware, others can carry on this task for me. I must send one who I can trust to lead the other half of this fleet,” she said imperiously, and when she got her back up like this, Spalding knew it was almost impossible to talk her back down.
Still, he had to try. Splitting the fleet, why it simply wasn’t to be done!
“Of course you can trust me,” he allowed, but before he could continue with the main part of his argument, she cut him off.
“Then it’s decided,” she declared, turning away.
“Now hold on just a bloomin’ second,” Spalding said.
“I cannot!” she flared. “According to your translation of that second cryptic message in your hand, it doesn’t matter where the Clover is going next; Jason has been dropped off in this Central.”
“But the Clover,” he cried.
“Your loyalty to your ship is well taken,” she hastened to assure him, but he was feeling decidedly less-than-assured, “however, your duty is first to your Admiral and whether the Clover is there or already on the way back to Capria as I suspect, you can see to him either way.”
Spalding stared at her, barely able to throttle back the angry tirade bottled up inside. Giving some small vent to his fury, he activated his mini plasma torches and stomped the floor. His ship was so close that he could almost taste her; the thought of arriving in Central, only to watch as she floated away, with him impotent to save her, was more than he could bear!
“Please,” Akantha said, placing a hand on his arm, “it is not proper for a Protector to be rescued by his Mistress. It is…” she said awkwardly, unable to fully express this reversal of normal behavior, “simply out of the mode and…not done. It needs to be one of his own men to free him, and after such crippling losses and so few familiar faces remaining, I know he will take comfort that it is you who are the one to do so.”
When he saw the pleading look in her eyes, as she all but begged him to rescue the Admiral—her husband—he stopped in his tracks. How could he call himself a Spalding if he turned a blind eye to such heartbreak as he saw in her eyes?
“Find out if he is alive or dead, so that I may finally put this pain inside me to rest,” she said, placing a hand on her breast.
Something inside him broke, and he could resist no longer. Even the hardest of duralloy can be melted by a turbo-laser, he finally admitted to himself.
“Aye, I can go after him for you,” he sighed. Even though he had lost the Clover, the Admiral was by no means a bad sort…for a Flag Officer!
“Excellent,” she said, clapping him on the shoulder.
Then he rallied, knowing if he let her walk all over him too easily this time, that the next it would be ten times worse.
“But don’t think I’m going to let you pawn me off like this, with naught but a dinky little corvette,” he barked. Maybe there was some way to salvage her headstrong notion of assaulting Capria’s defenses head on. Even an Imperial Cruiser, with the upgrades he had installed, would fall well short of that particular challenge.
“You bargain like a fishmonger,” she glared at him.
“You send a man off to do a job, you give him the proper tools or don’t send him out on the repair in the first place,” he retorted, shaking a finger in her direction.
“Fine,” she snapped, and he could see calculation in her eyes about just how much ‘she’ thought she could give away while still making some kind of idiotic frontal assault on Capria’s defenses. He had tried telling her that the whole of the ‘fleet’ she had assembled was really nothing more than a glorified light task force. But did anyone listen to the man who knew the ship specs frontwards and backward? No, of course not!
“I’ll keep the Demons and this Cruiser—which I have renamed The Furious Phoenix, because it has risen from the ashes to smite our foes with a terrible fury—and you can have the remainder,” she said, placing a hand on the hilt of her sword and squeezing until her knuckles turned white.
“A terrible name for a starship,” he grumped, but went no further. When that woman started grabbing at her sword, a wise man knew it was time to count his winnings and beat a hasty retreat.
“I’ll just make one last tour of the engine room, and make sure she’s put to rights before I go,” he said, stomping over to the exit. His long, metal legs still made a faint hydraulic sound from the actuators, no matter how he fiddled with them.
“I trust your judgment,” she said, and it was almost enough to melt his wizened old spacer’s heart, to hear the ships commander say that about their Chief Engineer.
“Substandard equipment,” he grumped, instead of giving into emotion, “can’t believe they would install such terrible equipment on a Chief Engineer; it defies all reason!”
He was still muttering to himself when he stepped into the lift.
Chapter 30: Tremblay-ing Behind
“Hurry up,” he hissed, as he rushed them toward the shuttle he had arranged to get them off the ship. The Clover was departing, and if he was ever going to get rid of these interfering royalist busybodies, now was the time. This was even the perfect explanation: they needed to get in position to rescue the Admiral before the ship left system. It was so perfect, and it had practically fallen into his lap.
“I’m not sure about this, Lieutenant Tremblay,” Steiner said, sounding uncertain as they tore most of the dirty laundry off the laundry-cart.
“No, it’s perfect,” he declared.
“I’m not sure, and Heirophant feels the same way,” she said, shooting a look at the now glowering Tracto-an.
Tremblay had to suppress the urge to roll his eyes. “Now that all the rest of the old crew has been taken to the Dungeon Ship, we can’t drag him around anymore pretending he’s our prisoner. This is a great disguise; no one would ever suspect an honor-bound primitive like him to be cowering inside a dirty laundry bin,” Tremblay waved at the nearly empty cart.
Heirophant growled and Lisa winced.
“Cowering? That’s really the word you want to use?” she asked, jerking a thumb in the former Lancer’s direction as he stood up and started towards Tremblay.
“I meant hiding,” Tremblay said, hastily backpedalling both verbally and physically, “no offense intended.”
“Offense was very much taken,” the gunner’s mate glared, still coming toward him.
Lisa hurried forward a step. “It really is a great way to smuggle you around the ship,” she assured Heirophant, placing a hand on the Tracto-an’s chest.
Heirophant clenched his fists, staring over the Com-Tech’s head and bestowed a look on the Intelligence Officer that promised this was not yet over.
Tremblay gulped, and then firmly reminded himself that Lisa already sounded halfway convinced. He knew that if he could get their little leader to go along with it, the battle was already halfway won, and he would almost certainly never have to see that scab ever again.
He just needed to get them moving, before it was too late and everything became academic!
The civilian freighter whose captain Tremblay had so easily intimidated, had been more than willing to loan out one of his shuttle craft, so long as Tremblay assured him that his ship would not have to undergo a complete inspection by the Caprian Intelligence Directorate. It was an easy promise to make, since there never had been plans by the Directorate to inspect the ship in the first place, thus neatly bypassing the problem of how to get these royalist loons out of his hair and off the ship at the same time!
Now, all he had to do was finish convincing them of that!
“Look, we’re already halfway there, now that we used that maintenance crawl space to get him,” he jerked a thumb in the direction of the overgrown meat castle that was the native scab, “here in the first place. We just have to keep going,” he said, fudging how close they actually were to the shuttle in the interest of making a point.
“Yeah, because you wouldn’t tell us why we had to bail out of our cabin! The way you were acting, I thought security was hot on our trail, or we needed to clear out before a random room inspection,” she growled, and the way her lower lip stuck out and her hands rested on her hips like some kind of little brown pixie would have been cute, if not for the mountain of a man standing literally right behind her.
That was when he knew it was time to call out the big guns. It was time for the big lie.
“The Admiral needs us,” he exclaimed, hamming it up as much as he could without gagging, “look, I’m sorry I didn’t fill you in on every little detail in the rush over here,” he threw his hands in the air and stomped around a bit. Then he leaned forward to whisper, as if revealing a big secret and gave them a significant look, “Word through the Intelligence grapevine is that the Security Council is growing tired of waiting; they’re moving forward with the execution sooner than expected.” He actually had no idea what the UPN Sub-Committee had planned, since it should have been patently obvious to even these fools that he was no more privy to that information than anyone else who could watch the Confederation Special Pan-sector Assembly News release (otherwise known by the handy acronym: CSPAN) but there was no need to make them aware of the fact.
Lisa gasped and put a hand over her mouth, and seemingly without thinking, she leaned against the Tracto-an.
“I didn’t realize we had so little time, the last we saw on CSPAN, the hearings looked like they could continue going on forever with the way they keep droning on and on, and that gag order is simply inhuman,” she started off sounding worried, but by the end she was stamping her feet in frustration.
“The public poll results they run in the sidebars seem to indicate most of the population actually finds comfort in seeing the Tyrant of Cold Space openly muzzled by the Provisional Assembly. It simultaneously humanizes him, and makes him appear mortal and not some unstoppable force of nature,” Tremblay said, unable to suppress a half smile at the thought that Jason Montagne was finally getting a taste of his own medicine.
“You wipe that smirk off your face, Raphael Tremblay,” the Com-Tech barked, sounding so much like his own mother at that moment that he instinctively winced and hunched his shoulder to defend against a blow that never came. “I don’t know what you have against the Admiral, whether it’s simple jealousy or an ingrained suspicion of everything royal, I don’t know and frankly I don’t care, just so long as you do your job and it doesn’t get in the way of us helping the Admiral Montagne,” she said fiercely.
“Me?! Jealous of a Montagne, that Montagne?! That’ll be the day,” Tremblay scoffed. “I don’t know how that notion entered your head in the first place,” he sneered.
“The sooner we can break him out and show the people of this star system, and the rest of the sector just how wrong they are about the Little Admiral, the better,” she growled.
Tremblay blinked. “That’s exactly why we need to get out of here and off to the Dungeon Ship, as soon as possible. I’ve exchanged a few messages with the crew of the ship he’s being held on and, amazingly enough,” he said, shaking his head in genuine disbelief, “they’re from the Clover! It’s the very crew the Admiral sent to Captain Synthia McCruise, after our battle with Captain Cornwallis and the Imperial Strike Cruiser.”
That Tremblay had contacted the crew aboard the Dungeon Ship without much hope of success (and more than half an eye toward getting a little leverage in his back pocket, if Heppner and his hounds caught scent of his activities) was beside the point. Besides, he had only gone as far as exchanging a few cautious—non-incriminating—messages with their former crewmates.
Again, nothing they needed to concern themselves with. Either they would be welcomed into the loving arms of their fellow loons, or they would find themselves on a one-way trip to a cell on the very ship they were attempting to infiltrate. Either way, by the time anyone found out about this pack of fools, Tremblay and the rechristened MPF Lucky Clover—now the SDF Larry Montagne, by order of their new Commodore—would be long gone from this system. It was even possible the mission might be successful, and they would slip into the Dungeon Ship like a royal hand into a velvet glove.
The Universe was strange that way; one could never predict every little wrinkle in the larger folds of existence. On some level, he actually hoped they succeeded, in spite of himself. They were hardheaded, even stupid at times to the point of imbecility, and more than half-determined to get themselves and everyone around them killed in one gigantic blaze of glory. Despite all that, they were more real and genuine than half the new officers strutting around the ship.
He came out of his reverie to realize that all three of them were staring at him with varying levels of concern and suspicion.
“What?” he asked.
“I said we’ll do it, so lead the way,” Steiner said irritably, with a melodramatic eye roll thrown in for good measure.
“Wha-,” he gurgled, switching mental gears and a smile broke out on his face, “Great! Now all we need to do is get this great big lug in the laundry bin.” He gestured with certainty at the pile of stinky clothes still at the bottom of the bin; they would make decent cushioning for the other man.
“We’re putting a lot of trust in you, Lieutenant Tremblay. Don’t make me regret it,” said the spunky little Com-Tech severely.
Tremblay put a hand to his chest dramatically, to disguise the sudden stabbing sensation he actually felt in his gut. There was no way he could keep hiding them on this ship forever, and there was even less of a chance he could conceal their stated goal to rescue Jason Montagne. This was literally the only plan he had been able to come up with on short notice, and he knew if they took a couple hours—hours they did not have—hashing things out, they would have gone regardless of what he said.
Then, for the first time, the fact that he was lying by omission about not accompanying them started to bother him. Not to mention the manner in which he was set to benefit, regardless of whether they succeeded or not. He felt a strange sensation churning away in the pit of his stomach…and he suspected it was guilt.
“You can trust me; have I ever led you wrong in the past?” he asked instead, forcibly suppressing his sudden, inexplicable urge to actually be a part of their group, and accompany them to the Dungeon Ship.
That was impractical on so many levels. He was a member of the Commodore’s staff, and if he disappeared, they might suspect something and turn the ship around, just to be sure. It was a long shot that they would do so, but still not worth the risk, in his opinion. Also—assuming they were successful, and he did decide to join their side—having an inside man on the Clover possibly able to transmit critical intel when no one was looking, was the smart play.
The fact was, Jason Montagne would have to be more of a fool than even he was capable of not to shoot his former First Officer out of hand for his suspected (and, in this case, actual) part in the mutiny, which had seen control of the ship revert to parliament. That, as far as Raphael Tremblay was concerned, was merely icing on the cake.
So, his impulsive desire to throw his lot in with these good-hearted dunderheads died a stillborn death, and he just smiled, to allay their suspicions.
After that, it was just a matter of covering the scowling Tracto-an with dirty laundry, and heading for the nearest lift.
“Don’t you think it’ll be suspicious if we push the laundry bin all the way to the shuttle,” Lisa whispered out of the side of her mouth from her side of the cart. Tremblay was opposite her, and poor Mike stuck at the back, where the ripe smell of their cargo was strongest.
Tremblay raised an eyebrow. “An Intelligence Officer taking a suspicious looking package and loading it into the back of a ‘civilian’ shuttle? In the middle of a busy shuttle bay, no less? Do you really think any member of this crew is stupid enough to wander over and start asking tough questions?” he asked incredulously.
The little Com-Tech looked reflective. “I guess I got so used to things under Admiral Montagne, that I forgot how good we had it,” she sighed. “He kept you guys on a short leash.”
Tremblay’s step stuttered before he caught himself and his gait steadied. As an Intelligence Officer, he never really had to worry about that, but looking at it from the standpoint of the general crew, it was no wonder they were happier under their Little Admiral.
The thought caused him to frown. Due to his training, he was used to thinking that way, but Jason Montagne just might have been smarter than he had given him credit for. He took the only member of the crew left to monitor the crew—himself, Raphael Tremblay—and kept him so busy with his ‘promotion’ to First Officer, there had literally been no one with the time or training to go around watching the crew. Thus binding the crew to him in ways the rest of them would never dare mention in the presence of their new First Officer.
First Officer, Tremblay thought bitterly, “it’s not even a real post on a battleship! Having never been on the Command path, Tremblay had been unaware that the proper title for the second-in-command of a military vessel is Executive Officer, until hearing Commodore Jean Luc Montagne use the term when dealing with Captain Heppner. It fits, though; Honorary Vice Admiral Jason Montagne, dancing to his own beat. Why should it come as a surprise? he thought to himself with a derisive snort.
His musings were interrupted by their arrival at the shuttle’s loading ramp.
“Thank Murphy for gravity repulsors,” he muttered, as he helped the other two shove the laundry bin up the back of the ramp.
A no-nonsense older man, with the working uniform of a crew chief, stood just inside the little cargo-hold.
“This is the cargo you wanted transferred, Intelligence Officer?” asked the Chief.
“This,” Tremblay confirmed, tapping the side of the bin and then taking two steps back, “and my two compatriots here, of course.”
The Crew Chief just shook his head dourly, but looked disinclined to ask questions.
“Two compatriots,” Steiner said quizzically.
“Oh, yes, there’s another one hidden within the bin,” he said, pointing at the pile of laundry and taking another pair of steps away.
“You’re the boss,” said the Crew Chief shaking his head.
“We’re all going together; that’s the plan, right?” Steiner asked, looking at him uncertainly before taking a step toward him.
Tremblay smiled, to take the sting out of it and shook his head sadly.
“Someone’s got to man the home front, and if the Commodore’s new Flag Lieutenant suddenly disappeared, questions might be asked that would interfere with the operation,” he said, shooting a glance over to the Crew Chief to indicate it was unsafe to talk about everything in front of these other men.
“So, what you’re saying is, you’re sending the rest of us on a one-way trip to a Dungeon Ship, while you’re going to stay safe and sound right here. Do you realize how bad that sounds, on the face of it, Officer Tremblay?” Steiner demanded, and the pile of laundry started to shake as clothes went flying off to either side.
“I assure you, it’s not as bad as it appears; the mission is still a go,” he said, by this time now on the ramp. He turned to the Crew Chief, and the other man looked at him with concern.
“Button her up and take them over, just like I told you. This is still a top secret intelligence operation,” he said sternly, slapping the side of the shuttle and then jumping off the ramp.
Behind him, the ramp began to close, and Lisa shouted something. Heirophant’s bellows could just be made out, as he broke free of the entangling laundry just before the ramp finished closing.
“Another job well done,” Tremblay said to himself, as he headed for the exit of the shuttle bay.
With a jaunty hitch to his step, he listened with satisfaction as the thrusters of the shuttle behind him fired and the ship slowly levitated out of the shuttle bay.
Symbolically wiping his hands of the whole mess, he headed back to his quarters. The Commodore had him buried under a mountain of paperwork, and without Mike around to share the data-crunching, non-critical task load, it was all going to fall right back squarely on his shoulders.
That was okay, because the greatest threat to his long-term survival had just left the ship. Now, it was time to focus on placating his greatest short term threat: the Montagne Commodore.
“Your day will come,” he said, clenching his fist around an invisible throat, “no one does that to me and gets away with it,” he hissed, unconsciously rubbing his right hand at the joint where the doctors had reattached it. He might not be the bravest man, but he was a man, and certainly no coward. That evil, vindictive Montagne would pay for his crimes.
Oh yes, he would pay. The former Intelligence Officer was unsure exactly how it was going to come about, but with those feckless, pie-in-the-sky-heads-firmly-stuck-in-the-clouds- do-gooders off his ship and out of his hair, he could finally turn the full weight of his time and attention upon their newly minted Commodore.
He was eager for the chance.
Chapter 31: Spalding in a Time Crunch
“No! No!” Spalding screamed, as their sensors registered the Clover and her companion Dreadnaught Class Battleship burning for the other side of the system, in clear pursuit of the hyper-limit.
“We’re too bloomin’ late,” he cried, slamming his fist through the data screen on the console in front of him. Sparks, fire, and more than a little smoke started pouring out of the ancient console.
“Played for a fool!” he raged, stomping on a console that looked like it predated a ship that was even older than he was—and from a design that seemed ancient when the AI’s were still young.
“Sir?” asked Brence, the only man on this miserable excuse for a warship who had come off almost as bad as himself after receiving the tender ministrations of the Quack. Any man who had been so badly wronged by Medical deserved what little sympathy he could muster. That was why he had made Brence the Executive Officer of this rattletrap they were both marooned on.
“Blow me out our twin mechanical evacuation ports,” the wizened engineer said, drawing himself up short and taking in deep, puffing breaths into the single lung that quack had left him with. He glared over at Brence, causing the man to step back; but unlike most of the timorous door mice on the ship, he failed to cower. It was a definite point in his book…that, and the fact that this ship needed another engineer more than it needed an XO.
For all the other man’s faults, at least Spalding knew what to guard against, unlike the vast majority of the fools who had been put forward when Lady Akantha had exiled him to this broken down old warship. In fact, it was the very reason he had picked the wayward spacehand to back him up.
“To think, if I’d been stupid enough to abandon our fine filly over there—something that wouldn’t have ever happened, not in a million, billion years,” he said, shaking his head sourly, “instead of joining that Captain off in some retirement Vineyard, like his several secret messages claimed, I could have been Pirate Spalding, the Mechanical Scourge of Unknown Space,” he grudged slapping his head near his mechanical eye, and giving his droid legs a little kick, “Cyborg terror of the space lanes,” he finished derisively, scorn dripping from his every fiber.
“I don’t understand, Sir,” Brence looked confused, something the Chief Engineer had nearly come to consider a natural state for the man, “you’ve only had mechanical…attachments since the Fusion Reactor Incident.”
Spalding shot the other man a hard look; he wasn’t about to tolerate any mis-labeling, or telling of the tale. But, as Brence was one of the two men who went in after him—and the only one of the two who survived after pulling him out—he let it pass with just a nasty look.
“The Demon changed me inside his realm, I can feel it in my bones,” he declared, ignoring the fact that most of the changes were actually installed by Medical, in favor of the more important, ephemeral changes.
Brence shook his head sympathetically.
“No doubt he would stretch his hands back through the wrinkle of time,” continued Spalding, “quantumly entangle this terrible new body, interposing it and ruining my fit as a fiddle old one, had I dared abandon my appointed task as Guardian of our fair Clover,” he declared. Then, what he had just said penetrated his fog of outrage, and he realized how badly he had opened himself up for ridicule.
He rounded on the former Space Hand before he could say a word. “And being hauled off the ship against my will—in a stasis tube, my body dead for all the world to see, plain as day—doesn’t count for abandonment,” he warned, waggling a finger in the other man’s face furiously, “that was the Demon’s work, plain and simple. Although, I’m not above having a few strong words with the Little Admiral, when I get my hands on him again, HA!” he declared.
“Right,” Brence blinked rapidly, his puny brain clearly unable to process the great wisdom his Chief Engineer had just bestowed upon him.
Spalding scowled.
“Do you want me to set a course to follow those two ships?” Brence asked intently.
“Do I want you to set a course for those ships…” Spalding smacked the side of his head theatrically. “Are you daft, man? Of course I do!”
“Helm, follow those two ships,” ordered Brence in a rising voice, as he turned to face the Helm.
Spalding stared at him flabbergasted for a moment, and then he gave himself a shake.
“Belay that order, Helmsman,” Spalding barked.
Brence rounded on him with his natural state—that of confusion—plain on his face.
“Your time in the Demon’s Realm works against you; it’s rotted your brain, you slack-witted…slacker you,” he cried activating his plasma torches.
The Helmsman in this cramped excuse for a Bridge, looked back and forth between the pair of them with fear.
“I want us to follow that ship with every fiber of my being! My very soul cries out for relief, that can only be found walking the decks of my—” he hesitated, “of our, beloved ship,” he continued, “but simple physics says we’ll never catch her before she makes the jump to hyperspace, and with the legs on our fine girl, we’ll never catch her short of Capria herself!”
“You want us to follow them back to Capria…but what about the Hold Mistress? She said we are to—” Brence ground to a halt, looking concerned.
“I gave the Lady my word I’d bust her man out of the Durance Vile, that lying, backstabbing, traitorous Pirate of everything that’s good and holy in this universe—meaning the Clover, herself—“ he added, to ensure that the younger man took his full meaning, “put our fumbling, ham-handed, ship-losing excuse for a Little Admiral into,” he sputtered, iron creeping into his voice, “why, there’s one thing a Spalding and an Engineer is good at, and that’s fixing ships and keeping his word!”
All around him, the timid little door mice that were his current bridge crew sat hunched over their consoles, clearly afraid to attract any adverse attention.
“What a miserable, second rate excuse for a Bridge Command team!” he bellowed. “Why, you’re so fearful, you’re probably scared of your own shadows.” He glared around at the men and women on the bridge, “I never thought I’d see the day I declared any team of men worse off than those incompetents on the Phoenix,” he said, deliberately dropping the wretched first name Lady Akantha had given the ship, “but don’t you worry; Papa Spalding’ll make men out of you yet.” Then his voice grew to a dull roar, “Or someone’ll die from his tryin’!”
Brence was backing slowly away, without looking like he was backing away, putting his slacking self between his Chief Engineer and the rest of the Command Team.
Spalding nodded with deep satisfaction; standing up for your team—especially in the face of an angry supervisor—was likely the most important lesson any team leader needed to learn, in Spalding’s book. Well, that and strictly policing his crew for any contraband deadly to the work habits of his crew—such as rotgut whisky, stellar porn on their tech manual readers, and those never-to-be-blasted enough, infernal, accursed multi-tools!
“Take this ship to silent running,” he ordered, scarcely able to believe he was doing so. “And hail those comparative paragons of high technology, our dirty as sin and twice as hazardous as anything that ought to be allowed in Confederation service, Corvettes,” he said damningly, his eyebrows beetling as he stared at the main screen with intense concentration.
Consciously, he knew it was the right thing to do, but knowing a thing is not the same as feeling a thing. Against his natural inclination, he was going with his head over his gut, in this particular—certain to be isolated—incident.
“We’re going to locate our butterfingered Little Admiral, and then my soon-to-be fine lads and lasses,” he continued, his eyes burning with an unholy fire, “we’re going to retrieve our fine Clover from that backstabbing word twister, who swooped down like a Vulture the moment my back was turned and murdered my fine work crews as he stole the ship out from under us!”
Brence came over, and treading where even fools were leery, threw his two cents into the breach. “The Lucky Clover’s a fine ship; as fine as they come. But we’ve got a pair of Dreadnaught’s back in the Yard, and I’m sure there’s time to free the Admiral, link back up with the Lady, and come up with a smart plan that wins. We don’t have to rush this; let’s do it right,” he said urgently.
Spalding stared at him in growing disbelief. “Only a fine ship is she?!” he harrumphed loudly, in favor of pummeling the poor befuddled lad to the floor. Murphy knows, when the Demon has already mucked around with your brains, a little leeway was in order…but this was beyond the pale!
“I didn’t mean-” Brence started, but Spalding cut him off.
“As fine as she comes, but we’ve got two other ships just as good,” cried Spalding, leveling a lit plasma torch at him, “for shame, lad!”
“You’re taking this the wrong way, Chief!” cried Brence.
“What other way is there to take it, lad?” he snorted, and then against his better judgment, leaned down conspiratorially. Brence started to sway away, before stiffening his spine, pasting on a green-faced smile, and leaning forward.
“The Clover, she’s a ship of mystery and secrets,” Spalding said, like a priest bestowing a great revelation.
“Secrets…I see,” said Brence cautiously.
“You can’t see it, lad; you couldn’t possibly,” he assured the man sympathetically, his eyes alight from within by Saint Murphy’s holy plasma fire, “but if you’re very unfortunate you will…oh, lad, someday you will,” he declared.
Brence looked sick.
“Her secrets wait on no man, and the sweet mystery lying hidden within what we call the Heart of the Ship has a mind of its own. Oh yes, despite your disbelief, you must know that under the guidance of a rapacious Pirate, anything is possible. The Galaxy itself will shake and shudder in its very tracks if we don’t get back to her!” Spalding finished, raising his arms high and frowning down on this flock of petulant unbelievers. Who, clear as day, thought he was just another crazy old man, too long exposed to the fires of hyperspace.
“He’s gone mad,” whispered one of the sensor techs.
“The mechanicals have disordered his brain,” said someone else on the other side of the Bridge in a low voice.
“I’m sure we’ll put it right, Chief Spalding,” the ship’s Executive Officer tried with a weak smile.
“You all think Old Spalding’s gone senile, and I can’t say as I blame you. Were I in your shoes, I might be tempted to think the same,” he scowled, sweeping the Bridge with a look that caused the naysayers to cower. “But when the Demon grabs this sector by its tail and starts shaking it back and forth, think on this day and hold to your posts. For Crazy Old Spalding gave you first and fair warning, along with this last promise: man your posts, and it’ll all turn out as it’s meant to be; but flash a yellow belly and run…well then, my lads and lasses, all the angry Imps of Murphy’s realm won’t save you from the fires of his revenge,” he promised, waving his still-burning fingers in the air for emphasis.
The Bridge was deathly silent after that last verbal explosion.
Stumping over to the sensor console, he scowled at what he saw.
“You call this silent running? Why, I’ve seen Hydra Cruisers back in my day, that were all but black holes in the middle of cold space,” he muttered, stabbing a finger on the readings in question, “I never should have let this death trap out of my Yard.”
“Chief Engineer Spalding, you fixed this ship up better than it was before the Lady took it off the Pirates at Omicron,” Brence disagreed.
“Twice as good as the worst job you’ve ever seen, is still pretty blasted terrible,” Spalding said unhappily.
“There’s no way we can snooker a Squadron of the Wall and all those supporting elements with a single Hydra Class Medium Cruiser, a trio of pirate leavings, and a short squadron of Cutters. Especially not when our emissions are as bad as this,” he grumped at the screen in front of him. The tech in the chair leaned as far to the side as she could manage while keeping to her seat.
Spalding stood there stroking his chin rhythmically, and all around him the Bridge crew gave him concerned looks.
“Well, there’s nothing to be done for it. We can’t possibly do it straight up, and sneakery’s right out, what with our transmissions this bad,” the old engineer said, shaking his head sadly.
“We can work on improving our shielding and quieting the ship before heading in,” said Brence, stepping up to him. His gait was a little stiff, as was his new norm.
“What?” Spalding looked at him in surprise, “Oh, good thinking lad, but we simply don’t have the time; the Clover, she can’t wait,” he said heavily.
“A few days, Sir…” Brence started, before trailing off at Spalding’s head shake.
“A few weeks is more likely, as it is…” he pondered, staring down at the screen.
“We can’t just give up without even trying,” said Brence urgently, his gaze darting around the bridge.
“Give up! What kind of defeatist talk is this?” Spalding turned on the former slacker like an angry slash beast, grabbing him by the neck and shoving him against the wall.
“But you said,” Brence gasped.
“Oh, never you mind what I just said; put that out of your mind. Where there’s an Engineer, there’s a way,” Spalding declared, turning to the damage control watch stander.
“It’s going to be double and triple shifts to get this decrepit old pile ship shape in time. Lads and lasses,” he said staring around the Bridge with deeply satisfied eyes, “time’s a wastin’.”
“What’s the plan, Chief Engineering Spalding?” the Damage Control Watch Stander asked staring at him with worship in his eyes.
Spalding blinked down at him for a moment, befuddled. He had been expecting nothing but an uphill pull the whole way, and then a gleam entered.
“It’s an old engineering secret I’ve been guarding for the better part of fifty years,” he said conspiratorially.
Around him, the formerly (or, in some cases still very much) skeptical crew leaned closer.
“If the old Captain can twist his words saying he’s going to retire on a Vineyard—implying grapes, when he really means a Battleship—well, I ask you,” he said, giving his foot an outraged stomp. The deck literally vibrated as solid duralloy met equally solid duralloy, and even if the vibration that resulted caused his teeth to vibrate due to inferior shock absorbers, the wily old Engineer was unfazed. “How can an old Space Hand do any less? I’ve sworn not to say word one to anyone who doesn’t already know the secret,” he said, laying a finger alongside his nose.
The easily spooked slackers began to draw back, as though expecting the wrath of the Demon himself.
“But that doesn’t mean I can’t show you,” he assured them with a smile, and it was a deadly smile, full of the kind of promise that bespoke an unexpected meeting in a dark alley with an auto-wrench. “I can give you a hint though, and it includes a number of non-standard cross linkages,” he grinned, “have any of you heard of the supposedly mythical, ‘Montagne Maneuver?’”
“The Maneuver’s a myth,” scoffed one of the pair that called him space-crazed. Skepticism was rampant on the faces of the rest of the bridge, and Spalding blinked at the disbelief he was seeing all around him.
“Just like Duralloy II wasn’t secretly suppressed by the Empire, I ask you?” he let them know his disdain with every fiber of his being.
Eyes blinked all around him, and a light started to dawn in the assortment of dim bulbs.
“This isn’t like the Duralloy Equation,” the other one who called him crazy opined, “even if it’s real, and just not the idle fantasy of old spacers with nothing better to do than jaw at the bar about phantom ships and the good old days. No one I’ve ever met had the first idea how to pull it off; are you now claiming someone trusted you enough to share the secret with ‘you,’ of all people?” she finished, rolling her eyes.
Spalding blinked, as the manner of the question’s presentation was unexpected. “I suppose, after a particularly convoluted manner of speaking,” he admitted, then he gave himself a good shake as a wicked smile crept across his face. “I mean, honestly, lass; who do you think invented the bloody thing?!”
Chapter 32: A Shuttle Decision
“That traitor played me for a fool,” Heirophant hissed, wadding up a piece of dirty laundry and throwing it against the far wall, “he betrayed us all!”
“We don’t know that for sure,” Mike muttered hesitantly.
Lisa glared at each man in turn, “We don’t know that at all,” she insisted loud enough to talk over the two of them.
“No one makes a fool out of Heirophant Bogart,” the Tracto-an gunner said grimly.
“I for one don’t think putting you into the laundry bin in order to smuggle you onto this shuttle makes you a fool,” Lisa Steiner hissed, when she saw that some of the shuttle crew were looking their way, “but if that’s what you believe, then it’s already too late to talk of fools and foolishness, because it’s all in the past!”
“I meant no one does this and lives to tell the tale,” the former Tracto-an Lancer snarled.
“Speaking out of school has to be the last thing on that man’s mind right now,” Mike muttered, looking to be disgusted that he was actually defending the former First Officer.
“Not if it was all just a plot to betray us!” Heirophant barked.
“Keep your voices down,” Lisa exclaimed slapping the over-sized Tracto-an on the chest before moderating her own voice as soon as she had their undivided attention, “look, he had no reason to betray us like you think.”
Heirophant snorted derisively.
“He could have betrayed us at any time,” Steiner flared in a low voice, “it makes no sense to get us off the ship first.”
The gunnery rating snorted again, but this time it sounded more in disgust than in disbelief.
“So what do we do now, Lisa?” Mike asked, glancing out of the corner of his eye at the shuttle crew who were looking at them curiously.
“There’s nothing we can do, Starborn,” Heirophant grunted, cutting the petite little com-tech off before she could say anything, “we can’t go back, so the only way on is forward. There we must face our doom like Men.”
Lisa looked at the big man uneasily and then nodded to Mike in acknowledgement of his question, “I hate to say it, but Heirophant is right,” she said looking slightly pained, “if not for the reasons he seems to think,” she quickly added.
Shaking his head, the big Tracto-an turned half away, although the other two could tell he was still listening to what the little tech had to say from the way he cocked his head.
“Look, there’s nowhere we can go in this system, and even if there was we can’t just abandon the Little Admiral,” she said ferociously, her eyes flaring with barely suppressed emotion.
Mike looked unhappy but he signaled his reluctant agreement with a hand gesture while Heirophant nodded his full-hearted agreement.
“Better to die like warriors fulfilling our oaths to the Warlord, than to sneak away like cowards when we don’t even know where to go to find reinforcements,” the Tracto-an said with complete and utter certainty in his voice.
“Right,” Lisa said in a perfunctory voice, “forgetting all the rest of it, we have to at least try, if we’re going to be able to live with ourselves later. I mean, I have my doubts like the rest of you, but Tremblay could still be on the up and up. It’s even possible that he could have been innocent this entire time!”
Mike uttered something that could very well have been, “Yeah right,” but if he did, no one cared to call him on it, if for two entirely different reasons altogether.
“Anyway, he’s helped us out this far and put us within striking distance of the Admiral. We’re closer than we’ve been in well over a month, so let’s not squander this opportunity out of fear, or infighting amongst ourselves,” she said with passion as she spoke from the heart in an attempt to keep their little band—minus one Intelligence Officer—together.
With begrudging nods from both the remaining menfolk of the group, the little Com-Tech wondered once again how it had fallen on her to lead. It was something she had never been trained for.
Chapter 33: A Good Show on the Dark Side of the System
“And today we are joined by the lovely Lady, Miss Bethany Tilday Vekna; a Princess-Cadet who hails from her home world of Capria. Princess Vekna has agreed to give our audience an exclusive interview,” said the middle aged reporter for CSPAN with a serious look on his face.
Bethany laughed and politely covered her mouth with a white gloved hand. “Bethany please, or at most Miss. Tilday, if you must be all stuffy and formal, Mr. Howard,” she said with a winning smile. “Like my poor Montagne cousin, I too am from a Cadet branch of the Royal family—the Vekna branch, to be precise.”
Looking like he was refusing to be drawn in by the smile, the Reporter’s face tensed with anticipation as he prepared his first question.
“Let’s pursue that further your highn—I mean, Miss Tilday,” the reporter said, looking like a hound who had scented blood.
“Why, whatever do you mean,” Bethany asked, her mouth making a small moue of confusion. The calculating look in her eye would have been missed by anyone unaccustomed to dealing with lifelong politicians.
“Your cousin, for want of a better term,” the reporter said with a sneer, “from your own description, it almost sounds as if you sympathize with him?”
“Why, of course I do,” Bethany said indignantly, managing to look both shocked and dismayed at the insinuation, “we grew up together, you know. We Veknas do our best to build bridges with the various, sometimes contentious, branches of our planet’s political groups—even the Montagnes. We believe in unity above all else, and we have ever gone to great pains to build trust and cooperation.”
The reporter turned a smug look on the camera, as if he had won some vital concession and then turned back to the Princess-Cadet with a return to his hard-nosed demeanor. “So I take it that anything we hear from you about the so-called Tyrant of Cold Space should be taken with a grain of salt, due to your own inherent biases?” the man said coldly.
“I suppose,” Bethany said looking ever so slightly distressed, “it’s not that I fail to love my Cousin—” she held up a hand to forestall an interjection from the reporter who then reluctantly sat back in his seat.
“Go on,” Mr. Howard grudged sourly.
Bethany paused as if to compose herself, and then placed a single white gloved hand up to the corner of her eye and wiped her hand on her blouse, as if to remove any evidence of tears.
“Even as a child, he was always convinced he was the target of persecution,” she sighed, looking upset with herself for the admission. Then her demeanor firmed up her quivering lips, and she leaned forward as if preparing to trudge forward despite some inner pain, “He was always convinced that the rest of the family—even those of us in the royal nursery with him—held him responsible for the bloodthirsty and psychopathic actions of his ancestors on the Montagne side of the family.”
“You’re saying he was troubled as a child,” the reporter said mildly.
“I’ll admit that some of the main line children,” Bethany paused, “you know—the ones in line to inherit the Throne—would sometimes tease those of us from mere Cadet lines. It was just a few childish pranks,” Bethany’s lip quivered as if in pain, “but I fear the poor dear took it entirely too personally. He seemed to feel that the whole world was out to get him.” She shook her head piteously, “As if being brought up in the lap of luxury, and provided the very best of education side by side with the rest of us, wasn’t enough for him.”
“Yes, well however luxurious his childhood or how poorly he felt treated because he didn’t stand to inherit massive amounts of wealth,” the Reporter cut in smugly, “none of that excuses his actions after going off your planet and illegally taking command of a Battleship!”
“You know, he once even paid a pair of his female cousins to assault another of our female cousins. He claimed she was ‘out to get him,’” Bethany sighed and then seemed to give herself a shake, “but you didn’t bring me here to go on about how mistreated my poor cousin thought he was during our childhood. We’re here to talk about his actions once he came onto the galactic scene.”
The reporter looked momentarily intrigued before his face stiffened, “Quite right, Miss Tilday,” the reporter harrumphed, “the fact that he comes from a long line of bloodthirsty psychopaths, and felt put upon as a child is hardly germane to his actions in recent months.”
“I suppose the fact that he always felt he was somehow superior to everyone around him—even as a child—has no bearing on his current psychological status,” Bethany frowned, looking on with sad agreement written on her face.
“You’re saying he felt he was better than everyone else, even as a child, and still he felt put upon?” the reporter asked sharply. “Perhaps that’s why he decided to steal a Battleship and try to conquer the galaxy?”
“As you yourself said, my poor cousin’s childish delusions play no factor in today’s events,” Bethany retorted smoothly, clearly trying to cut off the line of conversation.
“Fine,” the reporter growled, looking upset at having his own words turned against him, “what do you know about your ‘poor cousin’s’ plans for galactic conquest?” he sneered.
Bethany shrugged lightly. “I’m afraid I wasn’t privy to his plans. You see, not long after he took me prisoner, I was nearly assassinated for attempting to talk him down. After I survived—mostly through sheer luck, I might add—he told me—”
“I’m sorry, he imprisoned and then tried to kill you?!” the Reporter exclaimed, looking genuinely shocked. “Now, this is a story I have to hear. Tell me, and our audience around the Sector,” he said, quickly looking over into the holo-pickup, “about this incident.”
“I don’t blame my Cousin,” Bethany said in a sweet voice, her face tinged with sadness, “on his own, I always found him more harmless than anything else.”
“I find that hard to believe, given your own characterizations of him,” said Mr. Howard.
Bethany’s face hardened into an icy mask, “It’s that wife of his that’s taken advantage of his paranoid and simple nature. She has driven him to this extreme!”
“So now you’re trying to shift the blame from your cousin, a man you claim no small level of sympathy towards. You would have us believe that the root of his behavior is his wife,” the reporter asked mildly, “do I understand you correctly?”
“That savage woman is a bloodthirsty bitch, if ever I saw one,” Bethany said in a low voice, her hand going toward her nose before her face blanked of emotion and was replaced with a patented royal smile. “Maybe he took advantage of her barbaric—some might say childish—nature. Whether their relationship began with a simple physical attraction on his part, and a desire to possess a ‘seemingly’ powerful man on hers, the fact is that it’s his wife making him dance like a puppet on her strings. It’s fortunate for my Cousin—not to mention everyone else in the Sector—that Admiral Yagar and the Central Government managed to take my Cousin out of such a psychologically damaging situation.”
“You don’t seem to care for his wife,” the reporter remarked neutrally.
“When you take a previously harmless boy with delusions of persecution and a naturally fragile, paranoid nature,” Bethany replied smoothly, “and marry him to a woman whose cultural preference is to settle disputes via summary execution, I would ask what you expect to happen.”
“So you don’t believe the strain of finding himself in command of a powerful Caprian-built Battleship—after ejecting half the crew into cold space to secure the ship for his own nefarious purposes—had anything to do with his desire to punish the galaxy for supposedly snubbing him?” the reporter asked sharply. “Which begs the question of just how he was put into a position of killing half the crew and taking over the ship in the first place?”
“I believe the elected Parliament of Capria hoped that by putting him in a high profile, yet relatively harmless and ceremonial post, they could help him come to grips with the fact that no one looks down on him for his birth,” Bethany said simply, before adding, “the ceremonial Admiralty was highly sought after by the various branches of the Royal Family—the competition to fill the post was fierce, I assure you. It was believed that he would benefit the most from the post however, so it was granted to him.”
“So you’re not denying his terrible acts on the citizenry of this Sector, or the way he has blatantly pirated several warships and freighters,” Mr. Howard demanded.
“The evidence is overwhelming, I’m afraid,” Bethany admitted, looking on the verge of tears. “To my shame, all I can do is plead for clemency,” she finished with a heartfelt plea on her face as she turned to look at the cameras.
“And there you have it, ladies and gentleman. No one denies the would be Tyrant of Cold Space, a man from a long line of bloodthirsty tyrants, stole a Battleship from his own world, which he used to deadly effect on a rampage of piracy and terror. Determined, at least from the way his own cousin describes it, to share his imagined torment and persecution with the rest of the galaxy,” the reporter said, in a clearly rehearsed monologue. “Any last words, Miss Tilday before we close up,” he asked perfunctorily.
“Only one,” Bethany said taking a deep breath. “Please, my cousin isn’t really a criminal; he’s just a deeply disturbed individual who desperately needs in-depth psychological help. I beg he not be executed for his many crimes!”
“And that’s a wrap, Ladies and Gentlemen of the audience,” Mr. Howard said, as the station’s theme song started playing in the background and the credits started to roll on the sides of the screen, “even his own close and personal family shamefully admits he deserves to die! Next up is a look into the lives of the rich and shameless with an in-depth probe by undercover reporters who will pry into the private affairs of High Chancellor Gordon. And by affairs, I include every possible meaning of the word. Tune back in this time tomorrow for all the news you need to know.”
The Commodore deactivated the small screen built into his command chair and leaned back to rub his eyes. He was glad to have finally finished viewing the two hour log of condensed footage his communication’s officer had compiled after their arrival in system.
There was no need to view any more material; he had seen all he needed to see to confirm the state of affairs to his own satisfaction. Admiral Montagne was clearly the victim of a well-coordinated hatchet job like he had rarely seen, or even heard of before. This was the very definition of a political assassination, and he shuddered at the thought of so many lifelong politicians banding together against one person like this.
“This is a very big risk, Sir,” said the female officer at his elbow, breaking him from his silent musings.
“I’m well aware of that,” replied Commodore Colin LeGodat, straightening himself in his chair.
“It could all be a trap, just to lure us in Sir. You have to realize that,” she insisted.
The Confederation Commodore nodded his head deliberately. “I’m well aware of those factors, Lieutenant Commander Stravinsky,” he repeated evenly.
She made a frustrated sound, and he shook his head slowly, turning a stare on her full of rebuke.
“This is a professional outfit, Natasha; let’s try to act that way and set an example for the new transferees. I know we were all just Reserve Officers until recently, but we’ve been reactivated for the better part of a year now,” LeGodat reprimanded with more than a hint of iron in his voice.
“Sorry Sir, it won’t happen again,” she nodded, and then dived right back into making her point, “you have to realize we’re gambling everything on what could already be a lost cause, Commodore LeGodat,” she repeated, her voice and demeanor returning to more professional mien.
“I like to think the Confederation to be anything other than a lost cause, no matter what the local ‘Sector Authority’ may like to proclaim,” the Commodore rebuked coldly.
She shook her head and stiffened. “I wasn’t speaking about the Confederation, Sir!”
“I know what you meant and I firmly believe, with everything in my core, that the Confederation can survive the loss of any one man,” he said shortly.
“Then why?” she must have realized her voice had grown too loud, because she continued in a low voice that included only the two of them, “In Murphy’s name, why?! Why cut Wolf-9 to the bone and come out here on this fool’s errand?”
“You mean, other than my naturally intense curiosity about whatever it is that caused a man like Rear Admiral Yagar to pull both of his Squadrons away from our little undeclared siege, one Squadron at a time?” he asked rhetorically.
“Two Corvettes, three Destroyers and our only Heavy Cruiser; that’s every ship in the System that we’ve managed to get out of mothballs, and the best of the lot besides, Sir,” she exclaimed. “Anything else is in such poor condition that we’d be better off breaking it down and using the materials to build new ships. You’ve taken every ship in the System, way the blazes out here, and for what purpose? To what end?” she demanded angrily.
“I understand your frustration, Natasha. Which is why this once—and only this once—I’m going to indulge your curiosity,” LeGodat said, turning flinty eyes on her.
Natasha Stravinsky looked taken aback. “Thank you for your consideration, Sir,” she said stiffly.
“Think nothing of it—and don’t ever push me like this again. I’m not so short of trained officers that I can’t afford to break one of my best back down to Ensign,” he scolded, his face an impassive mask. Then he took a deep breath. “I would like to think that Honor, Loyalty and the Confederation Way, could be answer enough all on its own,” he said, then held up a hand when she went to open her mouth.
“I’m aware of the counter arguments: we just got back on our feet; with the MPF down for the count, we’re the only real Confederation Force in the Sector; and we should use the breathing room Yagar just gave us like the gift straight from Saint Murphy that it is, and build up,” he ticked off the arguments before leaning back in his chair.
“If you understand, then why? WHY, sir?” she asked, clearly perplexed.
“I could just keep thumping on that tired old line and talk about Honor and Loyalty, both of which would call us to the aid and comfort of a man that’s twice now,” he held up a pair of fingers emphatically, “pulled our bacon out of the frying pan.”
“I respect that, and also what the…” she paused, her mouth working before continuing, “Little Admiral’s done for all of us over in Easy Haven. But…” she trailed off.
“But you’d stand back and let him hang,” LeGodat sighed.
“He’s an Admiral; he’s got rank, he’s got standing and resources the rest of us can only dream about. He can cut a deal anytime he likes, or else hang tough and probably have half a dozen ships on the way to bail him out. Meanwhile, we’ve got a mission critical task and an officially assigned duty station at Wolf-9. The only thing protecting this sector is a still half-decommissioned station and Defense Complex,” she argued.
“Other than the 25th Sector Guard, you mean,” he corrected her, more than a bit bitterly.
“Yes, other than the highly illegal 25th Sector Guard, which still hasn’t got its blasted act together from everything we’ve been able to see or pick up from intercepts. Until they do, the rest of the sector is in a lot of trouble,” she cursed.
“If Honor, Duty and an intense curiosity wasn’t enough to pull me out of Easy Haven—and I’m not officially saying one way or the other,” he clarified, “what possible reason could I have for putting the ships of this glorified Squadron-on-steroids back together as quickly as possible, and hauling tail over to Central as soon as Yagar took off? Think about it for a moment.”
“There is no logical reason,” she said after a respectful moment’s consideration, shaking her head.
“Think outside our well-trained, professional box—for all that, we’re still just reservists,” he urged.
She looked at him blankly and he frowned. “Think about all of those mostly-trained crewmembers Admiral Montagne transferred from his MPF to Easy Haven,” he urged. “The very same crew who have brought us up to fighting strength—not only in the Squadron, but at the Star Base, as well—, without whom we would have been unable to bring these ships out of mothballs.”
She shook her head slowly. “They have been helpful,” she admitted, “but—“
“Who stopped them from going home at the first chance?” he interrupted her. “Murphy knows, they’re all overdue for some much-deserved shore leave, especially after the shifts we’ve put them through in their new posting. Who, with but a single, impassioned plea, convinced them to stand on the wall, long past the end of their duty?”
Realization began to dawn on her face, and LeGodat continued with a knowing nod. “What do you think would happen if the same Admiral who convinced them to stay—a man they clearly idolize—was left to the tender mercies of the New Assembly and its hangman?” He leaned forward, his expression turning grim. “And how do you believe they would feel about their new System Commodore—the one they nominally obey at the command of said Admiral—if he sat on his hands and did absolutely nothing?”
Her jaw started to drop as it became clear by the look in her eyes that she now understood what he meant, and she quickly clenched it shut. “That—” she paused, to more carefully consider her words, “do you think he deliberately planned it this way, Sir?”
“It may have been something that crossed his mind. I do know he was very concerned about the new crew he was taking on, so much so that he didn’t dare assign them over to our own System Command, for fear of a mutiny,” he said lightly.
“Wheels within wheels, and our own crews more loyal to this other Admiral, than they are to their own commanding officers,” she breathed.
“I haven’t the faintest clue as to what you’re talking about,” LeGodat said, with an ironic gleam in his eyes, “I’m just an officer, answering the call to…”
The Lieutenant Commander sighed and chimed in, and together they finished the phrase, “Duty, Honor and the Confederation Way.”
She laughed as they finished, as comprehension reluctantly entered her eyes.
“Exactly, besides which,” he said mock scornfully, “there are no loyalty conflicts, potential mutinies, or anything other than a few rough edges that need smoothing out inside our own loyal Confederation forces, Lieutenant Commander,” he said with a grin. “After all, we are all just one big, happy, Fleet.”
“That’ll be the day,” snorted the Lieutenant Commander.
“Keep saying it long enough, and it’ll happen…at least, that’s what I’ve learned from observing Vice Admiral Montagne,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting in the faintest hint of a smile.
“Yeah, well look where that’s gotten him: thrown into the brig and standing trial,” she scoffed politely.
“There is that factor to consider,” he muttered reluctantly.
“Shall we continue with silent running and the data-intercepts, Commodore,” she asked formally.
“Make it so, and keep trying to establish connection with Captain McCruise via whisker lasers,” he ordered, then glared at the screen. He still felt that sending McCruise to the New Assembly, when they wanted direct control over the Imperial Prisoners in need of repatriation back to the Empire, to be the right move. Telling McCruise to do whatever it took to stay in their good graces—even if it meant breaking a few Fleet Directives along the way—he considered a necessary evil.
He would have risked more to get the opportunity to put a pair of reliable eyes in the heart of Sector Central, and it had paid off with intelligence updates and packets sent back to Easy Haven via passing civilian freighters, but now she had gone silent. The only question was: why?
He stared at the main screen of the Heavy Cruiser, as if by sheer force of willpower he could divine the answers, like a gypsy staring into her crystal ball. Alas, if wishes were space horses, no doubt the Admiral would no longer be on trial.
Why aren’t you answering me, Synthia. I know you can hear me, he thought hard at the screen.
Executive Officer and Chief of Staff, Natasha Stravinsky—who was holding down two posts, just as he was now both Commodore and Ship’s Captain—tried to cheer him up.
“Maybe Intelligence will be able to mine something from the various data streams,” she said, hope projected in her voice. It was a nice effort, and the proper thing for an XO to do, so instead of snapping at her, he took a deep breath.
“I doubt they’ll learn anything earth-shattering from watching CSPAN broadcasts,” he said wryly.
“One can always hope, Sir,” she said stoutly.
“There is that,” he agreed. He thought he knew where Admiral Montagne was located, although the stupidity of it almost defied human belief. But what he did not yet know, was precisely how he was supposed to get all the way from the hyper-limit to the Dungeon Ship, break the Admiral out—without getting him killed, assuming McCruise was no long in control of her ship—and then escape back to the hyper-limit with the majority of his forces still intact.
So since he did not yet have a handle on the big picture, he was stuck staring at the screen and worrying about the Officer he had sent to get herself positioned in close to the belly of the beast. Why aren’t you answering, Captain McCruise, he wondered once again. Is it that you can’t because you are constrained somehow? Or that you won’t…if so, why not?
He kept staring at the screen, hoping against hope that something would break their way. It had to; they had already been spinning their wheels for a week, lying doggo, waiting for their chance. Something was going to break their way…he just knew it.
Because it had to.
Chapter 34: Arriving on the Dungeon Ship
The shuttle set down within a landing bay on the dungeon ship and its three passengers quickly stepped down and off the exit ramp.
“It’s been swell,” the lead petty officer of the shuttle said down to them, his face twisting up into a grimace of a smile before slapping the controls that caused the ramp to start closing back up, “now have a good life.”
Seeing the shuttle start to rock back and forth as it hovered up off the floor, the trio quickly headed for the large cargo door leading further into the ship.
Cycling the hatch open they stepped out into the ship proper. “Why did no one meet us in the cargo bay,” Mike wondered aloud.
Hierophant stiffened. “Because it’s a trap,” he growled snatching out a length of pipe he had found on the shuttle and pushed through his belt to hold it, “we’ve been lied to.”
Steiner pulled out her round, suppressive field sphere, and quickly clicked it on and a hazy distortion started to appear around them. “Maybe we can confuse their internal sensors long enough to get further into the ship and hide,” she said hurriedly.
“Oh Murphy,” gasped Mike.
“Hold it together, Mike,” she snapped, “we can’t lose our nerve now!”
“It’s not that, Lisa,” Mike said, pointing a shaking finger down the corridor to their right.
There was the sound of multiple weapons cycling up. “You should listen to your friend,” said a harsh female voice from off to their right. From their left came the sound of weapons cycling up a charge.
“We’re surrounded,” Heirophant muttered.
“Blast,” Lisa said gulping as her eyes sought out and found at least a half a dozen crew on either side of them.
“If they all fire at once, there’s a great risk they’ll hit shot through us and hit each other,” Heirophant said urgently in a low voice, “they have no armor, so they’ll be hesitant to shoot without picking their targets first. We have a chance if we rush them now.”
“Don’t even think about it, Tracto man,” the harsh female voice said even as Heirophant started to tense.
“There’s too many of them, Heirophant Bogart,” Lisa said using his full name to emphasis her point, “if we fight, we lose, so let’s try talking first. Please,” she finished, looking into his eyes with a desperate plea.
“Listen to your friend and stand down, Lancer,” said the harsh voice, causing Heirophant’s muscles to bulge.
After one last pleading look, Lisa turned in the direction of the voice. Her eyes landing on the hatchet-faced woman in a simple crewmember’s uniform, and she placed a steadying hand on the Tracto-an.
“Let’s talk, Ma’am,” Lisa said, trying to suppress the tremor in her voice.
“First put down your weapons, or we’ll blast you to the Demon’s Pit first, and sort you stowaways out later,” the crewwoman said sternly.
“We’re not stowaways,” Lisa said indignantly, her back stiffening with outrage.
“Yeah right sweet cheeks; why don’t you try telling another,” the woman scoffed, and the men around her started laughing. The men on the other side of the corridor started chuckling.
Lisa just pressed her lips together and glared.
“If you want me to hear you out then have your man put down his weapon and start talking,” barked the woman, causing the laughter to cut off mid chuckle.
“Hierophant,” Lisa said giving the former Lancer’s arm a squeeze.
The Lancer glared at the armed crew on either side of them, and then threw his bar against the nearby joint between the wall and the floor in disgust.
“I see at least one of your party has the intelligence the space gods gave a space rat,” said the harsh-voiced woman.
“Can I have your name, crewwoman? I don’t like talking to nameless persons holding weapons on me,” Lisa said stiffly, trying to ignore the way her lower lip was trembling.
“Oh I think you’ll be doing a few things you don’t like before this day is over,” the woman scoffed, “but you can call me Synthia, for my sins.”
“Well Synthia, it’s good to meet you,” Lisa, said not knowing the proper way to address someone holding a gun on you when you weren’t fighting back. She just prayed she wasn’t about to be tortured again. If it looked like things were going down that way, she would let Heirophant have his head and give in and just follow him in some kind of blind charge of the doomed and thick headed. Anything was better than facing that again.
“Can you believe the cheek on this one, boys,” the woman called Synthia said in a mocking tone all the while shaking her head. Then her voice hardened, “You can tell us what you’re doing here, or you can be added to the prisoners in our cells, and that’s a fact you can take to the bank, girl.”
Lisa paused and then tried a weak smile, “Would you believe it if I said we were smugglers?” she asked.
“With an answer like that, I’m more likely to start believing you’re nothing but a trio of penny ante pirates,” Synthia started to scowl.
Jerking as if stung, Lisa’s mouth tightened and then her shoulders slumped, “This is a rescue attempt. We’re here to save the Admiral,” she said, the admission feeling as if it was wrung from her. It was almost a relief to finally declare themselves to the world, and her shoulders squared almost unconsciously. Filled with a feeling of acceptance start to settle on her, Lisa tried to meet the older woman’s gaze measure for measure.
The crewwoman’s face tightened, “Well now,” Synthia mused, “isn’t that just the daintiest dish you’ve set before me?”
Steiner blinked, “Come again?” she asked in confusion.
“Not up on your historical references?” the hatchet-faced woman asked with a rhetorical air about her, “I thought you royals would have been all over teaching that sort of thing in primer school.”
The little com-tech mouth turned down at the dig. “I just wondered at you seeming to refer to yourself as some kind of Queen,” she said tightly.
The other woman shot her a penetrating look, and started to lift her weapon but something in her searching gaze made her scowl, and she lowered the blaster pistol. The middle-aged woman had just started to open her mouth when she was interrupted.
Out of the corner of her eye Lisa saw Mike’s head turn and then his jaw drop open. “Jimmy LeFlair, is that you?!” he exclaimed breaking into the conversation without warning.
One of the men on the other side of the corridor from the woman and her group stirred in response. “I don’t know you,” the man called out sharply.
“You’re one of the men who transferred over to the Dungeon Ship prior to our first time leaving Easy Haven,” Mike said, pointing an accusing finger at him.
“Anyone could have known that just by looking me up in a database,” the man, Jimmy LeFlair, said with a thunderous scowl.
“Your mate Timothy still owes me five credits for debugging his data-slate!” Mike continued, his voice rising slightly and the words quickening as he tried to make his case.
“Tim’s no mate of mine, lad,” Jimmy said sharply.
“I saw you eating food with him in the mess,” Mike retorted.
“That bugger’s a card cheat and a liar; he’s no mate of mine, man,” Jimmy said hotly.
“This Timothy, is he on this ship?” Synthia demanded, cutting through the burgeoning conversation like a vibro blade through fresh meat.
Jimmy scowled at Mike before looking over at the older woman respectfully, “The blighter works down in Enviro,” he said, bracing to attention as he reported.
The older woman blinked, “T. Sullivan is this Timothy that he claims to know him?”
The crewman gave a nod.
“Then let’s get him on the holo- and we can sort these blighters out in nothing flat,” the crewwoman, who seemed to be in charge of both groups ordered, her voice taking on the whip crack of command.
In just a moment, the group had pulled out a com-link and tapped in a link-code.
Turning the com-link now in her hand so that the pickup was facing the trio from the Lucky Clover, Synthia spoke loudly to be caught in the microphone pick up, “The man to the left claims you owe him money. Five credits to be exact,” she said evenly, before turning the link back so she alone could see the screen.
“That’s a lie!” exclaimed the tiny voice on the pickup and Lisa felt as if her heart had plummeted down into her boots, “we settled up when I gave him speaker attachment, Ma’am!”
Looking suddenly furious, Mike leveled a finger at the com-link, “You promised me a 3000 series ‘Boom Box’ attachment, but when I checked the registry the speaker you gave me was only a 2890! You’re lucky I only demanded five extra credits to pay for the licensing upgrade on the new software I needed,” he finished with a scowl.
The hatchet-faced woman clicked off the link. “I guess this means we can take your identity at face value,” she said, eyeing the newcomers with renewed interest, before sliding a glace over at Jimmy.
“That man’s a cheat and I got nothing to do with him, Captain,” Jimmy grumbled.
“Captain?!” Lisa jumped doing a double take. Taking a second look at the middle aged woman, she realized that with a crew hat on her head and the utility uniform on the Captain of the ship, Synthia McCruise was in fact the woman they had been speaking with all along. Without her Confederation uniform and stiff, professional bearing, Lisa had completely missed it. “I’m sorry for not recognizing you right away, Sir,” she said, still kicking herself.
“It seems the cat’s out of the bag; I should have known better than to involve the lower deck at this juncture,” McCruise muttered, and then twirled her finger in the air in a hard savage motion. “Mr. Wilks, please escort our new guests to an appropriate accommodation,” she said, turning away.
“Wait,” Lisa said desperately, then gave the Caprian crewmen and women now moving in on them a desperate look, “we’re all on the same side here!”
Looking weary the Captain turned back to her, “Go along with my crewmen, and I promise nothing will happen to you as long as I’m in command of this ship,” she said with an official looking nod.
“But what about the Admiral, we came here to rescue him,” Lisa said urgently, “he needs our help.”
“The Admiral needs more than a trio of would be rescuers to save him,” the Captain said coldly, “I’ve got a ship and an entire crew at my beck and call, and that’s still not enough. However, if we reach a point where your help is required I personally assure you that it will be called upon.”
“But he’s set to be executed,” Lisa cried, “we saw it on the news feed!”
“Mr. Wilks,” McCruise said sharply and the crew’s faces stiffened. The crewmen and women started moving forward again.
“Confine them to quarters until or unless I call for them,” the Captain said with authority laden in her voice, “the last thing we need are a bunch of holo-vid heroes running around and setting off the Provosts—until we’re ready to deal with them, and the remaining Imperial prisoners.”
“If we’re ever ready to deal with them,” one of the crew muttered as he came up and tried to grab Heirophant with one arm and apply a pair of restraints with another.
With a roar, Heirophant threw him against the wall and grabbed for another man’s weapon.
“He’s loose,” cried a crewman right before he was thrown up against the wall.
Seeing a blaster weapon being brought around to be pointed at the Tracto-an’s head, Lisa jumped over the crewman’s arm and drug it down with both hands.
The Captain leveled a stunner and in three precise shots, Lisa and Mike lay twitching on the floor, while Heirophant only staggered. It took another two shots, the application of a pipe to the head and two broken arms amongst the crew, to finally put the Tracto-an down.
“It seems their reputation for toughness is well earned,” McCruise finally said, standing over the top of the three fallen companions.
Unable to do anything but watch, her muscles no longer under her control, Steiner lay twitching on the floor.
“You’ll be kept in isolation, for now,” said the Captain, staring down at her coldly before bending over and retrieving the anti-surveillance device.
“The Admiral,” Lisa choked.
Captain McCruise hesitated. “You’ll be called upon when the time is right,” she said and then stood up. Turning on her heel, the Captain began striding away, “Get them out of here before the Chief Provost starts to get suspicious and comes looking.”
Chapter 35: Knee Deep In It
“Sir, the hyper drive was never intended to be hooked up like this; it’ll explode!” Brence sounded just about ready to cycle off the bulkhead.
“Now, just settle down, bucky-me-boy-o. It’s all going according to plan,” Spalding said, bestowing a benign, and hopefully calming, look upon his wayward space hand. Why he went and made Brence a team leader escaped even Spalding every now and then. But at least he had managed to stay off the sauce with that no good, thievin’ Castwell in his grave.
Out chasing liquor in the middle of combat like an addict desperate for his next fix! Why, the Clover was well rid of- Spalding pulled himself up short, reminding himself for perhaps the hundredth time today that this was not his Lucky Clover; this was a broken down, ill-maintained, piratical version of a half-way decent (if petite, compared to a real lady, like the Clover) Hydra.
“You can’t directly connect the lines between these systems, Chief; it’ll burn them all out in nothing flat,” Brence argued urgently.
“Come now, lad,” Spalding chided sternly, “It’s not like the grav-system and the hyper-drive are entirely unconnected. Why, if it were, we might all go splat when we come out of hyperspace; it’s been known to happen, you know,” he warned, surveying the very large trunk lines filling the service corridors of this poorly lit contraption they called a Hydra Class Medium Cruiser.
“They monitor each other; there’s not a direct connection! And even I know better than to hook them both directly to the Shield Generators,” Brence cried.
“Now, now, just because everyone went and jumped off a bridge, saying it was safe as sin, does that mean you’d just cave in to peer pressure and jump as well, Brence me boy?” Spalding asked with a frown.
Brence did a double take. “What I’m trying to say, Sir, is that we shouldn’t be jumping at all! This looks dangerous,” he insisted, his face scrunched up into an expression more appropriate to a field mouse than an Engineer.
“She’ll be right, don’t worry that thick little head of yours,” he soothed and then turned to Parkiny.
The Chief Engineer checked one last time to make sure his particular connection was solid, and whirled his hand in the air.
“Let her rip!” he barked.
“Sure thing, Chief!” shouted Parkiny, tapping away on his console for several seconds, before getting up and running over to a large lever on the side of the fusion generator.
Behind him, Spalding could hear Brence muttering nervously under his breath. “Sweet Murphy, in whom we trust, turn not your gaze away from fellow Engineers still on this Earth, but instead shelter us within your grace from the monkey in the works, from the fly in the ointment, from—” was all the further Brence got in that particularly dire catechism.
Parkiny reached up and pulled with all his might on the lever. The red-knobbed arm clicked down into place, and for half a second, nothing happened. Then there was flash, and several nearby panels exploded, followed by absolute darkness as the ship’s lighting went out.
Spalding stared into the pitch blackness for a brief moment, before activating his right eye. After more fumbling than was proper—even with buggy equipment like his new eye—he switched to the frequency he wanted. Quickly scanning the pitiable space that passed for Main Engineering on the ship (it was nothing near as good as the Clover’s) a look on the infra-red frequency revealed all was not as well as one might have hoped.
“Shut it off,” he hollered, waving his hands in the air, forgetting for a moment that no one could see him.
“It is off, Sir. The whole ship’s shut down,” Brence said, looking blindly in his direction with a com-link held against his ear. Then he pulled out a data slate, and activated the basic illumination properties, causing a faint glow to radiate from its screen. As if a switch had been hit, similar glows appeared all around Main Engineering.
“No, no, no; it’s still going!” Spalding yelled, starting toward the fusion reactors.
“I tell you, everything’s shut down. We’re lucky just to be alive!” Brence called after him.
“If it’s all shut down then why are the—” his stride hitched, and with his new droid legs that meant he lurched into the wall with punishing force, as it suddenly struck him what was wrong, “the computer regulator for the Fusion Core’s is shut down, and the manual cutoffs must not be working! We’ve got to perform an emergency shutdown, or they’re going to blow!” he cried, coming to a sudden stop, crouching down and then with his nifty new droid legs, shot a good ten feet into the air, where he caught hold of the nearby catwalk.
Of course, even the superior performance that quack had worked into his arms when he gave him his strength back, failed to counterbalance the incredible weight of his new legs.
Fingers slipping on the railing, his new legs kicked impotently in the air, servos still making that faint and maddening little whine with each motion of the actuators.
He almost had it, raising his left foot up to hook it on the catwalk for traction, when Parkiny came stumbling over in the near total darkness and gave him a hand up.
“Careful,” Spalding warned, as the other Engineer came over and grabbed his elbow. Just then, his hands slipped, and it was a scramble again. With the arrival of a second pair of hands, the old Engineer was finally able to get over the railing.
“Get your hands off me,” he snarled, furious at the way these well-meaning (but ultimately blunderous), so-called helpers had messed the whole thing up.
“Sorry, Lieutenant,” said the other man, whose name Spalding could not recall right at the moment.
“I could have fallen,” he declared indignantly, and then his eyes snagged back on the fusion reactor. Even as his infrared eye watched, the reactor was getting noticeably hotter. If it was bleeding through the heat shielding that fast…
“No time for that,” he snapped, pushing the pair out of his way with his new strength. Not even noticing the grunts of the men struggling to keep their feet, he hurried up to the reactor.
“Brence,” he hollered.
“Aye, Lieutenant,” called Brence.
“I need you on the other reactor, pronto! The manual cutoff’s failed on this one, and I need a second pair of eyes on number two,” he swore. Grabbing the lever Parkiny had locked into downward position; he undid the latch and with one shove, threw it back into its starting position. Hurrying around the reactor, he started chanting to himself.
“Pay attention,” he instructed the two engineers, “you may need to help Brence later.” Then he paused, trying to remember something.
“Rhyme’ee Dime’ee Pudding…” he trailed off. He was certain the next one was supposed to be Pie, but where his hands found themselves, and where they were supposed to find a manual switch of some nature or another, there was only a junction housing full of wires.
“What are we supposed to be paying attention to,” Parkiny asked stumbling around in the dark.
“Are you daft man? Pay attention to the song; it has to go in a particular order,” then it came to him, “Cake!” he cried triumphantly, “it was Cake!” Quickly, he activated one of his plasma torches, and almost out of even his new, extended, reach was the C-conduit with a nice little breaker box.
“How’s a song supposed to help us…is it some kind of space prayer,” whispered the new guy.
Parkiny thumped him on the shoulder. “Have some respect, you! Can’t you see it’s a pneumonic to help you remember the order?” he scolded, leaning over with his handheld illumination to ensure that he saw labels of the conduits on the outside of the Fusion Generator.
“That’s right lads,” Spalding called, “I only ever studied the tech manuals for these old dwarfs, back in Officer Candidate’s School; never actually worked on them before. So it’s taking awhile for it to all come back to me, but don’t worry—my mind is like a steel trap, nothing gets out,” he said confidently.
The pair of Engineers shared a look of mutual dismay. Unaware of the little interplay going on behind him, the old Engineer continued singing forcefully.
“Okkie, Dokkie, Artichok—” he paused. There was no A conduit anywhere on this side of the reactor, “that’s not good,” he muttered under his breath, looking to either side of where the missing conduit should have been located, then his eyes snagged on a nearby junction box with a T on the outside, and he glanced to either side quickly, before throwing the cover open and looking inside. He stroked his chin, his hand wavering between a white and a blue lever indecisively. Then he shrugged and said, “Tangerine,” pulling the white lever.
Taking a step back, he once again scanned the reactor. Everywhere he looked, it was starting to cool down just as expected. Then he spotted a sudden buildup of heat right beneath the junction box he had just been in.
“Oops,” he exclaimed, and rushed back to the box. By now, the little box was starting to turn a cherry red, and for the first time Spalding was actually grateful for his synth-flesh hands. When he reached in and pushed the white lever back up and the blue lever down, exchanging positions, the smoke rising from his hand (into which was built the multi-tool) didn’t do more than sting, as if he had burnt himself with a match, instead of burning all the way down through the pseudo flesh to reveal the metal and wiring underneath.
For a second, the Engineer’s attention was caught and held, as he watched the hand move back and forth; the metal and wiring jumping and moving to his every command.
“Now, that’s actually kind of neat,” he mused, wondering how he could improve it. He had yet to meet a design that failed to benefit from a few tweaks, here and there.
“Sir, the Reactor,” Parkiny interrupted urgently, laying a hand on the Chief’s arm.
Spalding glanced up at the reactor, and seeing the heat dissipating, nodded.
“Tell Brence it’s the blue lever, not the white one on the Tangerine; if he fouls it up, it’s liable to cause a blowout,” he said sternly.
“Um, Chief, if you could just repeat the pneumonic back to me,” Parkiny urged, looking panicky.
Spalding repeated it again, with the same stern warning at the end…and then a second. By the third time, he threw his hands in the air and just stormed on over to Reactor Two.
A quick scan revealed that it was rapidly growing cold.
“Well done, Brence, me lad. I knew I picked you for a reason, other than your good looks,” he said coming up and slapping his second in command on the shoulder.
“Thanks, Sir, but I didn’t really do anything; the manual system kicked in automatically, as soon as the computers went down.
Spalding looked at him bug-eyed. “I see we’ve still got a long way to go with your education, son,” he said sadly.
“I’ll make sure to study up on the new reactors, first thing,” promised the former Engineering Rating.
Spalding shook his head sadly, as if at the very misbehaving rating this one used to be. “It’s not study I’m talking about, it’s the panache! A Chief Engineer can fix anything, that’s a given,” he explained, making sure to impress the importance of this particular point upon the younger man. “But you can’t go around giving away the trade secrets. If you do, why before you know it, you won’t have time to keep your engines in tune, and the Captain will be all over you with new pet projects that have nothing to do with the betterment of your ship, and everything to do with his personal ego!”
Brence looked like he was actually tracking all of this; of course, sneakery and underhanded maneuvers had been his bread and butter, before one Junior Lieutenant Terrance Spalding had taken him under his wing and straightened the lad out. It was just too sad his mate died in the process, but Spalding knew, you had to break a few bad eggs on the journey to molding a fine engineer.
“You want I should lie, Chief?” Brence asked hesitantly.
Spalding glared at him. “Engineers do not lie,” he seethed, so coldly that the former space hand backed up, his hands in the air.
“The straight and narrow, that’s for me, Sir,” he assured the Chief Engineer.
“Exactly,” Spalding said with satisfaction. “We embellish, we explain, we take credit where it’s most certainly due,” he said, thumping himself in the chest with a thumb, “and we project confidence to the rest of our team, but even more toward the Bridge and other Departments. They’d see our ranks filled with the slackers they don’t want, if we let them. We might even—on occasion, and solely for the purposes of morale, you understand—minimize the danger we were in,” he allowed reluctantly. “But we certainly never lie about it, Brence!”
“Confidence, that’s the key,” Brence stated firmly.
“That’s the ticket. You’ve got it now, lad; we’ll make a Chief Engineer out of you yet!” said Spalding, puffing up with as much pride as, he imagined, a mama bird does the first time her little chick left the safety of the nest and tried to fly.
Brence started to puff up as well, and then rapidly deflated. “I’m still not sure I’ve got ‘it’ yet,” he said.
Lieutenant Spalding shook his head sadly. Now he knew how that same mother bird felt, as she watched her chick crash and burn on the muddy ground beneath her.
“Don’t worry lad, we’ll get you sorted out, time and the Demon Murphy allowing, of course,” Spalding assured him knowingly.
“Of course,” Brence sighed.
The power started coming back on in fits and starts…or maybe that was just the damaged light panels.
Spalding looked around him with consideration. “You know, half our problem is all this old equipment we’ve got in here. Why, I bet you more than half of it’s older than I am,” he declared, looking around with narrowed eyes.
“You can’t be thinking of trying again; we almost blew a great big hole in the ship and almost as importantly, got ourselves killed,” Brence pleaded, but the resignation was clear in his voice.
“Our fancy new gizmos and hardware just don’t interface like they’re supposed to with all this older equipment; I’ve seen it happen time and again, just like every time the Clover went through a new refit,” Spalding said sourly, as memories—good and bad—of his beloved ship swirled through his metal-capped head.
“What would you do if you were back on the Clover,” Brence asked slowly, as if he could scarcely believe he was asking the question.
“Not really applicable here,” Spalding harrumphed.
“Just tell me, Chief,” Brence pleaded, but the Chief Engineer just started walking away. “I mean, what if I’m back on the Clover, and I have a similar problem, Chief,” Brence pressed.
Spalding glared at him. “You have to promise not to laugh, or let the rest of the Engineering staff know; it’s a trade secret, you see,” he warned.
“Cross my heart,” Brence swore, proceeding to do so.
Spalding hesitated, and then wondered what could be the harm. He leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’d find the buggiest, most malfunctioning grav-cart I could, and jerk her main processor,” he explained, waggling his eyebrows.
“And then,” Brence asked eagerly.
Spalding’s head reared back, and he looked at his second in command, scratching his now balding head.
“What do you mean, ‘and then?’ I’d hook the bloody thing up to whatever was the problem, of course. Software issues solved within a half hour,” he bragged, smacking his hands together with glee at being able to reveal one of the biggest secrets to his miraculous success, “and none of this calling for some System or Data Analyst to come spend half the day sorting out code with my control box all in pieces, either. Works every time,” he bragged.
Brence just managed to stare at his superior.
“I probably shouldn’t even be telling you this,” Spalding confided, knowing he sounded like a kid who got his hand caught in the cookie jar, but unable to help himself. He was getting on in years, and he had precious few decades left to share his great trove of engineering wisdom and insights. He had been hopeful that Gants might take over for him someday, but that lad had been lured to the dark side of the ship with the promise of action and mayhem. Many an otherwise fine and promising Engineer had been lost that way.
“You hooked up a grav-cart main processor, and all your compatibility issues went away? Unbelievable,” Brence said looking let down.
He looked at Brence with suddenly narrowed eyes. This former slacker may not look like much, but he had thrown himself on top of a burning fusion reactor at his Chief Engineer’s hastily shouted orders, and then when his Chief fell performing what should have been his last task on this earthly plane, came to the rescue, snatching him from the Jaws of Murphy himself. Besides, Spalding figured that even if the former Rating blabbed everything he knew, no one would believe a man with his record of misdeeds.
So he leaned close and whispered. “The Caprian grav-cart has one of the most over-powered, under-utilized core processors in the entire Home System. Those things go Droid, faster than I can snap my fingers, always acting up and causing mischief,” Spalding said snapping his fingers for re-emphasis.
Brence’s eyes bulged.
“D-d-droids. They go bad, and turn Droid, and,” he stared at the wily old Chief Engineer, his disbelief turning into outright horror, “you hook them into the ship’s DI!” he all but shouted in protest.
“Not so loud, I warned you it was a secret,” he reminded, grabbing Brence by the neck and hauling him close.
“But if they go Droid, why haven’t we lost more ships!” he stuttered.
“A grav-cart goes buggy, they ship her over to the royal side of the SDF lickety-split,” explained Spalding in a hushed tone. “Eventually, it lands in the Mothball Boneyard—right along with the Lucky Clover—and then, one way or another, old Spalding puts them to rights.” The Old Engineer’s eyes started gleaming, “The tales I could tell you,” he started rubbing his chin, “the battles. Why, I’ll have you know the Automated Underground’s not all that it’s cracked up to be; that peace and harmony among thinking sentients party line that they claim to espouse, half the time it’s nothing but pure hogwash; a disguise to hide their real agenda!”
Brence blinked, clearly having difficulty following Spalding’s foundation-shaking revelations. “I thought all that was just a myth that went viral on the net,” he said, and his jaw hung open as realization dawned in his eyes.
“Careful, you’ll catch flies, you walk around like that,” chided Spalding.
“You’re Captain Moonlight!” Brence cried.
“What?” Spalding asked in surprise, then, “No! Moonlight’s a myth!” he cried. He had not expected this. Why, even Gants had never realized the truth, and he had helped him catch one of those blasted grav-carts back before the Imperials took command and the Clover was sent out on patrol.
“Of the Secret Engineering Arm of the Fraternal Order of the Wrench and Sprocket; of course, why didn’t I see it all along? Of course! I always just thought it was just a live-action, underground holo-vid series,” Brence whispered, looking at the old Lieutenant with awe, like he was staring at a movie star suddenly appearing beside him out of thin air.
“Now-now, it’s not wise to go around spreading rumors and casting aspersions,” Spalding said hastily, looking around uneasily.
“The Moonlight Chronicles had over five hundred million hits. Everyone I know used to watch them,” the younger man said excitedly, “until they stopped coming and we started following Princess-Cadet Maridith and her live-action binge jumping instead!”
Spalding just shook his head. First, that his little home-made recordings had ever become such a hit, and secondly that they had then been upstaged by a binge-drinking young royal, who would wait until she was smashed and then go jump off the tallest thing she could climb. The only question in the mind of the audience was whether she would be too drunk to engage her gravity harness this time around.
“You’re a legend! You’d be famous if people knew you really existed. Destroying bad Droids, disassembling the rest and putting them into storage…are you saying the secret hideout’s real, and it’s—” he stuttered, “somewhere on the Clover? It’s real?!” he demanded, his eyes shining, “Oh man, I’ve wanted to really go there ever since I was a kid.”
“I’d be locked up, and they’d throw away the key, is what,” he snarled, “there is no secret hideout, there is no Captain Moonlight. Moonlight’s a myth I created, to show my son that even though his dad was stuck up in an orbital bone yard most of the time, he was still a hero fighting to save Capria…in his own engineering way.”
“Oh man, he must have been so proud,” said Brence wistfully.
Spalding shook his head sourly. “He didn’t believe it was real because of the poor pixelated quality, and the fact I had to dub out my face and replace it with that cartoonish Moonlight,” he said gruffly.
“That’s…too bad,” Brence said awkwardly.
“The last time we spoke, he accused me of insulting his intelligence and trying to deceive him as a child with lies about a mythical Automated Underground seeking to bring about a Droid Liberation Movement. Like none of it was real, and I just made myself out to be some kind of cartoon hero, to cover for my failings,” Spalding explained bitterly. “He accused me of being nothing but a dried up SDF career man with no time for his family, who tried to make up for failing to be there for him with lies and distortions. I told him that wasn’t the case, and I’d never lie to him about something as important as the Underground, but then he declared he was going Parliament and…well, we haven’t exchanged two words since.”
“I’m sorry, Sir…more than you can know, I’ll hazard. But just think, maybe if he follows in your footsteps, he’ll find out the truth,” said Brence.
“And how’s that going to happen,” Spalding asked angrily, “they send all the buggy grav-carts on over to the royalist side. If he really went Parliament and joined the SDF, then he’ll never have the chance to find out the truth before they ship his carts off the ship!”
“Well maybe—” Brence began, but Spalding cut him off.
“He takes after his mother’s side anyway, and she poisoned him against me to boot,” the old engineer scowled, “why, there’s not been a Spalding gone Parliament in our entire history up till now, and I’ve got no use for any son of mine that would sully the family name like that,” he said, rubbing his moistened eye with the back of his burnt hand; there must have been a bit of dust causing an itch in there, probably from the fusion reactor.
“As for her,” Spalding continued, “all she was ever in it for was half of my pension. As soon as I qualified, she filed for divorce and got a judge to give it to her, even though I wasn’t technically retired and had no plans to be so anytime soon! Mandatory retirement age, my left foot! I got a waiver—two waivers! I mean, do I look retired to you?” he said fiercely.
“But, Sir, Parliament can’t get to you here and if this grav-cart processor really works, the rest of us will know the truth,” Brence pointed out.
“Are ye daft? I told you we can’t do it, because we’ve no bloomin’ Caprian grav-carts!” Spalding said, throwing his hands into the air.
“Well…” Brence began drawing the word out like a hiss.
Spalding’s head snapped around.
“We did have a few grav-carts with us when the Constructor pulled out, for carrying equipment and transferring the more wounded patients on over. We never did have time to transfer them all back to the Clover,” Brence said, a faint smile tugging on the corner of his mouth.
“No,” Spalding whispered, his eyes widening.
“Of course, a few of them were on the Imperial Strike Cruiser,” Brence continued, then faked a frown, “sadly, they’d broken down or were having issues, and no one could get them fixed all the way back up to spec.”
“You mean we have some on this ship?” Spalding could barely believe his ears.
“A few broken down grav-carts, for a broken down ship,” shrugged Brence, before his lips twisted in a smirk. “I think them on the Phoenix figured as long as you were on the Hydra with us they’d all get fixed up eventually.”
“What are we standing around here jawing for, man?” Spalding said, starting down the stairs. “We’ve got a memory core to pull!”
Chapter 36: The Last Meal
“It’s time, Admiral,” said Sir Isaac LePierre, not looking nearly as triumphant as I’d imagined he would. In fact, behind his pleasant diplomatic mask, he looked…almost regretful. He proffered a meal tray, which he set down on the little table in my cell, like he was the waiter and I the paying customer. He even went so far as to arrange my silverware, and place the napkin in my lap.
I looked down at the plate of food that purported to be a Pacifica III specialty. “An entire plate of lightly Sautéed Oblong Pacifica Dung Beetles, and you got them here in only four days. I’m impressed,” I said appreciatively, and despite myself, I really was; they must have pulled out all the stops to get them here this quickly.
“A prisoner’s last meal is a time-honored tradition in this Sector,” explained the Caprian Ambassador. “It truly was an ingenious ploy, to request something just far enough away—like the Oblong Dung Beetle—that it was right on the edge of transport survivability, and yet would take a significant amount of time to acquire. Any well-bred person knows it can’t survive for more than a week outside of its native environment,” Sir Isaac commented smoothly, actually sounding fairly respectful of the idea.
I smiled wryly. “I admit it took a lot of thought. But when you’re gagged, all you have time to do is think,” I said, spearing one of the Dung Beetles and staring at it before putting it back down uneaten, “I figured it would have taken you at least two more weeks, between the time it takes to roundtrip a ship, not four days. If I may inquire…?”
“Sadly, a merchant ship just so happened to be passing through Central with live specimens of this particular Pacifican delicacy—although only Saint Murphy knows why,” Sir Isaac explained, his face making a moue.
“Blast,” I said, without any real feeling behind the word, “the wheels of commerce grind everything in their tracks; it would seem, that includes a certain former Montagne Admiral,” I said with a wistful tone, and this time when I speared a Dung Beetle with my knife, I plopped it in my mouth.
“I am told, this particular dish has been cooked to within an inch of perfection, and then sautéed the rest of the way by a true master of the culinary art,” Sir Isaac said, with such a straight face that it must have be true.
“Gah,” I choked, quickly swallowing down the bite with a sip of water, “it tastes just as nasty as I thought it would. Those spices only make the taste of the innards that much worse.” I shuddered, instead of continuing to describe what those innards really tasted like. It’s a dung beetle, I mean come on; you figure it out!
Rather than extending the torture, I pushed the dish away with my thumb and forefinger. “I fear that my last meal fails to agree with me,” I announced, calling upon all my royal manners and palace training, for just the right mixture of regret and disdain.
“The chef will be crushed; I do believe the poor man actually believes you are fond of the dish,” the Co-Chair of the UPN Sector Security Council said, placing the cloche back over the plate.
“Send him my regards; it’s a stomach virus, I’m sure of it,” I declared. Externally, I was the perfect version of a Royal Prince, but I was internally reeling from the blow. The final vestige of control—my last meal, and the time-saving increments I’d been hoping for due to transportation issues—vanished, along with the tray in Sir Isaac’s hands.
“I’ll pass that along,” Isaac promised. As he turned, he paused with the tray still in his hand. “You’ve been a surprisingly worthy adversary; far from the palace party prince I’d been led to expect, from perusing reports made to the Home Office,” he admitted, shaking his head benignly.
“That rascally home office; something must be done!” I declared with mock outrage.
“All in good time; there’s no need to rush,” Isaac LePierre said in a reassuring tone as he knocked on the door, to signal his desire to exit. For a moment, I was tempted to rush and overpower him but sadly, logic prevailed. I knew that if I tried and succeeded, the power-armored goons outside my door would only find joy in beating down my unarmored person straight into the floor.
“I bid you good day,” I sighed, watching as the only man with the power to set me free walked out the door. For a moment, I was tempted to attack him anyway, even without the possibility of escape. But sadly, someone else just as smooth and deadly would take his place in the span of time it took the doctor to make it official. I might have done it anyway, but unlike most of my enemies to date, he had just been too polite. Whether by his design, or my own, that politeness took me off guard.
I was used to more open animosity from my foes to date. Stood, Yagar, even Jean Luc had been very clear what they thought of me. While Sir Isaac (except for the little test about whether or not I was going to throw my men under the hover-bus to save myself) had been surprisingly civilized, for a man telling you how he planned to kill you. It was, for the most part, just the cost of doing business, and he made clear that he took no real pleasure in doing so.
So, although I cursed myself for a fool for not going down biting and clawing, I let him leave unmolested. I had to remind myself that I was just the same as any other political prisoner; I believed my cause was just the same as anyone else. I thought my death, and the blow to my cause, was a travesty just like any other person would.
I sternly reminded myself that for all of my supposedly royal blood, I had feet of clay just like any other man. I wasn’t the special ‘chosen one’ of the holo-novels; I had no secret destiny that would miraculously ensure my survival. The only outside shot I had entertained—the notion that had kept me up late at night—was that possibly someone might come to rescue me. Someone like, say, Heirophant the Tracto-an I helped escape. I didn’t even count Tremblay in there anywhere; I knew where that man stood.
But all the plotting and scheming, and hoping against hope for an exit strategy, ended tonight when I took the long walk to the hangman’s noose. When the door finally closed, it was all academic.
Chapter 37: Here goes nothing…or everything
“It’s ready,” Spalding declared.
“Here goes nothing,” muttered Brence before turning to the rest of the team down in Engineering.
“Why don’t you give it a try?” Spalding urged, out of a desire for revenge over that particular comment.
Brence blinked and then had the audacity to actually look pleased. Suddenly, the loyal second in command was gone, and the burgeoning little would-be Engineering dictator stood in his place. “All right, you bunch of shiftless slackers,” the new Executive Officer shouted at the men. The tone in the man’s voice caused Spalding’s eyebrows to rise—pleasantly—in surprise.
“You’ve been waiting all day to put down the multi-tools and give this thing a second try,” Brence continued, and the Chief Engineer’s eyebrows lowered thunderously. The goodwill the man’s tone had generated was wiped clean, by speaking as though multi-tools were an accepted part of an Engineer’s life, but the formerly wayward space hand continued on, “So, if you’ve been dragging your feet these past couple days, thinking that working two or even three shifts in a row was tough, this is your lucky day,” Brence barked, smiling down at the lot of them menacingly. For a moment Spalding was taken back to the fond memory of his very own first Chief Engineer, “because if it doesn’t work this time due to your loafing, don’t worry; you’ll get a third chance to get it right!”
All around them the men and women of the Engineering team, and the grunt labor conscripted from the other departments across the ship, groaned.
“I couldn’t have said it better me-self,” Spalding added, looking at Brence with newfound respect beaming from his good eye.
“I learned from the best, Sir,” Brence whispered out of the corner of his mouth, causing Spalding to smile beatifically down upon the Engineering masses.
“So without further adieu,” Brence declared, stepping over to the same red lever that Parkiny had pulled before.
“After fifty years of secrecy so tight no one actually thought it was real, I give you—” he pulled down on the lever with all his might and it slowly lowered down into position with a click.
For a moment, nothing happened…then the lighting dimmed. The panels brightened and dimmed, then brightened and dimmed again, before steadying out to a slightly duller tone than before.
Brence waved his right arm in the direction of the old Engineer.
“Chief Engineer Spalding’s very own, secret, Montagne Maneuver,” he cried, and then clapped his hands triumphantly.
The rest of the Engineering crew broke into similar applause, and started cheering.
“Hurray! We can finally get some sleep,” one of the ratings cried.
Spalding broke out into a fit of giddy laughter. “That’s the ticket, laddies,” he coughed between his chuckles. Then he turned to Brence and leaned over. The former space hand looked at him with a smile.
“That multi-tool comment was hitting below the belt,” Spalding said as sternly as he could, with all the good cheer going on around them.
Before Brence could say anything, a rating started pushing his way through the crowd. “Chief Engineer Spalding,” he called out.
Too caught up in the moment, Spalding half-turned before rounding back on Brence, still determined to give the lad a piece of his mind.
“Lieutenant Spalding,” yelled the rating again, and Spalding scowled.
“Am I deaf,” he barked, rounding on the rating.
The rating stopped in his tracks for a half step before pushing his way through the last of the crowd between himself and the Chief Engineer.
“You’d better have a blasted good reason for yelling at me like I was both deaf and senile,” Spalding warned, pointing a finger that just so happened to occasionally pop open and let loose a little plasma torch action every now and again at the rating.
“Sir, it’s the Admiral!” cried the rating as soon as he was within spitting distance.
Spalding put a finger in his ear and wiggled it around.
“Watch whose face you’re yelling in,” he glared. “Now, what’s all this ho-rah-rah about?”
“They say he’s cut some kind of deal and pled guilty; they’re going to execute him tonight!” the rating’s voice started out at a shout, but in the face of Spalding’s increasingly grim appearance, he toned it down to a more normal—though still loud—voice.
All around them, the celebration slowly ground to a halt, until everyone turned to stare at Terrence Spalding.
Furious at the audacity of the politician, he glared around the room. Smoke all but poured out of his ears, he was so angry. “Then we strike now!” he bellowed, pounding the rail he had been leaning against.
“But, sir,” Brence sounded concerned, “we’re still heavily outnumbered, and not only haven’t we run any tests to see if it works the way we hoped; this is the only ship in the fleet rigged out this way!”
Pointing out that the Clover had been rigged this very way for the past fifty years would have been counter-productive, so the wily old Engineer let it pass…for now.
“It used to take this ship quite a while to build up to her top speed, and even longer to slow down,” he grumbled as he began stomping towards the exit. “Well, not anymore!”
“But what about the other ships?” begged Brence.
“If there’s one thing pirates keep working in top form, it’s their ability to run away,” Spalding sneered, taking big, droid-legged strides toward the lift.
“I suppose…but you yourself said they’re old, and in less than top form,” argued Brence.
“They’re faster than anything else in this system, and that’s all that matters for the plan I have concocted. So don’t you worry,” he paused to pat his second in command on the shoulder, before continuing on at a rapid pace, “we’ll be the ones doing the heavy lifting,” Spalding finished magnanimously.
The Engineers within hearing distance gave a little half-hearted cheer at this news, and Spalding would have stopped and burned them each a new exhaust port, had there been time. Fortunately for them—and the Admiral—there was not.
“I’ll sort you sorry lot out later,” he tossed over his shoulder as he made his way into the lift. One of the few perks of working in this old beast of burden was that it took nowhere near as long to get from one place to another. Of course, since in his opinion, there really was no place worth going to…it was a rather paltry advantage.
His XO in tow, the ornery old Chief Engineer made his way to the Bridge. Like all great plans, his was firmly based on a few, innovative Engineering principles.
“They like to say I’m old and behind the times. Well, phooey on them! I say it’s time we show them just what the old times were really like,” he grinned to himself, and if he looked more like an angry metallic bear than he did a proper Chief Engineer…well, at that particular moment, no one was brave enough to say so.
Chapter 38: Strange Readings
“We’re getting some strange readings coming off Sensor Array Alpha-Bravo, Lieutenant Commander,” said one of the Petty Officers in charge of a tertiary sensor bank.
“What have you got for me, Harry?” asked the ship’s Tactical Officer.
“Well, if I didn’t know any better, Sir,” the Petty Officer said, shooting a copy of the readings over to the Tactical Officer’s terminal.
“I see what you mean, Petty Officer. I want the entire Alpha bank deployed to a deep scan of this area. I want that anomaly locked down and identified,” ordered the Officer.
“Aye, Aye, Lieutenant Commander,” the Petty Officer saluted. He had just completed the gesture, when there was a disturbance from the rest of the team on the Alpha-Bravo Array.
“Contact,” cried one of his ratings, an experienced sensor operator with too much of a penchant for poker to rise any higher than his current ranking as an Able Spacer, Second Class.
“What have we got, Sensors,” asked the Lieutenant Commander in charge of Tactical.
“I’m reading a Corvette just inside the hyper-limit. She coasted in dark and just lit up her main drive, Sir,” reported the Able Spacer.
“Friend or foe signal? What’s she squawking,” the tactical officer demanded, shooting a look between the Sensors and the Com Officer on the other side of the Bridge.
“I’m not getting anything on the Communications Array, George,” the Com Officer said to the Chief Tactical Officer.
“Nothing here, Sir,” reported the Petty Officer, having had time to look back down on his console and review the sensor results.
“What do you want to do, George; you’re Officer of the Watch,” prompted the Com Officer, a Senior Lieutenant with too much time in grade to have much of a hope at further advancement.
“She transferred to a point far enough out of the system to evade our planetary and ship-based sensor arrays, and coasted up the hyper-limit. She only activated her drive after she was already inside. We follow S.O.P.; standard operating procedure,” he said for emphasis.
“I’ll contact the ready squadron, if your men will be so good as to shoot me over the data dump,” said the Senior Lieutenant.
“Good,” the Lieutenant Commander currently in command of the ship said, “I’ll wake the Captain. Whoever these wankers are, they need to be taught a lesson in manners. No one infringes the Sovereign territory of Praxis IV while we’re hosting the Sector Central!”
Chapter 39: The Dark Side
“We’ve confirmed the reading, Sir; a second vessel, which we’ve now positively identified as a Corvette and running silent until it was inside the system hyper-limit, has just gone to full acceleration,” reported the Sensor Technician.
“I see that the Praxis System Defense Forces have point transferred two corvettes from their border ready squadron. They were likely hanging around just outside the hyper-limit, for just this type of occurrence,” explained LeGodat, in order to maintain a sense of control over the situation.
“Yes, Sir,” acknowledged the Ensign in Command of the Sensor Pit.
“Com’s, do you have anything,” LeGodat demanded.
“Still nothing, Commodore,” the Com Officer—also an Ensign—said, shaking his head.
“Too bad they’re on the other side of the System from us, even if they are most likely just pirates,” Lieutenant Commander Natasha Stravinsky said, clearly frustrated.
“You’re most likely right that they’re pirates, and I doubt anything will come of it, but even still I like them exactly where they are, XO,” LeGodat said, placing a finger over his upper lip.
“If they’d come into the system nearer our location, instead of all the way around on the other side of the system, we might have had a chance to catch them on sensors and snap them up, Sir,” the Stravinsky disagreed respectfully.
“Still not on board with our mission, Natasha?” he said, rather than asked, with a slight tilt of his head.
“Our ‘official’ mission is unachievable, at least with the forces available to us. The Intel Department still doesn’t have anything new to report—at least as it comes to getting the Admiral—so until and unless something new enters the mix, the best thing we can hope to accomplish…” she trailed off suggestively.
“Is pick up a few extra ships, and potentially increase our combat power for later on,” LeGodat grudgingly finished for her. “I understand where you’re coming from, but I’m not about to throw in the towel just yet,” the Commodore said pointedly.
“Going in now would be suicide, Sir,” she exclaimed.
“I said I wasn’t ready to give up on the Admiral, just yet. Neither will I throw away the lives of my men,” he rebuked, as his eyes and tone hardened.
“As long as that continues to be the case, then in a few hours it’ll all be academic,” she stated matter-of-factly, squaring her shoulders as she clasped her hands behind her back.
“He was supposed to get his last meal four days ago,” he quirked his lips ironically, “I won’t count the man out until it’s all over but the crying over spilt milk,” the Commodore said rhetorically.
He could see his Executive Officer and Chief of Staff suppress the desire to roll her eyes. He admitted it was a long shot; he had known it was a long shot the moment he ordered his ships readied back at Wolf-9. The odds had only grown larger since then, but that most certainly did not mean that if he saw a chance—a real chance—to break the young Admiral out, that he would fail to take it.
Unfortunately, while a pair of pirate Corvettes trapping themselves inside the hyper-limit with two SDF Warships the exact same class hot on their heels was interesting, he could not suppress a frown. It did not appear to be anything he could take advantage of, but at least it helped break up the tedium.
“And now a third warship lying doggo has appeared on a heading deep within the system…no it’s definitely heading for Praxis IV, just like the others!” declared one of the Sensor Operators.
LeGodat stiffened in his chair. Once was stupidity, twice was coincidence, and three times was enemy action! It just remained to be seen what kind of enemy had decided now was the time to tug on Praxis IV’s cape.
“They only have four Corvettes in their Border Guard; the others are too large to match their rate of acceleration from a cold start,” Natasha said, cocking an eyebrow.
“They’ll have to intercept it with ships from another Squadron,” LeGodat agreed.
“Point transfer,” exclaimed another Sensor Tech.
“Get me a class and size,” the Ensign in charge of the Sensor Pit ordered with alacrity. There ensued a tense few minutes of silence, while fingers flew over their consoles.
“It’s a Light Cruiser, matching the same make and model as the four Light Cruisers assigned the Border Squadron,” the Ensign reported a moment later.
His First Officer stepped up next to his Command Chair. “From its profile, it’s definitely an SDF Border Guard unit, Commodore,” Lieutenant Commander Stravinsky said in a low voice.
“They’re making sure to close the barn door, after the last of the rascals have obligingly run inside,” Commodore LeGodat agreed mildly.
Natasha Stravinsky looked at him sharply. “I take it you disagree with some part of that assessment, Sir,” she said formally.
“Praxis and the Sector Guard both have enough units in System to deal with a trio of Corvettes,” he said, brushing the matter aside lightly.
“Right,” replied the Lieutenant Commander, not looking convinced.
“You sound as if you doubt me? I’m wounded, XO,” LeGodat said tightly, leaning back in his Captain’s Chair.
“You really look that way, Sir,” she said with a straight face, causing him to frown at her disapprovingly.
“I’m just saying, Sir,” she said in answer to his frown.
He leaned forward in his chair to reply, and then leaned back, replacing his finger on his upper lip. “I think perhaps it’s time we started creeping a little closer to hyper-limit ourselves,” he mused.
“What kind of answer is that,” she scowled.
“The only one you’re going to get,” he retorted, turning to glare at her. Under the weight of his stare, she stiffened and then strode over to the Helmsman.
“Continue with Silent Running, Lieutenant Weatherbee, but start taking us in slowly,” she instructed in a firm, no-nonsense voice.
LeGodat observed the way shoulders stiffened around the Bridge, but his bridge crew was too well-trained to say anything openly. That particular observation amused him enough to draw a smirk from his lips. However, their posture alone told him precisely what they thinking. Fortunately, the warships within the Confederation Fleet were still commanded by their Captain, or—in his unusual case, their Commodore—and not by committee or popular consensus.
Stravinsky returned to her station at his side and stood there, watching the activity on the main screen. Several minutes of mutual silence were finally broken by a sigh. “I take it you think this is more than just some stupid pirate action,” she said her voice heavy with resignation.
“Let’s just say I’m not fully convinced as to the ‘stupidity’ of these particular ‘pirates,’ and regardless of whatever they are—be them fish, or fowl—I plan to be ready if, and when, an opportunity comes knocking on my door,” he explained.
“You’re the Commodore,” she said without a trace of emotion in her voice.
“That, I am,” he agreed. What he failed to point out was that while everyone, even most of his original officers and crew, might think of him as a real Commodore, that promotion rested squarely on an officer who many—Stravinsky, for one—were still a little skeptical of fighting to rescue. Despite the fact that twice now, he had swooped in like an avenging angel and rescued them from a tight spot. Privately, LeGodat saw no way he could do any less, if a real opportunity presented itself.
“I’m picking up another contact; it looks like it’s still trying for silent running, but an emissions leak through is putting up a Sensor ghost, Commodore,” a Sensor Operator reported excitedly, jumping to his feet.
LeGodat winced. The operator was clearly one of the transferees, judging by his lack of professionalism. Apparently, they had a different way of operating in the MSP.
“Take your seat, Operator,” the Ensign in command of the Sensor Pit growled, causing the man to stiffen. Looking self-conscious, the Operator sat back down in his chair.
“They still need more discipline, Sir,” Stravinsky scowled.
“Three-Quarters trained,” LeGodat agreed, “they’ve got the skills, but…” he trailed off.
“We’ll whip them into shape, Commodore,” she said, with a promise in her voice that said at least one new crewman was not going to enjoy her idea of how to rectify the situation.
“Let’s hold off on any whipping, at least until after we’re out of this system, Lieutenant Commander. Yes?” he said, rather than asked.
“Of course, Sir,” she replied reluctantly.
“It looks like the SDF’s spotted her too, Commodore,” the Sensor Ensign reported stiffly from where he was standing over the shoulder of his hapless sensor operator.
LeGodat looked up at the main screen, where what looked like another Light Cruiser had appeared, apparently to backstop this latest arrival. This was confirmed a few seconds later.
“Looks like it knows it’s been spotted; she’s going active now and…” the Sensor Ensign broke off incredulously.
LeGodat looked over mildly, his own total lack of urgency a sharp rebuke.
The Sensor Ensign stiffened. “Sorry, Commodore,” said the officer repentantly.
“We all make mistakes, son; carry on,” he said easily, his eyes making it clear that this particular mistake had better not happen again. He could all but feel Natasha Stravinsky ready to tear into the Ensign, under the guise of an Executive Officer’s solemn duty.
“It’s a Hydra Class, Sir,” the Ensign reported, all emotion leached out of his voice.
Stravinsky and LeGodat exchanged a brief, incredulous look.
“Those things are slower than mud,” Stravinsky said, pointing at the screen. “What are they thinking?” All four contacts on the screen—including the new Medium Cruiser—were running for their lives, being chased by the rapid response units of the Border Guard.
“And twice as old as anything we’ve pulled out of mothballs,” LeGodat agreed, his eyes narrowing.
Seeing the smile growing on his face, his XO looked at him with growing alarm. “You’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking,” she demanded, and he merely looked at her innocently. “Don’t give me that look,” she said strictly.
“I suspect this Medium Cruiser is about to give that—” there was a flash on the screen as another Light Cruiser appeared, quickly followed by another flash, indicating a Heavy Cruiser appearing beside it, “I mean ‘those’ Cruisers a run for their money,” he corrected.
“Molasses could move faster than a Hydra,” she objected with a cough. Commodore LeGodat never even tried to hide his amusement at her incredulity as she continued, “It’s almost heavily-armored enough up front to stand in the wall, but one of those more modern light cruisers is packing the same amount of firepower!”
“Would you care to put a few, purely hypothetical, credits on that, Lieutenant Commander?” he asked with a grin.
“Speaking hypothetically, Sir,” she said arching a brow, “you’re on! Those things are tough up front, but only have one main drive, are slower than dirt, and are critically vulnerable from astern!”
“We shall see,” LeGodat said evenly, and see they did.
As soon as it was clear the pair of SDF Light Cruisers were rapidly outstripping their much slower Heavy Cruiser counterpart, the Hydra slewed from side to side, before settling down and the acceleration curve of the Medium Cruiser suddenly shot through the roof.
“I’m reading multiple new secondary drive fields, Commodore,” the Ensign at Sensors reported with excitement.
Stravinsky stared at the screen in shocked surprise, and then turned to glare at her commander. “You suckered me! How did you know?” she demanded.
“Call it a hunch,” he said coldly, his eyes locked on the screen as he considered his next move.
“That’s one smug man, if ever I’ve seen one,” his Executive Officer muttered under her voice, and glowered at him out of the corner of her eye.
Chapter 40: A Royal Ruckus
“That Heavy Cruiser is still coming on strong, but the Light Cruisers are taking off, like something lit their tails on fire, Chief Engineer. They’ll catch us in no time, at this rate!” cried the sensor operator.
Spalding paused to tug on his hair, and once again realized he still had no hair to speak of.
“Engage the Afterburners,” Spalding said with an irritable stomp of his left foot.
There was a deafening silence and Brence glared around the room, but the Helmsman gulped and pressed a series of buttons.
“Here goes nothing,” muttered one of the Sensor Techs, sharing a significant look with a rating over in Tactical.
Suddenly, the sensation of the floor being down—where it was supposed to be—began to change.
“Grav Plates are fluctuating; automatic stabilizers unable to compensate,” yelped the man at damage control, as the rear wall of the Bridge started to feel like the new floor of the ship.
“Sweet Murphy, in your mechanical wisdom, spare us from this unsightly end,” mumbled the woman at the shield controls.
Ignoring the pull that had members of the Bridge crew buckling themselves into their seats (which they should have done already!), the wily old Chief Engineer stumped over to the damage control station and stared over the shoulder of the Engineering rating, as grav-plates around the ship showed major fluctuations.
Frowning, he made a few adjustments, and entered them into the ship’s distributed intelligence. It took several seconds for the new orders to propagate through the system. Spalding scowled, as it was just another way in which this mechanical dump of a warship could never hold a candle to his Clover.
Suddenly, the gravity stabilized and pressed everyone down to the deck with crushing force; everyone except a certain Chief Engineer, who had finally gotten his strength back.
“Something’s wrong,” panted the head of Tactical.
“Ye Space Gods, this is worse,” cried a woman at sensors.
“It’s just a wee bit over two gees,” Spalding admonished with a scowl. “This ship type was never designed to handle this kind of acceleration, but she’ll hold together,” explained Spalding irritably. Was he the only member of the blasted crew who had read the tech manuals for this deathtrap?!
The Damage Control Tech looked down at his screen. “2.25…2.34 gravities, and leveling out,” he said tightly.
“See? Nothing to worry about; we can handle this kind of load for days, before we find the limits of the human body,” Lieutenant Spalding said confidently, and the Bridge crew groaned in unison.
“It’s only going to be for a shift or so,” Brence cut in, clearly trying to sound reassuring. But with the extra weight pressing on all of them, it came out more tightly than before.
“The Cutters welded to the hull are holding strong, and continuing to operate their drives at half power,” reported the Helmsman.
“Are we accelerating faster than those Praxis Light Cruisers hot on our trail?” Spalding demanded, stumping over to the Helm.
The Helmsman paused and looked over at the Hydra’s Navigator. “They’ve still got the edge in acceleration; they’ll catch us long before we reach Praxis IV, Sir,” the Navigator reported, sounding disheartened.
“Inform the afterburners that they are to increase their normal space drive to full military power,” Spalding said curtly.
The Helmsman’s hands tightened on the old-fashioned steering sticks on either side of his console, and then tapped in the orders. Behind him, Spalding could hear the Com-Tech relaying the instructions.
“And they’re not welded,” he said forcefully, upset at the clear lack of mechanical and engineering knowledge among the staff, as clearly shown by this last idiotic comment.
“What, Sir?” asked the Helmsman
“The Cutters are attached to the backside of this ship, nose first, through the use of carefully constructed docking hard points,” he growled.
“Whatever you say, Lieutenant,” he said, his head bobbling up and down like an old-style, collectible doll.
Spalding had to suppress the urge to snarl at him. Forcibly, he reminded himself that he was operating with the dregs of the service here. Men with so little mechanical knowledge they had no choice but to strike for a cushy bridge assignment on one of the most run down ships in the fleet.
“Even a ship’s gunner would have more common sense than you bottom-heavy lot,” he scowled, turning away from the other man.
“Why, I never,” the woman in the sensor pit said with rising outrage. She started to stand, but the force of gravity pinned her down in her seat more effectively than any order ever could. Still, she made the attempt a few more times, giving the appearance of an aerobic exercise.
“Work on your cardio some other time, lass,” Spalding rebuked off-handedly, and the woman gave an incoherent noise of outrage.
“What this ship needs, is a crewman at her post who knows that manning her station and checking for signs of enemy warships, is more important than getting a little exercise,” he grumbled in her direction, unimpressed with the manner in which this bridge was handling its duties.
Then the afterburners kicked hard, as the five cutters strapped point first into their hull simultaneously went to full power.
The Bridge crew started making wheezing sounds, and after only a few seconds, someone fainted.
“Acceleration is holding steady at maximum thrust,” the Helmsman reported grimly, holding onto his console for dear life.
The Navigator turned his head to the Chief Engineer, and then passed-out, hitting the floor with enough force that blood started squirting out his nose.
“Three gees and holding,” gasped the Engineering watch stander at the damage control station.
“Medical team to the Bridge; we’ve got fainters, bleeders, and combinations of the two,” Spalding barked.
The Com-Tech relayed his message in a halting voice.
“Medical says they’re not sure if they can get a team all the way up here in this kind of gravity, without incurring additional injuries,” grunted the Technician.
“Send one of those overgrown Tracto-an boys—or better yet, just the grav-cart. I’ll load these lightweights onto the cart me-self,” he grumbled, stomping over with his big droid legs and bending over to pick up the first one. The gravity was rough, but was barely enough to do more than slow him down. However, from the looks of the rest of the bridge crew, it was doing more than slowing everyone else.
“Are we outrunning those Praxis boys, now,” he demanded, loading the blushing violets onto the grav-cart for transfer to Medical.
The Helmsman laboriously pecked away on his touch screen. “By a comfortable margin,” he said.
“Let’s dial her back to three-quarters full military power,” Spalding suggested.
The words were barely out of his mouth, before the Communications operator was on the horn to the cutters, and the Helmsman was dialing back the speed on his console.
This time, the delay was much shorter than the last time he had given orders to max his afterburners. He pursed his lips at this suspicious evidence of foot dragging.
The bridge was still under too much gravity to breathe a sigh of relief, but he could see that it was no longer weighing on them so badly.
His actuators whining under the increased gravity, he returned to the damage control section and started massaging the settings again. After a little trial and error, he managed to settle things down at two and a half gravities, and they were still outrunning the Cruisers—both light, and heavy.
“We’re getting casualty reports from all over the ship, Sir,” reported the internal communications operator.
“Send them to those young quacks down in Medical,” the old Engineer said shortly. He did not like to see the crew abused like this, but there was no choice. Not if they were going to have any chance of freeing the Admiral, and then the Clover.
“It’s only going to get worse if we stay at this kind of gravity, Chief,” Brence advised him in a low voice.
“It’ll toughen them up for what’s to come, Brence,” Spalding said, shaking his head and speaking without his usual vigor.
“I’m serious; we can’t keep this up for long,” the other man pressed, looking like he was in pain.
“It hurts me to do it to them, but each person here knew what he and she was signing up for when they put on the uniform,” the Old Engineer said, a hint of sadness creeping into his voice.
The look the former Engineering rating threw him, said that not everyone had known what they were signing up for, but Spalding let it pass.
“As long as you’re sure it’s necessary, Lieutenant,” said Brence, sweat breaking out on his forehead.
“It’s a sad and sorry fact of this existence, that you can’t make an omelet without cracking a few eggs,” the old Engineer said, closing his eyes briefly. When they opened, a fire burned deep inside, “That’s why I prefer Engineering, and stay as far away from the Command Chair as I can manage.”
“I understand,” said Brence.
Spalding raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps you do, at that,” he gave himself a shake, “regardless, our helm will have to stay on his feet, to avoid our pursuers behind us when we change course.”
Brence smiled, and if it was a bit pinched, Spalding chose to ignore it.
“I’m not feeling well,” said the Helmsman, causing the old engineer to frown thunderously.
“No slacking off now, Helmsman; not when the job’s just begun!” he warned direly.
“As you say, Chief Engineer,” the Helmsman replied faintly.
“You can make it lad, just grit your teeth and it’ll all be over before you can snap your fingers,” the old Engineer urged.
“As easy as smuggling whiskey past an Officer,” Brence threw his own encouragement to the mix.
The wily old engineer started to nod knowingly, and then did a double take. The glare he shot his XO’s way was hot enough to melt bulkheads.
Ignoring the byplay, the Helmsman tried to snap his fingers, but with the increased gravity was having a heck of time getting the speed and friction necessary for the gesture.
Spalding gave the formerly—and it had best be a very much formerly—wayward spacehand beside him a thunderous look, before rounding on the Helmsman. But the sight of the man’s inability to make a single sound, using his fingers, forced a reluctant smile from the old man’s lips.
“I did tell him it’d be over before he could snap his fingers, but I didn’t mention anything about how long that would take,” Spalding harrumphed, placing a well satisfied pair of hands on his hips.
“I can see that,” Brence agreed.
“A Spalding never knowingly lies, and that’s what being an Officer is all about, Brence me-boy: truth, honesty and the Capri—ahem, I mean Confederation way, of course,” Spalding said with a smile.
Beside him, Brence rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath too low for the Chief Engineer to catch.
“Almost didn’t become an Officer, you know, once upon a time,” Spalding said nostalgically.
“I hear that,” his Executive Officer said, with just a little too much feeling.
Spalding’s eyebrows beetled and he glowered at the former space hand for stealing his righteous thunder, before settling back in the heavily worn (and poorly patched) Captain’s Chair with a loud harrumph.
Chapter 41: Making a Move
The Easy Haven formation crept steadily further in-system, its efforts to remain hidden from sight no doubt assisted by the short squadron, which was even now, making its desperate run for Praxis.
“The last of the non-combatant starships have successfully interposed the planet between themselves and the oncoming raiders. While the Praxis SDF has maneuvered their single squadron of the wall, and its supporting elements, between the Raider Four and Central,” the Ensign at Sensors reported.
“Excellent work, Sensors,” LeGodat acknowledged, making sure his men were verbally rewarded for a job well done.
On the main screen, the Commodore watched as both squadrons of the 25th Sector Guard maneuvered out to meet the oncoming threat. Together, they broke orbit around the fourth—and only, massively inhabited—planet in this star system.
On the main screen, Raider Four, the ‘should have been’ extremely sluggish Hydra Class Medium Cruiser continued to marginally outrun is normally fleeter of foot pursuers.
“Do we have any idea how that Hydra is outrunning those Defender Class Light Cruisers,” he asked, for what he figured must have been about the sixth time so far today.
“Still nothing definitive,” his Engineering watch stander scowled.
“How is it powering five additional secondary drive systems,” Natasha Stravinsky marveled, with what sounded like genuine, if reluctant, admiration for the feat.
“Most of the light units in this system have been moved to intercept the hostiles,” he mused, as he observed the three raider Corvettes running for their lives, under hot pursuit from local SDF warships. Then he turned his gaze to the improbable sight of a Hydra showing its heels to anything—let alone, a pair of Defenders!
“Whoever it is over there, certainly knows her stuff,” the Engineering watch stander said, with admiration in her voice, “I wouldn’t have thought it was possible, if I wasn’t seeing it myself.”
“Several freighters are making a run for the hyper-limit,” reported the Ensign at Sensors.
“Those fools; they’re more likely to take damage outside the protection of those planetary batteries and mobile forces, than if they just stayed still,” the XO said scornfully.
LeGodat nodded in agreement, his hawk-like eyes nailed the main viewer, observing the movements taking place all over it.
There was a stir in the Sensor pit, and an Operator started to jump to his feet, only to be firmly but forcefully slammed back in his chair by a Chief Petty Officer. A moment later, the Ensign in command of Sensors turned to the Commodore.
“We’ve just been able to confirm, Sir! The Dungeon ship is making a run for the hyper-limit as well,” he said with a smile.
“Good work, Ensign,” LeGodat replied.
“And, Sir…it just so happens to be coming our way,” the young officer said with a vicious grin.
“Excellent. It looks like our whisker lasers weren’t for nothing after all,” the Commodore said, leaning back in his Command Chair. He was still concerned about the lack of reply to his covert hails, but something inside him unclenched ever so slightly.
“She waited until most of the smaller, faster units were too far away to intercept her,” the Lieutenant Commander beside him said, a hungry smile on her face.
“We don’t know for certain that Captain McCruise is still in command of her ship, XO,” he said determinedly downplaying things, at least until he knew exactly was going on. It was important not to fall into any mental traps at this stage.
“We’ve got a return com-laser from Captain McCruise, Commodore. She’s says she’s got the Admiral, and is requesting a rendezvous and support,” the Com Officer said with a grin.
“Feed her these coordinates,” LeGodat instructed, shooting over the numbers to the Communications Ensign.
“Should we cease silent running and go active, Sir?” Lieutenant Commander Stravinsky asked urgently.
Mentally, he quickly ran the numbers, and disliked what he came up with.
“Blast, she’s too far in system,” he muttered under his breath. Any attempt on his part to go active and get there sooner, was only more likely to bring unwanted attention to that Dungeon Ship, not less.
“Commodore,” she said urgently.
The Sensor Ensign turned to the Commodore. “The Medium Cruiser’s changing course; she’s now aiming for the Dungeon Ship.”
“She’s going to run right smack into the 1st Squadron of the Guard,” Stravinsky winced.
“Hydras are tough,” LeGodat assured her, downplaying his own similar worries. “I’m more concerned about the increasing curve in their course. As McCruise gets further and further out system, those Defenders actually might be able to catch up.”
Then it became obvious that whoever was in command of that Hydra shared his concerns, because if anything, its acceleration profile actually just went up.
“Blazes, I didn’t think they had any more in them,” Stravinsky whispered.
“I’m detecting an unstable fluctuation in their grav-plates and stabilizer units,” the Engineering watch stander said, sounding concerned.
“Well, at least we know they’re not pirates anymore,” Colin LeGodat said with a frown.
“How so, Sir?” Stravinsky demanded.
The Commodore raised an eyebrow at this. “That Dungeon ship might conceivably contain high level Pirates, as well as our very own Confederation Vice Admiral. But I sincerely doubt that any Pirate alive would risk splattering himself all over the floor of his ship on a potential suicide move to outrun enemy pursuit. It’s just not in their nature to make sacrifices of that nature; something you’d know, if you stopped for two seconds to consider the matter, Lieutenant Commander,” he explained, allowing a mild rebuke to enter into his voice.
“Then we have to help them,” she frowned, both at the situation and the rebuke.
“We’re more likely to engender the sort of response we don’t want: warships diverted from Planetary Protection duty sent to take down the Dungeon Ship, before we could conceivably reach her. I wish it were otherwise, but for the moment, McCruise is on her own,” shaking his head furiously at his inability to help, for fear of making matters worse.
“There’s no guarantee they won’t send a few Medium Cruisers after her anyway,” Stravinsky pointed out.
“Let’s hope they stay focused on the little drama taking place in the middle of their system, for as long as possible,” was the only answer the Commodore could come up with.
Chapter 42: Yagar’s ‘Great Maneuver’
“Sir, you’re still going way too fast to match courses with her, Admiral,” Commodore Druid insisted as respectfully as possible.
There was a slight communications lag, after which Rear Admiral Yagar glared at him.
“We’ve got to slow her down before she manages to rendezvous with those escorts of hers, and that means crippling her engines,” Yagar said stiffly.
“The Praxis SDF has four corvettes in hot pursuit of two of their corvettes, and a Light Cruiser after the other. There are an additional two Light Cruisers, as well as a Heavy, after that Hydra, Sir. If even just the corvettes meet up with 1st Squadron, the Guard will have more than enough power to blow them out of the stars, if they slow down for even a moment,” Druid said confidently.
Rear Admiral Yagar stabbed his finger at the screen. “I don’t want these Raiders run out of the system, and I ‘don’t’ want to share the glory of their destruction with the Praxis SDF. If I wait for your Squadron—or Praxis—to catch up with the 1st, that’s exactly what I’d have to do,” Yagar declared.
“I really wish you’d reconsider, Admiral,” Druid said urgently.
“There’s not a Hydra ever built that could handle five new Marauder Class Corvettes and my Destroyer; we need to nail these dastards now, and we’re going to do it in front of the entire Sector Government,” the Rear Admiral said confidently.
“If you try to nail her engines in one single pass and fail, you risk her getting away!” Druid said, allowing more desperation into his voice than he would have liked.
“As you pointed out, the SDF’s hot on her trail,” Yagar scoffed, “at worst, we’ll have to share in the kill. This way, if we succeed, the SDF can chase a few Corvettes out of the system. Meanwhile, the Guard will have taken down the flagship of these piratical, raiding, scum!”
“I still don’t think these are raiders—” Druid started, only to be cut off by his superiors.
“What else could they be?” Yagar sneered.
“LeGodat’s forces, or Confederation Forces from Tracto, maybe,” Druid replied evenly.
“We’ve got the profile of every ship that’s ever been in Easy Haven, as well as the profiles of the ships comprising that pitiful excuse of a System Defense Force in Tracto, from when we took back that Constructor,” Yagar snapped, and made a slashing gesture with his hand. “No! We’ve got detailed scans of these junker warships, Commodore Druid, and they’re nothing more than a quad of run-down pirate ships, through and through,” he said sternly.
“The acceleration profile of that Hydra, screams anything but a pirate,” Druid protested.
“The one thing a pirate always focuses on is his engines; the better to make good his escape, when he runs into a real warship,” Yagar condescended, before leaning toward the pickup contemptuously. “Why, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were afraid of the hazard, Commodore Druid,” Yagar said with a harsh, derisive look, terminating the link with a throat-cutting gesture.
After terminating the connection with that worry-wart Druid, the duly-appointed Rear Admiral Yagar spun his chair an emphatic quarter turn, in order to face his Tactical Officer.
“Enough of what that nanny-bot and naysayer has to say,” he sneered, “it’s time to attack! We’ll cripple her engines and come around for another pass with the 2nd Squadron; I estimate we’ll be there just in time to finish her off before that pair of Defenders arrive!” Yagar said triumphantly.
Chapter 43: Standing Tall
“That Guard Squadron, with the Light Destroyer, is vectoring over for a firing pass, Lieutenant!” cried one of the Sensor Operators.
“Steady as she goes, crewmen!” roared Spalding, strapping himself into the Captain’s Chair.
“If we angle in towards them at the last minute and spin our ship as soon as we’ve interpenetrated, we might reduce the time they have to direct fire at our engines,” Brence said urgently.
Spalding’s jaw jutted out. “I want the full weight of our own fire focused on that Light Destroyer,” he ordered firmly. If those fools wanted to tangle with a heavily armored Hydra, he was more than willing to oblige them with a little destruction of their own. Although it grated to the very core of him, he added, “After clearing your guns, you are to follow the XO’s instructions, and spin the ship as soon as they’re on us.”
“Thank you, Chief,” said Brence.
“For what? Listening to some common blasted sense?” Spalding scoffed, and Brence straightened in his seat, looking prouder than a moment before.
Spalding failed to mention that vectoring in and spinning the ship had been the next thing he would have ordered anyway, had the younger man not jumped the gun and brought it up early. Still, raining on his Chief Engineer’s parade was no reason to discourage initiative in one of his top men—so long as those men did not let the praise go to their heads, and try to transfer out of Engineering and over to a cushy job on the Bridge!
“They probably think they can cripple our single main engine with only one rapid pass, but between our shields and those very non-standard, cutter-shaped afterburners,” the Engineering Lieutenant waggled his eyebrows, “I’m willing to wager they’ve bitten off more than they can chew!”
“Let’s give it to them, boys; straight down their throats!” Brence hollered.
“Tell those lazy, slacking Gunners it’s time to earn their pay! They are to strap in, and fire as she bears, on that Destroyer,” Spalding ordered, his dander getting up at the proximity of combat.
“Yes, Sir!” reported the rating in charge of Tactical.
“I also want all possible power diverted to the rear shields, and that includes from our forward ones,” Spalding added grimly. He knew that things were about to get messy.
Chapter 44: The Silent Observers
LeGodat stared at the screen, his mind racing as he calculated speed, angles and vectors. It was going to be tight, but there was still a chance that this crazy-as-a-graveyard-skunk of a Medium Cruiser—that still had the focus of everyone else in this system—would manage to break through and continue their death ride attempt to link up with the Dungeon Ship with the goal of freeing their Admiral.
He was firmly reminded by the best possible source—his very own eyes—that just because he and the other Reservist Professionals from Easy Haven considered the Caprian Transferees less than fully trained (and not entirely professional in their habits) it by no means meant that they were anything less than dogged and relentless in the face of danger.
He only wished his own ships shared the incredible speed of that Hydra, and that his Officer’s had half the daring. Well, on second thought, he was more than comfortable with their current level of daring. As a Star Base Commander, he needed loose cannons running around performing crazy stunts like he needed a main reactor radiation leak.
“They’re on close approach now, Commodore; they’re beginning the firing run,” reported the Sensor Ensign.
LeGodat’s eyes were nailed to the main screen, as the lines and icons representing the 1st Squadron of the 25th Sector Guard interpenetrated with that of the Medium Cruiser.
“There’s considerable weight of fire, and I’m seeing shield flares,” reported the Ensign tightly.
“Give me the blow by blow, as fast as you’re able,” LeGodat said in a hurried voice, as he activated the small screen on the arm of his chair and pulled a close-up of the Medium Cruiser onto it.
“The Hydra just went into a spin, and the Light Destroyer rolled several times before straightening out. She’s streaming air, Sir!” he cried.
“Which one,” LeGodat asked urgently.
The Ensign blinked. “The Guard Flagship, Sir,” he reported, as his Petty Officer whispered something into his ear.
LeGodat throttled back on his temper at this imperfect information; it was, after all, very much his own fault for specifically requesting it from the Ensign.
“The Destroyer lost her entire forward-facing shield! It looks like she and the Hydra had a near miss,” exclaimed the Ensign.
“The Hydra is still in an uncontrolled spin,” Lieutenant Command Stravinsky whispered into his ear.
“I agree; it doesn’t look good,” he said grimly, just as the Hydra started to straighten out.
He, along with the rest of the Bridge crew, watched as the aged Medium Cruiser came out of her spin before doggedly resuming her course towards the Dungeon Ship.
While the bridge around him gave a cheer, LeGodat stared at the Hydra’s new acceleration profile with growing concern.
Chapter 45: Spalding deals with Battle Damage
He could feel the shots pounding into their forward facing armor, as the bow’s shield generator struggled to keep up with an entire squadron of corvettes weight of fire. Eventually, they had failed, due to his order to reinforce the rear shields prior to engagement. But he wanted to take zero chances with his precious engines.
Then the Corvettes were on them like a pack of coyotes, and there was a power surge that knocked the crewwoman at the Shields console from her seat in a shower of sparks. A crash quickly followed which shook the entire ship, as something sheared off the left corner of their forward facing hull, and knocked them forward from their chairs.
Fortunately, Hydras were built to be almost as wide as they are long—although, in his mind, that spindly little engine they had sticking out back hardly counted for anything—which meant that the front of the ship was very heavily armored; its shape like that of a sideways-turned spade. It also meant they only had one forward facing gundeck. A Hydra was built to meet its foes head on, something his team had just successfully managed to do, but the cost of weakening their forward shields had been severe.
Power flickered off and on a few times, and Spalding was grateful for his last minute order to cut power to their engines. If they had been accelerating like they had been just moments prior, they would have all been splattered into little gobbets on the floor when the power fluttered and the grav-plates failed to protect them.
“What the blazes just happened?” the ancient Engineer demanded.
The Helmsman looked up, blood streaming down his nose and a nice black eye already starting where his head had met the console, and then leaned back over the controls.
“From the large gash on the side of the Light Destroyer—and the way she’s streaming air—I’d say we hit her,” the Rating nominally in charge of the Sensor Pit coughed.
“I’m reading a quarter of our forward facing weaponry is gone,” coughed the Damage Control watch stander. “Half of which appears to have been sheared off the hull, likely when we hit her.”
“We’ve lost one of our two main sensor arrays,” reported the Sensor Operator, sounding shaken up.
“Main engine is not responding, all I’ve got are the Cutters,” reported the Helmsman.
“We didn’t lose any of them?” Spalding said incredulously.
“Two of them report cracked housings, and are using their maneuvering thrusters to stay with us,” the Communications crewman reported. “I’ve also lost my backup Comm array.”
“Fire up the other three, but isolate the two with cracked housings until we can get a team out to repair them,” Spalding ordered the Helmsman, and then glared at the Damage Control stander, until the man got on the horn with his rapid response team down in Main Engineering.
For a moment, everyone scrambled to make sure of the condition of their various departments, and a Medical team arrived to cart off the still-smoking Shield Operator and patch up the various cuts and contusions absorbed by the rest of the bridge crew.
Spalding angrily waved off a medic when he came to check on him. The ancient Engineer reminded himself that medics were not all bad, but they had an annoying tendency to turn into quacks. He wanted none of that sort around him, unless the situation was so dire that even a quack like Dr. Presbyter was unable to worsen the matter.
“I’m reading several of the grav-plates around the ship aren’t responding to bridge control,” reported damage control.
“Cordon the area off, and have damage control parties spray red and yellow hazard lines a few feet from the edges of the damaged plates,” Spalding growled, “and what’s the status of my main engines?!”
“It looks like it went into standby mode when Fusion Two automatically shut down,” the other man said.
Spalding shot to his feet. “Why wasn’t I informed one of our two fusion generators—the one supplying power to the main engine—shut down,” he demanded.
“I’m sorry, Sir; I just noticed it,” said the damage control rating hastily.
“If you want something done right, you always have to do it your very own self!” Spalding raged, running for the lift.
“I have the Bridge,” he could hear Brence say behind him, but he made no acknowledgment. That was precisely why he had the former slacker up here: to help out, and learn to be a team leader.
Spalding knew he was needed elsewhere.
Chapter 46: An Engineering Overload
The aged Engineer arrived on a scene from perdition itself. Main Engineering was strangled in smoke, and ratings were running for the exit.
“Stand to at your posts, you slackers!” he screamed, grabbing a discarded—half full—fire suppression device that was just rolling around on the floor, while his crew of inept wannabe Engineers ran around like chickens with their heads cut off.
“Where is Warrant Officer Hastings?!” he bellowed, striding through the smoke. His good eye unfailingly spotted the source of dark haze within moments.
Even though his single remaining lung was protesting in the worst possible way, his robot legs still obeyed his every command.
“When I find that feckless fool, I’ll,” he stumbled and almost tripped, as he ran into something just short of the electrical flame.
Looking down with his mechanical eye (his good eye could no longer see a thing), he saw a fallen Engineer. He reached down and lifted the other to up to face level.
It was Hastings, and he was missing half his face.
“He died at his post; a brave man,” he declared solemnly, dropping Hastings back to the floor without a second thought. However, he did grab the nearly three-quarters full suppression device that had been rolling around behind the fallen third in command of the Engineering department.
With nothing else to slow him down, he rushed the blaze, with a pair of fire suppression devices in hand. Cutting loose as soon as he was within range, he stood before a flame so hot it had melted one of the trunk lines he was going to need later, in order to pull off the Maneuver.
The heat was so terrible it burned what little real skin and flesh he still possessed that was unprotected, but fortunately the rest of him was mostly synth-flesh, and after a few excruciating moments, the pain cut off.
“Take that, slackers,” he screamed, advancing on the blaze with both suppression devices going full out. He refused to stop, even as his first device clicked empty.
“You measly morsel of misfiring parts!” he raged, stepping up to the source of the fire. Seeing a ruptured plasma conduit, he realized a mere fire suppressant device was nowhere near equal to the task of subduing something like that. However, the hole in the pipe was no bigger than his foot…
Wild-eyed, he looked around for something—anything—made of duralloy to plug it with. But nothing except the mesh grating of the catwalk above him was available, and even that was full of holes, meaning it was entirely useless to his purposes.
His breath started to feel like it was burning a hole in his chest, and his vision was narrowing due to lack of oxygen, so he knew there was only one thing to do.
“This is going to hurt you a lot more than it’s going to hurt me,” Spalding growled. With no time to stagger around looking for the manual cutoff for the leak, there was only one thing to do.
Stomping his foot down hard on the hole in the conduit, he shoved his foot down so hard that he bent the pipe ever so slightly. Plasma stopped streaming out, and his foot turned a bright, cherry red that started creeping up his to his ankle.
Leaning forward, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out several strips of duralloy, and then activated both his right and left hands. Kneeling down in a rapidly cooling pool of plasma, he was grateful for his mechanical legs for the first time since receiving them.
Yelling defiance at the heat that dared to cause even a Chief Engineer to flinch, he started welding his foot to the conduit.
“There’s more than one way to plug a leak!” he roared defiantly, just before everything became hazy and he slumped forward.
He came back to himself to the sensation of pain in his abdomen, and the realization that while by no means clear, the smoke had dissipated enough that there was actual oxygen to be had.
Then he glanced down at the knee his stomach was resting on, and realized it was glowing a nice cherry red.
“Ack,” he gobbled, trying to straighten. For a moment, the leg resisted and when he returned to a standing position, synth-flesh—as well as natural flesh—stuck to the knee.
Screaming in pain, the Engineer took one look at his overheated leg, which was now welded to the conduit, and bent back down.
The smell of burnt flesh both synth- and natural, reached his nose and the pain grew beyond that which originally woke him. But he knew that if he failed to get away from that conduit, he was going to roast like a birthday pig.
“I finally know what a lobster feels like, right before he’s done cooking,” he gibbered with agony, activating his plasma torch and starting to cut through the ankle of his foot.
Fortunately, it was already overheated, or he never would have been able to free himself in time.
“Come loose, you filthy piece of droid trash,” he screamed, using all his fingers to cut their way through his ankle. With a jerk, he stood back up and pulled himself free.
Now minus a foot, and with the knee of that same leg hiccoughing, misfiring and generally acting in a similar manner to most robot legs that had been damaged, he hopped around on the floor.
“You did it, Chief,” cried one of the ratings, a man he would have sworn he saw running for the blast doors when the going got tough.
When the cowardly slacker was fool enough to run up to him, Spalding bellowed and laid him out on the floor with a right hook.
“Hastings stayed at his post, while the trainees ran. Where were you?!” he screamed at the man’s unconscious form, his chest still in agony.
“To Fusion Generator Two!” he half-yelled, half-gobbled, still doing his best imitation of the turkey dance as he hopped and skittered his way toward the Generator responsible for getting them back up to speed.
He arrived and stared at dismay at the blackened fuses and half-melted breaker boxes mounted on his side of the Fusion Generator.
“We need wire, boxes and new fuses,” he declared.
“We can get the wire and boxes, Lieutenant Spalding, but we already swapped out most of the old fuses for the new issues you brought on board,” said Parkiny.
For a moment, Spalding stared at him, resisting the urge to lay this naysayer out on the deck alongside the runner. Then he gave himself a shake; Parkiny was a good lad, if far too liable to smuggle a multi-tool inside his lunch box.
“Good lad,” he said after a moment, giving the other man a pat that was more like a slap on the cheek, “you just bring them over here to Spalding now, on the run!”
“You said if we ran with those fuses, it’d be the same as killing us all,” Parkiny reminded him.
“Never you mind what I said before; if we don’t get this Generator back online, we’re all dead men,” Spalding said through gritted teeth.
Parkiny’s face hardened and he gave an abrupt jerky nod. “Yes, Sir!” he shouted, taking off on the run.
Spalding looked around him in a daze at all the greenhorns and slackers malingering about. “What in the blue blazes are ye waiting for,” he screamed, “these fuses won’t pull themselves!”
Seeing his men jump into action, something started to give inside the old engineer, and he leaned against a pylon for support. He cried out in surprise, and before he knew it, a quack-in-training was all over him.
“Away, you murderer of perfectly healthy engineers; away,” he said, trying to fend the other man off, but every movement he made seemed only to increase the pain.
Then the Medic applied some kind of foam to his chest, and slapped a patch on the side of his neck. Quickly, the pain subsided to a dull roar.
For a moment, Spalding felt his eyes begin to roll and his heart fluttered from the rush of the stimulants, but he forced the feeling back under control.
He felt much better. He was well aware that it was an artificial sort of relief, but for the moment he was willing to grab onto it with both hands and run.
Then the Medic stabbed him in the side of his chest with a syringe, and Spalding glared at the young punk.
“Back off, Lad and go see to others who need you more than me,” growled the half-borged Engineer, hobbling back to his feet—make that, foot, “I’ve got a ship to save!”
Chapter 47: Maneuvering into Position
“Yes!” Lieutenant Commander Natasha Stravinsky declared at his side.
Commodore LeGodat watched as the other ship first regained some speed, and then some more. A wretched hour of watching the Light Cruiser slowly gaining on the Hydra had seen it nearly close to turbolaser range. Finally, and inexplicably, the plucky old Medium Cruiser took off like a mad hornet out of an abused hive.
The tension on the Bridge of the Confederation Heavy Cruiser, Little Gift, was sharp enough to cut firewood as the Medium Cruiser ran for all it was worth. The vessel had been named Little Gift, because it was a repurposed Heavy Cruiser which Admiral Montagne had seized from pirates, and bestowed on LeGodat months before.
“I see the 1st Squadron of the Guard is hanging back to escort their heavily damaged Flagship back to the planet,” murmured the Lieutenant Commander.
“One of the perks of Commanding the Guard, no doubt,” LeGodat said with a crooked smile.
Stravinsky bared her teeth. “I hope the new,” her voice changed to a nasty pompous imitation of Rear Admiral Yagar, “Supreme Sector Military Commandant enjoys being towed all the way back to the repair dock.”
“After such a brilliantly planned and flawlessly executed maneuver like the one we were so blessed to just witness, who would not return back home with his head held high?” the Commodore asked with genuine humor.
“I hope he chokes on the humiliation,” she spat. Clearly, someone had yet to forget all the overbearing, ham handed attempts to browbeat, crush, infiltrate—and in any other way possible—bring all of Easy Haven under the banner of the Sector Assembly, personified by one Rear Admiral Yagar and his Sector Guard.
“Moderation in all things, Lieutenant Commander,” the Commodore advised her.
She looked at him, clearly still angry at the overbearing and very arrogant Rear Admiral. Then she smiled sweetly. “Even in moderation itself,” she said with a butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth expression, and LeGodat sighed.
“I fear you are very much a lost cause, LC,” he said wryly.
“Thank you very much, Commodore,” she said, clearly taking the rather pointed observation as a compliment instead.
He shook his head and gave up on his Chief of Staff for the moment, turning to watch events unfold.
Eventually, the Hydra increased its lead back to a comfortable margin, and around this time System Command must have finally pulled its collective heads out of the sand.
“I’ve got two Medium Cruisers breaking formation from Praxis IV’s defense grid,” reported the sensor operator urgently.
“What about the Battleships and Heavy Cruisers?” demanded Stravinsky; her tone was measured and precise.
“Negative,” came the operator’s reply after a moment’s analysis, “the two Battleships, three Heavy Cruisers and other two Medium Cruisers are maintaining position; only the two Medium Cruisers are on an intercept course with the Dungeon Ship.”
Breaking orbit, the pair of SDF Cruisers started burning for all they were worth, to catch up to the lumbering old prison transport.
A tense few moments ensued, as the Ship’s Navigator started running the numbers. According to LeGodat’s own thumb in the air yardstick, it looked like it was going to be close.
The Navigator turned to the Commodore, looking like someone had shot his favorite cat. “I’ve run the numbers three times, Sir,” he said with a hang dog expression, “they’ll reach the Dungeon Ship before she can reach the hyper-limit, and at least a half hour before the Hydra.”
“Thank you, Junior Lieutenant,” the Commodore acknowledged with a nod.
“If we break our silence and head in now, at full speed, two of our Destroyers and both Corvettes could make it there in time,” Stravinsky said eagerly.
LeGodat stroked his chin and opened his mouth to give the order, and then just froze in mid-stroke.
“Let’s give it a little longer before we make a move,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Whoever’s in command over there has put more than a little thought into this. Let’s not risk throwing them off.”
Stravinsky looked at him with disappointment clear in her eyes, but relayed the order that they were to maintain silent running.
Chapter 48: Big Rocks
The Navigator cursed and swore at his console, giving the impression that if they were not still laboring against bone crushing gravity, he would have kicked or done something else physically violent to the thing.
“Now-now, Navigator,” Spalding said sternly, “while I admire the fighting spirit, there’s a time and a place for everything. Tuck it in lad, and focus on your duty; it’ll all be fine, just like a kinked hydraulic line with too much pressure. Let the kink out, and nothing to it,” he assured him.
“Nothing’s going to be fine; we’re too late, Lieutenant Spalding! There’s no way we can catch them before they’ll reach the Admiral’s ship, even if we keep killing ourselves like this!” he cried.
Spalding scowled. “You just crunch the numbers, and keep a firm hold on that fighting spirit of yours,” he said sternly, a core of solid Duralloy II in his voice as he stabbed a thumb into his chest, “and let Officers like me do the thinking.”
The jab-to-the-chest turned out to be ill-advised, as it caused him to bite back a cry of Murphy’s fury. The desire to curl up on the floor was surprisingly strong; second and third degree burns were the very Imps in the engines themselves, even with topical pain killers and synth-flesh to cover them.
“Ouch, Lieutenant,” Brence said in sympathy.
“Stuff and nonsense,” the old engineer said gruffly, as soon as his breath caught back up with him.
“Are you sure you shouldn’t be back in Medical? They give out the good drugs for damage like that,” Brence reminded, sounding like a man with experience on the subject.
The Chief of Engineer gave him withering look. “The last thing I need, in the middle of a repair job, is to be knocked into lala land,” he said scornfully, making sure the other would-be engineer knew he had noted the hint of his second in command’s old, criminal ways. Any backsliding, when the men needed Brence the most, and he would shove the fool right out an airlock!
Spalding considered himself a man with near infinite patience for the hijinks of hooligans and slackers the galaxy ‘round; after all, an Engineer could hardly run a work crew without having the patience of a Saint. None of that meant he was going to go easy on such a person; however, his patience ran out when such a man reformed and accepted a position of greater responsibility. Then, if he fell off the wagon, it was no longer just himself he was hurting; it was his fellow crewmates and the ship that would suffer. He stared at the former slacker through narrow eyes.
“I understand,” Brence gulped, and the wily old engineer could see that he did. So reluctantly, he let go of the grudge.
“This is all the fault of those quacks anyway! Why, if they hadn’t saddled me with substandard parts, none of this would have happened,” he grumbled irritably, looking down at his hastily welded new foot. It had no range of motion, and the knee was still giving him trouble now that it had cooled down, but all in all it made him feel like he was walking around in a cast; off balance, stiff-legged and such.
“But, sir,” cried the Navigator, “what about the Dungeon Ship and those Cruisers?”
Terrence Spalding’s face brightened, taking on more the resemblance of a kid in the candy store, than a hard battened Engineer. He rubbed his hands together, unable to contain himself.
“There’s no need to fret just yet; this old Engineer has just the trick up his sleeve—one guaranteed to get their undivided attention,” he bragged, unable to help himself.
When they all looked at him in curiosity and rising hope, his forehead wrinkled, and then after a moment smoothed.
“Did you ever skip stones as a boy, Brence,” he demanded of his engineering sidekick.
The ship’s new Executive Officer looked taken aback. “I suppose,” he said cautiously, “I mean, all kids do at one time or another.
“It’s no trick question,” Spalding hastened to assure him, “you see, the trick’s on them.”
“Some kind of new, gravity-skipping, missile?” Brence hazarded a guess.
Spalding blinked. “Not a half bad idea for future experimentation,” he admitted, the possibilities racing through his brain like greenhorns fleeing his plasma torch, “but sadly, no.”
“A stealth torpedo,” the other man guessed.
Spalding waved his hands in their air to shut him up. There had been enough raining on his parade already. “No, bucky me boy-o; we’re going old school with this one,” he declared.
Brence seemed to pick up on his own excitement, because he and the rest of the Bridge were starting to look excited. “Tactical, prepare to release…the Big Rocks,” Spalding said triumphantly.
When he was met by uncomprehending, cow-like eyes, he stomped his bad foot in fury. The pain of the act vibrated all the way up into what should have been his hip socket, and he gritted his teeth to keep from yelping.
“Rocks, Sir?” the Tactical Officer confirmed hesitantly.
“The KEW’s,” Spalding said in exasperation, and this time the members of the bridge looked at each other in confusion. A few even shrugged.
“What is this universe coming to, when the man at Tactical doesn’t even recognize the lingo for a Kinetic Energy Weapon,” the old Engineer cried.
“Uh, I don’t think we have any of those,” said Tactical, ducking his head furtively.
“Of course we do; I strapped them to the outside of the hull me-self!” he declared. “Just access the weaponry section on your console labeled Kinetic Energy Weaponry: target the Capitol City of Praxis IV with one, and send the other one straight to Central!”
There was a fury of tapping, and he finally had to go over and show the undertrained idjit how to work his own console. When he was done tapping his way through the weapons selections, he stepped back.
“Sir,” the Tactical Officer said blinking, “the DI says it can’t find a targeting lock.”
Spalding felt the urge to tear out his hair and scream bloody murder. “That’s because it’s strapped to the backside of the ship! You have to coordinate with the helm to spin the ship,” he snarled.
“It says it can’t make a solid lock on the targets,” the Tactical Officer continued, in a small voice.
“Just input the coordina—wait, let me do it,” he said, pushing the rating to the side. “If you want to get something done right, you might as well just do it yourself,” he grouched, inputting the coordinates and making sure they were uploaded. When he was satisfied they were, he snapped his head toward the Helmsman.
“Do an end-o, Helm—now!” he snarled.
The Helmsman did as instructed, flipping the ship as quickly as he could without compromising their grav-system. When the DI had confirmed target locks, Spalding pressed the firing button. “Ah ha, and it’s bombs away!” he cried, his happiness at firing off his distraction temporarily overcoming his fury at the incompetence surrounding him.
The Bridge then seemed to realize what they had just done.
“You’re orbitally bombarding their home world?!” cried the new woman at the Shields station. Spalding turned on her.
“You have to be in orbit to orbitally bombard a planet,” he corrected.
“It’s the same difference!” she sounded outraged.
Spalding pursed his lips. “There’s no need to worry about thousands and millions of casualties; any SDF worth its salt—especially one with that many ships between it and our KEW’s—could blow those two Rocks right out of the sky long before they ever get there,” he said soothingly, well aware of the trauma many of their families had gone through when the Imperials bombarded Capria.
“Then why did we bother launching them, if they’re going to be so easily detected?” Brence asked, clearly concerned.
Spalding rolled his eyes. “They’ll see the KEW’s—each with an old shuttle strapped to it, to make sure they can reach their target I made sure and certain to make them noisy enough, and they’ll then assume we fired off a few of the more traditional ones from further out of the system,” he explained.
“Why won’t they just keep the two Medium’s on the trail of the Dungeon Ship?” asked Brence.
Spalding looked at him like he was a moron. “If someone tried to bombard Capria, would you risk sending off a pair of cruisers to chase down a few prisoners, or would you make blasted well sure that entire cities weren’t destroyed because you frittered them away?”
“But we only have two rocks,” Brence Protested, “their planetary Grazers should be enough to stop them all by their selves. The Fleet is overkill.”
“You know that, and I know that, but these Praxis boys…they have no way of telling for sure, until our mythical KEW’s have the chance to get a lot closer to their planetary sensor arrays,” he smirked.
Brence looked as if he wanted to continue the argument, but his mouth snapped shut just before he did so. After a moment’s consideration, the man’s eyes brightened as he exclaimed, “This could actually work!”
Spalding looked at him nonplussed. “Well, of course it could work, you nitwit! What do you think I am, some senile old fool, too far gone to come up with a potentially effective diversion?”
The other engineer was too wise to say anything in response, and quickly turned away to check on the rest of the Bridge.
Spalding was still muttering to himself about naysayers and nanny halfwits, to keep himself from wondering if his distraction was too small to work, when the pair of Medium Cruisers on their screens started to waver, and then turned around for their home world.
“Yes!” cried Brence, who was quickly followed by most of the rest of the Bridge. In the excitement of the moment, the new woman at the Shields Console gave an almost incoherent cry, pumped her fist in the air once, and then her eyes rolled up into the back of her head and she passed out.
“The gravity is slowly killing us, Chief,” Brence was now panting after the exertion of the rousing cheer.
“This ship has terrible luck with Shield Operators,” Spalding said damningly and then with a grunt, hauled himself out of the Command Chair, and stumped on over to pick up the unconscious woman.
By the time he had reached the blast doors, a Grav-cart was waiting outside to take her down to Medical.
“Terrible Luck,” he repeated. Just out of curiosity he checked the medical reports and did a double take. Taking them in, he grimly observed the casualty figures caused by the increased gravity. “They’re dropping like flies,” he whispered as his face hardened, “don’t worry, my brave little rabbits; it’ll all be over soon enough, one way or the other.”
Chapter 49: Rendezvous x2
“Herrings one through three, this is the Sprocket, time to return to the tool box,” the Comm Operator said over an open channel.
Spalding nodded his head sagely; there was no point in giving these politicians (or their wage slaves, however willing or not, given the shackles) the chance to take a look at his Confederation encryption. All would be revealed in due time.
It took several minutes for the transmission to reach the three different Corvettes, and for them to respond.
“This is Red Herring Three, we’re coming home,” said the Captain of the corvette being chased by the single Light Cruiser.
“Red Herring Two here; we’ve been showing them our heels the whole time we’ve been in system. It’ll be tight, but we’re more than ready!” said the Communications operator for the second corvette, being chased by 2 SDF Corvettes.
“Yee-ha,” cried the Captain of Red Herring One, “these Praxis boys ain’t got nothing on this sweet little ride, Sir! Just give us the word, then their ships are grass and we’re the plasma torch!” His ship was also still being chased by a pair of SDF Corvettes.
Spalding winced at the thick Stonelander accent; it sounded like he was from the Jupiter district, but it had been too long for him to be entirely sure. Stonelander or not, the lad needed to learn how to tone it down. Unfortunately, it simply would not do to discourage the fighting spirit of one of his Engineering boys at this particular moment, so he was forced to lower his level of disapproval to a frown.
He watched on the main screen as his Corvettes slowly converged on his run-down—and now beat up—Cruiser.
As the tracks of his three little Corvettes slowly came closer to his, and the six Corvettes of the Sector Guard closed in on an intercept, the four Corvettes and single Light Cruiser following his smaller warships started to fall back and link up with the pair of Light Cruisers that had been tenaciously following him. The Heavy Cruiser was too slow, and too far back, to be much of a worry right at the moment.
Three Light Cruisers, and a quad of well-maintained CR-70 series Corvettes were more than a match for three hastily repaired Corvettes and a single, badly damaged—and badly outdated—Medium Cruiser. When you tossed in another six in the Corvette squadron of the Guard, even his little Five Cutter Surprise would likely fail to handle them all at once.
“It’s gonna be tight, Chief,” Brence said, wiping the palms of his hands on the thighs of his uniform pants.
“We’ll just have to chop them down to size and take ’em one by one, until we get hold of the Admiral,” Spalding said dismissively.
“And then,” Brence asked.
Spalding’s brows beetled. “Then, it’ll be the Little Admiral’s problem, and we can run for the hyper-limit if he’s so inclined,” he said dismissively. It would be a relief to get back to what he did best: fixing ships, and keeping their Engineers running—literally, and figuratively. This Captaining business was for the birds! Why, if the Lady Akantha had not asked him personally…
He balled his fist and thumped it on the arm of his chair several times. Blackmail—emotional blackmail, that’s what it was—he thought bitterly. And at a time when he was in a moment of weakness, having just learned about the loss of the only lady that ever mattered to him: the Clover!
“Sir, we’re coming up on close approach to the Dungeon Ship. If we want to slow down and match course and speed, it needs to be now, Chief Engineer Spalding,” the Navigator said sharply, looking like a raccoon with his pair of black eyes and medical tape over his clearly broken nose.
“Tell Engineering they’d better have that melted trunk line replaced by now,” Spalding growled to the rating over at Damage Control.
“Sir,” the Navigator acknowledged urgently, and the Helmsman threw in a look that said he was quite eager to follow this advice.
“Prepare for the Maneuver,” Spalding said, flicking one of his fingers open and then closed, like a lighter flame with a cap covering it, as he gave the Helmsman a significant look.
The Helmsman gulped, and turned back to grab his archaic steering controls for dear life.
“Set Condition Red throughout the ship,” Spalding bellowed, stumping back to the Captain’s Chair.
“Condition Red set,” stated the man at damage control, and overhead the lighting strips along one side of the bridge flickered and turned red; the other side turned dark casting the bridge in an eerie light. An old fashion alarm chime sounded.
“Yet another thing wrong,” Brence muttered and Spalding smiled. It was good to see that even a slacker like Brence could be reformed into a conscientious Engineer.
Instead of replying, Spalding suppressed a smile and turned toward the Communication Station. “It’s time to reveal who we are. Operator, put me through to that Dungeon Ship—on audio only,” Spalding said after a moment’s thought. There was no point in scaring the locals with the sight of what might be mistaken for a cyborg engineer. A ’Borg might sway the opinion of the ignorant masses, who were unable to distinguish a shanghaied engineer, from a willing victim of an illegal quack doctor.
Also, for a professional Command Track Officer to know on the front end that they were being told to surrender to a ‘mere’ Engineer…that was no risk worth taking, as Captains tended to get squirrely about such things.
The operator made a few modifications on her console and then gave him a nod, signaling he was on open air.
“This is Lieutenant Terrence Spalding, of the Confederation’s very own Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet. You are herby ordered to begin an emergency deceleration of that Dungeon ship, with the intention of bringing your ship to a full and complete stop dead in space. After that, you will be boarded by Confederation Forces,” Spalding growled over the Comm.
There was a pause, and then the Com-Operator jerked in his seat.
“I’m getting a live video feed,” he reported.
“Well, don’t just stand around looking pretty; put it up there on the screen,” instructed Spalding, gesturing to the main screen to cover a sudden attack of nerves. Things were so much simpler down in Engineering, or even up on the Bridge, when you could just blast your way through the opposition with a little unexpected engineering. This diplomacy business and politely telling the other side they were screwed, blued, and tattooed without getting their dander up, was for Captains and Admirals and such. An honest engineer such as himself had no business getting in the middle of such mealy mouthed nonsense.
An ugly as sin, hatchet-faced woman on the wrong side of middle age stared back at him. Spalding’s wizened eye could tell she had gained early access to life prolongation treatments.
For a moment, he was intrigued, but then he sternly took himself to task. He had promised himself to a certain Construction Manager, and while he had failed to technically tell her about it yet, his word was good—even if he had not actually ‘said’ a word to a soul. He reminded himself that it was the principle of the thing. A serial monogamist is what he was, by Saint Murphy’s Wretched Wrench, and that was what he was going to stay!
With that thought firmly in mind, he turned his attention to what she was saying.
“If you keep coming at us as fast as you currently are, there’s no way you’ll be able to match courses with us unless we keep burning as fast as possible,” she said quite reasonably.
Spalding’s carefully thought-out diplomatic approach went out the window at the first sign of obstinacy. “You just follow your instructions, and let us worry about getting on board; we’ve come for the Admiral, and we mean to have him. I’d think after watching us come across the length and breadth of this Star System, you’d realize we’re not about to take any guff,” Spalding said severely.
The hatchet-faced female in a generic spacer’s uniform stared, as if she could see something through the blackness of her main screen, and she looked as if he had just insulted her intelligence.
“Listen, you fool, you’ve done well so far, but charging headlong across the System dodging warships is a different matter from matching course and vectors! And I’m not about to have my ship destroyed by some ham handed, wet behind the ears halfwit, who thinks he can dock with such mismatching speeds. We’ll be destroyed for sure!” she snarled.
Spalding was insulted; just who did she think she was dealing with, some wet behind his ears brand new engineering degree just out of University?
“A fool and halfwit, is it?!” Spalding barked in outrage, “Slow your ship and shut your gob, or you’ll find we came loaded for Dungeon Ship!” he snapped, activating his plasma fingers unconsciously.
“We’re complying under protest, and only after direct threat of physical force,” the Captain said officially, and obviously for the record.
“It’s good that we’re finally seeing eye-to-eye, Captain,” Spalding said after taking a few calming breaths before continuing.
“You’ll understand if I feel differently,” she said evenly.
“I know it’s hard for any Captain to be told what to do on her ship,” he said, trying for a consoling voice, “but before you know it, this’ll all be over, and we’ll be out of your hair.”
The Captain smirked, making her look just as plain and unattractive as ever. “You’re not the first man to say that, Spacer,” she said.
Spalding failed to stifle an involuntary chuckle. “You’ll find your womanly wiles don’t work on a wizened old space hand like myself,” he tried for a severe tone, but feared a pair of near chuckles mangled his attempt.
Her somewhat pleasant expression disappeared, and she leaned back in her chair, disapproval radiating from her entire body. “There’s no need to add insult to injury,” she said strictly.
“Ah, lass, if you could see what the quacks have done to this ugly old mug while I was under their knife, you’d run for the blast doors,” he said wistfully, remembering his handsome old self before Medical got their hands on his ornery old carcass.
Now she just looked angry instead of insulted, and in Spalding’s history with women, this tended to be a good sign. So seeing as her ship was decelerating as rapidly as possible, and he saw no point in sticking his foot in it any further, he turned to the Communications Operator and gestured for him to cut the transmission.
A few moments later, the Helmsman gestured urgently at his console. “We’re almost there,” he said.
“Release the Cutters; they are to join the Corvettes and maneuver independently, while we get the Admiral,” Spalding ordered.
There was a shudder as first one, and then another cutter, was released from the improvised docking clamps.
“Cutters away,” cried the Helmsman.
All around the Bridge, crewmen and women breathed a sigh of relief, as the grav-plates returned to bestowing the normal amount of gravity upon them.
Then the Helmsman looked back down at his panel and jerked.
“Brace for impact,” he squealed.
“Engaging the Maneuver,” Spalding cried, inputting the code for the Montagne Maneuver into his handheld, and then transmitting it to the DI.
“Here goes nothing,” Brence growled, gripping his seat with both hands.
“No, lad, here goes everything!” Spalding cried as the DI received the impulse.
Suddenly, the ship shook around and for a moment, it felt like they were sitting on the ceiling and one of the old chairs in the sensor pit actually broke free from its floor clamps. It floated into the air momentarily, before once again the crew were pinned to their seats with crushing force and the Sensor Chair—including its operator—landed sideways on another operator.
Then there was a sudden lurch and an abrupt crash, as the whole ship shuddered, like it had run into a brick wall. A blue glow suffused the ship before the power cut out, flooding the ship in darkness. Spalding was just starting to think they were in the clear, when it felt as if something in the rear of the ship exploded, causing the vessel to lurch unexpectedly.
“Sounds like the rear Shield Generator,” he said to Brence, but the other man was so busy holding his chair in a death grip, that even using his infra-red vision it was clear he had heard not one word
Then the screaming from the sensor pit started, and the piteous moans from around the Bridge filled in the few moments of what would have otherwise been absolute silence.
“See, I told you we’d make it,” Spalding said sternly, just to make sure all the naysayers knew they would be eating crow later on in the mess hall. Well, as long as they were still alive, that is.
Chapter 50: The Trap Snaps Shut
Commodore LeGodat watched incredulously as the Medium Cruiser continued to barrel toward the Dungeon ship at top speed, their course as straight as an arrow.
“Do you think they mean to ram her?” Stravinsky asked in disbelief.
“I thought they were possibly Confederation strays from the MPF, but now I wonder if they just wanted the pleasure of killing him themselves,” LeGodat said, shaking his head and wishing there was something—anything—else he could have done.
Behind the Hydra, the 2nd Squadron of the Sector Guard had pulled slightly ahead in the race to catch the mismatched quad of unidentified ships, while their slower SDF counterparts continued at the best speed their Light Cruisers could maintain.
“I’m getting an unusual reading,” reported one of the Sensor Operators.
“What is it,” snapped the Sensor Ensign.
“The Hydra’s speed is dropping; if I didn’t know better, I’d say it looks like a she’s…nope, she’s definitely losing her secondary engines. Look, they’re falling off the ship,” said the Operator.
Then the Sensor Ensign showed up. “Those secondary engines aren’t engines; they’re Cutters,” he cried, and on the main screen the ‘engines’ sprouted shield bubbles before maneuvering independently.
LeGodat’s eagle eyes caught something unusual around the icon of the Hydra. “Why is her shield array fluctuating,” he demanded.
“I’m reading a surge in strange particles, it looks like they’re trying to go to hyperspace,” relayed the Sensor Operator.
“Those fools,” the Commodore said clenching his hand into a fist and holding it tight.
“Point emergence,” cried another sensor operator, her carefully won discipline deserting her as the tension rose.
“Where,” demanded his XO.
“Its—it’s in the same location as the Hydra, Sir!” she sounded stunned.
“I’m reading a series of wild gravity surges—and now an explosion in their stern,” said the first sensor operator. “Looks like their rear shield array was what went.”
The white-faced Sensor Ensign turned to the Commodore. “I’m not sure how she did it, but the Hydra just shed all her forward acceleration; for all intents and purposes, she just came to an abrupt stop, Commodore LeGodat,” he said.
“That’s impossible,” shouted their ship’s Science Officer, “send me over the readings; I need the raw data files!”
The Confederation Commodore stared with disbelief at the suddenly still icon on his main screen, then he watched incredulously as the Squadron of Corvettes belonging to the Guard came shooting past the Medium Cruiser, which cut most of its power transmissions.
It was obvious their gunners had been unprepared for their quarry to defy the laws of physics, and the vast majority of their weapons shot off wildly into cold space. Only a few managed to acquire a lock, or else their Gunner’s dead-eyed their target in the few seconds available to them.
“The Praxis SDF are adjusting their course; they’re lining up for a firing run, and with those rear-facing shields down, the Hydra’s a sitting duck,” reported the Navigator as he crunched the numbers.
LeGodat looked at the screen and came to a snap decision. “Not only will those SDF boys not miss, but now that they’re aware of the velocity changes, their new heading takes them almost directly towards our position,” he said, standing up in his chair and turning to his Executive Officer decisively.
The Commodore smirked, knowing it was time to make their play. “Go active, and take us toward them at full accel; I want that Squadron of the Praxis Border Guard lit up like a Christmas tree, Number One,” he ordered, speaking to Stravinsky in a voice that carried across the bridge.
“Yes, Sir,” she acknowledged. All around the Bridge, officers and crew wasted no time waiting for her to relay the order; they activated their targeting sensors and spun up shield generators, or in the case of the Helmsman, took them up to max on the Engines.
“Painting the SDF Squadron now,” reported the Sensor Ensign, “the rest of our Task Force has begun to follow suit.”
“Relay my orders throughout the Easy Haven Task Force, if you haven’t done already,” LeGodat barked at the Com-Officer, ignoring the polite fiction that his orders passed through his First Officer, in this particular instance.
“It’s turning into a real fur ball between the Sector Guard and all those run down corvettes and cutters,” reported the ship’s Chief Tactical Officer.
LeGodat ignored it, as the main screen reflected the back and forth between the technologically superior Guard, and their more numerous—but also more aged, and generally smaller—opponents. The important thing here was not the Hydra’s escorts, or the 2nd Squadron of the Guard; it was the reaction of the Praxis SDF.
For a moment, several of the ships in the Praxis Border Guard wavered when their hulls were painted by his ships’ targeting arrays, but they correctly knew that he was still too far away to do anything more than avenge the Hydra, and continued on their firing run.
“Blast,” LeGodat cursed, staring at the main screen, wishing this particular SDF had been a little less steady, and its officer corps not so well-trained.
Natasha Stravinsky shook her head. “You did what you could do, Sir,” she said sympathetically.
Then something unexpected happened: the Dungeon Ship, which had almost come to a complete stop, suddenly rolled, maneuvering closer to the Hydra. Then the Dungeon Ship’s bucking cables shot out, attaching themselves to the unshielded rear of the Medium Cruiser, and started to spin it around to face the oncoming rash of SDF warships.
Chapter 51: Stuck in a Cell
I was lying on my little, foldout cot of a bed, just trying to get some sleep. I’d felt a slight quiver in the gravity system that indicated our ship had started to move, but just figured we were adjusting our orbit, or something of that nature. Maybe taking me closer to the planet, so that my shuttle wouldn’t have so far to travel?
So, it’s safe to say that I was more than a little surprised when I felt the ship go into a sudden emergency deceleration. The slight increase in gravity, along with the barest change in the direction it was pulling me toward the floor, were evident to me now after my many months on board a working warship.
I thought about getting up and pounding on my door, so I could demand to know what was going on, but as usual my guards were completely uninterested in the wants and desires of one Jason Montagne. So I didn’t even bother.
I don’t know why I even tried, sometimes. Perhaps it was the last, fading vestige of Admiral Montagne, a man I’d tried and—as far as I was concerned—spectacularly failed to become. Now, I was just plain old Jason Montagne: a young man about to be executed later today. Or, I suppose if you listened to the news networks, I was Prince Jason: the Tyrant of Cold Space. But either way you sliced the dice, I was about to die.
Honestly, I was so far sunk into a depressive funk, that even when the ship briefly started shuddering in a manner I had come to associate with combat (or near encounters with a massive gravity well), all I did was raise my head slightly. When nothing seemed to come of it, I let my head thump down into my paper thin pillow. At least it felt paper thin, although in reality it was three and a half inches thick, and twice that wide.
Rolling over, I went back to sleep, determined not to let some Helm hijinks ruin what could very well be the last good sleep of my life.
Chapter 52: Spalding being Spalding
Lights flickered and then returned to the Bridge, followed by the hum and whine of consoles which came back to life, as power somehow started flowing once again.
“Must have been a damaged power junction,” said Brence.
“They probably rerouted from the control station back down in Main Engineering; we certainly couldn’t do it from here,” Spalding agreed.
The ship quivered and then jerked.
“Something just grabbed hold of us,” Spalding concluded, as the ship gave another slight lurch underneath them.
“We’re turning to face the Praxis SDF,” cried the Helmsman.
“Good job, Helm,” Spalding said with an appreciative nod.
“It wasn’t me, Lieutenant; it was the Dungeon Ship,” yelped the Helmsman.
“Well…good for the fine Captain over there, then,” Spalding grumped in surprise.
“They’re almost on us,” shouted the single remaining sensor operator.
“Tell gunnery to fire as they bear, and have Parkiny divert as much power to the forward shield generator as humanly possible,” Spalding shouted.
Then the SDF ships formed up into a line, and one by one they rushed past the sitting duck of a Hydra Medium Cruiser, moving at impossible speeds.
The First Light Cruiser’s broadside drained their shields down briefly but a surge of power brought them back up again. The second Light Cruiser hammered their shields down to half strength, as every weapon in their broadside slammed home. The third Cruiser dropped their shields entirely, and several of its lighter weapons scored against the ancient Hydra’s hull.
Then the four corvettes came shooting past, their much less powerful weaponry slamming into the forward hull of Spalding’s Hydra. On the relatively undamaged sections, the lighter weaponry of the Corvettes failed to do more than scratch the surface and only punched holes through armor in a few places. But in the forward port quarter of the ship, where they had unintentionally come into brief and fleeting contact with the Light Destroyer, their shots slammed home with resounding force, digging through the wrecked and shattered exterior armor to detonate within the exposed vitals of the ship.
The ship rocked all around the Chief Engineer, as atmosphere vented from the ship’s latest wounds.
“There’s a core breach!” yelled the rating at damage control.
Spalding’s eyes widened, and he turned wildly towards the station.
“Engineering has ejected the core,” Damage control shouted, and then the ship was rocked by another explosion as the fusion core was shot out of the ship, where it immediately exploded. This caused further damage to the ship, making the starboard bow appear very similar to its port counterpart.
In response, their return fire was concentrated only on a single, fast moving corvette. Due to the difficulties with hitting such a rapidly moving target, all they managed to do was cause some spotting. Only one heavy laser managed to lance into the hull armor of the ship, but even it failed to penetrate far enough to cause any atmospheric leaks.
“I’ll be jiggered,” Spalding breathed, “we’re still here!”
Brence looked at him with a face near panic. “You didn’t expect us to survive,” he squealed.
Spalding paused, feeling himself go a little red in the face. “I figured we had a 50/50 chance,” he said gruffly.
“Fifty-fifty,” shrieked Brence, staring at him with eyes as wide as saucers.
“Buck up, son; we’re still here, and mostly in one piece,” Spalding snapped, chucking his second in command on the shoulder.
“Engines are starting to respond, although we’re down to only one fusion generator,” the Helmsman said unsteadily.
“We almost died,” Brence said shakily, his voice still too high and thready.
“But we didn’t, and now our objective’s within reach! Call out the Lancer detail; if there’s a single functioning shuttle on this bucket, I want to know about it before I take it into my chrome dome to hop a grav-cart and head on over to the Dungeon Ship before they cut loose the bucking cables,” Spalding said jubilantly.
“Our ship is wrecked!” Brence was starting to sound outraged instead of panicked.
“It was a wreck before they ever handed it to me,” Spalding sneered, as the Comm Operator finally realized he was serious, and started relaying the orders.
“Now it’s destroyed, and Murphy only know how many of the crew have been lost,” Brence snarled.
“It’s only half destroyed,” Spalding corrected him sharply, “and this is the military, not some half-witted smuggling ring. If you can’t take the heat, my advice is get out of the kitchen, bucky; and don’t renew your enlistment if you haven’t the stomach for this line of work,” he advised, more than a little sourly.
Turning for the blast doors, he headed for the lift.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Brence shouted after him.
“We came here to free the Admiral, and that’s what I intend to do. Besides, that fumble-fingered Flag Officer’s earned himself a piece of my mind, and if you’d know anything about Chief Engineer Spalding, then know this: I more than intend to give it to him,” Spalding growled. The thought of his lost Clover was still able to cause fresh steam to come pouring out of his ears, even after everything that had happened today.
Chapter 53: It’s The Revolution, Baby!
I awoke to the hiss, and the pop of molten metal hitting the floor of my cell. For a moment, I wondered what was happening, but I could hardly complete the thought before a wave of lethargy swept over me.
Then something acrid—and not at all nice-smelling—permeated the room, and my blood started pumping like it hadn’t since my last visit with Sir Isaac.
I quickly rolled out of bed and stared with horror at the small cloud of smoke filling the tiny room. Are they trying to smoke me out, I thought wildly. For a moment, I didn’t know where I was or what was happening, and then metal screeched on metal and my eyes turned to face the door.
A man-shaped hole was being cut in my door, and it was almost finished. I cursed myself for a complacent fool, as I grabbed up my blanket and wrapped it around one arm. On one side, a plasma torch was being used to cut its way in; on the other, I could see a vibro blade had broken off half way through the heavily reinforced door.
Staring at the sword sticking through the door, my mind stutter stepped, and it was almost like I was inside my Flag Lieutenant quarters again.
It was the revolution! They were coming for me again!
I started to hyperventilate; no one in their right mind would be breaking through that door, especially not if they controlled the ship. But then, how could they get to me, if they didn’t control the ship?
I eventually settled on the possibility of an uprising among my fellow prisoners. I had seen occasional glimpses as I walked through the halls of Imperial Prisoners, and the Bailiffs had threatened to leave me alone in a dark room with the last of the crew from the Invictus Rising; men their Empire were in no hurry to liberate, after the way they’d lost their state of the art ship.
Lost their ship to ‘me,’ of all people.
It might not be the Revolution, but an uprising of prisoners determined to lynch out of a sense of revenge—or justice, take your pick—was just as bad.
Then the plasma torch cut out abruptly, and all my preconceptions were blasted out the window with a resounding clang as a droid foot knocked the door several feet into my room, where it struck the far wall with a resounding clang.
What in the world were Droids doing here, in the same system as the Sector Assembly!? I mean, I’d heard rumors about the Droid Liberation Movement back home, but nothing that didn’t inspire laughter. There hadn’t even been a hint of wild droids out beyond the Rim of Known space, during my entire patrol thus far.
Still, I was determined not to go down without a fight. Man, not machine, I thought to myself grimly, angrily dropping my blanket down from my forearm to cover my fist instead. Meat and bone against metal wasn’t destined to end well—unless I put some padding in there, first.
The foot was just starting to lower, when I saw my chance. I rushed forward, and with an incoherent cry, I grabbed the leg and heaved with all my might, trying to knock the droid over onto its back.
Servos whined in response, and all I received for my effort was an angry grunt in return, as the leg drew back slightly before kicking forward. The next thing I knew, I had slammed back-first into the wall.
Staggering back to my feet, I cocked my fist, knowing it was all over but the crying. Yet, I was strangely determined to hold the attention of this Droid creature for as long as I could manage, in order to give the rest of the humans on board this ship a fighting chance to get to the Armory. Then the duralloy foot lowered, and a metal legged monstrosity that was half man, half machine stormed into the room.
“What have you done with the ship, lad?!” cried a once familiar voice.
My mouth dropped open. From the waist down, he was solid metal, but in profile from his chin down to his waist, he looked like a slightly younger—and much more vigorous—version of the same old, ornery individual I used to know. It was only when he turned, that my gaze snagged on the glowing red metal eye, and the skull-shaped chrome metal plate that covered much of his skull, that I realized the true scope of the changes. That eye, and the complete lack of wild hair that used to erupt from either side of his head, were the main reason I didn’t recognize him immediately.
“Chief Engineer?” I asked hesitantly, unable to completely reconcile the old engineer of my previous acquaintance with this much taller, more mechanical version. Sweet Murphy, I’d said to save the man however they could, not turn him into an out and out Cyborg!
The Engineer’s face turned toward me with its jutting jaw, saying as sure as anything that whatever else this new person was, he wasn’t some emotionless creature. He jabbed a finger into my chest, knocking me back against the wall with the force of his fury.
“How in the blue blazes do you misplace my bloomin’ battleship, lad?” he cried, jabbing me in the chest with each word, starting with ‘misplaced’.
“Err,” I began, shaking my head. This sounded entirely too much like the Terrence Spalding I’d used to know.
“Err!” he screamed, and the fingertips of his right hand fell over grotesquely, and small plasma torches built into each finger of his hand ignited, “that’s all you have to say for yourself, is ‘Err!’”
That’s when I knew for sure that this was really my old Chief Engineer, and not some imposter, or Cyborg implant slave.
My mind snapped back into focus as the new mechanical Engineer waved his burning fingers in my face, and my mouth engaged almost without conscious control.
“It’s that pirate dog of a Montagne, Jean Luc,” I rasped, dragging back my collar and tilting my neck to expose the massive amount of twisted scar tissue all over the right side of my neck, “the treasonous cur’s been working for Parliament all along! He shot me in the neck, and the next thing I knew, I woke up in the Brig,” I roared—or, at least, I roared as much as a man with a raspy throat could manage.
Spalding stumbled back, as if my words had physically assaulted him. “The Captain…a Parliamentarian,” he whispered with horror.
“He retired to a Vineyard, all right, just like you told me,” I explained with growing anger. “Only his Vineyard’s a Dreadnaught Class Battleship, and he’s been assassinating royalist members of the opposition in Parliament whenever they leave the planet. Of course, it was hard for him to fit in to his busy schedule of raiding commercial shipping, which was itself done merely to balance the budget of the elected murderers back in Capria’s Parliament.” I sneered contemptuously as I added, “Apparently, an elected body extracting blood money from its citizenry is preferable to a Monarchy!”
“A Parliamentarian,” Spalding repeated, sounding utterly befuddled.
“A true blue servant of the Elected Order these past fifty years and more,” I spat, as if tasting something foul.
Spalding clutched his chest before straightening; the shock and horror I’d seen in his face visibly shaken off, and righteous anger taking its place.
“Well, enough of that traitor, how’re you going to get her back?” he demanded.
For a moment, I was the one unable to follow this sudden twist in the conversation, and then it struck me: he was asking how I, Admiral Jason Montagne, was going to get back his beloved Battleship. I stared at him in genuine horror, before my eyes tracked the custom—raging—plasma torch that was his hand. All I could manage, was what I’m sure was a sickly smile.
“You don’t understand; the Clover, she needs us,” Spalding yelled, with more than a note of pleading in his voice. “She can’t hold out for long with that traitor at the Helm—she’ll go insane!”
In that moment, I understood as clear as clear could be that it wasn’t the Lucky Clover that would go insane with the loss, but my very own Chief Engineer. The man had returned from the grave, to haunt me for my failings and drag me back to the slaughter I had almost escaped (the only sure way a person could escape: the escape of the grave).
It seemed I was going to be an Admiral, in spite of myself. Nobody asked if I actually wanted the responsibility—especially not the irate Chief Engineer, who had determined that I was going to help him get his ship back, no matter what. And I admit that, in that particular moment, looking at his plasma torch-fingers, I really didn’t want the job. I had failed so spectacularly the last time around that I could barely stand the thought of facing those I had led to the slaughter.
Then a memory came to me that made every hair stand across my body: Jean Luc mimicking firing a pistol at me with his bare hand, only moments later to actually use his concealed blaster finger to blow a hole in my neck. I balled my hands into fists, and clenched my jaw shut tightly enough that I felt a chip of my tooth grind off.
It was in that precise moment that I knew I had no choice. I had been given a gift from the universe (and the universe is rarely so benevolent, at least in my experience) and I needed to take advantage of my newfound good fortune - if for no other reason than good old-fashioned revenge. I would take vengeance on that man, and anyone else I could find along the way who had supported him. I had to live long enough to make them pay for what they did to me—to us.
So, despite the fact that I’d been locked up in a Brig of some sort for over two months, and had literally no idea what was going on in the world outside my cell, I straightened my posture and delivered one of my patented royal smiles.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Spalding; I’ve got a plan,” I said as confidently as could be, as if I had not a doubt in the world; either in my plan, or our ability to carry it out.
Chapter 54: He’s baaack!
“Good,” said Mr. Spalding, “because our Cruiser’s been shot to pieces, and we’ve more holes in it than we have enemy cruisers on our trail—but only just.”
My eyebrows rose alarmingly. Had I been freed from my cell, only to find my escape vessel shot out from under me? An immediate return to my—I looked at my cell doubtfully, and decided it would most definitely be a new cell.
Then I gave myself a shake. If that was the case, there was nothing I could do about it. We had to make do with what we had, and I supposed the first order of business was to figure out exactly what that was.
Stepping around the old engineer and out of my room, I received another surprise. Captain Synthia McCruise, of the Easy Haven Light Squadron, was a Confederation Officer I had met before. I had saved her—and a lot of settlers—from pirates, and swapped my one extremely run-down Heavy Cruiser for her pair of battered corvettes. She looked just as hatchet-faced as ever, but beside her was a Tracto-an I knew and a pair of crew off the Lucky Clover.
“Heirophant…I’m surprised,” I blinked, and then offered him my hand.
“Heirophant Bogart, Warlord Montagne,” he corrected me gravely, and then clasped my forearm in the manner of his people.
“Ms. Steiner, my enterprising Com-Tech who found the secret transmissions,” I said, my face darkening as I remembered what those transmissions had been.
“We never gave up, Admiral,” she said, her face shining with a belief that was so clearly misplaced, it took my breath away. Because despite all the proof to the contrary—about just exactly why no one should have placed their faith in me to begin with—this petite little woman with the pixie face trusted me to set things right. Trust was too light a word; she knew with absolute conviction, that since I was free, I would set things right and—if necessary—reorder the Galaxy itself to make that happen. I was simultaneously humbled and humiliated.
“And who is this?” I asked on autopilot. I had to do something, anything to escape the crushing weight of responsibility that those eyes sought to unconsciously burden me with.
“It’s okay, Lisa,” the man mumbled, backing away from me.
Ah, that was her name: Lisa Steiner. In all the crush of being shot and then put on trial, I had actually forgotten. Some leader I had turned out to be.
“This is Mike, the System Analyst I told you about,” she said, all but glowing. She reached out to snag his arm and drag him closer to her, “without him, we would have never managed to get a ComStat message to the Chief Engineer here. We all thought he’d been lost along with that Constructor and the Imperial Strike Cruiser, until I heard his voice on Captain McCruise’s bridge,” she said, her eyes twinkling with excitement.
I winced as she reminded me of yet another in a series of impossible things I had managed to do to inspire people. That inspiration had begotten a loyalty, which had been nearly as responsible for the death and destruction we had experienced, as the actions of our enemies.
“Then I must thank him,” I said, stepping forward and shaking his hand. It was always important to press the flesh—even when under fire—but most especially when someone has done something so big that it deserves your recognition, even if you’re all doomed to die tragically a few minutes later.
“Lisa Steiner is the leader,” Heirophant said.
I glanced at him quizzically.
The little technician reddened, and still holding onto Mike, she snagged the sleeve of the Tracto-an’s shirt.
“It was a team effort,” she said firmly, “we couldn’t have done it without everyone.”
Something about what she’d just said caused Heirophant’s face to darken momentarily, but he shrugged it off and nodded. There was a story here…several, in fact, but I didn’t have time for a full debrief; I had anxious senior officers to deal with, and a ship to save—or abandon, depending on whether alternate transportation could be arranged.
“Captain McCruise, would I be correct in assuming you have neither a great deal of weaponry, nor speed available with this ship?” I asked politely.
She straightened herself slightly. “Our hull’s tough, and we carry lots of prisoners. We can stand off the occasional raider, but squadrons of warships…?” she shook her head, “I’m sorry Admiral, no can do.”
“I had to inquire,” I said heavily.
“So, is it off to the Bridge of the Dungeon Ship, or back to your Cruiser, Mr. Spalding?” I asked. Frankly, I was torn: did I willingly stay on this literal floating death trap (for me, anyway), or go over to what was admittedly an already shot up warship?
Spalding blinked at me curiously. “Me and the boys were chased from one side of the system to the other, just so we could bust you out. It’d be a right shame to tell them ‘thanks, but no thanks; I’ve got a better ride,’ Admiral,” he said with such censure in his voice, that I felt my face flame.
Right-o then, the Medium Cruiser it was. Despite the sudden sinking sensation in my stomach, I was actually pleased to be getting off this ship under my own power, with the decision wholly mine to make.
“Admiral, before you leave us,” McCruise quirked a smile that did more than you would expect to soften her face. “I don’t know where, or how many, but we’ve been in…sporadic contact with a force from Easy Haven. We were instructed to come this way for help, which is why we took off as soon as the Chief Engineer started making enough noise on the other side of the system,” she explained.
I paused to absorb this latest tidbit. “All right,” I said doubtfully, “hopefully they brought enough to the party to tip things in our favor.”
I didn’t ask the question of what exactly they would have done if Mr. Spalding hadn’t ridden halfway across the system to spring me, as I was very much afraid I wouldn’t have cared to hear her answer. It was far better to accept the good will all around and hurry off, before things became uncomfortable with too many inconvenient truths.
“Right this way, Admiral,” Spalding said, rushing me down the hall. I shook my head, and the Cyborg Chief Engineer shot me a look.
I quickly raised my hands. “I just had a thought; a memory from my time stuck in that cell,” I explained, which was true enough in its own way.
We made our way through the labyrinth of corridors that comprised the Dungeon Ship, using a few familiar passages, and a few which were decidedly unfamiliar, until we came to the shuttle bay. When we reached the shuttle, I turned to thank Captain McCruise.
“I don’t know how you convinced Central to let you keep your command of this old Dungeon Ship,” I said appreciatively. “However you did it, I’m glad you’re on our side.”
Synthia McCruise snapped a crisp salute. “Commodore LeGodat’s with you; that’s good enough for me, Admiral. We all have our parts to play in what’s to come.”
I nodded grimly as Spalding settled in to the pilot’s seat, casting an impatient look over his shoulder at me.
“You have my thanks, Captain McCruise,” I said with a salute of my own, after which I offered my hand. We shook, and turned to board the shuttle.
The ride over to our Cruiser was bumpy in the extreme. “I’m sorry, Sir, but she lost her port side stabilizer when the shuttle bay was hulled,” Spalding explained.
He then proceeded to fill me in on our current disposition of forces—and the recent hi-gee death ride across the system to rescue me.
I was once again simultaneously taken aback and humbled, that so many men and women would risk their lives for me. Any illusions I might have maintained before had been swept away: the old Admiral Montagne might just have convinced himself that he had in some small way earned that regard, but the new, more realistic Admiral, was certain he never had. Quite the opposite: I knew I deserved to have been left to die.
Then something he said penetrated. “What do you mean, we’ve got an old Hydra Class Medium Cruiser and a bunch of Corvettes and Cutters? Did Middleton come back? And where’s the Imperial Strike Cruiser?” I demanded. Up until then, I had figured Spalding and the Constructor had built the Cutters, and either built or borrowed the Corvettes from Tracto IV.
Spalding suddenly looked a touch uncomfortable. “The Strike Cruiser’s on its way to Capria,” he said, looking away.
“Capria! What possible reason could we have to send a high tech Strike Cruiser off to Capria, when it is very much needed here?!” I rebuked.
“Well, the Clover for one,” declared Spalding, puffing up with righteous indignation…and then he deflated, “well, she might have other reasons for going there. The message about your location was a might confusing of course, and, well…” he trailed off.
“She, who?! Who have you given my nice, new—and I very much hope, fully repaired—Strike Cruiser to, Mr. Spalding?” I demanded in a stern, raspy voice threaded with wrought-iron.
He looked at me in surprise. “Why, the Lady Akantha, of course,” he said so matter-of-factly, that his very lack of concern made it clear that I was the one in the wrong for assuming it would have gone down any other way.
My throat seized and I started coughing. “Ak-Akantha,” I wheezed around the coughing episode.
“Yes, Sir,” he said nodding his head, “she’s a might shaken up. Thought you were dead, and that if not, it wouldn’t be proper for her to come rescue you. Some sort of cultural log jam,” he shrugged helplessly.
“Well…all right,” I was able to just barely wrap my head around that little tidbit, “but why is she over at Capria, when she could be here, or hanging around Easy Haven, or Tracto, or any one of a dozen Star Systems less likely to view her in a negative light for being married to me?!”
“Ah, well, you see,” Spalding said, turning red in that part of his face still free of metal, “the Lady was a might shook up after the whole Omicron affair, and as far as I can see it, I’m afraid…” he looked at me unhappily.
“Spit it out man; what’s she gone and done this time?!” I cried, feeling like the leftover leavings of a dog after it’s done its business for the way I had failed to keep my ship and protect my wife. Not only had I failed her, I had failed our Lancer force during the assault on Omicron Station.
“Well, her and the Uplifts have gone to Capria to express her…” Spalding went to scratch his head, but his hand seemed to reflexively recoil at the touch of his fingers to the metal surface. “I guess there’s no bright way of putting it: she’s gone to Capria to let Parliament and King James know how she feels about their actions—taking the ship and leaving her stranded in the middle of the fight of her life, I mean,” he said unhappily.
“Saint Murphy, preserve us all,” I muttered, covering my face with a hand.
“She promised to see to the safety of your mother, before doing anything rash,” Spalding hastened to assure me.
Unfortunately, I was anything but reassured. My wife planned to do something rash, and if I knew her, it wasn’t just one something—it was going to be many violent, rash and deadly things. This was a woman who had barely been held in check when I’d been physically present to stop her from taking action against Parliament, my Family, and the entire world of Capria, when Cousin Bethany first came to visit.
Now that they had thrown down the gauntlet—and nearly succeeded in killing the two of us, along with our people—there would be no stopping her. Nothing but sheer, unmitigated firepower might be able to sway her from her course, and I wasn’t even sure of that. This was the same woman that had almost chosen death, rather than accepting my help the first time we had met. She constantly threw herself into battle as if she both enjoyed it and had something to prove.
Ye Space Gods, when my wife and my home world met for the first time…I shuddered involuntarily. Would I still have a wife or a home world to come back to afterward?
“You should have stopped her,” I flared, though I knew in my heart of hearts, that even I might not have been able to do so.
“The Lady wasn’t exactly in a persuading mood, if ye take my meaning,” Spalding retorted, a hard edge creeping into his voice, “I did my best, and the next thing I knew, she was sending me out here to get you, while she bolted off to Capria. And I had to stand by and watch my Clover slip through my fingers,” his good eyebrow lowered thunderously. “She could be anywhere by now!”
A dark silence filled the shuttle as we made a close approach to the Medium Cruiser. The Old Engineer hadn’t overstated the case; this ship was old and recently battered to within an inch of her life, with massive holes in her left facing, and her right side had been damaged by some kind of huge explosion.
“Well, at least Officer Tremblay is still on board; there’s a chance he can get a message through to us,” Lisa said cautiously.
My head snapped around. “Raphael Tremblay,” I said in a quiet, dangerous voice.
Something of this must have crept through my normally controlled exterior and into my posture, because she now looked at me uneasily. “Yes, Admiral; we couldn’t have got the ComStat messages out, and then snuck over to the Dungeon Ship before the Lucky Clover—only, they’re calling her the Lucky Larry now, for some reason—left the system, without his help,” she explained, clearly trying to put things in a positive light.
I glanced at Heirophant and he shook his head minutely, allowing me to see a slightly sour look on his face.
“Interesting,” was all I said in response. I had half a dozen hot and angry answers for anyone who brought up my former First Officer in conversation, but I refrained. I neither forgot, nor forgave, but right at the moment I needed to save my powder for more immediate foes. As for the serpent I’d kept nestled close to my bosom, I had no use for the man. Quite frankly, I viewed it as highly unlikely that he would send us any information whatsoever, and that even if he did, it would only be because he or his new masters desired to lure me into a trap.
Glancing over at Engineer Spalding, I feared such a message would be bait enough to lure us into any trap they might set, which only made my anger toward Lieutenant Tremblay grow even colder. They say revenge is a dish best served cold; well, it’s very cold in space, and I was looking forward to the next time the First Officer and I met—very much indeed.
Chapter 55: On the Bridge
I stared around the cramped, run down, and patched-together-with-spacer’s-tape, old style consoles. They were made of even older materials than I would have believed possible, and were set in a still older room that passed for a Bridge on this ancient Hydra Class Medium Cruiser. It was nothing like my Flag Bridge on the Clover; all it bore was a superficial resemblance to that similarly named place.
The faces that turned my way were worried, but as soon as they saw me, they brightened and filled with hope. This did nothing to bolster my own confidence, but it did manage to stiffen my resolve a bit.
I found myself literally shaking when I sat down in the Captain’s Chair, and I realized that I recognized not a single one of the Bridge Standers manning the various stations around the room. It once again sank home just how many of my people had been killed or captured, and I honestly couldn’t tell you if anger or sorrow was more prevalent in my thoughts.
I realized, on an intellectual level, that there were still hundreds of my men trapped on board the Dungeon Ship. But right here, right now, I was looking at a handful of unfamiliar faces running a Bridge that would have fit inside the Sensor Pit of my old one…well, maybe a touch more than just the Sensor Pit.
I was out of my element; in an unfamiliar ship, swimming in a sea—well, a pond, really—of unfamiliar faces. That they all recognized me counted for something, I suppose. I just wasn’t sure how much.
Then I got my first real look at the main screen, and all the doubts and worries were swept away by the certainty that if I didn’t do something—and soon—we were all going to die.
There’s nothing more suited to focusing the mind and pulling you out of a funk, than two squadrons of warships bearing down on your position.
Spalding took one look at the main plotter and scowled. “There’s more of them than when I left; they must have been lying low,” he grumped, indicating the various squadrons of ships.
I suppressed the urge to gulp, and instead leaned back in my new chair, deliberately projecting a confidence and poise that bordered on the indifferent. It was important that my crew think I was unconcerned with the number of warships on the screen, but also know that I could handle anything they threw out.
If every ship on the screen was against us, it was all over but the crying. I had to stiffen my resolve and try to make sense of the current tactical situation.
“I need to know who those various forces belong to,” I said seriously, waving my hand at the screen airily.
Spalding grunted and pursed his lips, then pointed. “That traveling fur ball over there is a Squadron of that Sector Guard outfit. We knocked out a Light Destroyer on the way over here, and the other squadron is towing it back to Praxis, so…” he trailed off, and I got the implication. If the Flagship of the 25th Sector Guard had been taken out of play, that meant I was dealing with someone other than Rear Admiral Yagar.
“If that’s a Guard Squadron, then who are they fighting?” I asked mildly, when the Chief Engineer failed to elaborate.
Spalding gave himself a shake. “That’s the Herrings and Afterburners over there, giving them what for,” the old Engineer said with such pride, that I understood these oddly named formations were somehow part of our force.
I nodded to show my understanding, and then gestured toward the other two Squadrons on my main screen.
Spalding pointed to the nearer of the two formations. “Those are Praxis Border Patrol boys, we led them a merry chase across the system. They got their blood up and pounded this Cruiser something good in the last pass; they’re just coming around now,” he said.
“What about the formation behind them,” I demanded, my eyes skittering from group to group, trying to get a feel for who the players were and what, in Saint Murphy’s sweet name, was going on.
“No idea; they weren’t on the screen when I hopped a shuttle to come grab you,” Spalding huffed, shaking his head irritably, “must have been hiding in wait until now.”
As I watched, the Guard Squadron and our Allied Ships broke apart. I was dismayed to see that more of our ships had yellow icons indicating battle damage than those of the Guard.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Spalding said turning to the exit.
I blinked and froze momentarily, before asking in surprise, “What about your battle plan? I’m coming into this cold.”
“Most of my plan focused on getting here and springing you from the pokey,” Spalding replied, shrugging his shoulders, “we can’t do much as long as the ship’s in its current condition.”
“But I need you; the ship needs you up here,” I sputtered, unable to entirely process it.
“Bah,” he scoffed, “I’ll do more good down in Engineering, than I ever would getting in your way up here in this rattle trap,” Spalding said with finality, and then walked out the blast doors with his uneven gait. “Leave Command to the Command Track Officers, that’s what I always say…” he muttered as the doors closed behind him.
Realizing my mouth was hanging open, I quickly snapped it shut. On the outside, I’m sure I looked concerned despite my almost instinctive urge to hide it, but on the inside I was panicking. The last time I had sat in the hot seat, I’d fouled it all up. For a while, I thought that with the ornery old Chief Engineer having driven this ship all the way across the system, I could ease back into things.
I gulped, as I knew firsthand that there was nothing quite like being forcefully tossed back into the saddle right after getting thrown off the horse.
Then again, there’s nothing quite as painful as being put back in the saddle with your leg still in a cast. I also knew this last part, from grueling personal experience, and it wasn’t a memory I cherished.
“Does anyone know who that third—I mean, fourth?..” I stopped myself and straightened in my chair before continuing. “Anyway, what side is that new force on,” I asked plaintively, my voice closer to a whine than I would have imagined. My sudden reversal of fortune was taking some time to process.
“They’re still running radio silent, Admiral,” the Comm operator said with an excitement in his voice that the situation clearly didn’t warrant. I could only assume this was because of my arrival; now that the Admiral was in back in command, surely I would wave my magic wand and make everything all right again.
How they could still possibly think that, after everything that had happened, just goes to show that a lack of intelligence is hardwired into the subconscious of every member of the human race. It’s not that their leader possessed any of the mythical talents that could snatch victory from the jaws of defeat; it was simply that they believed he could do it. That belief likely exists because if their leader couldn’t fix the problem, they were all blasted.
Now, wasn’t that a wonderful little thought to have?
“Flash the ship by ship profiles of the two squadrons out there, to my Throne—” I stopped, looking down at the very un-throne-like Captain’s Chair I was sitting in, and the lack of a functioning reader built into the side of the chair, “on second thought, maybe just download it into a reader and run it over here.” I tried to project as much cheerfulness into my voice as I could, under the circumstances.
“Of course, Sir,” replied the operator, coordinating with Tactical to quickly load the specs and run a reader over to me.
I looked at the ship profiles of the Praxis SDF Squadron and blanched. A trio of Cruisers and four Corvettes! Well, that sealed it. My new motto was going to be: out of the frying pan, and right back into the fire. For a moment, I was almost nostalgic for my prison cell. At least back in there, while death was certain, I’d managed to get it down to just my death. Then all these ‘Admiral Montagne is a real Admiral’ fools came, and thrust their lives straight back in my hands. The worst part was that I didn’t currently see a way out of this that didn’t involve betraying the very people who had risked their lives to get me out of prison.
I shook my head. If it came to that, I’d put Spalding and as many of the others on the fastest ship I could find, and stay here as they made for the hyper-limit. The inhabitants of this sector seemed to have every advantage right from the start; everything from more than enough warships to make my mouth drool with envy, to access to my personal files for their little junta legislative railroad hearings. I wondered what else they had…
I suddenly smirked. Well, we’d find out soon enough, but either which way, I fully intended to go down swinging!
With this resolve fresh in my mind, I flipped to the mystery squadron. A pair of Corvettes, three Destroyers and a Heavy Cruiser, I saw with a sinking sensation. Between these two squadrons and the Sector Guard, my battered and beat up Medium Cruiser was supported by—I glanced over at the Squadron of Red Herrings and Afterburners…ah, there it was: three corvettes, and five damaged cutters.
I started cycling back through the three main forces out there and gave up, tossing the reader into my lap in disgust. We were outnumbered, out of position, and in a ship too beat up to fight. And judging by the engine profile I was seeing, we were also too slow to run away.
I started to lean my head back when my eye caught on the profile of a heavy cruiser that was on the reader. I did a double take and then leaned closer; I was sure I’d seen this class of Heavy Cruiser somewhere before. Zooming in, I blinked my eyes, as this ship sure looked a lot like that cruiser I had taken off the pirates at AZT-whatever, and then traded to Commodore LeGodat of Easy Haven.
I flipped back through the Destroyer profiles with growing excitement. They matched the profiles of the Destroyers that had still been working up at the Wolf-9 repair slips precisely! What a break! What a godsend! What a—
I froze. What if the reason these ships hadn’t transmitted anything up until now was because while I was gone Rear Admiral Yagar had taken over the old Confederation Star Base where I’d unloaded them?
My heart sank, as I realized it might not even be Commodore LeGodat commanding those ships.
For a moment, the same crushing weight I had labored under before this latest discovery, returned with crushing force. I took a deep breath and forced despair, fear, and every other emotion roiling in my middle into a little box, and tossed it aside.
If that squadron belonged to anyone other than LeGodat, then we were all dead anyways, and there was nothing I could do about it. So I had to proceed under the assumption that it did belong to one of my allies, and that we still had a chance. The silence up until now was quite frankly ominous, but maybe that was because Admiral Montagne had been seen as a weak reed up to this point, and not to be relied upon while still in enemy hands.
That being the case…
“Open a channel to the mystery task force,” I said in my most carefully modulated command voice. The time for doubts and fears were over; I’d indulged in them while frantically flailing around for a way out of this mess, but there was no more time for engaging in that kind of destructive self-pity.
“Yes, Sir!” the Comm Operator said fiercely. No doubt, he was certain that his high and mighty Vice Admiral was about to brow beat our opponents into submission.
I gazed at the screen with narrowed eyes. The Easy Haven attack force—assuming it was from Easy Haven and still under allied Confederation control—was roughly on par with that part of the Praxis Defense Force barreling towards us. I’d have given the edge to the Commodore’s forces because of sheer tonnage and firepower, except these were older, recently refurbished units with new crews, unfamiliar with their operation. The Praxis force was presumably more updated, and had crews which had been on their ships for a very long time.
Then a smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, as I realized there was no way Praxis could know that. At most, they’d recognize that these were older warships, and that was all.
“Channel is now open,” the Comm Operator repeated, and I realized I’d been so lost in calculations that I had missed the first call.
“Make certain we are broadcasting using Confederation cipher, as we did the last time we came to Easy Haven,” I added.
“Yes, Sir,” the Comm Operator said, looking at me strangely, “I think I can find it in here somewhere.”
As I was already leaning back in my chair, I cleared my throat and crossed my legs, trying for a pose that said I was both relaxed and in complete control of myself and this entire situation. As soon as I figured I had it down pat, I smiled and then gestured to the operator that I was ready.
He gave me the thumbs up to indicate we were now broadcasting, using the appropriate cipher.
“Allied Squadron, you are instructed to take a course on the following heading and vector,” I tapped out the string of numbers into a data pad, which I handed to a nearby Bridge Stander, “drive those Praxis boys right into the grinder, to the confusion and confounding of our enemies. Admiral Montagne out,” I said crisply, and the Comm Operator cut the channel.
“Tell the Herrings and Afterburners,” I said after a moment, because I was still in awe of the absurdly juvenile squadron names, “they are to shadow the Guard Squadron and maintain a distance of at least two minutes away from them, if possible. But I want them to try to cut off any route that leads back deeper into the system.”
“Sure thing, Admiral,” acknowledged the Operator relaying my orders.
I watched for a few tense moments as the Guard continued to lick their wounds, and increased the distance between themselves and my support vessels. Thanks to my instructions, they weren’t being allowed to escape back into the system—at least, not without a fight they didn’t yet seem ready to prosecute.
The Easy Haven force must have received my message, because they quickly went to full military power on their engines, and changed course to match my instructions perfectly.
Hopefully, the SDF would be curious and concerned at the way I was having those Easy Haven boys swing a little wide and to the side.
“Open a broad band hail to these two areas, but make sure to use same cipher we did back in the AZT system—the one where we drove off those pirates and saved the settlers,” I informed the Operator, getting out of my chair and stepping over to his console. I quickly had him mirror the main screen on his console, and indicated two unoccupied portions of cold space he was to turn the Comm arrays towards.
The Operator looked at me in surprise, but complied. “You’re live, Admiral Montagne,” he said, and I could hear a stir behind me and the sound of hushed voices whispering to one another. No doubt, they were wondering what their Little Admiral was up to now.
I quickly jumped back into my threadbare Captain’s Chair. “Tracto Light Defense Squadron, you are hereby ordered to maintain your current position, and activate any mines you may have managed to lay during silent running,” I turned to the Operator, and handed him another data pad, “now please direct our transmission toward the other set of general coordinates I indicated, and transmit these coordinates along with my audio,” I said hurriedly.
It had suddenly gone deafeningly silent around the Bridge, as people stared at me with open mouths.
“Hurry it up, man; we don’t have all day,” I said mildly, when the Operator sat frozen in his seat.
The other man jumped as if bitten, and quickly pressed another series of buttons. “You’re live, Admiral,” he said, his eyes shining a new light—one I didn’t like to think about too deeply right at this moment, as it was the light of hope.
“Warships of the Border Worlds Alliance, you are hereby requested to wait and hold your positions until after the Praxis SDF Squadron has moved to any point past or between the two sets of coordinates we are transmitting,” I paused, and then glared at the screen. I let all the frustration and fury I felt at the smugness and pigheadedness I’d encountered from the Governors and Magistrates of the Border during our patrol, bleed through into my voice and bearing. “Also, be advised that I am less than pleased at the failure of the Bingo and D-Link Systems, to bring their fair share of ships to the party. Now that I’m out of prison and off the Dungeon Ship, I am feeling less—how shall we say—tolerant, of such hijinks as I might have been before.”
Then I leaned back and instructed my Comm Operator to cut the channel. “We’re no longer transmitting, Admiral,” the Operator said with wide eyes.
“Please put up a countdown clock on how long it will take the Guard and Praxis Squadrons to receive our transmissions,” I said, as if it were an afterthought, when in fact it was anything but.
“The Little Admiral’s done it again,” said one of the damage control operators to a System Analyst, in what he probably thought was a low voice. I carefully ignored it.
“What I’d like to know is how he managed to coordinate everything from his cell in the Dungeon ship?” the other hissed back.
I could almost feel the optimism and hope rolling off this miniature bridge crew, and really, why not? I mean after all, Admiral Montagne (to my crew) or the ‘Fearsome Tyrant of Cold Space (to my enemies) somehow broke out of prison with one group of exceptionally small, fast ships. Why should it be impossible for such a terrifying person to then hold back an even more powerful squadron until the time was ripe? In fact, why couldn’t he have two—or even three—additional squadrons lying in silent wait, just like I had suggested in my supposedly heavily-encrypted orders?
Too bad it was all a bluff. I could really use some overwhelming force on my side at some point.
The Praxis SDF Cruisers and Corvettes continued to barrel towards us, until the clock went down to zero. It continued counting down for another minute afterwards, before the ships abruptly changed course to turn away from the coordinates I’d drawn in the sand for my fictitious Border World forces. I hoped those System Governors choked on the Assembly’s response to their supposed treachery.
“They’re turning away, Admiral! The Praxis forces are running scared,” cried our head of Tactical.
“I hope they run into a few mines along the way,” cursed one of the two sensor techs.
I closed my eyes and shook my head minutely, but when I looked back up, it was with a blazing smile.
The sight of the SDF Squadron choosing to avoid conflict with what appeared to be a superior force composed of Easy Haven’s Heavy Cruiser, its accompanying support vessels, and the ‘hidden’ forces which they should have known nothing about, only caused my smile to widen.
“Oh, and Comm?” I said mildly.
“Yes, Sir?” said the Operator.
“I think we’d better not use any of our old encryption keys in the future. From the reaction of that Squadron, one might think they’ve been compromised,” I instructed with a smirk before turning away. I couldn’t help it; this little maneuver deserved a good smirk. My smile curdled as I considered the most likely cause of our broken encryption.
Jean Luc Montagne had the database of the Lucky Clover, and I had no doubt that along with all our personal and internal files—up to, and including, my marriage certificate—Sector Central also received copies of all our encryption codes. Fortunately, it was something I suspected before I began to deploy my little ruse.
The Comm Operator blinked and did a double take, his mouth falling open before he snapped it back shut and nodded twice very fast.
“Oh, and Operator, if you would be good enough to put me through to the Command ship of that 25th Sector Guard Squadron,” I said with a shark-like grin, “I suspect it’s an officer of my recent acquaintance, and if so, he was kind enough to come visit me while I was in prison. I’d like to take this opportunity to return his display of courtesy,” I said, wishing I was wearing more than a simple crew jacket over my orange prison garb.
For a nostalgic moment, I actually longed for my power armor; now, that would have made an appropriate statement! Alas, at this point, I would have even taken the dreaded old monkey suit I’d kept for court occasions—despite all the pinching and chafing I would have suffered. Anything was preferable to presenting myself to my enemies in orange prison garb!
Over the past two months, I had grown to hate the color orange with a passion unmatched by any other set of clothes I could recall.
Then I choked back a laugh and broke into a coughing fit as I recalled the time my older female cousins tried to stuff me—kicking and screaming—into a pink dress back when I was six years old, and at long last, I was ready to admit there might actually be one set of clothes I had detested more than this jumpsuit. The realization did wonders for my immediate morale.
Of course, right at that particular moment, the commander of the Sector Guard Squadron trapped in the middle of a triangle of forces between LeGodat, our allied Corvettes and Cutters, and my battered Medium Cruiser, Dungeon Ship and phantom forces, popped onto my screen.
I brought my coughing under control, and straightened up in my seat, pretending I was on the Admiral’s Throne back on my old Battleship, and not the shattered near wreck I actually was.
The Sector Guard Officer scowled at me. “Admiral Montagne, why am I not surprised?” he said with a stiff nod, and then paused to wait for my reply. I suppressed the urge to scowl, as I knew exactly why he was not surprised; he and the local SDF had been eavesdropping on my encrypted transmissions.
“Commodore Druid, we meet again, if under slightly different circumstances,” I greeted, doing my best impression of a real Confederation Admiral.
“To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?” Druid asked stiffly.
“It seems you are surrounded, Commodore, but perhaps we can do something about that,” I said obliquely. The more I could keep him off balance and guessing, the better for everyone concerned.
He gave his head a clear definitive shake. “No, Admiral. What you’ve got is one task force powerful enough to defeat us, but too slow to catch up; another task force that’s fast enough for the job, but too weak to seal the deal. What else?” he asked rhetorically, pointing in my direction, “All I see is one crippled, sorely outdated Medium Cruiser, and a big lumbering dungeon ship, neither of which I’d call a credible threat.”
I made sure to smile, as if I knew something he did not, but on the inside I winced. Was he guessing, or just trying to feel out how far I was willing to go? Well, either way: nothing ventured, nothing gained.
“You were unexpectedly courteous during our last conversation,” I said, implying we had more conversations than just one. It was always good to muddy the waters when you suspected eavesdropping. “I was simply hoping to return the favor, but if you insist that you’re neither surrounded, nor in need of my assistance…”
He shot me a knowing glance and smiled. I shrugged, as if the matter was of little moment to me, and made a scrubbing motion with my hands. I could tell he got the meaning of my little display; if he refused to listen to me then I was more than willing to wash my hands of the whole affair, and just let him waltz into my ‘overwhelming’ forces.
Druid now looked a lot less sure of himself. “Do you know something I don’t?” he asked cautiously.
The man was so obviously fishing that I quirked a lip. I had him, if I played this right. Now all I had to do was reel him in slowly.
“I’m certain I know lots of things you’re completely unaware of, but if you’re asking about something in particular,” I said, glancing down at the reader in my lap, and then back up as if I’d been momentarily distracted. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, unless you’re more specific, Commodore.”
Druid leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “You forget that I’ve seen you in action, Admiral. I know how you operate,” he said confidently.
“Oh, and how is that?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. This wasn’t quite what I had been expecting, and if things hadn’t been teetering on the precipice, I might have actually been interested in what he had to say. After all, it could be useful to know how others perceived you.
“You like to keep your opponents off balance through talk and misdirection, just like you’re trying to do with me,” he replied, his features taking on a slightly grimmer cast.
When your opponent has found you out, sometimes all you can do is laugh it off and try something else. So that’s exactly what I did.
I threw my head back and laughed, and I’m not talking a little chuckle or some out of control wild laughter; I mean the kind of rich laugh that betokens genuine mirth and enjoyment.
“You’ve found me out, so why don’t you let me in on how well it’s working,” I urged with a light chuckle.
He gave me a reluctant quirk of his lips. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work as well when your opponent is ready for it,” he said flatly.
“Oops,” I said, rolling my eyes and shaking my head emphatically.
“I’ve also seen how you like to get your opponents worked up, to the point they’re too angry to see what’s really going on,” Druid continued.
This was most definitely not going the way I had expected. I thought I would be on the receiving end of some hot back and forth verbal action, not be getting psychoanalyzed by the opposition.
“I think you give me too much credit,” I lied, thinking he was much too close to the mark for comfort, “I put my pants on one leg at a time each morning; I’m really not some sort of grand manipulator, like they’ve tried to portray me in the media,” I added more truthfully.
“I won’t fall for your usual deceptions. I won’t be bluffed, Admiral,” Druid growled, and on the screen his squadron started moving toward my Medium Cruiser at full burn.
“So you won’t be deceived like the Rear Admiral,” I said smoothly, as if I couldn’t see him coming straight for me.
He hesitated, and then his face hardened and he gave a slow, deliberate nod. “If he had concentrated his forces and come at you straight on, nothing you could have said or done would have stopped him,” he said harshly.
I nodded agreeably, as his forces continued bearing down on a ship—my ship—that couldn’t survive another firing pass, and was too slow to escape.
“Or the way I bluffed Captain Cornwallis,” I continued, cocking my head in my most regal manner.
He frowned and then glared at me, his look saying as clear as anything that he was suspicious of anything I had to say at this point. “Exactly,” he growled, “you bluffed him from top to bottom, when what you were really after were those two Constructors so you could build up an independent industry and fleet support base out in Tracto!”
I raised a finger, as if instructing a particularly slow and troublesome pupil. “No,” I corrected severely, “I told him he could make like a coward and flee Easy Haven, or I’d destroy him lock, stock, and two smoking barrels—which, might I add, I did.” My eyes bore into those of the Sector Guard Commodore.
“All so you could create your own power base; you never had any intention of letting any of those Constructors be destroyed,” he said, matching me stare for flinty stare.
“I did bluff the Captain into moving away from those Constructors, after he threatened their destruction first,” I admitted, refusing to look away. I had been in staring contests with masters of the art, and the Commodore was made of stern stuff, but nothing I couldn’t handle.
“Exactly,” he said with satisfaction, “I’m glad you’re man and officer enough to admit it, at least.”
“But while I would never have fired on those Constructors myself—and I still do view that entire exchange to be a deception aimed at keeping those helpless ‘civilian’ ships as intact as possible—you’re dead wrong if you think I would have backed off, had he made good on his own threat,” I said flatly, letting him see the raw truth of that statement. “Grabbing a pair of Constructors for my own purposes was something that happened after Cornwallis was out of the picture.”
“Ha,” he scoffed, clearly trying to look as unconvinced as he possibly could. The only question was just how unconvinced he really was. I stole a glance at the main screen, and saw that his squadron was still coming right for me.
“However, you’re also wrong about my conversation with the Rear Admiral,” I cocked a bleak smile.
“I sincerely doubt that,” he said drawing himself up rigidly.
“Yagar and I both knew your two squadrons could take my old battleship, anytime they concentrated and decided to come for me,” I continued.
Druid turned his head to one side and looked at me through his eyebrows, his look one of extreme skepticism.
“Just as we knew that the losses he would sustain—most likely including his Flagship—would cripple your 25th Sector Guard, to the point where it was unlikely he would be able to convince the Provincial Governments to raise for him additional warships to replace the losses. It would have killed his nascent little organization before it could really get off the ground—stillborn, as it were,” I said evenly.
Druid jerked and then moved to cover it by turning his face into an expressionless mask. “I don’t believe you,” he ground out. But now it was I, who no longer believed him. I had just managed get the lure in his mouth, and now all I had to do was sink the hook.
“Really?” I lifted an eyebrow. “Remember, this was before the Assembly managed to perform their hatchet job on my reputation, back then I was still just a well-meaning, but somewhat ineffective Confederation Admiral. Yagar’s striking first, and appearing to be the aggressor whose actions destroyed an allied Battleship, and lost the better part of half his own organization…” I trailed off pointedly. “You do the math, Commodore; does the Sector Assembly gathered here seem to be the sort to take risky gambles, or throw good money after bad?”
“Blast,” he cursed, as light dawned in his eyes, with a look of intense calculation on his face.
“That’s why he tried to brow beat me into joining his organization, and I was more than willing to tell him to pound sand, no matter if he had local superiority of forces. We both knew that if neither of us would join forces with the other, that the real strike wouldn’t come from you guys coming at me head to head. If a conflict was coming—as it very much was—it would be in the form of my very own countrymen, our…Caprian reinforcements,” I said, allowing the rage I was feeling at the memory to take over my features, and I clenched my fists.
He gave his head a shake to clear it, and when he looked at me, it was with a bleak expression. “I refuse surrender, and I won’t be swayed from my course or my duty. It’s been good to have met you, however briefly, Admiral. It really is too bad we couldn’t have met under different terms. Prepare to receive the weight of our fury,” he finished, lifting his finger to press a button on his arm chair.
“Stop!” I said, before he could cut the transmission, and I’m afraid a bit of my desperation bled through my carefully constructed mask of polite indifference. Well, there was no help for it—I couldn’t let him go, or we were dead. It was just my luck that now with Yagar out of the picture, a highly motivated officer, dedicated to his duty, had taken his easily excitable place.
He looked back at me questioningly.
“Look,” I said speaking quickly, “Yagar might be a buffoon, but you’ve shown me that your organization isn’t made up entirely of men like him; there’s no need for you all to die!”
“Either things are as you say, and I’m trapped between your forces, or this is just another con from a man with a history of twisting the truth until it squeals in order to get what he wants,” Commodore Druid said, sounding every inch the seasoned professional, “I aim to find out.”
“There’s no need to throw your life and the lives of your men away like this,” I all but pleaded with him, allowing all the fear and concern I felt for my own crew, the men and women following me today, to color my voice with genuine emotion. Honestly, I could care less about half the 25th Sector Guard getting blown to Hades, but that attitude wouldn’t keep me or my crew breathing. So now I cared, and with a passion.
“I’ve seen what prison on a Dungeon Ship is like,” Druid said evenly, “and I have no intention of spending the rest of my life on board one, because I was too much the coward to stand tall when the chips were down,” he said with ringing finality.
“It’s a good thing I’m not asking you to do anything of the sort, then,” I retorted smoothly, forcing humor into my voice, while on the inside I was scrambling. Who was this man, that the further I pushed him and the more I convinced him his position was untenable, the greater his determination to stand tall and slam his head against the wall of utter futility?
“You’re offering to surrender?” he said flatly, his voice incredulous, but there was growing excitement on his face.
I was completely nonplussed. Surrender had been the last thing on my mind, so I shook my head in negation. I would rather die than go back to that Dungeon Ship again.
“Then I’m afraid there’s nothing left to discuss,” he said sadly, when I made no reply.
I drew myself up into my most regal pose, projecting Admiral Montagne at his best and greatest—despite the orange jumpsuit—and I looked down my nose at Commodore Druid.
“As the Senior Confederation Fleet Commander in this Region of Space, I hereby declare an official state of emergency-” I said in my most formal and official tone of voice
Druid cut in with a funny look in my direction. “What is this? Show some pride, Sir, there’s no reason to-” he started, but I kept speaking, over the top of him when necessary.
“As is traditional when entering a disaster or warzone,” I continued loudly.
“Disaster!” he exclaimed.
“Any Sector-wide mobile assets,” I continued shouting over him, as he kept trying to cut in, “up to, and including, a Sector Guard organization—something this Sector hasn’t had until very recently—can be conscripted into Confederation Service, and placed under the Command of the Senior Confederation Officer in the area: me,” I said, jabbing a thumb into my chest. “Such conscription shall last for the duration of said emergency, or until such a time as they are released from mandatory service!”
“This is outrageous…you think you can just wave your hand and take over without firing a shot?” he scoffed.
I gave him a wild-eyed look. “Both Rear Admiral Yagar’s Flagship and mine would clearly argue against the notion that no shots have been fired,” I said coldly.
“Semantics,” he snapped defiantly.
“I am willing to overlook the damage done to Confederation Assets, due to the need for a complete communications blackout up until now, and chalk it up to one big misunderstanding,” I said through clenched teeth. “But that’s as far as I’m willing to bend, Commodore!”
“I can’t believe this,” he sneered, “the sheer and utter gall, to think I would just hand over my ships and command to you, under the pretext we had somehow been conscripted by a man who has just been tried, sentenced, and was to be executed this very night for—among other things—impersonating a Confederation Admiral!” The rage was clear in his face and voice.
“If you doubt my legitimacy as a Confederation Fleet Commander, due to a confession obtained under extreme duress,” I declared, my voice as cold as glacial ice, first pointing to the massive scar covering most of my right neck and then reaching down and jerking open my Prisoner’s Jumpsuit, exposing the bruises covering my torso. Then I rolled back my sleeves to reveal more of the same, “Then you and anyone who feels as you do, are free to request a transfer under the command of Commodore Colin LeGodat, of the Wolf-9 Confederation Star Base. And they will receive that transfer! Or do you also doubt the legitimacy of a multi-decade Confederation Reservist? A man who personally showboated countless Confederation Representatives around the Easy Haven System, on any number of PR stunts, some of which even made the Galactic News!”
“A man who is conveniently not here,” Druid started hotly, “and even if he was—”
“We are receiving a transmission in the clear, Admiral,” my Comm Operator reported, and the image of Colin LeGodat appeared on my screen. I briefly closed my eyes and felt my knees beginning to tremble. All my gambles had been right after all, and when I again opened my eyes, I heard the voice of Easy Haven’s commander.
“This is Commodore LeGodat of the Confederation Fleet. I was a reserve Commander until this current crisis, and I hereby endorse and reaffirm Admiral Montagne’s declaration of a Sector-wide emergency. For my part, I am more than willing to accept any and all volunteers for service in, at, and around the environs of Easy Haven, and the Wolf-9 Confederation Star Base,” he said crisply, looking and sounding every inch the seasoned Confederation Officer.
He turned as if to look at me and then rendered a salute. “Sorry for interrupting, Admiral Montagne,” he said, holding his salute, which I returned.
“A timely and appropriate intervention, Commodore,” I approved.
He nodded curtly, and cut his transmission.
Druid blinked, looking back and forth between what was probably my own image, and the suddenly blank screen LeGodat had left on his main holo-projector. It was clear he was rapidly reassessing his situation.
“You are surrounded, you are cut off, and you are called to Confederation service,” I said in an even tone. At that moment, the Commodore looked like a man caught between a rock and a hard place, so I decided to throw him a fig leaf—a sop, if you will—to sooth his battered ego. “The Spine needs you, the 25th Sector needs you, and what’s more: I need you, Commodore Druid. But I need your answer, and I need it now; will it be honorable service with the Fleet, protecting the Border Worlds?” I let my voice harden and my eyes fill with fire, “Or do you choose open defiance of legitimate Confederation authority?”
I very carefully didn’t say whose authority I was invoking: mine, or the new minted Commodore, who really was a Confederation Officer. “The latter would be rapidly followed by the death and destruction of your entire squadron, and every officer and crewperson that looks to you for leadership.”
“So you would hold a gun to my head, and label it a call to service. Is that it?” Commodore Druid asked bitterly. It was obvious by this point that he believed my fictitious forces to be as real as it gets, and he was charging headlong into a trap. It seemed, whereas he was disinclined to believe the word of an Admiral—who less than an hour ago had been a prisoner—the word of his fellow Commodore, Colin LeGodat, was much more plausible.
Anything that I should have been incapable of managing from my prison cell, the good Commodore was more than capable of handling.
“What next,” he demanded scornfully, “march my crews off our ships as soon as possible, and have us all manning unarmed sensor stations in Easy Haven?”
Now, that wasn’t a half bad idea, I thought with admiration, it’s too bad he came up with it before I did, and then accused me of desiring its implementation.
“No, of course not,” I replied, making sure to sound offended.
“Well then, what?” he scoffed, but I noticed that his ships had cut their speed in half. He hadn’t yet agreed, but he was clearly slowing down to allow for more time to negotiate and reach a decision.
“We can work out all the details later,” I said, trying to wave it off, but the Guard Commodore was having none of it.
“You might have us dead to rights, but I’m sure we can cause some serious damage to your allied forces,” he said shrewdly, “so either let us know on the front end, or I’ll take my chances in an escape pod after we’ve wrecked as many of your ships as possible. Who knows, I might even end up serving on one of the ships I manage to knock out.”
This kind of talk had to be nipped in the bud, and I knew just the way to do it. Really, it was a play on my old Montagne heritage—the one I’d so very much hoped to shed—only updated with my own personal…addition to the family reputation.
“Now, now Commodore; let’s not go counting our future command chairs out of turn. After all, what do you think your dreaded Tyrant of Cold Space would do, if he saw a poor, defenseless—and, most importantly—unarmed escape pod in the way of his ship?” I asked, putting a hint of menace into my voice.
“You wouldn’t dare,” hissed Druid.
“What does your beloved Assembly say, regarding tendencies and capabilities?” I asked, referring to the hatchet job they’d done on me and my reputation while I was in their hearings under an official ‘gag’ order.
He clearly realized by now that he had no choice. He could either call my bluff, in essence killing his career by calling his Sector Masters liars, or he could let my statement stand, giving me the last word on the matter. Being a wiser man that I probably would have been in a similar circumstance, he chose to hold his tongue and refuse to throw away his career…at least, not just yet.
“Here’s the deal,” I snapped, drawing my inspiration out of thin air. I had to give him enough incentive to believe he and his men wouldn’t be killed, imprisoned, or worse. Yet, it could be so far off-base, that he knew I was just trying to wave him off long enough to make good my escape.
“Let’s hear it,” he said grimly.
“You’ve got, what…a squad of Marines—ten men, plus a sergeant, maybe?” I asked.
“Something like that,” he said stiffly, his eyes daggers as he refused to actually confirm or deny what I was saying.
“That’s not nearly enough Lancers for a Corvette,” I said scornfully.
“Marines,” he corrected me with some heat.
“Lancers, says I,” I said locking gazes with him once again. “Besides, they’re coming off your ships,” I held up a finger to halt the angry retort I knew was coming, “I’m replacing them with Lancers off my ship, while your marines are retained and retrained, to meet the new standard they’ll have to conform to, as Confederation Lancers.”
“So you’d remove my internal security force, and replace it with one of your own,” he confirmed, without indicating how he felt about it one way or the other. Anyone could see he didn’t like it, but he in no way indicated that was a deal breaker. “So what will we do with them, in this hypothetical plan of yours, put them off in the escape pods?
Wishing I could do just that, I shook my head.
“As tempting as that sounds, we need all the hands over here we can get. They’ll be transferring over to my ship, and they can bring their weapons and battle-suits to boot,” I said, and while it was a stupid idea, it wasn’t as stupid an idea as it appeared on first blush. I mean, even if they took over this ship, a Hydra was going nowhere fast, and this one had been badly shot up before I ever set foot on it, “just so long as they’re prepared to work and help out with the battle damage.”
No, if they got over here and tried to take over, they weren’t coming out the better in this deal, because while Commodore Druid might somehow believe his hundred to hundred and fifty plus regular crewmen could somehow fight off ten power armored Lancers if push came to shove, what I wasn’t telling him was that I planned to send over twenty genetically engineered super soldiers to each of his ships, and my Lancers could eat a comparable number of his Marines for breakfast.
“And my crew,” he said belligerently.
“Frankly,” I began, and then decided to lay out some of the truth for him, “I don’t have enough trained crew to go around on all the ships we do have, so you and your guys are going to stay right where they are, unless they request a transfer,” I finished evenly.
“Sounds too good to be true,” he said, no doubt already divining how he could turn this situation to his advantage.
“Any holes in your personnel rosters will, of course, be filled out by my men still on the dungeon ship,” I said blithely.
He smiled. “We’ve had a handful of casualties fighting your corvettes and cutters, but we came out here with full rosters,” he replied.
“Too bad,” I shrugged, wishing he’d been at half crew and I could fill his ships with my Lancers and partisans. Besides, I was sure they were just as eager as I’d been to get out of their cells, and back to life outside that dungeon ship.
“Isn’t it?” Druid asked sardonically.
I decided to swipe that smile off his face. “Of course, as a gesture of faith and goodwill, I will be temporarily transferring my Flag over to your Command Ship,” I continued, gratified to see the smirk wiped off his face.
“You’re transferring here,” he repeated, as if he couldn’t believe his ears.
“This Cruiser won’t be up for serving as my Flagship until after significant repairs have been enacted, and it’s important to integrate you and your men into our command structure as quickly as possible,” I said smoothly. “I can’t see a better way to do this, than transferring over personally. Think of it as a ‘two birds with one stone’ situation.”
I could tell he was trying to figure out my angle. He knew there had to be one, but by putting myself personally at stake, I was throwing him off. Frankly, it wouldn’t surprise me if he had twenty marines in each of his ships, and he planned to offload only ten, and keep the others and their gear hidden in a crawlspace, or someone’s quarters until the time was ripe to renegotiate things. But in the end, it really didn’t matter.
Because for me, personally, it all came down to this: if he didn’t stop and turn around, it was doubtful we could get out of system. And much as I might be tempted to flee to the farthest corners of the galaxy, there were people here who had put their faith in me. I couldn’t abandon them…at least, not until we had exacted revenge against Jean Luc and whoever helped him.
When viewed through that prism, the choice was clear. If the choice was to sacrifice themselves to ensure they got me, or to take myself and a handful of Lancers on board their ships, that had to be a hard offer to turn down; even if they counted on losing a lot of men suppressing my Lancers in some insurgency. In the final tally, the risk had to be worth the reward for them.
Of course, I was placing a lot of faith in my battle-hardened native warriors, and I planned to put twice as many Lancers as they expected on board their ships, but…it was a dice roll. Still, if we could get them in the middle of LeGodat’s formation—surrounded by all our ships—and I got the chance to transfer my flag to a fully functional vessel.
“Tell me more about how this could possibly work,” Commodore Druid prompted, and on the screen I could see his ships come to a halt just outside of weapons range of my ship.
“Of course,” I obliged, keeping my fists down at my side, clenched in victory. LeGodat was getting closer and closer all the time. True, being just outside of weapons range, all Druid had to do was lunge forward and he could finish destroying my Hydra in one salvo, before being destroyed in turn by LeGodat’s Easy Haven contingent.
Still, it was a huge step in the right direction. The man was clearly no fool, and the Praxis SDF Squadron was still out there sniffing around this little piece of space, so I couldn’t stall for too long. I’d have to get over there quickly, and then haul for the hyper-limit.
Nevertheless, I was elated—and truthfully, more than a little depressed—that I was probably going to see the day out in, more or less, one piece.
It seemed that despite my best efforts, I was still destined to be an Admiral. Almost in spite of myself at times, I was once again the titular head of this Confederation rattletrap. Disillusioned, and now more desperate than ever, it was a mantle that was both daunting and comforting at the same time.
Sometimes it’s amazing how the universe works, because just as quick as all that, and in less than a day, I went from being a Prisoner on death row, back to a fully-fledged, bona fide Fleet Commander. The last part was noteworthy because it now appeared that I had the better part of an actual fleet, instead of just one old Battleship.
I was going to put that fleet to good use ASAP. My personal karma ledger needed balancing, and it just so happened that I had a mental list of people who could help me in that regard…regardless of how willing they might be to do so. I could think of no better place to start, than right at the top of that list.
A thought came to mind that elicited a shark-like grin: just when I thought I was out, they pulled me back in!
The End
Continue reading for a sneak peak at Book Five: Admiral’s Revenge
Admiral’s Revenge
by
Luke Sky Wachter
Chapter 1: Tallying Resources, and Counting Costs
I studied the holo-screen in LeGodat’s office at the Wolf-9 Star Base—the office he’d loaned out to me temporarily until I got back on my feet—and raised my eyebrows.
“We’ve got an assembly line able to produce…” I scrolled back down through the information, “just under one new fusion generator a month, a shipyard now capable of repairing vessels as large as the Dreadnaught class—up to and including full-blown refit jobs. And to cap it all off, thanks to Akantha we’ve got a new Dreadnaught class Battleship in the yard right this moment, back on Gambit,” I finished, completely blown away.
“About ten fusion reactors a year, Sir,” Spalding corrected, looking insufferably pleased with himself. Even the Lucky Clover only had the capacity to carry five fusion reactors, and a ship like a Corvette or Destroyer, just one or two. “But don’t forget the Duralloy II smelter. Had to ram that project down the Space Committee’s throats I did,” he capped it off with a derisive snort, to express his true feelings about space committees or just plain committees in general.
“Yes, that,” I replied agreeably, still out to sea a bit. I wasn’t fully up on the differences between Duralloy II and the regular old Mark I stuff, but Spalding looked fit to burst with pride over the stuff. Everyone else was looking at him with awe regarding the stuff, so I figured our more than slightly insane Chief Engineer had done it again. “Another miracle of engineering, Mr. Spalding; you are to be commended. Well done!”
“Thank you, Sir,” Spalding smiled, and I had to suppress a wince at the way his right eye auto-adjusted for focus, first pushing the lens forward with a whining sound and then back again. Cameras were meant to move like that to achieve focus, but not something stuck inside a person’s eye socket!
“All we need, Admiral, are a few more trained personnel to run things—that, and the time to set up a dedicated Factory complex. Then the Constructer’ll be mobile again,” Spalding continued, returning to the exact same subject he had been harping on the entire trip from Central back to Easy Haven.
“I understand, Chief Engineer,” I sighed, shaking my head from side to side.
“No, I don’t think ye do, Sir,” Spalding said sternly, and then held up a thumb and forefinger, holding them less than a centimeter apart, “we’re the width of a witch’s secret hair away from a fully-functional, self-supporting, top-of-the-line shipyard! By the time we have those ships the Lady Akantha delivered in working order, the only thing holding us back will be a tragic dearth of warm bodies!!!”
I was already shaking my head in negation. “We don’t have the men…I don’t have the men to give you,” I said sharply, “have you looked around here, I mean…at all? LeGodat’s running everything in Easy Haven at half staff, and that’s just with the warships and critical systems they’ve brought back online. Anything non-essential’s lucky if it has a handful of watch standers. Where am I supposed to get these men for you?” I demanded hotly, more than a bit tired of this particular argument.
“That’s not the kind of can-do attitude I expected from you, Admiral,” Spalding scowled, the weight of his look causing me to want to sink deep into my seat or run away and leave this Admiraling job to the professionals.
“What do you want me to do,” I snapped, “wave my magic wand and make trained engineers appear out of thin air? There’s no one to send, Lieutenant Spalding!” I finished, breathing hot and heavily. I was glad to have finally got that off my chest. Up until now, I’d been humoring the old man because of his previous sacrifices, but it was time for a dose of hard reality.
“There are ways and then there are ‘other’ ways, Sir,” Spalding retorted, an almost maniacal look stealing over his face.
“What are you talking about?” I demanded wearily, leaning back in my chair. The way he was looking, I almost wasn’t sure if we were still on the subject of personnel. “There’s no magic wand to fix a lack of manpower,” my eyes widened as I once again took in his almost cyborg like appearance.
Clearing my throat, I continued, “Besides, cloning has been illegal for a century and a half, and it takes entirely too long to raise and train one for such a thing to be practical, even if I was willing to countenance such an option. Which I wouldn’t,” I finished in a hard tone, desperately hoping my old Chief Engineer wasn’t about to propose we create some kind of Engineering Droid. I might have to send him in for psychological counseling and not only would that be a blow to morale but I’d lose one of my most trained officers all in one fell swoop.
“Oh no, Sir, nothing like that kind of malarkey ever crossed my mind. Why, I wouldn’t trust a sick dog to the care of that medical staff,” he sneered, and the tension in my shoulders instantly lessened.
“I’m glad we have that cleared up, Lieutenant,” I said pointedly, before glancing over at the holo-screen again.
Spalding looked completely disgusted by this response. “For a leader of men, and a high and mighty Admiral, you can be thick as a board sometimes,” he shook his head and then belatedly added, “no disrespect intended, Sir.”
“None taken, Junior Lieutenant,” I lied, but let it slip, given the circumstances. This man—more than any other—had been responsible for actually busting me out of prison, mere hours before I was scheduled to be executed. I was willing to let a few jabs slip by. Then, deciding to extend an olive branch, I sighed, “I take it you have a few thoughts on the subject?”
“Yer blasted well right I do!” he exclaimed, looking as excited as only an old, half mechanical engineer—who was none to stable ‘before’ he walked into an over-active power core—could be, “You said it yerself!”
“And just what, pray tell, was it that I already said that will shed light on how to fix our current personnel shortages?” I grunted. “Central and the Core Worlds have poisoned the well. As far as every single one of their citizens is concerned, I’m not Jason Montagne, Confederation Vice Admiral. Instead, I’m the dreaded Tyrant of Cold Space.” I knew I should have been filled with a righteous anger after saying this, the way they’d trailed my good name through the mud—Sir Isaac, in particular. But all I could manage was a kind of hollow despair. I knew that I was never the fire-eating, genius, hot-headed Admiral my men seemed to believe in…I was even starting to wonder if I’d somehow lost my nerve.
“Those Core Worlders are a bunch of namby pamby bilge mice,” Spalding scoffed, “you said it yerself: the Border Alliance is the only place to get the kind of tough as nails recruits we’re going to need.”
I blinked, as I replayed what he said in my mind. “I’m afraid you don’t understand, Chief,” I replied evenly, “as I already mentioned, the Border Worlds Alliance is nothing more than a myth—a creation of the moment, and one I used to good effect,” I said proudly, “but its existence is nothing more than a rumor ‘I’ created. There is zero substance to it,” I finished glumly. More’s the pity, I thought. If there had been even a shred of truth to it, I wouldn’t be sitting here taking up LeGodat’s desk and trying to figure out my—our, next step. I had to periodically remind myself that I was an Admiral again. I had come to learn that a couple of months under the executioners axe will do strange things to a person’s attitude.
“All’s the better!” Spalding exploded with such force I was left gaping, “So long as there’s no actual Alliance to be undermined, it’s impossible for Central to destroy it before we can begin recruiting!”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, closing my previously gaping mouth.
Spalding got a sly look on his face. “The Core Worlds may have been convinced that Admiral Montagne was really the burgeoning, and would-be ineffectual, Tyrant of Cold space, but remember this,” he said, and his right eye began to glow with an unholy light, “there’s no Com-Stat network left for them to listen to.”
My brow furled as I tried to figure out his point. Like a dog suddenly catching a whiff of a scent, I knew something real was lurking out there in the bushes, but I just couldn’t see it yet.
Stamping a foot loud enough to cause metal to clang, and the floor underneath him to vibrate slightly, the ornery old Engineer shook his head sadly. Clearly, to his engineering mind, I was too dumb to wait on any further.
“Meaning, Sir,” he said the last word with a snort, “that a slow civilian freighter, carrying any record of your hearing—and the accusations of the politicians, pundits and talking heads of Central that you failed to stop those pirates—is going to arrive right on the heels of word that your forces took the Omicron and handed the pirates a defeat such as this Sector hasn’t seen in two generations. In some cases, our version of events will have already have been playing on their local planetary networks for weeks!”
My eyes widened. “How the blazes would they know anything about…” I trailed off at the sight of the Chief Engineer’s smug grin. “You didn’t,” I breathed.
“When the blighters took our Clover,” the old Engineers face darkened thunderously, “I knew it was time to get out the word of all our good deeds. The court o’ public opinion is a fickle beast, and I figured it could help us maul our enemies. If I was aiming more at the politicians of Capria and the Assembly, but me arrow struck home in the Border Worlds instead…” a dire smile crossed his face and an insanely murderous look glinted in his eye, “you can still use it, Sir.”
“Interesting,” I muttered as my mind raced with the implications.
“Who cares if we can’t recruit in the Core,” Spalding growled stomping from one end of the room to the other before throwing up his hands. He leveled a finger at me, the tip of which popped off and a plasma torch ignited, “forget them bloomin’ idjits! As Murphy is my witness, we’ll sort them out later. After we’ve run a recruiting drive all the way from one end of the border to the other, and filled both my shipyard and every ship in this fleet with hard-hitting, Core World-despising, Fleet Recruits. Wiley old veterans like we got off those settlement ships at AZT, as well as greenhorns like as we’ve trained before. We’ll keep sending out ships until this organization’s practically bursting at the seam with warm bodies!”
My eyebrows climbed for the rafters. When he put it like that, it almost sounded like a recruiting drive might actually work. “But when the news finally does get out there…” I muttered deep in thought.
“Outrun the news,” Spalding said flatly, “get us the boys and girls, first and foremost. We can set them straight on Central’s lies,” he finished, clearly indicating himself and the other ‘veteran’ hands in the fleet when he mentioned setting them straight.
“Still,” I said starting to feel my wishy-washy lethargy slipping away, as excitement began rising to replace it. However, along with my excitement came a darker, harder feeling—one I wasn’t very familiar with: a cold-blooded desire for revenge. Revenge on Jean Luc, first and foremost; the man who shot me down in my own ready room had to die. Period. End of discussion. Then all those lying, blasted, politicians at Central, and everyone who had knowingly supported their lies over the truth.
“Sweet Cryin’ Murphy, boy,” Spalding urged, “I see you’re feeling a mite gun shy.”
I looked at him and nodded tightly, expecting some kind of it’s not your fault pep speech.
“Look, you got a lot of good boys killed on your watch, and that’s on you,” he said sternly. Not being at all what I had expected, I simultaneously felt the urge to deny the charge, and curl up into a ball so I could hide in the corner, “but everyone who made it out the other side—including me—are expecting you to get out front and lead. And you can’t do that from sitting in this office, worryin’ about what’ll go wrong.”
“But what if I get everyone else killed?” I asked, the words almost jerked out of my body.
“Then we’re all going to die, and it may be a slow death for the less lucky amongst us,” Spalding replied grimly, “however, it’s time to buckle up, bear down, and stop the slacking; it’s time to lead, boy!”
“What if I become like my Uncle?” I demanded, voicing one of my greatest fears. “What if the only way to win is to become like him? I won’t be a bloodthirsty, treasonous murderer!”
“Not going to happen, lad,” he assured me with a roll of his single eye.
“How can you know for sure?” I snapped.
“Don’t you worry your little head about that, Admiral,” he assured me in a consolatory tone, “if’n the boys and me see you stray, we’ll put you down before you can do too much damage.”
Flabbergasted, I stared at my wily old Engineer. The man had basically put me in charge of my own ship—the ship I’d lost more than two months ago, the Lucky Clover. For his part, he met my eyes with a grim determination.
My fear-filled inner self, that had been worried about becoming like an old style Montagne of old, seemed to reach across the aisle to grab hands with the more than slightly suicidal part of me that had survived the Dungeon ship. The latter part desired one thing, and one thing only: revenge. Feeling as if they suddenly shook hands, it was as though a weight I hadn’t even known I had been carrying sloughed off, and I came to a decision.
Win or lose, at least I could now be sure I wouldn’t become the very thing I had fought against for so long. The old reputation of my family as corrupt, bloodthirsty killers would not become my legacy. Spalding, a man who had walked into a reactor core to save our ship, who had worked more than one miracle to keep us going—and almost literally came back from the dead to help us in our hour of need, not to mention save me from the hangman’s noose—had just personally assured me he wouldn’t let it happen.
I bowed my head, and I was glad that I was looking down at the desk in that moment, for I could feel the barely-suppressed rage burning in my eyes. I thirsted for revenge with every fiber of my being. Shooting me down, I might have been able to forgive; taking my ship was more difficult, but I could probably have swallowed that also.
But what I could never stomach, was the way those mutineers started killing my loyal crew in cold blood. That was what sent me over the edge. I could never forget, nor would I ever forgive, being forced to watch as a man my Uncle could have stopped with a wave of his hand, tortured and killed innocent people—my people; boys and girls who’d placed their trust in me—on video.
“Alright,” I said, when I felt like I’d finally mastered my emotions, “I don’t know how successful it’ll be,” I continued, raising a hand to cut off any protestations, “but we’ll do it your way. I’ll get with LeGodat, and together we’ll send out a recruiting drive. I’m not sure what ships we’ll use, but whatever it is, will go out with an escort,” I finished, my rage at my rapid series of near death experiences at the hands of my pirate uncle and Sir Isaac the Ambassador, slowly tempering from a raging furnace of emotion, into a hardened resolve.
“Gambit Station’s a right sight to see, and that’s a fact,” Spalding said, practically dancing up and down with enthusiasm, now that I had essentially agreed to his plan. “Give her the men and women she needs to keep growing, and she won’t let you down, Sir.”
“I hope not, Chief,” I said evenly, “right now, we need every ship we’ve got, if we’re going to get back the Lucky Clover and pay my Uncle back for his treason.”
I could see him fight the urge to vent his bile at my traitorous Montagne Uncle, but instead all he did was snort and declare instead. “Give Gambit six months and a full crew to train in on their jobs, Admiral, and fifty credits says she’ll surprise you. I gauran-blasted-tee that within six months the last of those pirate clunkers Lady Akantha brought will be out in Confederation service or waitin’ for crew. More, if ye let me have my head with her—after we finish getting back the Clover—then, with Murphy as my Witness, I can promise that she’ll be ready to start producing ships of the line!”
“Real warships?” I inquired, leaning back in my chair at this new information.
“May the evil gods of cold space strike me down if I lie,” Spalding snapped.
“I almost can’t believe it,” I muttered under my breath.
“To the tune of one to two a year, if we don’t just keep expanding,” Spalding said triumphantly, “put a proper Engineer in charge of a project—and not some blasted space committee—and we can work wonders.”
I silently started to factor this new information into my calculations. According to the information Spalding had brought with him, they still had a pair of Dreadnaught Class, Caprian-built Battleships out at Gambit station. The rest of the small fry had either come out here to rescue me, or gone with Akantha to Capria.
At the thought of Akantha going to Capria I wanted to cringe, or be dismayed, or feel some kind of negative emotional reaction, because that’s what the old me would have felt. As it was, all I felt was a faint, nagging concern for the well-being of my wife. That, and a feeling of thwarted satisfaction that it was going to be her, and not me, that got to put a bit of a scare into them. I didn’t think one Imperial Cruiser, no matter how hot, was going to be able to deal with a full squadron of the Wall, along with supporting elements.
So all they were likely to get was a big surprise and shock to their system. But then again, I’d been wrong about a lot of things in the past, not the least of which was my beloved wife. Let them deal with the pit viper for awhile; it would probably do them—and her—a world of good.
In the meantime, I had some revenge to plan, and as they say: the best revenge is always served cold. It’s very cold in space, I reminded myself with a savage grin.
When Spalding and I had outlined our future recruiting drive, and finished going through the updates on Gambit’s current, and future, building capacity, I leaned back in my chair.
“It’s probably best I get back on deck, and make sure the repairs are running smoothly,” Spalding said, with a look of relief at the meeting’s end. I didn’t kid myself that he was uncomfortable with either me or the material we were covering, the man just seemed to have a natural aversion to meetings of any kind. He would much rather be working.
“Dismissed,” I said, with a two fingered salute.
Turning around and eyeing me for a moment, the old engineer slowly brought up his arm and gave me a Confederation-style salute.
Blinking in surprise at the sudden seriousness of the moment, I gave him back a passable imitation of a return salute. The same one I’d been practicing in the mirror ever since I was put in prison. There had literally been nothing else to do with my time, so I had practiced until if felt like my arm was about to fall off, but at least I no longer needed to be worried about looking like a fool in this particular regard.
“Oh, and on your way out, I’d be most appreciative if you’d let the Commodore in,” I said with a grim smile.
“LeGodat’s waiting outside?” Spalding scowled. “You should have told me, and we could have cut this little get together short.”
“LeGodat’s not the only Commodore on Wolf-9,” I said pointedly with a shark like grin.
Spalding’s face set into a mask of poorly disguised distaste. “I’ll let the Guardsman know you’re waiting,” he said flatly, before clumping out the door, his servos giving off a low pitched whining with every step.
“Blast these infernal things. They’re not factory spec; they’re factory defective, is what they are!” the old engineer said thunderously into the waiting area, as the door closed behind him.
Chapter 2: It’s time to Move On
“Admiral,” the Sector Guard Officer acknowledged, stepping into the room and saluting before taking off his cap and placing it under his arm. The way he looked at the wall straight over my head would have been more intimidating if I hadn’t just spent the better part of a year in the belly of a military organization and going head to head with some of the worst criminals and galactic threats in the galaxy.
“Commodore Druid,” I replied, giving him an official nod and then waving the other man to a chair, “please have a seat.”
“Thank you, Admiral,” he replied, stepping around the chair and lowering himself stiffly.
I looked at him for a long moment, but when all he did in response to this was to shift his gaze from the wall to my face, I figured I was going to have to be the one to move the conversation forward.
“Before we start, I’d just like to say one thing,” I began, leaning back in my chair with a pleasant expression on my face. Despite my courtly trained mask, my eyes were like those of a hawk—monitoring the man for any indication of what he was thinking. I thought I could trust the man enough to have a private meeting without fear that he would leap on me from over the table, but that was just it: trust. It was something I wasn’t feeling too particularly full of, after a harrowing experience in the Dungeon Ship of Captain Synthia McCruise.
“Sir?” Druid asked, his stony face gaining a perplexed appearance, and that’s when I realized my inner ruminations had caused me to time out.
I suppressed a growl; this sort of thing would never have happened before my incarceration. With deliberate effort, I maintained my current pleasant expression and, if anything, leaned even further back in my chair.
“I’m sure you have some concerns,” I started, feeling a vindictive surge of delight at the fear that must be shooting through him at these words. I was actually more than a little dismayed with myself for a moment, and as a result, I refrained from toying with him as I once might have, “that’s why I’ve summoned you here: to reassure you.”
“Thank you, Admiral,” Commodore Druid, said his shoulders relaxing fractionally.
When he didn’t continue, I shrugged my shoulders and decided to just take the plunge. The worst thing that could happen was I came off as a fool.
“You’ve kept your side of the bargain and dealt fairly with me from the get go and, unlike some of your superiors, you’ve acted honorably and kept your word,” I finished darkly and then gave my head a shake, “regardless of Rear Admiral Yagar and the rest, you and I came to an understanding back in Central. Did we not?”
“Yes, Admiral Montagne, we did,” he bit off those last two words, his shoulders tightening once again, “or at least, I thought so.”
“But now, being summoned back here, you’re feeling doubtful once again,” I said with a nod of understanding, “well, ease your mind.”
“I would feel much more grateful if you could tell me the exact purpose of my summons here,” Druid said tightly.
My eyebrows lifted, and I realized that despite my best efforts and intention to get right to the point and not beat about the bush, I had started to drag this thing out.
“Right,” I said flatly, and I could see the Commodore’s shoulders tightening even further, even though his face continued to be an impassive professional mask. “Well, anyway, you’re free to go,” I said, tossing a data wafer on the desk.
Druid’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared, as almost despite himself, he seemed to stare down at the wafer in front of him with suspicion. “That’s it?” he asked incredulously. “We’re free to go? You throw me a data storage device, and that wraps it all up?!”
“I know what it’s like to be a prisoner, and I wouldn’t wish that fate on any person for longer than is absolutely necessary,” I said flatly, and when my stare met his, I could tell he saw the absolute, dead level truth in them. Then I leaned back and my courtly mask of pleasant niceness reasserted itself.
“I-I don’t know what to say,” Druid stumbled at first, but quickly regained his poise.
“Then say nothing,” I suggested with a twist of my wrist and then sighed, “I pressed your men into service for the duration of the emergency.”
Druid snorted at this and I quirked a smile in return.
“Well, the emergency is now over and I am returned safely into the arms of Confederation service,” I said, throwing my arms wide to indicate all the recently re-commissioned levels above and below us, as well as the run down corridors he had taken to arrive at my office, “as such, I’m declaring the emergency over.”
“You’re really just cutting us loose…this isn’t some kind of deep trick?” the Sector Guard Commodore asked suspiciously.
“Really, and truly,” I said gamely, “it’s not that I want you to leave. Far from it; I could use an officer like you in my organization, and those six corvettes…well, let’s just say they could save lives.”
There was a lengthy pause. “I don’t know what to say,” Druid said finally, clearly floored by my words, “you have to realize that under Rear Admiral Yagar, this squadron is just as likely to turn right around and come back here to Easy Haven, as it is to do anything more productive.”
I smiled sadly and leaned forward in my chair. “I don’t need—nor do I want—unwilling men inside my organization. I tried that in the past, the whole ‘keep your friends close, and your enemies closer’ technique and, well…you know just how that worked out for me.” I frowned before continuing. “I don’t want to end up fighting you, and while I do know that the most expedient thing would be to take your ships and imprison your men so I don’t have to fight them again at a later date, I gave you my word.”
For the first time in the conversation, the Commodore looked troubled. “I hope my own Superiors feel the same way.”
“They don’t,” I said flatly, and Druid looked up at me in surprise and then winced.
“I will pray that you’re wrong,” he said finally.
“Look, Commodore,” I said evenly, “the last thing I desire is to waste resources fighting amongst ourselves, when there are real, legitimate threats out on the border of this Sector.”
Druid looked at me skeptically, and I could feel myself start to turn red. Instead of suppressing it, I just stared at him and let the color tint my face.
“I don’t deny that both your government and my Uncle have earned a special place in my consideration,” I said as truthfully as I could, “however, the pirates are killing and enslaving civilian populations along the border, while all your government has done is attack myself and my crew. As such, the pirates and any other external threats have to come first for my forces.”
Druid didn’t wince or show any sign of remorse, or disagreement with his people’s attack on me or my men, and I could feel my heart harden. Taking a deep breath in through my mouth and then out through my nose, I pursed my lips before deciding to move on. However, Druid beat me to the punch.
“At least until Central moves on you again, I’m sure, Admiral,” the Sector Guard Officer said with a scowl.
“We’ve done nothing wrong,” I said flatly, as I let a smirk cross my lips, “except perhaps make them feel guilty at how much good work we’ve been doing out here. They, on the other hand, have preferred to stay at home playing politics while entire worlds burn. As such, we have every right to defend ourselves against all enemies who would attack us, be they foreign…or domestic.”
“You would fire on your own government, Admiral Montagne?” Druid demanded stiffly.
“I’ll fire on anyone who fires on me first,” I flared angrily, “in the meantime I have more important things to deal with than ‘your’ government, ‘your’ guard, or their lack of care for the Border Worlds.”
“Not all of us are happy at the need to consolidate the Core of the Sector before moving outward to the colonies and outposts,” Druid said tightly.
“Well, whoever it is that thinks that way has been doing a real sweet job of showing it,” I replied damningly, “because, from where I sit, I can’t see that they’ve done a single thing to make a difference.”
“The Sector Guard—” he started but I cut him off at the pass.
“Central lied, people died,” I growled mockingly, “they may have claimed their Guard was mobilized for the purpose of helping everyone, not just the Core Worlds. As far as I can tell, all they’ve been doing is trying to blockade Easy Haven so that Commodore LeGodat can’t send out anti-piracy patrols of his own. Of course, that was before they attacked me with an eye toward a pay-per-view execution.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” Druid said flatly.
“A Central politician told me,” I slammed my fist into the desk, “he flat out TOLD ME, in person, that he hired my Uncle to stop me. The timing of the attack was deliberate, and with Central’s blessing it went down right in the middle of a battle against an overwhelming pirate force!” I roared, the words pouring out of me like molten lava. “If that isn’t trying to stop anyone from dealing with the pirates until the Border is too weak to do anything but acquiesce to Core World demands, then I’ll be a grease monkey’s uncle!”
Commodore Druid opened his mouth, but I beat him to the punch.
“My wife almost died when she was abandoned on a pirate station, outnumbered something on the order of fifty to one!” I shouted, my hands reaching out into the air and clenching. “Thousands of my crew died because I dared to ‘show the politicians up’. Well blast them, and blast you, and blast anyone who tries to stop me when people are dying; no one else in the entire Sector is lifting a finger to help them!” I felt a familiar vein begin to bulge in my forehead, and I suspected that my blood pressure was nearing critical.
“I’m sorry,” Druid said into the growing silence, meanwhile I took a series of short shallow breaths as I tried to calm down.
“Your sorry can get specked,” I could feel my teeth grate as I spoke the words, “and so can the Rump Assembly. We’re no longer looking for their good regard. We have rightly earned all the legitimacy we need through our deeds, and any future attacks will be taken as an act of war against the Confederation—and be dealt with appropriately.”
“And what about what’s already in the past?” Druid demanded.
I leaned back in my chair, because I could feel my vision tunneling, and all I desired to do was lunge over the desk and strangle him.
“Get out of here, Commodore. Return to your masters,” I said flatly, “you can tell them that anyone guilty of War Crimes will be spaced, but that the rest of you yahoo’s can sleep safe at night; I’ve got bigger fish to fry.”
Those were fish that I had every intention of frying, and much more quickly than anyone expected. After which, we’d see what could be done about politicians who thought they could hire pirates to do their dirty work for them. However, I didn’t say that; all I did was smile wolfishly and grab the chair to keep from leaping on the most honorable member of the Sector Guard I had encountered to date.
It was hard, but by no means the hardest thing I’d been forced to do over the course of the past two months. That no one was forcing me to do it, was probably why it felt so much harder than I was expecting.
“I joined the Guard to protect not just my world, but every world in this Sector,” Druid said, leaning forward in his chair as if to chase me across the desk.
“Well, good for you,” I said shortly, holding onto my temper with both hands. The focus of my revenge was first Jean Luc, then Sir Isaac, I reminded myself fiercely. “How’s that working out for you? We’ve driven the pirates off from at least four worlds, saved another planet from a genocidal bug attack, destroyed two separate pirate forces in detail, and then went on to take the largest pirate station in the sector as a prize.” I pointedly did not go on to ask what exactly his organization had done while we’d been away doing all this.
The Commodore looked down, and following his gaze I could see he’d clenched his hands together so hard that all of his fingers had turned white. Apparently, the truth was painful for some.
When he looked up his eyes burned, and it was only due to a year of constant battles and action that I could hold his gaze with one of my own and give back just as much, if not more, than he gave me.
“We did all of that, placing our lives in jeopardy, because it was the right thing to do,” I said grimly. “I’ll sign whatever papers absolving you and your lot of guilt for surrendering. If necessary, we’ll tie you up and ship you back on your own vessels in nothing but your skivvies,” I shrugged to show how little I cared about whatever needed doing. “Alternately, we could swap your six Corvettes for one smashed up Hydra Medium Cruiser and say you fought your way free. It would look good for the cameras back in your homes, and I honestly don’t want to see your sailors and marines penalized for doing the right thing in the face of an overpoweringly superior force.”
I could hear knuckles popping as Druid stared down at his still clenched fists. Then he looked up at me, and I saw something I truly did not expect. “All right you smug, sanctimonious, self-righteous bastard,” he bit out through gritted teeth, “where do I sign up?”
I blinked. “Come again?” I asked, my mouth on autopilot.
Chapter 3: Converting a Druid
“Just tell me what I have to do, before I change my mind,” Druid growled.
I was back footed, and for the first time in this conversation, completely and utterly flabbergasted.
“You mean to say, you actually want to join this Confederation lash up we have going on here?” I asked, trying and unable to regain my composure. “This isn’t some kind of trick?”
“Just give me the papers,” Druid sighed, his shoulders slumping. “You’re right; I joined the Guard to help people, and all we’ve done is run photo ops and attack you lot. That’s not what I signed up for.”
“You can leave now, and I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you aren’t punished by your government. Limited as my pull may be,” I said clearly. I was determined to make sure there was no coercion involved here. And besides, I really didn’t want him in my armed forces. The last time I’d kept a former enemy close, I was all but certain he had been the one to stab me in the back. I was thinking of my erstwhile former First Officer slash Chief of Staff when I considered this.
“If you don’t want us, then just say it now,” Druid said angrily, clearly using emotion to cover for anything else he might be feeling, “otherwise, I meant what I said. Just put me on the border where the action is, and let me use that shiny new Corvette for something other than political photo ops.”
“Us?” I inquired, while my mind was scrambling. Was this all just another trick to swoop in and plant another knife between the ribs while my back was turned?
“I think I can convince a couple of the other captains, and enough crew, that there’d be more than just my one ship,” he said evenly.
Despite myself, I leaned back in the chair as my mind started calculating all the angles. “If you agree to do this, then you need to get one thing positively straight,” I said, feeling my face harden at the memory of waking up in the Brig, to find I’d almost been killed and a mutiny had taken the ship.
“I’m ready, Admiral,” Druid said flatly, “just let me at them, and for the sake of the people, I’m your man.”
“If you go out there on my orders and then turn your coat, there won’t be a dark enough hole, or enough warships in the wide world, to keep me from tearing you apart,” I promised with a cold glint in my eye, one I knew hadn’t been there before prison and time on death row. “Leave or stay—with my blessing—but treachery and betrayal…” I trailed off, deliberately letting the silence be filled with unspoken threats. Let his mind come up with whatever horrible things he thought I was capable of.
Druid took a shaky breath, and then held out his hand.
Eying him, I slowly reached out my own hand. Instead of taking his hand, I clasped him on the forearm and elbow like a Tracto-an warrior.
“What are my orders, Sir?” he asked, when I finally stopped staring him in the eyes and let go of his arm.
A smile slowly grew across my face. I had just come up with the perfect job for this man. It was time to change tacks and see about keeping my friends close and my enemies—or potential enemies, I thought, as I gave him a pointed look—as far away from me as humanly possible.
“I need your ships to escort the Dungeon Ship, and as many merchant freighters as we can beg, borrow, or hire on a tour of the Border,” I replied.
“A tour, Admiral?” Druid asked, looking slightly put out.
“We’ll send any of your people that don’t want to be here back to Central. Meanwhile, the rest of you will be on a combined Roving Patrol and Recruiting Drive,” I explained with growing satisfaction. This way he could patrol the border like he claimed was all he wanted—and he stayed as physically far away as it was possible while occupying the same Sector.
“As you order, Admiral Montagne,” Druid replied, inclining his head.
“Oh, and Druid, as this is an at will organization,”’ I said mildly, “you can keep on the Sector Guard uniforms.” In my own mind, I figured having the Sector Guard show up alongside and in support of my Confederation recruiting drive, would not only poke a big fat finger in the eye of Sir Isaac, Rear Admiral Yagar and all the politicians at Central; it would also make it more difficult for the more restive Governors and Magistrates of the Border worlds—those same individuals who hated my guts—to refuse to let their people vote with their feet.
From the look in his eyes, and the disquieted expression on his face, I could tell that Commodore Druid was following a significant portion of my thoughts…and he didn’t seem to like them very much.
“As you wish, Sir,” he said finally.
“Exactly,” I replied, leaning back and steepling my fingers. “Exactly.”