Prologue: Escaping Easy Haven

“You have your government’s deepest appreciation as you embark on your patrol, Admiral,” Rear Admiral Yagar said through the main screen, before terminating the feed with a smug nod.

As the star field replaced the pompous man’s features, I felt my shoulders relax slightly before I slumped back in the Admiral’s Throne. That man was utterly insufferable.

The last of the perishables had been loaded hours earlier, along with some badly needed ordinance. The cargo had been stowed within the holds, but we were still taking on shuttle loads of new crew.

As my crew made preparations to point transfer out of the system, Rear Admiral Yagar and his pair of squadrons continued to stalk us like a pack of eagle-eyed scavengers, eager to pounce at the first sign of weakness.

“Maintain a steady course, Helmsman DuPont,” I said severely. “I want no deviations, just a straight line drive towards the hyper limit.”

“Of course, Sir,” DuPont responded with a tense nod and no sign of irritation at what must have been my second reminder in as many minutes. He was a good man, despite our earlier… disagreements. I looked around the Flag Bridge at my loyal officers and crew, and I knew that they all were.

“Notify me the moment there are any significant changes in either the speed or formation of the 25th Sector Guard!” I barked at the Sensor Pit, grabbing the arms of my Throne and adjusting myself deeper into the back of the seat.

We still had a dozen shuttles moving back and forth between our ships, as well as two armed freighters ‘gifted’ to us by King James, which bestowed their cargo and fresh crew on us like a leper does his plague. So while I was fairly confident they wouldn’t attack us until that transfer was complete, my confidence was based on an assumption that all involved parties were sane and intelligent. To date, I was unconvinced that Rear Admiral Yagar displayed those particular attributes, which kept me on my toes.

Grimly, I stared at the main screen.

All around me the bridge felt on edge, all the officers and crew — even Tremblay — stared at either their consoles or the main screen with increasing attention.

“Leaving supportive range of the Easy Haven defensive network in thirty seconds,” Warrant Officer Laurent, my chief Tactical officer reported in crisp and carrying voice.

I nodded but refrained from saying anything. I feared that if I did, it would only be because of my own nerves and not because it was what a real Admiral would do. So instead, I sat on my Command Throne and did my best to look like a stone-faced senior officer.

“The two Corvettes sent to escort us to the edge of Wolf-9’s extended firing envelop have finished decelerating and are beginning to come about,” reported one of the Sensor Operators.

Around the Bridge, the men and women of the crew exchanged significant looks and shoulders tightened, as if expecting a blow.

“We are now outside weapons range of the Wolf-9 defensive complex,” Laurent reported stiffly, his arms and hands behind his back as he strode up and down the line of trainee Tactical operators.

“Steady as she goes, Helm,” I ordered, deliberately injecting a smoothness into my voice.

“Yes, Admiral,” DuPont said from where he was hunched over his console, fingers poised for the slightest twitch from our potential adversaries.

On the main screen, the little icon representing the Lucky Clover moved outside the blue region representing the firing arcs and overlapping weapon coverage of the various defensive turrets and battle platforms of those Confederation Forces stationed at Easy Haven.

“Good luck, Commodore LeGodat,” I whispered under my breath and then stiffened my back, correcting my posture until it was once again something that would do my tutors and royal trainers proud.

The next tension-filled half hour passed in relative silence. The Guard Squadrons slid smoothly into position behind us, one slightly to the left and the other slightly to the right, as if they were an escort rather than a pack of jackals looking for an easy kill. They deliberately left enough room between us that they were outside of my Battleship’s turbo-laser range, as well as the heavy lasers of the Merchant Conversions.

“What are they waiting for,” Tremblay muttered loud enough to be heard by half the Flag Bridge. No doubt from his expression, he had intended a less carrying voice.

I turned to glare at him, my eyes delivering a silent rebuke.

Tremblay flushed and gave an embarrassed nod before turning away. Arguing at this juncture would be counterproductive to the best interests and general welfare of this ship, so I quietly let the moment pass. Even though I wanted nothing more than to yell at the First Officer and blow off some steam of my own, I knew that it would only distract the crew and hurt morale.

Another tension filled forty-five minutes ticked by until many people (including myself) had begun to relax. Nothing had happened so far, and hopefully nothing would happen for the rest of the trip to the hyper limit.

“The 2nd Squadron has increased its speed, and is now moving from a sphere into a diamond formation,” Laurent’s voice shattered the relative calm like a sonic grenade tossed into an otherwise quiet room.

“Their most likely objective?” Tremblay demanded hurriedly.

“They are bearing down on us, and are now starting to pass between the Caprian Freighters,” Tactical Officer Laurent replied urgently.

“Make sure our weapons are hot and ready to fire,” I ordered firmly. Looking at the main screen, it soon became clear that only the 2nd Squadron of the Guard was making a bee-line for our battleship. The other Squadron, the one with the Light Destroyer personally commanded by one Rear Admiral Yagar, was still in relatively the same position as before the 2nd Squadron rapidly increased its speed.

“Our gunners have been primed and ready for the past hour and a half,” Laurent assured me in a firm, professional voice.

I nodded slowly, my eyes darting between the icons on the main screen representing the various warships before reaching a decision.

“Hail the approaching squadron of Guard warships,” I instructed the Communication Tech, “and kindly request to know just what they think they are doing.”

“Aye aye, Admiral,” acknowledged the Tech, looking relieved that there was something she could do before turning to speak urgently into her microphone.

After half a minute of back and forth, the Tech looked back at me with an odd expression on her face.

“What is it, Comm Tech,” I said mildly, when all I wanted to do was beat the information out of her as quickly as possible.

“I am informed that Commodore Druid and the 2nd Squadron of the 25th Sector Guard intend a close in flyby, which they’re calling ‘a gesture of respect and admiration,’ as we prepare to embark on what could be a grueling anti-piracy mission for the good of the entire Sector,” she said in the sing song voice of someone simply repeating what she’d just been told.

“Grueling!” snapped Tremblay, “what an insult.”

“A gesture of respect and admiration,” Laurent scoffed in agreement.

“Warn them off,” I hotly ordered the Comm Tech.

The technician proceeded to speak urgently into her speaker.

“The 2nd Squadron is about to enter our firing range, Sir,” the Tactical Officer said tightly, “targeting them now.”

“Fire only when fired upon,” I instructed, hating myself even as I gave the order because the simple math of the situation hadn’t changed one bit. If we got into a fight with the forces belonging to Rear Admiral Yagar, we would lose.

“We can knock any number of them out, if they’re not expecting it,” Laurent fired back.

“And just how likely is it that they aren’t ready for us,” I asked dryly as the Squadron of Corvettes inched ever closer.

“Not likely,” he admitted, “but if we wait we lose whatever advantage we might have!”

“Steady on, Tactical Officer,” I spoke firmly before turning to the Comm Tech. “Open a channel to this Commodore,” I said urgently.

“They say to not accept the honor would be an insult!” cried the Tech, not yet even having the chance to relay my message.

I ground my teeth, my resolve not to fire the first shot wavering in the face of this blatant aggression. Then my eyes widened as an idea came to me.

“Mr. Laurent!” I said quickly.

“Yes, Admiral,” he replied, speaking fast as the Corvettes entered our firing arc, “just give the word, Sir!”

“Doesn’t the SDF have a tradition of offering salutes to passing ships of other Navies, Fleets and SDF’s,” I asked urgently, ignoring his offer to blow the interlopers into atomized particles, or at least give it the honest Confederation try.

For a moment Laurent looked nonplussed before understanding dawned. He bared his teeth in my direction

“Are you thinking a 12 gun, a 24 gun or a full broadside salute, Admiral,” my Tactical Officer asked with a rapidly widening smile.

“I think it would be a major failing if the MSP failed to give this new Sector Guard organization every respect and honor possible,” I replied, clenching my right fist eagerly as I turned to the Comm Tech.

“Inform Commodore Druid that we are honored by the presence of his Squadron and are prepared to do them a signal honor in return!” I ordered, snapping my elbow to my hip with the fist still clenched.

“Yes, Sir,” I heard her say faintly behind me and in the foreground I could see Officer Laurent speaking rapidly into his hard line microphone down to the Gun Deck.

The Tactical Officer gave me a thumbs up signal and before I had a chance to reply, Commodore Druid’s squadrons split into two rows of three corvettes each, the formation of three corvettes behind and to our right, ever so slightly ahead of the other line of three as they each zoomed in on our Battleship from either side.

“They’re lining up to cross from left to right and right to left over the bow of our ship!” Laurent informed us in a loud barking voice.

Then, just as the Comm Tech finished relaying our message to the Sector Guard Commodore, the first little warship came zooming along the side of our much larger battleship at close range.

“Salute!” yelled Laurent into the speaker to Gunnery, just as the first Corvette was about to begin its close in pass, and every beam weapon on the right side of the ship activated.

Whether the Guard intended a series of quick firing passes, or just to get as close to our hull as possible for a series of rapid deep scans, we might never know because no sooner had the order left Laurent’s mouth than our trigger happy young gunners down on the gun deck ripple-fired every weapon on the starboard side.

In a few cases the beams passed within meters of the first Corvette’s shields as the Lucky Clover blazed away. It was an official gesture, and I figured that if I had been on the receiving end of a battleship’s broadside in nothing larger than a little corvette, an officially terrifying display of firepower.

The first corvette was so honored that it broke off from its intended course, pulling a sharp ninety degree course change as it bobbed and weaved in an evasive course away from our battleship.

Meanwhile the next Corvette in line on the left flank of our ship also turned away.

“Commodore Druid is protesting this aggressive action as a flagrant violation of the code of peaceful space conduct!” reported the Comm Tech.

“Inform the Commodore we are simply returning the great honor he has insisted on bestowing upon us by offering his Squadron a full broadside salute in return,” I drawled easily, working to suppress a hard-edged grin from crossing my face, I’ll admit that although I tried, its true I didn’t try very hard.

By this time, four of his ships had shot away from our ship at full burn, the little corvettes taking evasive actions for all they were worth. By now, I was no longer attempting to hold back my smile.

The last two corvettes, one on either side of our ship, wavered before their course steadied.

“I read two corvettes continuing with a close pass firing run,” Laurent relayed with rising concern. Then an alarm sounded from the tactical section, “we’re being pinged!”

My smile withered and disappeared entirely as the pair of corvettes came screaming across our bow, first one with its sensors pinging for all it was worth, and then the second.

Only after the two suicidal corvettes had passed within meters of our shields and crossed our bow did I realize I’d been unconsciously holding my breath and clutching the arms of my Throne in a death grip.

Seeing the corvettes swooping in a wide arc to the side and away from the Lucky Clover without firing a shot in reply to our full on broadside salutes, the breath whooshed out of me in an explosive release.

Only after my mind registered the fact that the corvettes were turning to join the respective halves of their squadron mates did I let go of the Throne.

“Well, that was a nerve wracking experience,” I bared my teeth, absolutely refusing to allow the shakiness I was feeling to enter my voice.

Looking up I saw Officer Laurent give himself a shake and then look over to meet my eyes. One corner of his mouth turned up in response.

“None of our gunners got trigger happy and hit the good Commodore’s ships, while two-thirds of his ships failed to cross the T,” he reported with an ever deepening satisfaction as he talked.

I blinked.

“So what you are saying is that we looked better than they did?” I asked, wondering why I felt surprised.

“Better?” Laurent lifted his eyebrows, “I wouldn’t want to be in the shoes of the officers on those corvettes that ran away when their Commander gets his hands on them. Because when we never actually attacked them, they made their Commodore and his Squadron look like a gaggle of flighty dilettantes with twitchy hands on the Helm.”

This didn’t quite compute to me.

“And if we’d actually been shooting to kill,” I replied looking at him strangely, “what would he have thought of them then?”

Laurent shook his head wryly.

“Why, then they’d have been hailed as the sort of heroes every SDF or Fleet need, Captains and Helmsmen who have the sort of instinct and feel for combat that every Officer should strive for,” he said with a straight face.

“That hardly seems to be fair or make sense,” I commented as I considered the unfairness of such situation. On the one hand you were either a gross incompetent. On the other, you were a hero with the instincts of a burgeoning military genius and the twitch muscles of shark or velociraptor all rolled into one. It didn’t seem right.

“The military is rarely fair and doesn’t always have to make sense,” Laurent observed with a shrug.

“Victory or Death,” I muttered under my breath. It seemed these kinds of situations applied to Sector Guard Captains just as they did to former College Students pretending to be Admirals. Although in my case, dead meant actually dead and for them, it might mean anything from career death to actually shrugging off this mortal coil.

“Sir,” Tremblay asked looking at me speculatively. Perhaps he’d been eavesdropping when he had better things to do than listen to his Admiral’s private utterances.

I gave him a cold look. “Notify me at once if there are any sudden changes from the Guard, or if they fixate on another attempt to ‘honor’ us with a close firing pass,” I instructed hotly, turning to bestow my attention on the Sensor Pit.

“Yes, Sir! Admiral, Sir!” replied the lead Sensor Operator with such an excess of words and enthusiasm that for a brief moment, I wondered what it was like to work on a bridge made up of nothing but fully trained, complete professionals.

Then I shrugged it off; I had work to do.

“Just monitor the Guard,” I ground out and then turned my full attention back to the main screen.

Other than one attempt by Yagar to rattle us by bringing both of his reformed squadrons up just outside the edge of our firing range and then backing off abruptly, the next couple hours passed in intense nail-biting (but ultimately uneventful) edge of our seat monitoring.

Frazzled and red-eyed from the strain of watching every little tick of the screen but triumphant, I knew I wasn’t the only one who was intensely grateful the moment our ship crossed the hyper limit and the dozen ships comprising Rear Admiral Yagar and his Rump Assembly’s 25th Sector Guard turned around to head back in system, no doubt to continue harassing Commodore LeGodat.

I felt bad that the former Confederation Commander and now Commodore of the entire Easy Haven System would soon be bearing the brunt of the Rear Admiral’s attention, but not that bad.

Chapter 1: New Beginnings are Old Beginnings, done all over again

“Coordinates are locked, Admiral,” Navigator Shepherd shook his head with disapproval, making sure to catch my eye so there was no chance I misunderstood him.

I quirked a smile to hide the sudden grinding of my teeth and ignored the man by looking past him at the main screen instead.

“If I may remind the Admiral,” he said pointedly, “we are only one hour away from Point of No Return, and the personnel transfer is still in process,” he said pointedly.

“Thank you, Navigator, your input is greatly appreciated,” I said, causing the Navigator to smile. When my appreciation failed to produce any tangible results (like new orders to abort the spin-up of our hyper drive) his newfound smile turned into a frown.

“Please make sure the two armed merchant conversions that will be accompanying us are aware of the rendezvous coordinates,” I reminded him.

“Yes Admiral, that’s already been done. Double-checked and triple-checked, then checked all over again,” he all but muttered, a dark expression creeping over his face.

It was obvious he was unhappy. Well get in line, because I was unhappy too. Fortunately for me, a mere Admiral outranked a high and mighty navigator such as himself and he was just going to have to live with his unhappiness like the rest of us.

“Sir, we’re being hailed by one of the merchant ships,” reported a communications technician.

When a look in her direction failed to produce the desired result (i.e. elaboration) I suppressed a scowl of my own. Was it just me, or was the bridge dragging their heels every step of the way here?

Sweet crying Murphy, did none of these motherless sons and daughters realize how much was riding on getting out of this system in time? I didn’t need everyone and their cousin working against me! Speaking of Cousins, thankfully mine was no longer on the Flag Bridge. One could only hope she had taken this opportunity to transfer to the next ship bound for Capria; the very same ship carrying those of my crew who’d refused the call to continued confederation service.

“Put whoever it is through to the command chair,” I grunted.

The next sight to greet my eyes failed to fill me with joy.

One of the new replacements from Capria appeared on my screen; he looked like an officer.

“Vice Admiral Montagne,” the other man nodded a greeting, “My name is Jim Heppner, Captain Jim Heppner of the Caprian SDF, and I understand you’ve been running without a full command staff.”

I stiffened.

“We’ve managed,” I said refusing to confirm or deny anything at this point. This was all I needed; a Captain, a real Captain onboard this ship.

Heppner narrowed his eyes ever so slightly and one side of his mouth lifted. “My orders are to transfer to the Lucky Clover along with my command team and assume command of the Battleship, so that you can continue to direct the fleet, without the burdensome distraction of ship command at the same time.”

“I’m far from distracted,” I said coolly. This was a power play plain and simple, and I wasn’t about to let them pull a fast one.

“Nevertheless, I and my men have our orders, Sir,” he said evenly.

“We’ve got a well-oiled machine over here and there simply isn’t room for a second command team on the Flag Bridge, Captain,” I said with a wry smile, to take the sting out of it, “I’m afraid the dictates of our current mission…” I trailed off shaking my head sadly.

The middle aged Caprian Captain looked at me quizzically.

“There’s no need to displace your men, sir,” he said slowly.

“Oh,” I quirked a smile of my own, feeling smug.

“Indeed, I wouldn’t expect you or any of the men on your staff to change the way you are doing things over there,” he said with a shrug.

“Then it’s settled,” I said happy for once to be able to head off a maneuver at the pass, so to speak.

“Of course, Sir. My men and I will be more than comfortable on the ship’s Command Bridge, there’s no need for my team to take up space in the fleet command center,” he said evenly.

My smile froze. We had a Command Bridge? I didn’t know we even had a second bridge, let alone one entirely separate from the Flag Bridge. That there were two such places on the ship was news to me.

Space rot! I clenched my fists outside the range of the cameras. Suppressing a flash of pure rage (mainly directed at myself) I forced a patented Montagne smile, one that felt more than a little stiff around the edges. Once again my military incompetence had risen up to bite me on the hind end. This was a complete and total disaster, and I’d been foolish enough to put my foot right in it.

“Sounds like you have it all figured out in advance then,” I said lightly trying desperately to recover my balance but knowing it was too little, too late. I’d been blindsided and the damage was already done. Now… if I threw Captain Heppner and his ‘command team’ directly into the brig without passing go, they wouldn’t be manning any Command Bridges anytime soon.

Ultimately though, I just had to force a smile and nod. “Of course, my Flag Bridge crew will continue to direct ship operations until such a time as you and your team have had a chance orient yourselves to the way we do things around here,” I said deliberately, forcing the grimness I felt out of my voice. “We can discuss the handing over of specific duties after you and your men get up to speed.” I needed to come across as a reasonable Admiral making the best of a bad situation, not some power-mad empire builder angry someone else was moving in on his turf.

The Lancers would just have to be the iron fist inside my velvet glove for the right now, at least until I could get a better feel for the way these new winds of change were blowing. Thank goodness for Akantha and her native recruiting drive; without my Lancers I would have already been finished several times over.

Captain Heppner frowned, “Understood, Sir,” he said unhappily.

And that as they say was that. We both left there feeling unhappy, but I had to figure in the long term he’d come out ahead. What was more, I was certain he knew it.

Chapter 2: Point Transfer out of Easy Haven

“Threshold exceeded 52 minutes ago. The countdown is now five minutes until point transfer,” said the First Officer sounding more irritated than usual.

“We were unable to slave the computers of the Merchant Conversion to our own,” the Navigator said disapprovingly. “Since they don’t share our jump range, they’ll just have to play catch up with us as we cycle our Star Drive,”

“Good work Mr. Shepherd,” I said putting a smile on my face and an upbeat note in my voice. That he and my First Officer weren’t very impressed with my decision-making process, had already been made more than abundantly clear by this point, but for some reason they were unable to get over it. It was beginning to get more than a little tiresome, which only made me want to appear all the more cheerful and unruffled, if only to irritate the space rot out of them and any secret sympathizers hidden among the rest of the bridge crew.

“We limited our range and jumped in convoy back when we were operating alongside the Medium Cruiser,” grumped Lieutenant Tremblay.

“The situation with the Hydra was completely different,” I said breezily.

“I still think-” started Tremblay as the timer hit zero, cutting him short as the ship transited into hyperspace.

Thank the Maker, I don’t know how much more of their caterwauling I could have taken. At least now it was too late, spilt milk and all that.

“Point Emergence,” reported the Navigator, sounding like he was officially back on task once again.

“Extending baffling and lighting up the main engine,” said the Helmsman.

“Step lively, bridge crew,” snapped the First Officer, “if we don’t have them right now, then by next transfer at the very latest we’re going to have a team of highly trained parliamentary officers watching our each and every move. Let’s do ourselves proud.”

Heads nodded and shoulders stiffened as the men and women on the Flag Bridge manned their consoles with a renewed attention to their jobs. I was surprised, my First Officer actually managed to strengthen their resolve and inspire a renewed attention to duty. Admittedly, with a pro-parliamentary dig thrown in at the same time, but that was only to be expected of the former intelligence officer.

The main screen started to populate but thankfully the System appeared to be just as advertised: completely uninhabited by man or marauding space beast.

“Point Resistance?” asked Lieutenant Tremblay, narrowing his eyes at the science officer.

“I read an estimated 48 gravities of resistance, First Officer,” grunted the Science Officer staring at his console with a forlorn expression, “if anyone was foolish enough to be standing outside the hull and our shields failed, they’d be crushed.”

Tremblay frowned at him, “Only a suicide…or a civilian could possibly be foolish enough to pull a stunt like that,” he snorted dismissively at our distinguished Science Officer who’d been forwarded to us directly from the University of Capria. He was originally here exclusively to work on his thesis paper as it regarded the cost benefits of slave rigging our old battleship with a series of automation deigned to reduce the manpower needed for our crew-intensive manpower hog.

“Where are my engine numbers,” Tremblay demanded, turning on the helmsman.

“Main Engine at 15% of maximum,” said DuPont, fingers flying over his console, “lighting up secondaries… now.”

“Shields modulated for the gravity sump,” reported the man at shields, “our new shield generator continues to perform as expected. We are ready for a slide, First Officer.”

“Let’s get moving, Helmsman,” said Lieutenant Tremblay.

“Engine increased to 25% of maximum, Sir,” reported DuPont, “both secondaries coming to 25% in three seconds…Three!… Two!… One!”

“Shield strength at 95%, and holding,” said the main Shield Operator.

The ship gave the barest shudder.

“Exiting the sump now, Admiral,” reported the Navigator, and just like that we were free.

“Good job, team,” I projected my voice so it could be easily heard all the way around the bridge. It was more important than ever to foster the sort of team spirit that would help me survive the unholy mess I’d landed in. Thanks ‘Uncle James,’ I thought facetiously, using a familiar form of address in the privacy of my own mind that was just as misleading as it was accurate. ‘Uncle James’ was our brand spanking new ‘King James,’ and a lot closer to my age than you might imagine. On top of that he’d tried to pull a fast one and get rid of all my loyal crew by bringing them back to Capria for some well-deserved shore leave, saddling me with a bunch of parliamentary holdouts and ‘royalist marine’ minders in the process.

He had failed inasmuch as most of my original crew hadn’t gone back to Capria, and his four thousand plus Marines were still on board the two armed freighters he’d sent to ‘reinforce’ my fleet. Unfortunately in just about every other particular, he had succeeded.

The sad fact was that my ship was fully crewed for the first time since the Imperials Withdrew from the Spine, which would seem to be a good thing. The problem was they were the untrustworthy parliamentary type, instead of the scarcer loyalist royal version.

His Majesty, likely trying to rid himself of them himself, had ever so benevolently sent these people over to his cousin Prince-Cadet Jason Montagne and the Confederation Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet; a fleet that I was holding together with little more than my two bare hands and half a roll of space tape.

Regardless of the official line, I had my suspicions as to who was pulling King James’ strings. I dreaded to find out what the real story behind these crew replacements/reinforcements was, which was why I now had my Lancer force stationed at key points throughout the ship.

“Admiral, I’m receiving a request for a private conference,” said one of the Communication Technicians.

I frowned at him; he wasn’t the one who normally handled External Communications. Then I remembered we were in an uninhabited system.

“Who is it?” I inquired, smoothing my face into a pleasant royal mask.

“It’s Captain Heppner, Sir, and he begs a few moments of your time,” said the Communications Operator.

Think of the devil and his plots against your interests and he immediately tries to rope you into a conference call, I thought with ill humor.

On the outside though, I quirked a superior grin.

“By all means,” I told the Communications Technician, “Please inform the Captain I’ll be taking his call in my ready room, if he’s interested in holding on for a minute.”

“Yes, Admiral,” the Communications Operators said sounding relieved.

I stood from the Admiral’s Throne and made my way to the ready room, and sat behind the Admiral’s desk before activating the screen.

“Captain Heppner, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure,” I asked as soon as I reached for a cup of tea.

“Vice Admiral, thank you for taking the time so soon after a point transfer,” replied Captain Heppner with a nod.

I returned the nod but didn’t respond verbally.

“I was hoping to firm up the schedule for the transfer of duties from the flag staff to the ship’s command team,” continued the Captain after an awkward pause.

I took a small sip of tea before setting the cup aside, and looking at the Captain I steepled my fingers.

“My men and I have things well in hand, Captain,” I said as mildly as possible.

“It’s my understanding that you’ve been operating this ship with critical shortages in both trained officers and crew,” he said, his dark brown eyes piercing.

“As I said before, we’ve managed more than adequately out here, as even the Imperial Navy can attest,” I said shrugging off his concerns with a wave and a few empty words, “the First Officer and I have things well in hand.”

“You just hit on one of the issues, Admiral,” Heppner nodded sympathetically. “Not only has Capria assigned me as your new Flag Captain, but they’ve also assigned an entire command team including a new Executive Officer, one Commander David Murdock, a man I’ve served with for over five years and who I trust implicitly.”

“Lieutenant Tremblay’s done a fine job on the Flag Bridge,” I said obtusely, “he has earned my absolute confidence.” It was far from the truth, but I had to circle the wagons, and quick.

“I’m sure he has,” Captain Heppner said, sounding even sharper as he drove his point home, “however, despite his great service to the crown in this tumultuous time, a junior Lieutenant from Intelligence simply can’t fulfill the duties of a position as important as that of Executive Officer. Especially when every other officer in the chain of command is a trained line officer, and he’s a staff officer.”

“Are you implying that Tremblay has been less than effective in his current position,” I arched an eyebrow and allowed my voice to harden slightly.

Heppner pursed his lips, “Unfortunately, Capria requires more from an officer than willingness; he must also be properly trained if he’s to fill a position one heartbeat away from command,” the Captain held up a hand, “I’m not saying he hasn’t done a stellar job for you so far, but he simply doesn’t have the training he needs to continue doing such a job indefinitely.”

I nodded slowly, seething inside at the roundabout dig at my own lack of training. “Well,” I continued with a shrug, “while I’m not sure I entirely agree with your assessment of the situation, I don’t see the need to argue: you can have your First Officer, and I’ll have mine.”

The Captain blinked, then hesitated. “I’m sorry Sir, but did I understand that you want this ship to have two XO’s,” he asked, sounding unexpectedly dumbfounded.

I knew I’d stepped in it somehow, but I wasn’t entirely certain of the misstep. “There are two Bridges on this ship, along with both a Captain and an Admiral, so why not two first officers,” I explained with a winning smile.

“Only Captains have First Officers, Sir,” he said almost, but not quite shortly, “Admirals, on the other hand, have a Chief of Staff. A ‘First Officer,’” he said the title derisively, “takes command of the ship if and when the ship commander — usually a Captain, although sometimes a Commodore or mere Commander — perishes.”

“Certainly,” I agreed after this latest in a series of military blunders, “in the end, there can be only one… I mean one First Officer, of course. Just so there’s no confusion, I’ll inform Tremblay of his new title as soon as I see him.”

“Thank you, Vice Admiral,” Captain Heppner replied formally, “now, about the transfer of duties.”

“Let’s not be hasty, Captain,” I subtlely scolded, “there’s no need to rush into things precipitously. You and your men will have plenty of time to settle in, settle down and learn the ropes. I can assure you that when everything’s ready to go, you’ll get what you’ve been asking for.”

The Captain looked grim and unhappy, but once again nodded his acceptance.

Sometimes it was actually nice being an Admiral.

After the Captain signed off I opened a channel to the Communications section.

“Hello, Admiral, how can I help you,” asked one of the operators.

“Please call down to the Brig and let them know I desire to have one of their prisoners brought up to the Flag Bridge immediately and then contact the Lancer Colonel and inform him I want said prisoner escorted up here and monitored every inch of the way from here to the brig. It’s long past time I had a heart to heart with a certain uplift.”

It was time I spoke with Primarch Glue.

Chapter 3: A Cunning Plan vs. The Slippery Slope

The proposed meeting in my ready room grew from just myself, Glue, and the Tactical Officer, into a conference of the entire Command staff. Naturally, Akantha was present as well.

Well, the entire ‘original’ Command staff. I’d be keelhauled and dumped in cold space before I invited a gaggle of parliamentary loyalists masquerading as our ship’s new reinforcements into my confidence just because they informed me that ‘King James’ told me to.

Apparently, word had got around that I was holding a big meeting of some sort, causing everyone and their sister to start showing up on the Bridge. It got to the point that I signaled my eventual defeat and decided to officially send out the summons to the rest of the ones who hadn’t yet made it up.

I purposefully hadn’t included Captain Heppner and his ‘Command team’ for this quasi-interrogation, and didn’t much care if he and his men went so far as to park themselves right outside the door to my ready room and stood there until their legs cramped up. There was no way those men were getting into my private meeting but then he and his people were still getting settled, which was why they never even bothered to show up… that and they probably figured what their reception would have been and knew better than to try.

Besides, I was sure one way or another, our ‘new’ Command team would learn everything about this meeting of the ‘old’ Command team at a later date.

I deliberately didn’t look at Officer Tremblay as I thought this. Despite my public words of support for the former Intelligence Officer, I still didn’t trust the man.

“What’s this meeting about, Sir,” asked the Lancer Colonel once we were all gathered in the ready room, looking professional and unhurried. But while he was certainly the very model of the first, I very much doubted he was the second.

Before I had the chance to answer, Science Officer Jones broke in. “I’ll tell you what this is about,” he said, looking red in the face. “It’s all about political upheaval back on the home world and high-handed royal maneuvers now that they are back in power,” he all but snarled, his face slowly turning purple.

I stared at the man nonplussed. This was outside the M.O. of our normally peevish civilian officer.

“I didn’t want to be believe it was true—” The ship’s Science Officer continued, only to be cut off.

“Royal politics are going to be the least of our worries,” the Chief Gunner growled, giving him a look that froze the purple faced Jones in midsentence.

The Gunner then turned his gaze on Tremblay and held it there, his eyes like the targeting array of one of his tubolasers.

For his part the First Officer all but smirked. No, I take that back, he was definitely smirking. The amused look he sent back the Chief Gunner’s way was more than I would have expected. It seemed Officer Tremblay was starting to find his spine. I wouldn’t have wanted to be on the receiving end of that Chief’s burning gaze.

“I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” Helmsman DuPont said hesitantly. Shepherd the ship’s navigator nodded in silent agreement beside him.

“It’s true that we’ve been out here a long time,” said DuPont, looking over at the ship’s Science Officer, then he shrugged and turned his hands palm up, “but I mean, if you’re so upset with the personnel transfer, why didn’t you just go home?”

Jones pounded the table in response to DuPont’s eminently reasonable question, “Some of us weren’t given the option of going home. Some of us were told our efforts on board the Lucky Clover were vital to the welfare of the Commonwealth at large and were put right back on the very same shuttle we tried to transfer out on!” cried Officer Jones.

Eyebrows went up around the table and more than one set of eyes turned toward Tremblay, including those of one very irate Science Officer.

“Don’t look at me,” Tremblay said raising his hands up in the air as if in surrender. “If anyone had asked my opinion I’d have told them to put you on the first hyper-capable ship headed home and not let you out again until the ship arrived back at port.”

Jones flushed, and the naïve pair that directed the ship in normal and hyperspace, the Helmsman and Navigator, actually looked surprised.

It was time to reclaim control of this meeting.

“If anyone had bothered to ask my opinion on the subject,” I said pointedly, looked over at Jones and then sweeping the table with my gaze, “I’d have made sure the transfer went through. However, as I wasn’t consulted until after we’d already point transferred away from Easy Haven…” I let the silence linger. I couldn’t admit I was powerless to send him home, and neither could I appear as less than large and in charge of this ship, which most definitely included controlling who came and went aboard her. Blaming Jones for jumping ship without permission, when all he had to do was ask, now that was a horse of a different color.

“Nor was I,” agreed Tremblay.

I narrowed my eyes but restrained from frowning at this little sidebar.

“Now, about the reason I’ve called this meeting—” I trailed off at the sight of individual little conversations springing up all around the table despite the fact that their Admiral was about to enlighten them all as to why they’d been summoned to this meeting of mine in the first place. A meeting they’d essentially barged their way in on.

“I Doubt that, Mr. First Officer,” Bogart said with a sneer, his voice rising loud enough to catch my attention and interrupt my speech.

“If you’ve got any accusations to make, now would be the time, Mr. Bogart,” Tremblay exclaimed, clearly attempting to goad the Chief Gunner into something.

The Chief Gunner leaned back and the expression on his face could have been a pleasant one, if his eyes hadn’t been so very hard. “We have our own way of handling problems down on the Gundeck, Sir,” he said a hint of a growl creeping into his voice, “we rarely find a need to get all official with such matters.”

“Yes, as we all saw down in sick bay,” confirmed Tremblay. “So if you have nothing further to say, perhaps—”

I hated to break up this little set to between the parliamentarian Tremblay and my old royalist Gunner Curtis Bogart, especially when it was starting to get to the interesting part. Unfortunately, it seemed everyone here needed another good lesson in why the words of Vice Admiral Jason Montagne were to be hung upon as if their very lives and futures depended on it.

So I took my holdout blaster pistol and pounded the desk with the hilt. Whether it was the sound of said pounding or the sight of a loaded weapon in my hand, the side conversations cut off with drastic and satisfying quickness.

I was about to continue my display, but fearing it was more the blaster than a true desire to listen to my words, I turned to the Lancer Colonel instead.

“I think it would ease the minds of many in this room, and help focus our attention on the main topic at hand, if we addressed a few side issues first,” I said, sounding grim even to my own ears. “A brief overview of your efforts over the past few hours Colonel Suffic, if you please,” I instructed him, my eyes making it clear that this was not a request but instead a politely worded order.

“Of course, Admiral,” he nodded as he turned to the rest of the table. “Over the past several hours, the men and women of the Lancer Contingent have taken up key positions throughout the ship. We now control the flow of crew from deck to deck and department to department,” he reported sounding professional, official and entirely in control of both himself and his heavily armed men.

“You have equipped yourselves with power armor?” I inquired, even though I already knew the answer. This little bit of theater was for the benefit of the rest of the people in this room, not for my own education.

“Of course, Sir,” he said.

“Excellent work, Colonel,” I congratulated him. “Make sure to pass along my compliments for a job well done as well as my personal thanks for your Contingent’s unwavering attention to duty,” I said, grateful that most of the Lancers in the ship’s Lancer contingent were Tracto-ans. They considered themselves personally sworn me as their Warlord first and foremost, and not some Officer appointed over them by an unfortunate bureaucratic mistake.

“I will, Sir,” he said with a nod in my direction. “The men will be thrilled to know the Little Admiral takes such interest in their work,”

For my part I covered the clenching of my jaw by giving a big smile quickly followed by a nod of my own. Oh, how I hated that nickname. I could just spit, the ‘Little Admiral’ indeed!

This latest report had caused a number of smiles to break out around the table. I glanced at Officer Tremblay, of all the people at this command meeting, he was one of the few who now wore a frown.

“Is there some reason to believe we need the entire contingent of lancers posted around the ship,” he asked pointedly, glancing around the table to make sure his point wasn’t lost on anyone with two brain cells to rub together, “A threat or other specific worry we should be aware of, Admiral.” This time he was looking straight at me.

“No. Nothing of the sort,” I replied smoothly, shrugging off the implications he was so brazenly trying to insert into the minds of the command team.

“This is merely a training exercise,” I laughed to put the lie in Tremblay’s very accurate assertions.

“A training exercise,” he said disbelief dripping from his mouth.

“Of course, whatever else could it possibly be,” I asked rhetorically, puzzlement etched across my forehead for all to see.

“Dazzle us with your brilliance, Admiral,” Tremblay said sardonically, “convince us how this should all be considered a mere training exercise and not a blatant attempt to hold onto the ship through force-majeure.”

“Be careful, Junior Lieutenant,” I warned, surprised to discover exactly how angry I was feeling, “you tread on dangerous ground.”

“Forgive me, Admiral,” he bit off each word, “but let’s call this hastily slapped together, bloated abortion of a hover bus, a Murphy-be cursed Hover Bus and not some fancy new fangled, yet surprisingly over large, racing model,” he finished breathing hard.

There was sudden silence in the ready room as everyone focused on our conversation, some with phlegmatic calculation, others (like DuPont and Shepherd) with widened eyes.

“Let me be clear,” I raised my voice to carry, even as I met Tremblay stare for stare, “no one is getting thrown under the bus, not on my watch, and not as long as we’re all riding,” I paused for dramatic effect, “my fancy new Speed Racer,” I said with ringing finality. Then I abruptly cracked a smile, one that failed to reach my eyes, but no one except Tremblay was able to see that part.

Around me a couple guffaws broke out. As hoped, I’d managed to break the tension my First Officer had managed to create all on his lonesome. Something had to be done…then I smiled. Revenge: it is sweet.

“Unfortunately, while no one is getting thrown under the bus, there will be certain changes,” I continued after they’d all had their laugh.

At this, faces closed and the brief laughter faded away like a summer wind.

“Sir,” asked the Chief Gunner, his eyes searching.

“While Captain Heppner and his team won’t be moving up onto the Flag Bridge, instead choosing to set up shop on the ship’s Command Bridge,” I paused as I noticed the nods going around the table; it was clear they had expected something like this. Was I the only idiot on the ship unaware we had two bridges?

“They will eventually,” I said stressing the last word, “assume some of the less critical duties which we’ve been handling from up here.”

“What does that even mean… Sir,” Tremblay inquired, the barest hint of an expression on his face, equal parts mixed smirk and disbelief.

Even as I could feel my eyes hardening, I had to suppress a cold, shark-like smile.

“Despite your own exemplary performance and in recognition of your steadfast service in this seemingly never-ending series of crises, Captain Heppner has informed me that you will no longer be required to fulfill your recent duties,” I said keeping the satisfaction I felt at being the one to give him this news off my face.

“What?” asked Tremblay sounding surprised and trying to hide it.

“After consulting with the new Captain, it was decided that the ship really couldn’t have two First Officers running around gumming up the chain of command,” I embellished, “instead you will be getting a brand new title,” I said, deliberately drawing out the suspense. From the set of his shoulders, I could tell Tremblay was starting to squirm on the inside, which was no less than he deserved after his recent behavior.

“You will no longer be the ship’s First Officer; instead you will officially be my new Chief of Staff,” I said with ringing finality. Tremblay briefly grimaced and then nodded his acceptance, sitting back in his chair at the news.

“A staff officer again,” he muttered under his breath.

For myself, I rather liked this new turn of events. It was better for all involved if Tremblay’s status on this ship lay entirely with the Admiral he served, as it removed another motivation for the man to assist in the removal of said Admiral. Namely me. After all, how could he be a chief of the Admiral’s staff if there was no admiral still in command of the ship? Now if only he’d see things in the same light I did, because if there was one thing I’d learned about Tremblay, it was that he didn’t always see things the same way I did.

Sliding a glance over at Akantha, who’d been surprisingly silent during the whole affair so far, I saw a look of icy contentment on her face. I hoped she continued to let me run things without putting her oar in, as I was feeling more than a little pleased at the result of my little verbal back hand to my former first officer. Nothing less than he deserved, of course, after that little attempt to throw this meeting under his Saint Murphy averted ‘hover bus.’

“Now, if there are no more strident calls for alarm, or hover buses, and our need to deal with them,” I said abruptly, turning to my assembled officers, “I would like to continue with the real agenda for this meeting,” I finished glaring at my assembled officers.

Calls of, “Yes, Sir,” and, “Yes, Admiral,” swept round the table.

“Good enough then,” I said sweeping the table with one last steely gaze. I couldn’t have them get into the habit of questioning me, or being allowed to derail my meetings. Constructive forward output, that’s what I needed from these gentlemen and women, not running around like chickens with their heads cut off. Thank the angry gods of cold space for that lancer contingent.

I felt compelled to turn and give Akantha a smile of gratitude at the thought of her kinsmen. Her forehead furrowed and she looked slightly perplexed but that didn’t matter. I was reluctantly thankful all the same.

“Very well then,” I said and pressing a button on my desk, I signaled for the Lancers outside to escort in exhibit A for my presentation.

On the outside I was the image of calm and control, on the inside I could feel myself clench up. This was a crucial part of my plan; if exhibit A didn’t pan out, it could all fall apart and leave me scrambling.

The main doors to the ready room slid open and a pair of battle armored Tracto-ans escorted my main exhibit.

“Ah, Primarch Glue,” I rose from behind my desk and gave the creature…or rather, man, a formal half bow, “so good of you to join us.”

I gestured to an empty chair I had instructed brought in but had deliberately left unfilled.

“Please have a seat,” I said, utilizing my royal training to its utmost to project a sense of unruffled civility and manners.

Eyebrows raised and in a few cases crashed back down thunderously.

Glue stared at me with those big, dark eyes set in a grayish black face for several seconds before moving around to take his seat. Backs stiffened as the gorilla man maneuvered around behind several of my command staff to reach the chair I’d indicated.

Tremblay opened his mouth, no doubt for another one of his bigoted ‘monkey boy’ comments, but I was wise to him by now.

“You have something to add, Chief of Staff,” I asked, my tone making it clear that if he valued his new job he’d better not, especially after the way he’d been so ‘helpful’ thus far.

He slowly closed his mouth and shrugged as if the matter was of little importance to him before leaning back in his chair with a martyred sigh.

As soon as Glue was seated I struck while the iron was still hot. I pulled out a standalone holo-projector not connected to anything else in the ship except a power outlet. I then handed Glue a data jack with a universal adapter.

There was a muttering of unrest among my staff as they watched the Primarch first plug the jack into the holo-projector and then the other end of the cable into the side of his head.

“Never thought I’d see such a sight, unless I was busy trying to put a stop to it with a blaster pistol,” growled the Chief Gunner. He was greeted with muttered agreement from around the table.

“We’ve opened Pandora’s box,” Science Officer Jones said his voice rising.

It was time to nip this little side chatter in the bud.

“For reasons of operational security, other than the coordinates for the Pirate Lair — which I have personally memorized — the entirety of the digital information we currently possess on our target is contained within the Primarch’s head and will continue to be so,” I said my voice rising.

“Disgusting,” muttered the Chief Gunner.

I met his eyes with a hard stare and he returned my gaze stonily, but I wasn’t about to surrender in this battle of will and after a moment he turned his glare on the table.

“At the moment the table isn’t open for questions. We will all await the Primarch’s presentation,” I said grimly, “and let me assure you, any qualms you have about the presenter or his manner of presentation will seem like a comfortable little baby’s blanket compared to how you’ll feel after he’s finished.”

I was going to say more, but Glue took it upon himself to activate the projector and launch into the presentation.

“As you now visualize,” the ape-man rumbled, pointing to a large cylindrical object that appeared in the middle of the table as it sprouted little arms with what looked like circular disks on the ends of them. “Omicron Free Port, or The Omicron as called by its inhabitants, is large Black Port five miles long and twice that in the wide.” The Primarch popped his lips as he exhaled a long, deep breath, which seemed to rattle my teeth.

“She’s huge,” exclaimed our Navigator, “almost large enough to generate her own gravity field!”

Glue turned to stare at the Navigator. From my time with him I realized he wasn’t intending to be intimidating, but Shepherd obviously didn’t know this because he paled and his mouth snapped shut.

“Omicron Port is large repair and transshipment point, also has big Trillium reserve: sell to pirates, smugglers, rogue worlders and genetic variants who make port or call home,” Glue answered still looking at our Navigator.

For his part Shepherd looked like he wanted nothing more than to sink into his seat and disappear.

“Excellent,” I said clapping my hands together once, to draw the Primarch’s attention back in my direction and away from my now pasty faced Navigator.

“Defenses?” I inquired when Glue turned to look at me with narrowed eyes.

The Primarch turned back to the holo-projector and the image soon filled with hundreds of flashing red icons.

“Dozens of ships in port at any time, and Omicron boasts several hundred point defense and large beam arrays. Heavy lasers, turbo-lasers, and Ion Cannons for capture pirates disturb the peace, Omicron also equipped with massive sensor arrays. Anything jump within point blank range immediately targeted and destroyed by automated turrets,” growled the giant Primarch.

“Automated turrets,” snapped the Chief Gunner incredulously.

“You can’t risk fire-linking that many computers together,” protested Tactical Officer Laurent, “What if they started going sub-AI during the middle of combat and suddenly crashed!”

“Intelligence taken from the Imperial Strike Cruiser, before it was destroyed,” Tremblay said with a pointed look in my direction before continuing, switching his gaze back and forth between my Chief Gunner and 1st shift Tactical Officer, “would seem to indicate they have the ability to run everything fire-linked to the main tactical computer. I don’t know about you, but my analysis of the Battle of Easy Haven would seem to indicate they had no difficulties with AI induced computer crashes,” he ended with a smirk and derisive look in the direction of our head of Gunnery.

“Madness,” growled Bogart, shaking his head.

The Tactical Officer opened his mouth for an angry retort but Glue headed them all off with a big grunt.

“Port Omicron been active almost fifty Terra-cycles,” he growled, “they have two parallel system, only one is hard plugged in at same time. If it starts go AI, unplug network link, swap chips and go manual with second system. Takes twice the space but on big Space Station…” he shrugged.

It seemed to make sense to me. If an AI started to rise up, the Elder Protocols that had infected our computer networks ever since the fall of the AI’s would activate and crash everything it was connected to. So if an AI started to form, simply unplug it and plug in an uninfected computer to run the battery.

My officers on the other hand looked like they’d tasted something foul.

“Well that’s just bloody great,” snarled my Chief Gunner, “pirates with a practical fire-link that encompasses over 238 beam weapons of varying sizes, that are all able to focus on a single target in the time it takes a human gunner to even realize there’s a target. If they hit us with that kind of firepower, we’ll be blown away in short order as our shields overload and our hull cooks off!”

Warrant Officer Laurent slowly nodded his head in agreement, “Although in fairness, they can only focus something like half of that on us at any one time.”

“Not like it matters,” snorted the Gunner, “Why I bet with a station of that size they’ve got the fusion power to fire every weapon continuously, as well as the extra arrays to swap the focusing crystals out when they overheat!” He frowned fiercely, “we’ve got what, 60% of our max fusion power and a third the broadside they can bring to bear?”

“What about shields,” demanded Tremblay looking genuinely engaged in the conversation for the first time. Engaged and alarmed.

Seeing all my officers looking worried, I was also starting to feel a rising sense of concern.

Glue pointed at the holo-projector and several different areas were highlighted.

“It is having multiple shield generators; take out one and they still able provide coverage to the area until the backup generators come online,” the Primarch grunted. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say he looked and sounded smug.

“Counting whatever ships are docked there, this pirate base is strong enough to hold off an entire squadron of battlewagons,” Tactical Officer Laurent said shaking his head in negation.

“It would take an entire fleet to go up against this beast the conventional way,” agreed the Chief Gunner, shooting me a knowing look.

I didn’t like that look. It was a look that said he expected me to pull some wild rabbit out of my hind quarters, one that would hop all the way to victory. He of all people ought to know better; I was no tactical genius, as our last grand tactical session with the Imperial Cruiser proved. That, followed by the mostly failed Patrol for Pirates along the border should have illustrated the point clearly.

My navigator and helmsman were also looking at me with eyes that all but screamed their sudden confidence in my non-existent plan. I mean honestly, that was why I’d summoned the whole command team! To make a winning plan!

“Uh…how about we jump in close. I mean really close, right on top of them even, and cut loose with everything we’ve got? Take out the Omicron’s broadside and shield generators on whichever side we appear and then send in the Lancers to take control of the station!” I said starting to get excited at the prospect of this plan. As far as plans went, it was simple. It counted on the element of surprise, something crucial in most of my battles so far and it ended with a rosy outcome, i.e. the pirate base neutralized and us standing triumphant over our enemies.

“It’d be hard, but we can pull it off!” I said, happy for once to have come up with something that didn’t sound like a complete disaster as soon as it popped out of my mouth.

“If we’ve got precise coordinates we could get in close,” Shepherd said looking excited, beside him DuPont nodded in agreement.

“A fool’s plan,” sneered Tremblay while at exactly the same time Officer Laurent shook his head. “You’re all forgetting the massive Trillium deposits they use to supply their pirate customers. That means you can’t make so much as a precision micro-jump from within the system itself, let alone all the way from another star system! Just how do you plan to calculate a jump within their shields? The last time we had a Trillium affected jump we almost smashed into a planet!”

Suddenly my collar felt too tight and I cleared my throat.

“Irrelevant, Chief of Staff,” the gunner growled at the former First Officer, causing Tremblay to flush.

“Even if we could jump in that close,” the Gunner continued, shaking his head. “Their guns are linked directly into station tactical, or whatever passes for it on that big beast of a pirate base, Admiral,” the Chief Gunner said turning to me and speaking slowly as if I was stupid. “That means as soon as we pop into view their computer automatically detects us and fire-links their weapons. They’d burn through our hull before our shields have a chance to stabilize, let alone clear the inertial sump.”

“Sitting ducks,” agreed Officer Laurent, slamming a fist into his open hand.

“Should not forget shields if we outside precision jump coordinates. Also, many armed pirates on board station itself,” added Glue, with what I swear was a smile on his face at the complete destruction of my latest battle plan.

I could feel my face trying to fall but I manfully resisted the urge to let the dismay I was feeling crawl all over my face. I flat out refused.

“So a sudden surprise attack seems out of the realm of reason and we can’t take her straight on. What does that leave us with,” I asked coolly, looking around the table for ideas.

“Get a bigger fleet,” Jones said with a snort and then rolled his eyes, “a really big one, not this Confederation rattletrap we’ve been running around with so far.”

“And just who would we get this hypothetical fleet from,” I inquired mildly.

“There’s always Rear Admiral Yagar,” said Tremblay, a hint of a superior smile flitting around his mouth, “he might be willing to help if you formally place yourself under his command.”

I looked at him flatly, but the former First Officer and current Chief of my Staff just cocked an eyebrow and met my gaze. Being on a ship recently filled with his parliamentary brothers and sisters seemed to have stiffened the spine of our former intelligence officer. Something was going to have to be done about that.

Then another brilliant idea struck me.

“How about if we pretend to be a part of that pirate outfit we were mistaken for before instead,” I asked mildly, before deliberately turning to look at the other members of my command staff; members other than Tremblay. This was not the time I’d become engaged in another staring contest with my former First Officer. To do so again would only make him appear to have more power onboard this ship than he actually did. “They have large ships roughly our size, and both the Piranha’s and those former Confederates that Glue easily mistook us for… what were they called again, the Blood Reavers?”

Heads started to perk up at this idea until Glue crushed it under his big hairy hand.

“Nope, no good,” he said placing both hands on the table and leaning forward. Seeing him do this was even more intimidating when I was in a normal uniform than it was when I was dressed in battle armor and from the looks around the table I wasn’t the only one who felt that way.

“Glue has pirate codes for his ship. A corvette ship, very small compare to this ship, we be spotted and forced to submit for boarding party if using only my codes. Also Blood Reavers have their own black code. And,” he said raising a grayish black and very hairy finger, “while Blood Reavers have three ships of exact same class as Lucky Clover, one Dreadnaught Class is used mostly for spare parts and always docked at Omicron with full crew. It no move, but can still fight some and men inside watch Blood Reaver interests on station,” he said shaking his massive head. The flash of light as his implanted hardware worked its magic was mildly sickening. I had to glance away for a second before mastering myself and looking back at the giant genetic-uplift with lights suddenly flashing all over the back side of his head.

“They have three battleships,” Tremblay deadpanned, looking shocked.

“Yes,” Glue nodded, “three Dreadnaught Class Battleships, same profile as Lucky Clover. Except third one missing pieces used to keep other two run,” he reported.

“Surely you mean three battleships like the Dreadnaught Class,” Warrant Officer Laurent insisted, rolling his eyes and looking down his nose at Primarch Glue. “There are many similar models, but the only Dreadnaught Class vessels with the exact profile as our ship were built in Caprian yards,” he said condescendingly.

“No,” rumbled the Primarch, slamming his thick, hairy hand on the table, “exact ship profile with exact sensor readings! Blood Reavers have three ships matching profile of your ship. It why you get so close to other pirate ships before they become alarmed.”

I blinked at the Primarch.

“Impossible!” barked Tremblay, “Every ship that’s not still in Capria, either in mothballs or on active duty, has been sent to the breakers. There’s no way a pirate got his hands on three Caprian battlewagons without Intelligence hearing so much as a peep about it!”

“They must have copied our designs!” agreed the Tactical Officer.

Glue just shrugged. “They have them, times three,” he replied simply, holding up three fingers for emphasis.

“Why would anyone be out there copying our designs,” Science Officer Jones asked leerily, “I mean, the Dreadnaught Class is a sturdy design but she’s very crew intensive compared to other similar ships from the Empire or even SDF’s throughout the Confederacy. Why would a pirate want such a manpower hog and, and…battleships, at that! Pirates are generally raiders; they aren’t in the business of taking and holding worlds. They have no need for ships of the line.”

“Blood Reavers have smaller ships also,” Glue interjected, jumping back into the conversation. He quickly popped up a list of ships onto the holo-projector known to be part of the Blood Reavers or Blood Reaver allied.

“Whoever’s in charge of that organization has the equivalent of an entire task force at his beck and call,” Officer Laurent concluded, sounding shocked.

“Half or more gone at any time, on raids,” Glue said dismissively. “Important thing is plan for attack Omicron.”

“Oh and I suppose a Monkey Boy like you has a better plan than an entire group of SDF trained officers,” Tremblay sneered.

Laurent frowned but didn’t disagree with Tremblay’s statement. Sweeping the table with my gaze I suppressed a grimace; no one was disagreeing with Tremblay’s monkey-boy comment, in fact several were nodding their heads.

“Keep it civil,” I snapped, “we’re not pirates or barbarians who can take or leave such minor concepts as common blasted courtesy at the door. There’ll be no more ‘Monkey Boy’ comments, and the next man who utters such a statement is going to be on the receiving end of a one-way trip to the Brig!” I could feel myself turning red in the face and was forced to throttle back my emotional response by taking several deep breaths.

Glue also took a few calming breaths and suddenly tense muscles in his arms and shoulders relaxed ever so slightly.

“I do,” he said.

“You do what?” I asked, irritated with this non sequitur from a man or creature, take your personal pick, who I’d just defended.

“Glue has plan for sneak up on Omicron and disable her firepower,” he replied confidently, causing his large chair to creak quite dangerously as he leaned back in it.

I blinked, then narrowed my eyes.

“Go ahead,” I gesture with my hand, “dazzle us with your brilliance, where the rest of us have failed so miserably thus far. How does one Battleship take out a station with three times her firepower and another three capital ships in her weight class, along with a whole host of smaller ships?”

Glue shook his head at me like I was a particularly slow student. “Little Admiral not having just one battleship! In his fleet are also times two armed freighters,” he said simply.

While I gritted my teeth at the Little Admiral dig, the Primarch proceeded to lay out his grand master plan for how he would take and destroy Omicron Station using only the forces at our disposal; a place which counting its mobile assets had somewhere in the order of six to seven times our firepower and, even more than that in its ability to take a punch.

When he was done with his ten minute explanation, the gorilla man sat back down with what I assumed was a satisfied expression on his face.

“Insanity,” exclaimed Tremblay.

“We’re relying entirely on information provided by a creature that was a pirate himself up until he was caught in the act and captured,” Sputtered Tactical Officer Laurent, “and now we’re expected to go in guns blazing with a plan of its devising. Not just no, but Hades no, Sir,” he exclaimed, shaking his head, “this is insane!”

For his part, the grey-haired gunner chief stroked his head and nodded, “Insanity pure and simple,” he agreed, “we’d have to all be crazy to even consider it,” agreed the old Chief, sounding more than a little admiring of Glue’s audacious plan.

I watched as one by one, my officers weighed in against listening to the gorilla man.

“Does anyone have a better idea,” I asked, “if so, now’s the time to speak up.”

Most just shook their heads, others looked at the table not offering anything. Tremblay finally gave voice to what no one else was willing to say.

“Discounting this outrageous bit of fiction dreamed up by the…” he sneered as his eyes slid sideways toward Glue, “Primarch, there’s just no way we can get in and get out, let alone destroy the Omicron, Admiral. It simply can’t be done with what’s available to us. Maybe if we went back to Easy Haven and managed to get our hands on a few more ships…” he trailed off doubtfully.

“As a former pirate and a gentle-being as interested in saving his own neck as the rest of us, I find Mr. Glue very credible indeed,” I riposted, projecting all confidence all the time.

“A captured pirate, who is only a ‘former’ pirate because we, of this very ship, put paid to his life of crime and slave taking,” Tremblay trembled with rage and his finger stabbed in Glue’s direction. “He is a treacherous, murderous sentient of the worst order,” Tremblay all but spat, stumbling over the word sentient obviously switching word choices at the last moment.

I could tell the former First Officer was gaining more support from my command group than I cared for. It was time to call out the big guns.

“A treacherous, murderous criminal? You don’t say, Chief of Staff,” I said contemplatively, then my face and voice hardened, “perhaps you’re unaware of this little factoid Mr. Tremblay, but I’ve been known to associate with all types of people. Up to, and including men I know for a fact were up to their necks in not one, not two, but several attempts on my life,” I stood up to emphasize this point, slamming a finger down on the table and even though I wasn’t sure of any such thing, Tremblay’s reaction to my accusation (turning pale and starting to sweat) made me more certain than ever that I was actually right on the money. He’d been up to his ears in any number of plots against me, take the ship’s former Security Department as a prime for instance.

All around us the table went dead silent.

“As I believe I’ve told you on at least one occasion, Junior Lieutenant Tremblay,” I continued, deliberately emphasizing his most minor rank, “I’d make a deal with a droid if I thought it would save the Border Worlds from this plague of pirates. So no,” I said sweeping the table with a hot and hardened gaze, “I do not automatically discount, out of hand, Primarch Glue’s information or his proposed course of action.” I sat back down in my chair with a plop.

“In fact,” I said sweeping the table with a glance and then bestowing upon them a knowing look, “I think it’s a plan with an amazing amount of potential for success, with a few minor modifications, of course.”

No one looked happy with my decision but I wasn’t sensing a lot of rebellious or mutinous intent from my men. At least not if you disregarded my new Chief of Staff, and long time adversary, Officer Trembaly, but then that man was always up to some sort of try against my interests.

“That said, I’m closing the table to discussion, so if there’s nothing else?” I paused briefly, but no one stuck their neck out or belabored the point that they didn’t like the plan that I’d just embraced, continued, “very well then, meeting adjourned. Tactical Officer Laurent, I’ll expect you to put your head together with the Primarch and see if there is anything extra we might want to add to his plan between now and our arrival in the Omicron System.”

When no one was quick at getting up from that table, I stood up, “That will be all, gentlemen,” I finished and indicated the door before sitting back down, turning to face the wall with the back of my chair pointed at the door and all my unhappy minions.

When the last of the footsteps faded away and the door cycled shut I heaved a sigh of relief. I hated feeling like I was grasping at straws and the only one pulling our battleship up a hill called succeed or perish with nothing but his own two hands.

I steepled my fingers and stared at them. My fingers, just like the rest of me, lacked the wisdom I needed to discern if I was making the right decision. I honestly didn’t know if I was right to trust the Primarch or if I was deliberately putting my head in a pirate noose.

Realizing my eyes had unfocused I looked down at my fingers again. These were the hands that, like a grand mountebank of olden times, had to produce magic on demand or suffer the wrath of the crowd. The Montagne magic, as my former First Officer and current Chief of Staff had once called it facetiously, but still.

My ruminations over the need for some genuine magic to help me weather this latest storm were interrupted by the sound of someone clearing her throat.

I whirled the chair around, surprised and more than a little alarmed that I wasn’t alone. My hand reached up the sleeve of my left arm for the holdout blaster pistol before I turned far enough to recognize the profile of my devoted wife.

Exactly what she was devoted to, I wasn’t entirely sure, although I knew for a fact that I played a starring role in whatever it was. As a devoted partner or a sacrificial goat, to this day I still couldn’t say. But one thing about my girl you could bank on: whatever she felt, she felt strongly! Unlike most women she preferred to come at you straight, often with sword drawn and prepared to chop you to pieces.

“You are oddly silent for a man who likes to talk, talk, and then talk even more,” she said, her face the frozen icy mask I’d first encountered on the bug ship. I didn’t like it anymore now than I did then but at least I was starting to get used to it. Much like her penchant for slashing her way through her enemies, it was a part of her I was learning to accept.

“Just thinking, my dear,” I replied, using my legs to spin the chair around.

A foot placed on part of the seat not occupied by legs brought my little ride to an end.

I sighed.

“Is there something I can do for you, Akantha,” I asked, hoping it was something I could fix and get be back to the very serious business of worrying and replaying every move and minute facial expression I’d seen during the command meeting, parsing it for hidden meaning.

“You take a great risk with this plan, Jason,” she said in that cool voice of hers, the one she used when she didn’t approve of what I was doing but I hadn’t yet left the bounds of whatever code she lived her savage life by.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” I said wearily.

“I believe in you,” she said simply.

“You honestly think this plan will work?” my eyebrows rose in shocked surprise.

She shrugged, “Whenever you stumble, and you do stumble,” she pinned me to my chair with her eyes when she said this, “you find a way to regain your feet and carry the day. If not this plan, then another; if there is anything I have learned from watching you, it is that you always manage to succeed at your chosen task,” she said all of this in accented confederation standard. The days she was relying on the mechanical translator grew fewer and further between.

“I thank you for the words of encouragement,” I said, both mildly pumped up by this and at the same time even more worried than before, “I just hope this isn’t the time my luck decides to run away and it turns out I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.”

“It is my hope as well,” she said. Leaning down she planted a kiss on me and I’m not talking one of those chaste little kisses you see in the movies; this was a kiss that made your toes curl. Watching her shapely form as she exited the room left me breathing hard and wanting to get out of my seat and follow her back to wherever she was going.

More’s the pity that I didn’t. Time was growing short and the fool that I was, I stayed and went back to the serious business of worrying.

How exactly had a bunch of pirates gotten their hands on a trio of Dreadnaught class knockoff battleships anyway? The answers I came up with did nothing to quiet the uneasy feeling in my gut.

But I had no choice, I had to keep the new crew and its well-trained officers too busy to even think about moving against me. If my study of Caprian history had taught me anything, it was that focusing the attentions of one’s domestic opponents on a powerful external foe could do wonders for focusing the mind and maintaining internal peace and harmony.

Let’s just hope my book learning paid dividends in the real world.

Chapter 4: Go gently into that foul night

“Point transfer complete,” barked my Navigator. I’d carefully kept Captain Heppner and his bridge team away from the controls, relying instead on men I knew and more importantly, who knew me.

“Lighting up the secondary engines now,” reported Helmsman DuPont.

“Take it nice and easy, Helm,” I warned, “the last thing we need is to make a big noisy splash for any waiting sensor nets to pick up on.”

“Secondaries at 5%,” reported DuPont, “don’t worry Admiral, we’ll break this sump as gently as anyone could ever want. Our emissions profile will be as low as you can possibly get without some kind of super advanced stealth gear,” he said seriously.

Around us the hull groaned from the increased pressure.

“Shields still turned off, Admiral,” the main Shield Operator reminded me.

“Perfect, Shields, I know it’s hard on the hull but if at all possible we’re going to avoid the sort of emissions generated by activating our shielding generators,” I said, knowing even as I said it that everyone was already fully briefed on this part of the operation. In truth, they knew the reality of what we were doing to stay quiet, probably better than I did.

For a brief moment I missed our former Chief Engineer. If anyone could have rigged this ship up for silent running it was him, and you could be sure that after he was finished everything that could be done had been done, it would have been Spalding. As it was I had to rely on a less excitable but also less knowledgeable (at least as far as all the little quirks and peccadilloes of this particular ship) Engineering staff.

“We’re starting to pick up some in-system traffic on the passive arrays,” reported the lead Sensor Operator, “but this far out and just using the passives, we’re not able to pick up much in the way of details.”

“Stick to the plan,” I said severely. “We can survive a little sensor degradation, what we can’t do is let that big goliath of a pirate base know we’re in the area and potentially get the drop on us,”

“Of course, Admiral,” muttered the Sensor Operator. I could tell from the tone of his response that he thought this last went without saying, so why was I saying it? But I couldn’t help myself.

At that last thought, I pulled myself upright. Correcting my posture to its regal best, I deliberately leaned back in the Admiral’s Throne. I could do anything I set my mind to, so long as I realized I had to do it, and that included stopping myself from pestering the bridge crew when they had vital duties to perform.

“Yeoman, a spot of tea,” I said catching the eye of one of the few people on the bridge who was currently without a vital task that could more easily be performed without elbow jogging dissertations from their Admiral about things they already knew by heart.

All around us the ship creaked and groaned alarmingly.

“Secondaries now up to 10%,” reported Helmsman DuPont.

Something popped on the hull. I didn’t like this, not one bit.

“How’s the hull holding up without the shields,” demanded Tremblay, the first to break and demand an accounting of the outside of the ship.

“I’m getting reports of minor pressure leaks on multiple decks,” said the Head of Damage Control on the Flag Bridge.

“I’m getting a call from the Command Bridge,” said a member of the Communication Section.

“Ignore it,” I instructed.

“It’s Captain Heppner, Sir. He says it’s still not too late to abort the operation, utilize our shields for a sump slide and come back again when we’ve got sufficient forces for the task, Admiral,” said the Communications Technician.

I turned a stony gaze on the Technician, “An excellent interpretation of my recent instructions, Technician 1st class,” I rebuked after bestowing a withering look on the uppity technician, “message received. Now hold any and all messages from Captain Heppner and the Command Bridge until we’ve broken free of the inertial sump,” I ordered, turning away from the Communications section.

“Yes, Admiral,” the Comm Tech replied in a small voice.

“Maybe the Captain has a point, Admiral,” Tremblay interjected, stepping up near the Throne and speaking in a low voice.

I suppressed a flash of irritation. This was exactly why I’d instructed the Comm Tech to ignore the Captain, but did anyone ever listen to the mere Admiral in command of this ship?

“The Captain happens to have a very valid point, Chief of Staff, however we passed the critical decision process for that point several transfers ago,” I said obliquely.

Tremblay shook his head, “It’s still not too late to change your mind and turn around,” he pleaded.

I looked at him, just looked and nothing more. Dealing with his incessant complaints was more than I could deal with at that moment.

“Please Admiral, think of the men and women who will die because of this ill-conceived notion. Relying on a genetically-engineered pirate of all things!” he exclaimed, literally wringing his hands.

“Your input is of great value to me, Raphael,” I said before turning to look at DuPont, “continue as planned, Helmsman,” I ordered in a loud carrying voice.

“Yes, Admiral,” DuPont confirmed as the ship creaked and groaned around us, “Secondaries up to 20% maximum power and climbing!”

“Whatever happens from this point forward is on your head and your head alone, Admiral. At least I tried,” Tremblay said all but biting off that last word, my fictitious rank as an Admiral.

“Isn’t it always, Chief of Staff,” I said bitingly, turning to stab him with hot and angry eyes, “Victory has a thousand fathers but defeat will always be a bastard child of my own unique creation. It’s always on my head, Lieutenant Tremblay, each and every time we win, lose or draw,” I said, before dismissing him as unworthy of my continued consideration. I focused on the main screen instead, a screen slowly populating with a variety of moving objects.

“Secondaries at 35%,” reported DuPont and the ship shuddered.

“What was that,” exclaimed Tremblay.

“We have major compression leak on deck 12, Sir!” Damage Control exclaimed, “We’re instructing everyone currently on that deck to lock themselves in their cabins and to wait until we’ve cleared the sump and can get Engineering teams in there to seal off the leak.”

I silently clenched my fists, lowering them down to my thighs to hide this visible sign of my worry from the bridge staff.

“Shields are standing by, Admiral. Just give us the word, Sir,” cried the lead shield operator.

“Steady as she goes, Flag Bridge,” I instructed in as level a voice as I could muster, with the ship creaking and groaning all around us.

“Secondaries up to 50%… and we’re free,” yelped DuPont as the ship shuddered free, “sump slide successfully completed,” reported the Helmsman, reaching up with a quick swipe of his uniformed forearm to wipe the sweat off his brow.

“That’s surprising,” Science Officer Jones reported.

“What,” Tremblay asked snidely, “it took longer to break free than you originally projected?” The newly christened Chief of Staff shook his head derisively.

“No,” Jones said flatly, “we broke free sooner than expected,” from his tone of voice you could all but here the silent, ‘you idiot’ thrown on at the end of the sentence.

Tremblay turned red around the ears but otherwise ignored the Science Officer as if he had never spoken.

I suppressed the urge to smile.

“Course plotted,” said Shepherd the ship’s primary Navigator ever since I assumed command of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet.

“I’ve got it,” replied DuPont our helmsman, “uploading now.”

“Monitoring for stray transmissions and shutting down any and all non-critical tasks,” my Tactical Officer said crisply.

One by one all the departments on the ship except for damage control indicated they had reduced their emissions as much as possible.

“Silent running engaged,” muttered Tremblay, sounding rebellious.

“Excellent work, team,” I clapped my hands, “our Helmsman and Navigator are to be commended. How long until we reach the target?”

Shepherd looked down at his console, “If we don’t make any adjustments on our course to Omicron Station, I estimate our time of arrival at 75 hours, 33 minutes,” he reported, sounding professional.

“Just over three days, is it,” I said contemplatively, “well that’s about what we expected before the point transfer,” I said with a shallow sigh. One of the hardest things about this Admiraling business was the waiting. Of course, I’d take waiting over combat any day of the week, so I guess I needed to shape up a little and adjust my thinking.

“It’s not too late to charge up the hyper drive and jump out before they have a chance to spot us. Omicron Station would never even know we’d been out here, since we made sure to arrive so far outside the system that we’re beyond even their extended sensor range,” offered Tremblay for the umpteenth time this trip.

“Thank you, Officer Tremblay,” I said courteously, “please use laser communications to instruct the armed freighters as to our ETA on target, as I understand the laser communication array is much more difficult to detect than our other forms of communication for some reason,” I instructed.

“Of course, Admiral,” replied the former First Officer before turning to relay the orders.

Now, other than listening to my officers squirm and keep suggesting we turn around and run away, we were committed. There wasn’t going to be much more to do until we got within striking range of the Omicron. We weren’t going to jump in right on top of them like a running rabbit; instead, we’d come at them slow and steady like the tortoise, which should win us this race. Hopefully, they would never even see us coming until it was too late.

Chapter 5: Matters Come to A Head

Officer Tremblay took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the door in front of him for several long seconds before giving a weary shake of his head quickly followed by a decisive nod. Marching up, he abruptly signaled his desire for entrance.

There was no going back now. From this point forward he was committed.

The door whisked open, and a chime indicating someone, in this case him, was about to enter.

Stepping inside the room, he braced to attention and raised his arm in salute.

The man behind the plasi-metal desk stood up and briefly returned his salute before indicating he should take a chair

“Welcome, Officer Tremblay. It’s so good of you to finally join us,” said Captain Jim Heppner, “we have much to discuss.”

Around him the other men gathered in the room nodded in agreement.

“We were beginning to suspect your loyalties had become…conflicted,” said Commander Justin Suddian, the ship’s new Morale Officer.

“Long live the Elected Parliamentary Government of Capria,” Tremblay said with feeling, ignoring the Commander and staying focused on the Captain.

“Long Live Parliament,” echoed the more than half dozen other officers in the room, speaking almost simultaneously, and wholeheartedly echoing the sentiment just expressed by the young Intelligence Officer.

“Are you sure you want to do this, Lieutenant,” Captain Heppner asked evenly.

“You have orders, Sir,” Tremblay demanded his gaze turning fierce, “legitimate orders from Parliament in Exile, placing you in command of this ship?”

“I do,” Captain Heppner said simply.

“Then whatever it takes to get a Montagne, especially that Montagne, off the Flag Bridge and out of Command of this Battleship, I’m in,” Tremblay said firmly. “The blighter seems to think he’s some kind of prince of the old blood reborn into these later days,” his lips worked as if to spit, “What’s worse,” he cursed, “is that most of the crew are starting to believe he is as well.”

“Most of the former crew perhaps,” Heppner said nodding his head slowly, “however there are now somewhere on the order of just over twelve thousand staunch parliamentarians on board this ship; men who were exiled from Capria because of their unwavering support for the elected order,” a slow smile crept over his face. It had a hard edge to it that warned anyone getting in his way was going to get hurt.

“The men who’ve been with him for a while, especially those old royalists settlers, aren’t going to be so easily convinced to turn their coats,” muttered Tremblay.

“I think we can deal with a little more than three thousand plus holdouts,” Captain Heppner shrugged dismissively, then his eyes hardened and the look he shot Tremblay’s way was enough to cut duralloy, “so long as the men invited into this planning session are willing to play their part to the utmost in the days ahead.”

“No one loves the elected order more than I, Sir,” Tremblay said with feeling, “Jason Montagne’s going to get us all killed if we don’t put a stop to him and soon. Right now he’s planning to take on the next best thing to a fully fledged battle-station with over three times our firepower and more than that in its ability to take a punch. To say nothing of all the pirate ships, including ships of the line we’ll have to deal with! He’s been deceived by that AI slave into thinking he can trust it over the advice of his own command staff!” Tremblay clenched his fist and struck the arm of his chair.

At this last statement the gathered officers in the room stirred like a hive of angry bees. “Man not machine,” growled a number of the assembled officers, closely followed by several more exclaiming, “Murphy take those blasted Montagnes!”

“It’s been my experience that most of the royals you encounter in this business are either fools or incompetents,” Heppner said with a nod and a shrug after the noise had died down, he smiled grimly, “they aren’t both at the same time.”

“Don’t count him out just because he looks like a smooth-faced royal fop, Captain. If you could have just seen him back when he still had all those scars on his face and was setting out to board the Imperial Strike Cruiser,” the Intelligence Officer shuddered, “This is one Montagne you underestimate at your own direct and personal peril,” he finished with feeling.

“I don’t care if he’s got magic in both hands and a spine made out of pure, unadulterated duralloy,” growled the Captain, “Jason Montagne Vekna, our very own Honorary Vice Admiral, the one and only Prince of Capria’s benighted royal house, isn’t going be standing in our way for very long.”

“Here, here, Captain,” agreed the gathered command staff. “To the Imps with him,” cursed the Lieutenant in charge of Supplies.

“Magic or not, he’s still got all those Lancers under Colonel Suffic stationed all over the ship,” Tremblay said in a low voice.

“You let us deal with the barbarians,” assured the Captain a savage smile flitting across his face, quickly followed by a dismissive wave of the hand.

Tremblay settled back into his chair.

“We have reached an accord?” Heppner said sweeping the table with his eyes. “The Montagne has to go?”

The growl that swept the room wasn’t just determined; it was hungry.

“I think I speak for every man here when I say that one little prince-cadet, no matter how royal his bloodline,” said the new Morale Officer, his lips twisting into a sneer, “can never stand between us and our resolve to reinstall the elected Parliament of Capria.”

“An accord has been reached,” said the Captain drawing himself up to attention. “I salute you,” he said crisply, then proceeded to do just that.

The gesture was returned by each and every man in the room, including Officer Tremblay.

“Now that Officer Tremblay has made clear where his loyalties lie, I think it’s time we spoke with one more person, a man who will be a crucial component of our upcoming operation,” continued the Captain before sitting back down behind his chair and pressing a button built into the desk.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, please allow me to introduce one of the most dedicated operatives in the fleet,” he said as the door slid back, “a man who has been on board the Lucky Clover for the better part of a year, and all the while he’s been loyally looking after Parliaments best interests.”

A common member of the crew with Armory patches on his arm walked into the room, drawing himself up rigidly to attention as he came to a stop inside the doorway.

“It is my understanding that you have positioned yourself in an area of the ship critical to any attempt to take back control of this battleship in the name of Parliament. You are currently assigned to the Armory,” said the Captain.

“I am, Sir,” the crewman from Armory replied staring straight ahead.

“I take it, that just like Lieutenant Tremblay here, you also have no issue with removing this would-be Montagne Admiral by any means that prove necessary,” the Captain asked mildly.

The Crewman’s mouth worked, “Him and his wife are harder to kill than a pair of cockroaches. Sabotage, air leaks, knock them off the hull or stomp ‘em flat, you can even drop a string of plasma grenades right under their feet, nothing does the trick.” The man’s lips twisted in a sneer. “The little blighter runs around like he’s Larry One reborn, and she’s so lost to reality that she actually seems to think she’s some kind of warrior queen. In my personal opinion, there’s no greater threat to Parliament and the cause of restoring Capria’s rightful form of Government to its proper place in planetary affairs than Jason Montagne and Akantha of Messene,” he said evenly. “You have my wholehearted support in any plan that involves his death or removal from power.”

Captain Heppner’s eyebrows slowly rose and he blinked in surprise. “It seems the pontsy young princeling has unplumbed depths,” he shook his head as if to clear it, “regardless, you’ve come to the right place, Agent Oleander,” he said evenly, “For that is exactly what we have in mind.”

“Mr. Tremblay,” the captain continued, turning to the former First Officer and current chief of the admiral’s staff, “tell us everything you know about the Admiral’s current battle plan. Someone who knows what they’re doing needs to be ready to pull this thing out of the fire, at the appropriate moment, of course.” The smile he turned on the Junior Lieutenant was anything but benevolent. In fact, it was sharp enough to cut duralloy.

“I think you’ll find that those of you who’ve been on this ship for the past year aren’t the only ones who are intimately familiar with this battleship,” the Captain said with a knowing grin, “nor is this Prince the first Montagne to take command of her. There are those of us who have served on this ship before and dealt with real princes of the old blood who were ten times the man and officer of this jumped up upstart; men who actually earned their rank and respect for their positions.”

“Of course, Captain,” Tremblay said crisply. He then started to lay out everything he knew for the men of the ship’s new Command Team.

Chapter 6: Miscommunication in the Admiral’s Quarters

There was a knock on the door to my cabin, but Akantha’s arms reached around to hold me before I could do more than turn over to see who it was.

I roused just enough to yell, “go away!” before rolling back over for comfort and a quick return to the realms of slumber. I was awake long enough to think It was nice being married before sinking back asleep.

Once again there was a knock.

My girl’s arms tightened convulsively, and suddenly it was all I could do to breath.

The effort required to stay breathing in the face of her upper body strength applied to my midsection was enough to jerk me back to life with a convulsive explosion of air.

Stupid underlings, they never knew when to stop knocking and let their Master and Commander sleep with his beautiful wife… then the very thought I’d just had jerked me the rest of the way awake as its implications made it through my still hazy consciousness. What the Hades was anyone doing knocking on my door when there was a perfectly good chime they could use?

My sudden desire to start hyperventilating was directly countered by the vice-like grip of my wife which, among other things, was compressing my lungs.

Tossing the weird blue blanket with intricate embroidery and native knot work woven all over it to the side, I made to get up but was still impeded by the arms of my ever-loving wife.

“Let go,” I yelped as she dragged me back down beside her and when this failed to do anything, grabbed hold of one of the hands currently holding me and gave it a pull.

Akantha muttered something in protest, but it was just a string of half mumbled native gibberish to me. Still, the intent was made clear by the tone of her voice: I was to lay back down and do so with all haste so she could keep using me like a teddy bear.

“Akantha,” I said firmly, “let me up,” when this also failed to produce an immediate change, I started a determined effort to pry her loose.

She was having none of it and snarled something under her breath before burying her head under the pillow.

As whoever it was had yet to blow down the door or in any in any other way blast it apart, my insides unclenched slightly and I figured I had some time to work on freeing myself, in a safe and relatively peaceful manner.

Since the current effort of pulling and tugging on her arms wasn’t getting me anywhere and (blast it!) whoever was outside was still pounding on the door, I did the only thing I was certain would cause her to let me go in a hurry.

Wiggling around until I had turned around in her grip and was facing her, I paused and then gently placed my hand on her back. This caused her to relax slightly.

Then I leaned over and started kissing and nuzzling her neck. A sleepy protest was my only response. It was only when I finally allowed my hands to start wandering, as if for another purpose entirely, that I got the reaction I’d been looking for.

There was a short stream of native words, the only one of which I was familiar with was ‘Men’ and then instead of continuing to hold onto me as if for dear life, I was forcefully and unceremoniously ejected from said bed.

Landing with a thump that did nothing except damage my in this case non-existent pride, I flashed the person hiding under our bed covers like some sort of burrowing creature a grin. Sometimes it was very nice being married.

The pounding on the door had taken on a slightly rhythmic nature by this point and I scowled. All thoughts of perhaps diving back into said bed to harass, wrestle with and perhaps dig out said burrowing creature for an entirely different activity, were immediately crushed.

Checking the location of the Minos Sword, in case I had to beat a hasty retreat, I grabbed the hold out blaster pistol under my pillow and held it behind my back.

Activating the door, I scowled out into the corridor when I saw the expected pair of battlesuited native guards standing to either side of the door and a mousy little brown girl from the Communications Section standing in the doorway.

“What!” I demanded in a voice closer to the bark of a recently thwarted husband than that of a stern and professionally Admiral.

The Communications Technician gulped, her eyes widening.

Realizing I was in one of those thin fabric native robes my girl had made clear I was to wear if I was going to sleep in her bed, I quickly cinched the cloth ties around my waist and adjusted the top portion so it was mostly closed. I was pretty sure I hadn’t flashed anything more revealing than my total lack of anything resembling chest hair, but with my wife still behind me in bed and in direct line of sight of said doorway, it paid to be extra careful. Extra careful with female visitors anyway.

The last time she’d been suspicious of me and a dalliance with another (non-existent) woman, she’d flown off the handle in a jealous rage complete with high explosives, and blown in the door before proceeding to personally total my last apartment. I needed a repeat of that like I needed a hole in the head.

Realizing the female crewman was still staring at me with wide eyes, I frowned. “Well?” I demanded turning my palms up for emphasis, “you have something for me?” It was only after I’d said those words that I realized how they could potentially be taken by the hopefully still slumbering burrow creature behind me.

A different kind of panic crossed the Technician’s features.

“We can’t talk out here,” she muttered, looking to either side, “we need to use as little electronics as possible, that’s why I knocked,” she mumbled raising a hand holding a metal multi-tool of some kind. From the looks of the handle, it was the very thing she’d been using to pound on the door with.

My eyebrows raised on their own and I glanced at the Lancers to either side of the door.

The male half of Akantha’s honor guard gave a subtle downward nod of his chin.

“Oookay,” I said slowly.

Before I had finished giving my agreement, the Comm Tech gave a bob of her head and careful to avoid contact with my pajama covered person, ducked past me and into my Quarters.

Slightly befuddled by this turn of events I shot another look at the Lancer and got another subtle nod.

Rolling my head to release some tension, I gave a shrug and followed the Tech into my quarters. When I saw her pull out a round mechanical device of some kind my eyes narrowed.

However, I was distracted from whatever it was she was doing with said device by the sight of Akantha pulling her head out from under the covers.

“World of Men, I hope you have good reason to bring another woman into our chambers,” she said in a low, threatening voice, “and it had best not involve the first purpose to cross my mind,” she finished, turning her hot and angry gaze on the (I now realized) surprisingly cute Communications Technician.

“What!” I exclaimed, “you think I—” I verbally stumbled to a halt before staring at her in dismay when she turned her fearsome gaze back on me.

“No one works that fast!” I exclaimed again, “I just stumbled out of bed to answer the door!”

The sudden whine issuing from the flat bottomed but otherwise mostly spherical object the Comm Tech had just placed on the table, interrupted us.

Sensing a sudden threat, I leveled my miniature blaster pistol. Wavering back and forth between pointing it at the Tech and then the device, I couldn’t decide which was the greater threat.

When it failed to change in pitch or do anything except produce an irritating whine, my pistol settled on the Technician.

For her part she was still too busy working on a handheld data slate to notice I was pointing a loaded blaster pistol at her.

Since she didn’t even seem to realize she was under threat from her Admiral by the way she was so focused on tapping away at her little hand held screen, I started to feel foolish and slowly lowered the blaster pistol until it was hanging at my side.

Lifting her head up the Tech smiled at me, then registered the hold out pistol in my hand for the first time and gave a start.

Shaking my head I thrust the pistol through the front of my robe-like pajamas, where the cloth strips were tied together.

“What is your purpose,” demanded Akantha, rolling out of bed and placing a hand on Bandersnatch.

The Communication Tech looked at me before answering.

I didn’t need to see the look Akantha was going to send my way after to know this was not an Admiral-helping response.

“You can say whatever it is,” I said hastily, “Akantha is cleared for whatever information you think is so important it can’t wait until after my sleep cycle.”

The Technician hesitated, biting her lip as she glanced back and forth between the two of us with deer-caught-in-the headlight like eyes. “Enough with the cloak and dagger,” I glared at the Tech. “Spit it out! The sooner you tell me whatever it is you think is so important, the sooner you can get out of here!”

Seeming to find her courage after this last instruction, the brown little Caprian technician nodded decisively.

“I was at my station performing a routine system update for units on standby when I noticed something unusual,” she paused to give weight to what she was about to say, “the long range program was already active,” she said triumphantly, “that’s why I had to take this to you personally and use the noise suppression field.”

I blinked. It seemed that the members of my communications department needed some training in the art of communication.

“What does this all mean,” I asked, using a tone of stupidity copied from one of the more dundering characters on the holo-vid. Then I dramatically struck my forehead with an open palm.

Not picking up on my holo-vid copied speech pattern, the Comm Tech looked at me quizzically.

“Explain the relevance of this finding and why you used a suppressor, because it all means less than nothing to me right now,” I said irritably.

The tech turned her head and eyed me out the corner of one eye as she searched to find out how serious I was.

The hard glare I gave her in reply made clear I was more than serious enough for her purposes.

“The long range program,” she said slowly as if speaking to a child, “runs the long range communications array.”

I shook my head. This was getting nowhere fast.

She then looked at me like I was stupid. It was look I was quite familiar with receiving from women. Akantha liked to flip that look at me quite often.

“The Long Range Communication’s Array,” she said, the emphasis on her words giving capital letters to the beginnings of each word, “you know Admiral, the same one that runs our ComStat Transmitter/Receiver array.”

I started. “What? Someone was trying to check if part of the ComStat Network was still up? FTL Communication is gone tech, a thing of the past,” I said shaking my head, “the Imperials self destructed the whole network. It was probably a routine test of some kind to make sure the array was still functional.”

“That’s what I thought too, Sir,” she said excitedly, “until I checked and realized we were receiving a transmission from outside the ship through that array,” at this little factoid I bolted upright.

“There’s another ship in the system?” I demanded.

“And shortly after that,” she continued, ignoring me, “the long range program booted up the long range array, and after exchanging automatic handshake protocols, it made a secure connection to a functional FTL relay station relay-program!”

I stared at her.

“What does this mean,” demanded Akantha, no doubt seeing how surprised I was and getting both interested and irritated.

“But the ComStat Network was destroyed! There aren’t any relay stations left!” I said in disbelief.

“That’s what I thought too, Admiral. But it looks like at least part of the network is still operational,” reported the Tech.

“What’s your name, tech,” I asked, realizing I didn’t even know this woman’s name.

“Lisa Steiner, Sir,” she replied blushing at this bit of attention from her Admiral.

“Lisa, you must be mistaken,” I assured her, trying to quell the excitement I was feeling at the thought of being back in contact with the rest of civilization. “Maybe this buoy malfunctioned,” I mused aloud, “which is quite interesting and we should probably check it out on the way back—”

“You don’t understand, Admiral,” she insisted, hopping back and forth from foot to foot. “The message itself was encrypted in an algorithm not in the database, but the message protocol was clear as could be. The original message originated outside the ship, and was relayed through at least six different FTL buoys,” she said agitatedly.

I stared at her stunned by the implication that the ComStat network might not be as defunct in the Spine as originally thought.

“You are saying that an oathbreaker on the Lucky Clover is using a long talker to speak with someone near another star?” demanded Akantha while I was still woolgathering over the advantages a fully functional ComStat Network would give my ship and any others in the fleet once we could link up to it.

I shook my head in amazement; while I was planning for the future, Akantha had zeroed in on the most important factor.

“Yes, my Lady,” the Technician said bobbing her head.

“Who?” she demanded of the smaller woman.

“That I don’t know, Lady Akantha,” she said for once sounding concerned, “I couldn’t break the communication from my console, and the long-range program wasn’t activated from the Flag Bridge.”

“If it wasn’t activated from the Flag Bridge, it could have been from anywhere in the ship,” I said with frustration.

“Not so Admiral,” she said shaking her head, “unlike the normal space arrays, the long range array can only be activated from a bridge console or directly at the array itself.”

“So someone had to go out and manually override the program, that’s what you’re saying,” I concluded, my mind already racing with plans on how to catch whoever it was that knew about the continued existence of part of the ComStat Network.

But the little tech was already shaking her head.

“From the array itself or a bridge console, Sir,” she argued.

But I didn’t see what was to argue about… Oh snap.

“If it wasn’t from the Flag Bridge it could have been activated from the…” I trailed off as the implications sank in.

“Correct, Admiral, it could have originated from the Command Bridge,” she explained, putting what could be the final nail in my great plans to catch the perpetrator. Blast that infernal Command Bridge; was this second bridge on my ship destined to be the bane of my present and future existence?

“And the suppression device,” I asked with a sinking sensation.

“I should have been alerted as soon as the long range program was activated,” said the Tech, “but someone disabled the watchdog program and used an advanced encryption not in my database for the message itself. If they can do that and bypass my own hardwired console….” she trailed off, looking uncertain.

But I was anything other than uncertain, “Then they can potentially do anything, perhaps even hack into our own wall based terminals,” I mused, looking at said terminal set in the wall of my personal quarters.”

“Yes, Sir,” the Tech said faintly, looking uneasy.

I shot her a penetrating look, “How effective is that suppression device? It’s an older model I presume,” I asked, leaving unsaid the fact that there were thousands of new personnel on the ship who might have brought much newer and more updated models to counter our aged security tech.

The Tech blushed, “It’s my personal unit, Admiral Montagne. I brought it with me at the start of our patrol. It was a top of the line unit back before we left Capria.”

I blinked, “So it’s not 50 years out of date, only about a year,” I paused, as what I wanted to say was that even that was too old to rely on, But in truth, what did I know about dedicated security technology, even communications security technology? The only person I knew who might be able to answer such questions was my current Chief of Staff. With the return of parliamentary forces in strength on board the Clover, going to him could very well be a serious mistake.

“I see,” I temporized. If I couldn’t go the Tremblay, then I couldn’t really go to anyone else on the ship right at the moment. I was just going to have to rely on the Technician here to do her best to recognize any dangers for me and take whatever countermeasures we could. For a moment I wanted to question whether I could even trust her, but that road let to paranoid inaction. No, she had come to me, so I was going to take her information and goodwill at face value.

“Is it possible to monitor these communications, and if possible copy them for later review, or even simply stop the other side from knowing a message was ever received or not sent in the first place,” I asked, but the Tech was already shaking her head.

“I don’t have the kind of training to even try something like that, we’d need a System Analyst for such a plan,” she replied.

Now it was my turn to shake my head in negation, “It’s too risky to involve another person.”

To my eyes the Tech nodded in agreement, but Akantha must have seen something different.

“What are you not saying,” she demanded of the Comm Tech.

I glanced over at my wife with the intent of upbraiding her for accusing the Tech, when my eyes snagged on her long slender legs. Her quite attractive long, slender legs. They were very white and well-defined.

I was only distracted for about a second, but that was long enough for the Tech to break down under the weight of my girl’s regard.

“I already asked Mike’s opinion before coming to speak with the, Admiral,” she mumbled.

Attention snapping away from my wife and back on the tech, “What?” I demanded.

“Sir,” she said staring past my shoulder at the wall and drawing herself up to attention, “this crewman did already speak with a Systems Analyst before taking the liberty of bringing this information to the Admiral, Sir,” she reported, sounding quite official.

“Who is this Mike,” demanded Akantha, still holding the sheathed and upside down Bandersnatch by the hilt as she stalked over to look the Technician right in the eye.

“No one, milady,” said the Technician.

“No one,” Akantha asked, arching a brow.

The Tech blushed.

“Ah, I thought as much,” my wife said with satisfaction.

I was still out to sea. I mean, it was interesting information and all, but its exact relevance to our current situation was slightly tangential to the main point: the knowledge that the ComStat network might not have been entirely destroyed was not contained to the people in this room. How my wife had picked up on it in the first place…was beyond me.

“Inform this System Analyst you are seeing, this Mike,” I said coldly, and trying for my most severe senior Admiral, “that information regarding a functional FTL buoy and transmissions to and from this ship are Secret Information and not to be shared with anyone else. The circle of knowledge is to be kept to the four of us.”

“Yes, Admiral,” she replied, going pale as a sheet.

“That said…” I paused drawing out the tension deliberately, “Good work Lisa, you are to be commended,” at her look of shock and pleased surprise, I nodded my approval, “Not only did you find this, you brought it directly to me. That took courage.”

“Yes, it was very brave,” agreed the taller woman holding an ancient sword in her hand, who had a ship-wide reputation for using it on those who offended her.

I cut in before Akantha could derail this conversation. “Since this Mike is already aware of the situation, you are to use your judgment to decide whether to involve him any further. However, if at all possible I want this information leak traced and stopped.”

“Barring physically disconnecting the actual Array,” Lisa began doubtfully.

“No, we’re not going to let them…whoever they are, know we’re aware of exactly what they’re up to,” I said shaking my head, “you let me worry about the array itself; I want you and Mike to focus on the programming side. Both cracking the message you’ve already intercepted, as well as intercepting any new ones!”

“Yes, Sir,” Crewman Steiner said with a salute.

“Dismissed, Crewman,” I said firmly.

“Thank you, Sir,” she said before deactivating her suppressor and departing the room.

“You know what this means, Jason,” Akantha asked in a quiet voice.

“Yes, my love,” I said tightly, “They’re moving against us and they’re in contact with someone outside the ship…someone they think can help them.”

My mind raced as I tried to devise a way to thwart their efforts, and a light bulb went off in my head. Using my dataslate, I pulled up the spec’s for the Lucky Clover’s communication’s systems and quickly found what I was looking for.

“What is your plan?” asked Akantha after a silent minute or two of watching me input commands to the slate.

“I have a little assignment for the good Colonel,” I explained after getting confirmation from Colonel Suffic that he had received my instructions. “But for now, we should probably get back to sleep.”

We shared a long look before acting in silent unison and doing as I had suggested.

Chapter 7: Spalding in Medical

He was the very model of a recently upgraded Space Engineer.

Spalding stared around him with a squint. Stuck back in sickbay, by each and every one of Saint Murphy’s Misfiring Engines, he harrumphed.

“What a terrible place for an Engineer,” he groaned through pursed lips. As he adjusted his posture in bed, he heard the whine of a servo and the footboard of his hospital bed went flying.

“Substandard parts,” he exclaimed, scowling down at his left foot, “only in Medical would they saddle an Engineer with such terribly out of tune prosthetics.”

At the sound of rapid footsteps outside his door, the old Engineer groaned. “Now what?”

A grey haired Doctor and a Nurse (with an entirely-too-sweet-looking disposition to belong in this rat’s nest of broken dreams and incompetence) rounded the corner.

“Junior Lieutenant Spalding, I should have known,” Dr. Presbyter frowned.

“Just what kind of low budget operation are you running around here anyway, Doc,” the wily old Engineer said fiercely.

Presbyter cocked an eyebrow.

“I beg your pardon,” the doctor said mildly, “our hospital beds are some of the finest in the database, and some of the best I’ve ever seen, I assure you.” If words could cut, the Doc’s would have been a scalpel shaving layers of skin from this particular patient.

But Spalding was no ordinary patient, so he waved this off irritably. Being scolded by the Medical staff was for sick men and pikers more interested in making time with that nice looking Nurse than an ornery old Engineer who’d spent entirely too long in this bed already.

“Not the bed,” he cried shaking a finger at the Doctor, “it’s these bloomin’ legs you went and saddled me with: they’re clearly factory defective!”

“A little time acclimating to your prosthesis as the neural connections between your new legs and your natural wetware stabilizes is only to be expected,” Presbyter growled. “That doesn’t mean that they’re substandard, or that you should consider yourself free to destroy our medical equipment any time you take it into your foolish old head!”

“My fool head is it,” Spalding shouted, grabbing a hold of his right leg by the knee and raising it in the air for everyone to see. “They’re too blasted long! As even a man with his head stuck his unmentionables should be able to see.”

“Contain yourself, Mr. Spalding. This medical unit is not a psych ward, nor am I the sort of doctor who is willing to tolerate such outrageous behavior,” Presbyter said coldly.

“And they whine something fierce, every single time I move them,” Spalding continued scornfully, bestowing the full weight of his angry disregard on the factory defective legs they’d saddled him with.

“Those legs were selected for you by members of your own department,” Presbyter disagreed. “Besides, you’re the engineer! If you don’t like them, fix them up when you get out of here, or simply exchange for another set and we’ll do a reinstall,” he said, turning to leave the room.

Spalding opened his mouth to read the Doctor the riot act. Who was this man to turn his back on one of his most damaged patients; a man he fouled up something fierce while the old engineer was stuck unconscious on the operating table?

Then he felt a hand on his upper shoulder.

“Really, it does take a while to get used to them,” the Nurse explained in a soft voice.

Terrence Spalding rounded on her, but in the face of such compassion as he found on her face, he was temporarily put off his stride.

“They still need fixing,” he finally grumped.

Her voice took on a practiced, soothing tone, “As soon as you’re cleared by Medical—“

“—Not later, NOW!” he bellowed. “Just get me the tools and I’ll take a look at this mess of hardware slapped on me.”

The Nurse shook her head in negation. “I’m afraid the Doctor has strictly forbidden the import of any repair tools into this room for the duration of your stay,” she soothed with a smile to take the sting out of her words, but the angry engineer would be blasted if he was put off by a pretty face.

“I hope I’m not interrupting,” someone said by the door.

“Of all the foolish space rot, who does that Doctor think he is….” Spalding trailed off, his eyes catching on the new woman in the doorway. All thoughts of his anger with Medical and their attempt to utilize base trickery and deception to befuddle a wily old engineer like himself flew out of his brain in an instant.

Built as stout as a brick and with a no nonsense look about her, he could tell this was a woman who brooked no slackers lightly. On the wrong side of middle age, her grey was hair done up in a long, flowing bob at the back of her head. The civilian work coveralls were only an added bonus, as far as Spalding was concerned.

“Lieutenant Spalding,” she began, looking at him questioningly. He found it hard to imagine how many other old cyborgs medical had hacked together that she could possibly confuse him for someone else, but her dark brown eyes sucked him in and kept him from commenting on it.

He gave him an angry shake and started to turn to roast the nice little Nurse up one side and down the other, when his eyes arrested on the side of the newcomer’s uniform.

It was at the moment he saw the emblem of the Fraternal Order of the Wrench and Sprocket emblazoned on the arm of her civilian work coveralls that he knew he was smitten. For a long while, he merely gaped at her.

“Careful, you’ll catch flies,” she said sounding amused.

His mouth snapped shut and he took himself to task for staring like a fool.

“Aye, I’m Terrence Spalding,” he replied gruffly.

She gave a no nonsense nod and stepped into his room. “Glenda Baldwin, Construction Manager for the Multiplex Constructor,” she introduced, sticking out her hand.

Perplexed, he took her hand and gave a quick shake. “Sweet Murphy, what did they do to your eye,” she cocked an eyebrow in dismay, “it looks like it’s entirely out of alignment.”

Spalding opened his mouth for an angry retort, wondering if she had something against unwilling cyborgs, but his growing head of steam was cut off just before it could get going. He stopped in confusion, and he could feel his ornery old heart melted just a bit.

“Pikers from Medical,” he said instead, gesturing around the room widely to indicate the entire medical unit, “I told them something felt wrong, but they don’t like listening to a mere Engineer like myself when it comes to high and mighty medical equipment,” he scowled.

She stepped over and placed a firm hand on his head, forcing him to lay back down in bed and pulled out a sensor wand in the other hand.

“Here, let me just take a look at that,” Glenda Baldwin insisted in such a no nonsense voice that he let her have her way.

“The migraines were something terrible the first few days,” he grumbled, “I told them to take a look at it, but they said the autocorrect feature would kick in soon and a few days later it seemed to get better, so I just figured I’d take a look at it as soon as I busted out of this joint,” he explained.

“Hold still for a moment,” she said, her tongue between her teeth as she produced a precision diagnostic tool from her pocket.

“Now wait just a second, lass,” he started, but before he could say anything else the tool blocked his entire field of vision and a sharp pain went through his head like a pile driver as everything in his right field of vision went black.

“Got it,” she announced with satisfaction, waving her trophy (his right eye) around with apparent satisfaction.

“Confounded woman,” he cursed, clutching at the side of his head.

She rounded on him and shoved the hand holding his eye in his face.

“Watch your tongue, you old space dog. It’s not like I don’t know one end of a diagnostic scanner from another, I’ve only been at this job for the past thirty five years and I’m not about to tolerate any lip,” she barked ironically.

“Thirty five,” he sneered in response, “why, I’ve been in this business for more than six decades!”

“This was my second career path,” Baldwin quipped defensively, “I can’t help it if my planet didn’t have a university growing up; I had to start out as a simple air-car mechanic first.”

“I’m not judging,” he hastened to assure her, “went mustang myself back in the day, don’t you know and…” Spalding trailed off with horror as she started taking his eye apart. “Hey,” he exclaimed with outrage, “careful with that now, that’s me eye you’re foolin’ with there!”

“Substandard piece of junk,” she cursed.

“See,” Spalding agreed triumphantly, rounding on the Nurse, “I told you…” he trailed off, realizing that the nurse must have left sometime during the past few minutes.

“Let me see that,” he scowled thunderously and tried to swipe the eye out of her grasp, but his depth perception was off with only one eye and he grabbed hold of her diagnostic wand instead.

“What do you think you’re doing,” Baldwin demanded.

“If you’re going to keep a hold of my eye, I’m going to use this here diagnostic and take a good hard look at these legs,” he glared at her.

“I don’t tolerate poachers trying to walk off with my tools,” she snapped irritably, matching him glare for glare.

“And just how am I supposed to walk off with anything, when I’m stuck in this bed due to a pair of malfunctioning droid legs!” he retorted, rolling his good eye as he threw back the blanket on his bed. Leaning over, he picked up his knee and started checking it with a diagnostic wand.

“Don’t you have a dedicated scanner,” he complained when the wand failed to directly interface with the chips in his leg.

“That’s disgusting,” she said as her face began to turn green before grabbing his blanket and tossing it back across his waist.

“I can’t help it if they put the evacuation port in the front instead of the back,” he protested. “Blasted quacks in Medical get it all twisted around.”

“Without the sense Murphy gave a turnip,” she said looking at the ceiling as if for inspiration.

“Now now, Lass,” he replied absentmindedly, as he finally managed to get the diagnostic wand to interface with his right leg.

“Who you calling lass, you old fuddy duddy,” she sniffed.

“Why I never,” Spalding sputtered, “a fuddy duddy is it!”

She folded her arms and he saw a chip fall out of the eye she was still working on.

“Careful with that,” he shrilled.

“Watch your tone with me, you old coot,” she warned, leaning down to pick up the chip. Then, seemingly just to spite him, she proceeded to roll the chip across her knuckles as if it were an old-style metal coin, and she some kind of mechanical magician.

“Why I’ve half a mind to get up out of this bed,” he growled, swinging his legs over the side.

“What are you going to do, you malingering old slacker,” she sniffed scornfully.

“A slacker!” he roared, and before he knew it the legs that hadn’t been worth a pint of spent oil were suddenly functional for the first time since he woke up. Towering over the infernal woman, he jammed his finger in her face.

“And he says those legs don’t work worth fig, which is why he has to steal my diagnostic scanner,” Baldwin said angrily, pushing his hand aside and snatching her diagnostic wand back. “If this isn’t the worst sort of slacking I’ve seen in my sorry old life, then it’s pretty blasted close!”

Spalding sputtered, making an aborted attempt to retrieve the wand before giving it up as a zero sum game. Besides, his heart wasn’t really in it. He wasn’t really a tool poacher after all; he’d just needed to borrow it for a few mikes, and it’s not like he could have made it as far as the doorway of his room until his legs started working properly.

There was a knock on the door and Gants came into the room, a jaunty set to his stride.

The smile on the face of the head of the Armory department slowly wilted.

“Hi chief, it’s good to see your legs are finally working right,” he said brightly.

Ms. Baldwin gave a noisy disbelieving sniff in response and pointedly turned back to dismantling his plucked eye.

Spalding purpled.

“What’s going on here, Sir,” Gants continued much more cautiously, eyeing Spalding’s disassembled eye with alarm.

“It’s this-this-this… woman, Gants! Why, she…” he trailed off incoherently.

“I know a man who’s ready to get out of Medical and back to some honest work when I see one,” she raised an eyebrow, looking pointedly at the Chief Engineer. “Raise four children and sixteen grandchildren, and you know sandbagging when you see it.”

“You see what I have to put up with in here, Gants,” Spalding declared angrily, pointing an accusing finger at the woman. “I’m barely off my deathbed and here she comes barging in. Before I’ve said as much as two words, she rips me peeper right out of me head!”

“It’s a defective chip, with a little gunk around the miniature servo,” she said stiffly, and then set his eye down on the bedside table. “Fix it and you’ll be fine.”

“Then she calls me a tool poacher, can you believe that,” he continued in a rising voice.

“I see—” replied Gants as he stepped to the corner of the room, safely out of the way. “Hello Ms. Baldwin, Mr. Spalding,” he tried to restart the conversation.

Both the Chief Engineer and the Construction Manager ignored him.

“I originally came to ask after your health and request your opinion on a few engineering matters regarding the Little Gift you lot lifted off the Imperials,” she said coldly, “but since your legs appear to be suddenly working and your floppy old tongue is clearly allocated towards yelling and shouting instead of reasoned discourse among fellow engineers, I think I’d leave instead,” she tossed data slate down beside his halfway disassembled eye. “Just in case you suddenly come back to your senses, the data’s right there.”

The old Engineer’s ears perked up at the thought of getting his hands on some of the design specs belonging to the Imperial Strike Cruiser. “Now Glenda me girl, there’s no need to storm off in a huff,” Spalding replied, “I’m sure we can hash out our differences like men.” The doctors had refused to let him have so much as a dataslate, and naturally his eyes shot over to the device she’d ever so carelessly left on his table.

“The name is Miss Baldwin to the likes of you, Mr. Spalding,” she ground out, “and as should be obvious even to a cyclopsed old reprobate like you, I am no man. Nor am I interested in hearing any of your excuses!

“I didn’t mean anything by that,” Spalding exclaimed. For a moment there he’d almost forgot he was talking to a woman, but there was no need to tear him apart over and honest mistake. “And surely a fellow member of the Fraternal Order of the Wrench and Sprocket could be a little more understanding than this—”

Unfortunately, the female engineer was already too far gone for the likes of him to smooth things over. If only I’d been born better with women, he thought unhappily.

“Don’t you dare bring up the Order to try and bail you out of this,” she growled. “I’m no girl to be talked to so familiarly, Mr. Spalding, I have a family back home and sixteen grandchildren,” Glenda declared with some heat, dragging out a holo-picture with the images of her extended family.

Spalding observed with interest that while there were children and grandchildren, he didn’t see a man of the right age in the photo.

So saying she turned on her heel and stalked out of the room.

Spalding stared after her, admiring the flame resistant material of her work suit and the way her tool belt was designed to weight balance and auto adjust as its wearer was moving. At the sight of all those fancy new tools (and by new, he meant top of the line), not unused as these were clearly the tools of a hard working engineer, he stared enviously. There were no decorative trophy tools riding on that set of perfectly wide hips.

Then he blinked.

“What about me eye, lass!” he called after her when he realized she was leaving and the job was still only half done.

“I’m sure such a complete professional as yourself can figure it out,” she tossed it over her shoulder on the way out.

“With no bloody tools!” he shouted after her in protest.

She laughed mockingly.

“I hear they put a multi-tool in your left hand; it’s all over the station, so use that,” she replied scornfully.

“A Multi-tool!” he yelled with outrage, “that’s hitting below the belt!” But she was already gone, and all he could do was stomp from one side of the room to the other and curse the doctors that had removed all his hair and replaced half his head with metal.

Stomping over to the sink, he peered into the mirror, and then shook his head. The right side of his skull was metal from just above the gaping hole that was his empty eye socket halfway to the back of his head.

He bellowed wordlessly.

This was the first time he had used a full length mirror to observe the loss of not only his beloved hairdo, but all of his hair entirely.

“They’ve taken the last of me beloved hair, Gants,” he said unhappily.

Spalding scowled at his bald looking chrome dome. The parts that were not actually chrome gleamed almost as brightly in the medical light as if they were, as there was not a single remaining hair follicle in sight.

No wonder the last conversation had gone so poorly, he convinced himself. With his incredible ‘do gone, he was just another washed-up old engineer; there was nothing left to attract the attention of the ladies.

Gants nodded and opened his mouth as if to say something and then silently closed it. Gesturing to the door, Gants gave him a quizzical look.

“What was that all about, Chief?” he sounded concerned.

Spalding turned to face the younger man, and he felt a tugging sensation somewhere in the vicinity of his recently rebuilt heart at the thought of Glenda’s perfectly arranged tool belt.

“I think it’s love,” he finally admitted.

Chapter 8: Spotted!

“Admiral, we’re about as close as we’re going to get before they spot us,” the voice of the lead Sensor Officer cut in.

You’d think that these words would have filled me with anxiety and caused all my insides to clench up tight but actually quite the opposite was the case. Two days of near sleepless nights while we coasted in on what our Navigator and Helmsman called a ballistic course had worn me out. I no longer had the energy to get beside myself with anxiety.

“Thank you, Sensors,” I said approvingly. It was nice to see backs straighten with pride at my words over in the sensor section. If a few words from me were able to help, I was more than willing to dispense them. As for myself, getting past the worrisome might-go-wrongs and solidly back into the reality of the now was a big relief. I hadn’t been sure how much more of this waiting game I could take. I was used to jumping in, raising some cane and jumping right back out again once my work was done. This incessant creeping around like some enviro-varmint trying to sneak into the mess-hall for a few crumbs of cheese was unfamiliar.

“I’d like to point out for the umpteenth and perhaps last chance we’ll get, that we could still change course and make like a yellow-bellied coward even now, and turn around pointing our nose out-system,” Tremblay said tightly, “we’d probably make it out without more than a few scratches.”

“And be pursued by every penny ante pirate who scented indecision and incompetence in the air,” I asked rhetorically.

“Admiral, if we bug out now they probably won’t even know we were here,” Tremblay entreated.

My First Officer was clearly undermining my command, but I’d learned back in the Royal Court that the best way to deal with flagrant subversives like Tremblay was to orchestrate their public humiliation at a later date, so I bit my tongue since I was focused on bigger problems.

“We’re already committed,” I said dismissively.

“No we’re not!” Tremblay nearly shouted before visibly stopping himself. After he had taken a deep breath, he continued curtly, “I apologize, Admiral. That was out of line.”

I nodded graciously. “Don’t worry Mr. Tremblay, if everything’s gone according to plan, then the Merchant Captains already deployed the majority of their Royal Marines several hours ago,” I said shortly, as I neurotically checked the main screen for updates.

“What! What’s this?” Tremblay blurted, his face turning red, with what looked suspiciously like rage.

“If you would like to ride this one out in the brig…” I trailed off threateningly with a meaningful look to the pair of lancers posted by the blast doors.

Tremblay appeared to regain a measure of his composure. “This wasn’t part of the plan, Admiral,” he said, completely ignoring my magnanimous offer.

“Officer Laurent, Glue and myself made a few little modifications to the plan we shared with the rest of the command staff,” I explained, making a throw away gesture with my right hand, “nothing that significantly changes the general outline you’re familiar with. The broad sweeps are still the same.”

“Glue,” Tremblay said grimly, “you felt free to share your plans with that genetically engineered monstrosity and ask for its input on our battle plan, but didn’t think to include your own Chief of Staff?”

“Chin up, CoS,” I said using a diminutive of his title as Chief of Staff, one I’d just come up with on the fly, “our Tactical Officer assures me he’s quite bright.”

“You’re going to get a lot of good men killed today, Admiral,” Tremblay said, sounding close to the edge.

I turned to level a stare on my former First Officer, current Chief of Staff and general all around official right hand man. I’m not talking about an itty bitty stare; this was a full-on frontal assault type stare. “Maybe if you’d shown the least bit of willingness and half of the same energy you’ve put into trying to stop this attack and tried to help make the thing a success, there would have been less likelihood of that eventuality. As it is, anytime you feel you can’t in good conscience carry out your duties as my Chief of Staff, you can consider yourself relieved,” I said in a voice as cold as space Ice.

“You couldn’t drag me away,” Tremblay said matching me glare for glare before abruptly looking away.

“Finally some fighting spirit, Mr. Tremblay,” I said mockingly, then after a moment spent regaining my composure, “let’s keep our energies focused on the real enemy out here: the murderous pirates who’ve been raping their way across the Border Worlds, and not on each other. There’s no foe we can’t beat if we work together,” I finished, making sure to say that last sentence loud enough to be heard across the bridge.

I thought it was a rather nice sentiment to express right at the current moment, and from the subtle reactions of the various members of the bridge crew within my line of sight, I believe it was successful.

Several more tense minutes passed.

“There she goes, Admiral,” exclaimed one of the Sensor Operators, “The first Merchant Conversion just completed a micro-transfer; she’s within standard hyper-emergence range of the station according to the information you provided us, Admiral!”

“Steady on Sensors,” Warrant Officer Laurent ordered, striding over to the sensor pit.

“The Second ship has also transferred into the regular pirate shipping lane for a standard approach vector to the Omicron,” reported another sensor operator.

“And there they go, Sir,” reported the first Sensor Operator, “the Merry Lucy has just fired on Vekna’s Pride.”

“We’re starting to receive broadband transmissions from the two ships, Sir,” reported the External Communications Operator with a smile, “it sounds like everything’s going according to script, at least so far.”

“Patch them in live to my console, Communications,” I instructed in my most serious Admiral’s voice.

“Yes, Sir,” said the Ex. Comm Operator, “patching the live feed in now.”

“Good work,” I complimented even as the voices of the two Captains started to come in loud and clear over the mini-speaker system built into the Admiral’s chair, or Throne as I tended to think of it.

“There’s no need to try and kill me just for attacking ya,” exclaimed the voice of the first fake pirate and real life Caprian Skipper.

“I’ve got shareholders to worry about, you fool,” said the Second Skipper sounding dire as he continued, “dealing with your kind is expensive, and I’m on a budget.” This last was followed by a hail of poorly aimed laser fire between the two ships; deliberately ill-aimed laser fire.

“Who are these share holders you’re so beholden to?” demanded the first voice, scorn dripping from him, “what kind of pirate are you anyway?”

The second captain chuckled over the comm., “My crew are my shareholders, but then I suppose an uneducated person such as yourself has never heard of the term equal shares.”

Another barrage of laser fire plinked back and forth between the ships.

Then out of the blue.

“Stay out of this Omicron, that soon to be navigation hazard over there is about to feel the wrath of my main guns!” barked the first skipper.

“I’ll split the loot with anyone who helps me kill or capture his ship,” roared the second skipper.

“We’re not getting the tight beam broadcast from the Omicron to the freighters, Admiral,” said the Ex. Comm operator, “only what the two merchant conversions are broadcasting in the clear.”

There was a pause as the two merchant ships maneuvered around each other as if searching for an advantage.

“How long do you really expect this ruse to work,” muttered Tremblay, stepping closer to the Throne and lowering his voice.

“Hopefully just long enough for us to get within weapons range of the station without being spotted,” I replied tightly.

“Only in your dreams,” Tremblay snorted derisively.

I nodded and said nothing, knowing he was absolutely right.

“A number of smaller ships have detached from the station and set a course for the merchant conversions,” reported one of the Sensor Operators.

“What about the heavies. Any cruiser classes or the Blood Reaver battleships,” demanded Tremblay.

“Nothing yet, First Officer…” the Sensor Operator paused and then coughed, “I mean Chief of Staff.”

“Steady on men, there’s no need to let your head run away in the excitement,” Warrant Laurent said sternly from his position in the Tactical Pit.

“How long until we achieve weapons range on the station,” I asked tightly, no longer able to contain myself. It was either start asking questions or start squirming in my chair, and squirming was definitely out of the question. I might not know as much as I’d like about this whole Admiraling business but I had that part down cold: never let the subordinates see you sweat, especially not when your right hand man is loudly proclaiming the foolishness of your plan to all and sundry. Thanks Tremblay.

“15 minutes, Admiral,” said the Ex. Comm Tech.

I put my hand down along my thigh and clenched the fingers of my right hand. We were close, all we needed was a few more minutes.

“Admiral, I’m sensing a power surge in two of the three pirate battleships. It’s the ones that are still fully assembled,” exclaimed a Sensor Operator.

Heads jerked around on the Flag Bridge.

“What!” demanded Tremblay, pausing only long enough to shoot me a raw and angry look before launching himself toward the pit.

This wasn’t the end of the line, I reminded myself sternly. Thanks to Glue and Laurent, not to mention a few little additions of my own at the last minute, we still had a move or two left even if they spotted us. The plan, as devised by the three of us, almost depended on us to be spotted.

“Incoming transmission, Admiral,” barked the Ex. Comm.

“What? Who from?” I snapped. “The Merchant ship Captains were specifically instructed not to contact us until after we’d engaged the station,” I growled furiously.

“It’s not coming from the merchant conversions! The transmission is coming from the direction of the Omicron…” there was a pause, then the Technician continued in a shocked tone, “one of the Blood Reaver Battleships is requesting to talk with Admiral Montagne!”

“What?” I asked dumbfounded, “They’re asking for me by name now?”

“Your fame seems to have spread far and wide, Cousin,” Bethany said hatefully, “every piece of gutter trash in the spaceways seems to have heard about you and your famously successful anti-piracy patrols.”

I glanced over, surprised to see her on the bridge. She must have snuck in while my back was turned, which should not have surprised me, given our previous encounter which culminated with her blade in my back. I wondered briefly how she got onto the Flag Bridge.

“Get that woman off my bridge before I do something we’ll all regret later,” I snarled. “Lock her in her room until further notice!” I watched only long enough to see a pair of Lancers promptly respond to my orders.

“You’re sure they’re asking for me?” I demanded after Bethany had been taken from the Flag Bridge.

The Tech nodded. “Yes Admiral, and—”

“Light up the main screen,” I yelled over the top of the Communications Tech, “Go active with every sensor we’ve got, and take our fusion reactors out of standby, I want everything alive and burning.

“Yes, Admiral,” said Tactical Officer Laurent, “going live with active signals. We’re about to light up like a Christmas tree,” he said with a harsh chuckle, “those pirates are going to be urinating in their boots as soon as they see us.

“No doubt they’ll think we’re part of a Confederation Task force about to rain some pain down on their heads,” I said darkly, once again speaking over the Comm Tech’s efforts to speak. Other than knowing the pirates were aware of our plans, I really didn’t need anything more from communications right at the moment. The last thing I needed was to be distracted by pirate bluster.

“I’ve got a positive match on two of the three battleships docked with the Omicron, Sir,” one of the Sensor Operators said in disbelief and then stopped, staring at his screen.

“Well what is it man, spit it out,” said Tremblay, in a harsh tone, striding over to the pit.

“See for yourself, Sir,” the Sensor man said to Tremblay.

For his part my Chief of Staff looked down at the sensor screen in disbelief.

“Well what is it,” I demanded, not liking this look of dumbfounded amazement and horror stealing across the face of my former first officer.

“The computer has a 100% positive match, Admiral,” Tremblay said in a strangled voice, “it’s the Royal Rage and Queen Abella.”

I looked at him brow furrowed, I could see the effect this news had on the older members of the bridge crew but myself and, a quick glance confirmed, the rest of the younger members of the crew were at a complete loss here.

Tremblay looked at me in disbelief.

“Those two ships were sent to the breakers almost 50 years ago! They’re Caprian ships, not knockoffs created with our schematics,” exclaimed Tremblay.

I sat back stunned at this little nugget of information.

The Communications Tech took advantage of this brief lull to finally get his message out. “A pirate battleship identifying itself as the Vineyard is requesting a com-link, Sir. He’s still asking for you by name.”

Chapter 9: Secret Plans vs. An Enemy Revealed

“Put him on then,” I shouted in sheer frustration at all these, preconception shaking, interruptions, “I think it’s time we put the Fear of Larry into these pirate scum, who think they can get away with putting their hands on Caprian built warships!”

That’s when I received the next mind-shattering revelation of the day.

For on the main screen popped up the image of this Vineyard’s pirate captain. Balding, equipped with a stereotypical patch over one eye and a scar trailing above and below the covered portion in what appeared to be one continuous line, he also had a string of staggeringly expensive Fire Opals chained together and linked through his ears with studs and piercings. But neither this nor the fact that he looked like your average brown skinned Caprian was the mind blowing part.

Well… he was a stereotypical ‘royal Caprian,’ but still, that part could conceivably have been predicted…or at least glossed over in favor of a good head of steam. No, what took every preconceived notion I had about the universe, and Caprian SDF naval service, and stood it on its head was… I shook my head and took a second, then a third look, still unable to believe what my eyes were telling me.

“Hello, Nephew. I hear you’ve been a very naughty boy, joy riding around in my old Battleship and causing all kinds of trouble,” the Pirate Captain on the screen gave a nasty looking grin. “Give it up now, Son, and I promise my Blood Reavers will go easy on you,” said the Captain of the Vineyard, who it also appeared from the way he was talking, was the Master of the Blood Reaver Fleet, a Pirate King and general all around the baddest bad guy of the space lanes.

I sat back stunned.

“You’re dead,” I said in disbelief. My mind utterly unable to absorb what I was seeing.

“Did you know about this,” Trembaly demanded, turning a furiously disappointed look at me. “Is this all some kind of big Montagne Family secret?” he shouted.

I transferred my stare to Tremblay. Still stunned by what I was seeing on the screen, and if anything relieved to be able to look away.

“I won’t stand by and let you sell us out to pirates, Jason Montagne,” roared Tremblay, clawing for his sidearm. As if through a distance, I watched as Laurent came over quickly as he and Tremblay wrestled for control of a handheld blaster.

On screen, the Pirate raised his eyebrows and made a self deprecating little wiggle of the fingers.

“So you do recognize me. I’d wondered if I made it into the history books or not,” the Pirate King grinned, the expression on his face slowly morphing into the barest hint of a smugly superior sneer. “Having my crew throw me into the waste recycler for all of Capria to see, on world-wide holo-vid no less was a nice touch, wouldn’t you say?” When I failed to say anything, he continued without missing a beat, “But personally, I like to believe that getting away clean with a trio of Caprian Battleships was an even better encore,” Jean Luc Montagne said with a smile. The smugness present in that expression was enough to take a less practiced person’s breath away.

“Nothing to say?” he inquired mildly, “no witty retort, cunning little aside or smart conversational barb you’d like to toss my direction? Nothing to say to your old Uncle Jean Luc,” asked a former childhood hero, a man who through his singular example had inspired me ever since I had stepped on board this ship.

Although, it seemed I had known less than the whole story. His example of being thrown into the waste recycler by a mutinous crew, or alternately retiring to another sector to live out his life on a vineyard growing grapes had not been entirely accurate. He may have moved to another sector alright, but the Vineyard he had ‘retired’ to had been nothing more than one of the biggest heists in Spineward history!

“I see rumors of your demise have been greatly exaggerated, Uncle,” I said, forcing a smile. As it has a tendency to do under stress, my mouth took on a life of its own, “Although I must say, when I heard that you’d retired to life on a vineyard somewhere in the galaxy, I never suspected the type of Vineyard you’d been imagining,” I smirked condescendingly. “Well played, Uncle. Well played,” I finished, slowly clapping my hands.

Jean Luc’s smile soured ever so slightly and at that time, in that particular moment, I have to say that scrap of bitterness did more to lift my flagging spirits and sinking morale than anything so far.

“Surrender now, Nephew, and maybe I’ll even go so far as let you and your crew return to Capria,” Jean Luc said, his tone turning serious.

“And let a perfectly good battle plan go to waste?” I asked incredulously. “Surely you can’t expect me to just pick up my chips and go home with my tail between my legs at this late stage of the game.”

“Right now, I’m feeling generous,” Jean Luc retorted, his eyes boring into mine through the main screen, “I don’t promise my mood will hold.”

“You’re a veritable master of deception, Uncle. You even managed to deceive your own crew into thinking you’d retired to a simpler and more peaceful life,” I said, noting that the fight between Tremblay and Laurent had ended with Tremblay surrendering the weapon to our ship’s tactical officer. “Why should I believe a word you say?”

“Because if you don’t, you’re all dead men walking; like the dodo-bird, you’re just too stupid to realize it yet,” Jean Luc said flatly. “And I wouldn’t be so sure about what my former crew was and was not aware of if I were you, my young, unborn-at-the-time fool.”

I shrugged eloquently, my movements saying louder than words how little I cared about the last couple points he had tried to make.

“It’s your funeral,” Jean Luc said, narrowing his lone eye and shrugging, “but you can’t say I didn’t try.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that. You’re not the only one with surprises,” I retorted, trying to sound superior. It’s not so much that I was feeling superior, but I figured this was about as sure-fire of a way as I could come up with to irritate the man. He was, after all, a trained military officer and seasoned pirate king, and who was I? A young, relatively untrained ‘palace party boy’ suddenly thrust into command. That I never really partied that much didn’t negate the fact I was untrained.

Jean Luc threw back his head and laughed, “Son, there’s not a move you can make that I haven’t already considered,” he paused, spitting out a few more chuckles before settling down to a broad smile as he looked at me, “considered, factored into my own planning and already countered,” he added, shaking his head piteously.

“If you’ve already got me all figured out, what need do we have to even to talk about it,” I asked, miming putting my wrists together so I could be cuffed and led away to prison, “let’s just send me away to traitor’s row and skip all the fun stuff in between.”

“You’re about to make one of the universe’s classic blunders,” Jean Luc said his nasty smile returning.

“Oh,” I said putting an entire freight of meaning into that one word and arching an eyebrow. For the first time it registered that he was sitting in a chair that rivaled my own Admiral’s Throne for sheer size, but mastered it my an order of magnitude on the unadulterated opulence scale.

“Oh yes,” he replied, the corner of his mouth curling.

“And what would that be, Jean Luc,” I asked, miming a yawn.

“Never go up against a Montagne when death is on the line,” he quoted, shaking his head sadly, “and son, while you may be a watered-down version of an old style Montagne, I’m the real deal. I have more than eighty years of straight naval experience under my belt, compared to your few months. The outcome of this little affair should be more than obvious to everyone concerned. In fact, it really ought to be self-evident. Especially when you factor in just how heavily outnumbered you and that old battleship of mine actually are.

The superior smile I’d been maintaining started to curl at the edges. I glanced surreptitiously at my wrist watch and stole a look at the plot on the side of my Admiral’s Throne. What I saw there caused me to suppress the urge to grin. It seemed the Vineyard and her Confederates were still warming up their engines.

“I’m afraid that this battleship is mine, not yours, and I’m going to use it to put a crimp in this little operation you’ve got going out here. One you’ll not soon forget!” I declared, deliberately trying to sound bombastic and over the top. The longer I could get him and his crew to discount me, the more time I had for that little surprise I’d set into motion several days ago to come to fruition.

“A crimp,” he inquired rhetorically, “like that not-so-stealthy battleship trying to sneak up on a station like the Omicron… or perhaps you’re referring to the several thousand battlesuited Marines sailing through cold space on an intercept course with this station, who are about to reach the outer edge of our soon-to-be active shields? My engineers tell me that, unlike when another warship equipped with its own shields hits our station defensive barrier, an individual man in a battlesuit… well, let’s just say the survival rate in a non-shielded battlesuit is effectively zero. I fear the numbers don’t lie, and all you’ve done is manage to throw away the better part of a brigade of men,” he finished sadly.

I stared at him in horror. “You’d just let them die, even knowing they were your own countrymen?”

Jean Luc arched an eyebrow. “Former countrymen, and you really need to wipe some of that naivety off your boots, Nephew, or you’ll never make it out here. If you can’t hack it in the real world, it’s best you learn it now, while you still have time to run home to mama with your tail tucked firmly between your legs,” he sneered. “Life as a starship commander is one comprised of tough decisions and split second judgments.”

“If by that little statement, you mean you hope I learn how to become as cold and uncaring about the lives of Honest-to-Murphy living, breathing people as you are, then I have to say I’ve no interest in learning that particular life lesson,” I said stiffly.

“Being realistic about life’s challenges is not a flaw; it’s an asset you need to cultivate, Nephew,” he said flatly.

“I hope you’ve enjoyed your time out here in Hades, Uncle,” I said just as flatly. “I fear that’s the only place that will take you after I’m done with you.”

“Big words from a little yapping mouth,” Jean Luc said dismissively, then he turned so he was facing away from the Camera pickup, “cast off our lines and prepare for cold space. It’s time we taught this overgrown nephew of mine a thing or two about the Blood Reavers.” The sound of yipping and baying, followed by several long, drawn out wolf like howls sounded through the speakers.

I turned to the Ex. Com technician, “Please transmit this set of numbers along these frequencies,” I instructed, shooting him over a copy of a pre-drawn up series of numbers and letters.

“Admiral?” he started in surprise.

“Just do it,” I said tightly.

“Yes, Sir,” he answered bending over his console to carry out his new assignment.

For the first time Jean Luc looked genuinely curious, “Whatever you’re up to, let me be the first to assure you that it won’t work, but with that said I’d like to encourage you to try. It’s far been too long since I had a real challenge,” he said, making it clear at the very same time just how unlikely he thought my chances of being an actual challenge were.

“Oh, I think you’ll like this one, Uncle,” I assured him, curling my upper lip.

He rolled his eyes and once again turned away from the pickup.

“But at the very least,” I added, even as on the main screen Jean Luc’s image wavered and a strident siren went off in the background, “I know I will.” I watched, with quickly suppressed delight, as a red light started flashing on the bridge of my Uncle’s ship.

“What the Hades!” snapped Jean Luc, whirling around to face me. Genuine surprise and shocked disbelief showed on his suddenly furious face.

“Did you really think I was foolish enough to send all my Marines and Lancers in one fat, happy wave, let alone from the same direction?” I asked condescendingly with a piteous shake of my head as my shark-like grin returned. “Game on, Jean Luc.”

“You’ll rot for this,” he snarled before cutting the transmission.

“One of us will,” I agreed under my breath as I glared at the silent screen.

With a shake, I refocused on the scene unfolding around me on the bridge.

“Report!” I barked.

Chapter 10: A Surprise Maneuver

“You sent in an advanced wave of Lancers?” Tremblay sounded half disbelieving, half admiring.

“Some marines, but mostly lancers,” I said tightly, “and in small enough numbers that they were less likely to be spotted, unlike our much larger force which most unfortunately was.”

“The main wave is still going to be crushed into little battlesuited bags of human goo on the bounce, just as soon as they hit the station’s shield,” Tremblay said gritting his teeth.

“Each advanced team was equipped with at least one self propelled ordinance package, as well as a more traditional high explosive load prior to being released into cold space. They were also given an assignment and basically told to target either the engines on those battleships or the shield generators on the Omicron,” I said dismissively.

“A self-propelled ordinance package?” Tremblay asked dumbfounded.

“A missile or torpedo,” I said shortly, “we took on a few during our brief stop at Easy Haven. The last time we were trying to deal with pirates, the Chief Gunner mentioned something about lobbing a few ballistic missiles at them. I figured why not grab some while we had the chance?”

I turned to Officer Laurent, “What’s the status of our advance teams on the Omicron, Tactical Officer,” I demanded in a ringing voice.

“Uncertain, Sir,” growled Laurent, “so far our sensors have registered damage to what appears to be the main engines of all three battleships as well as a series of explosions on the surface of the Omicron itself. But the very screamers our Lancers and Marines are using to confuse the automated point defense systems are also messing with our own sensor readings,” he said flatly.

“Why wasn’t I informed about this plan,” demanded Tremblay sounding cross.

“Operational Security,” Warrant Officer Laurent replied shortly.

Tremblay glared at me, “You mean to say this operation is so sensitive that you can’t even trust your own Chief of Staff with all the details, but you’re more than willing to include a genetic freak like the one we have down in the brig on every major decision!” Tremblay said in disbelief.

“Not everything is about you, Raphael,” I screamed at what had to be one of the stupidest and most self-centered men I’d ever had the displeasure of dealing with. “Our Lancers are already engaged with the enemy in a battle for their lives, and all you can do is pee and moan about how you weren’t included in every decision making process? Get over yourself and shut it down, man; we have to focus on keeping our boys out there alive!”

So saying I turned back to the Tactical Officer, “Are we sure they’re going to be able to slow down in time?” I demanded. I’d been assured before but once again considering the sheer speeds our men were moving at out there, in nothing more than a battlesuit, I found myself unable to let the issue go like I should. I mean it was quite a sturdy and durable battlesuit, as I’d had reason to discover on more than one occasion but still, nothing more than a few centimeters of duralloy stood between you and death in cold space.

“The Caprian full body gravity sled is rated for atmosphere and aerospace maneuvers. It might lack the fine control of later Imperial and confederation models and be much less maneuverable than the same,” admitted Laurent, “but it makes up for those deficiencies by being massively overpowered compared to those later, more efficient models. In the atmosphere that advantage is minimal, but out in space it could mean the difference between life and death.”

Well, I thought, that wasn’t exactly the ringing endorsement I’d been wanting to hear, but it would just have to do.

“Thank you, Tactical. Keep us informed of any new updates,” I said striving for a cool and contained demeanor. On the inside I felt nothing like cool and calm.

“Yes, Admiral,” reported the Tactical Officer, “as soon as they released the self propelled ordinance and activated their gravity sleds, our advanced teams activated their screamer warheads. Primarch Glue was very specific as to which of the wavelengths and channels were primarily used by the Omicron in previous minor crises. Say when two or more pirate ships went after each other, and the beef threatened to spill over onto the station. So our boys and girls actually have a much better chance than they might have otherwise,” he said.

The man must have realized how desperate the rest of us were for information and taken pity by filling what would have otherwise been dead end, nail biting silence, with a recap of what he, I and Glue already knew but the rest of the bridge were still in the dark about.

“I’m reading several more explosions on the surface of the Omicron, as well as a large weight of heavy laser and turbo-laser fire,” reported one of the Sensor Operators.

“The amount of point defense and blaster fire they’re able to throw out at the same time is amazing,” remarked another Sensor Technician. Not words to make an Admiral who’d just sent a large number of men to their potential deaths feel better about his decision.

“I’ve seen worse,” sneered Warrant Officer Laurent, “hold steady and don’t give these pirates more credit than they deserve.”

“How is the shield strength of the Station,” I demanded harshly.

“Shields on the Pirate Station have been raised in response to our arrival,” reported the same sensor operator to report the latest series of explosions.

“Any signs of spotting,” demanded Laurent.

“None yet, Warrant Officer,” reported the Sensor Operator.

The Tactical Officer and I shared a mutual look of understanding. If our advanced teams couldn’t do something and soon, there were going to be a lot of dead Marines. It wouldn’t matter if the Clover got there before or after the marines arrived, they’d be just as effective as bugs splatting on a windshield. Here today, gone as soon as they impacted and unlike a bug, which at least took a couple wipes of the windshield wipers to remove, our boys and girls wouldn’t be leaving even that much behind. Instead they’d be so many crushed little tin cans full of human goo floating off in the same number of directions as there were dead suites.

“The main force of Marines is approaching the shields, Admiral,” exclaimed one of the Sensor Operators, his voice making the report a clear demand. What was I going to do about this?

“On close approach,” reported Warrant Officer Laurent, “they are starting to receive point defense fire, and there they go!” barked the Tactical Officer.

“I have over two thousand individual grav-boards maneuvering for advantage, Officer Laurent,” reported the Sensor Officer, there was a pause “up to three thousand and climbing, Warrant.”

“Screamers with the Main Force are going live,” barked a Tactical Operator, “it’s obscuring our plot.”

“What about—” I started to demand.

“Multiple explosions on the surface of the Omicron,” barked a female sensor operator, cutting me off.

“Shield spotting,” yelled another Operator, “the Omicron’s shields are wavering.”

“There they go! Right through the hole,” the Tactical Officer roared, pumping his fist in the air as several hundred Marines streamed through the first opening in the Omicron’s wavering shields.

I closed my eyes and breathed a quick sigh of relief.

“The Omicron’s fire still seems confused by the screamers, but the battleships are focusing their point defense fire on the main breakthrough openings,” snapped Warrant Officer Laurent.

“Are we already approaching the Omicron at top speed, Helmsman,” I demanded. We had to get in there as fast as possible. Once my advance teams shot their wad, any chance of keeping those battleships from repairing their drive units and getting back into the fray went out the window, unless Colonel Wainwright’s marines managed to take the ship by storm before they had the chance to maneuver against us.

“It doesn’t matter if they can’t get a hard lock on our men, the Blood Reavers just have to point at the holes in the Station’s shields and cut loose,” reported Laurent, looking upset.

“I’m surprised the Royal Marines actually went through with it,” I muttered under my breath, shaking my head with surprise. My uncertainty about the Marines following orders was the main reason why the majority of the Advanced Teams came from the Lancer contingent. So long as those enemy Battleships were unable to maneuver, we still had a fighting chance!

Chapter 11: The Weight of Fire

“ROSSSSSSSS,” screamed Colonel Wainwright, slewing his grav-sled around for all it was worth. The pirate station’s shields were spotting, but the hole in the shields — the one right in front of him that he’d been aiming for — had closed up faster than a witch’s hex. Everywhere he looked, the shield was tighter than a drum.

Then an area down and to his left started to go hazy.

“Follow me, Marines,” he roared, praying his sled had enough juice to make the curve. It didn’t matter if he and the first few battlesuited members of his brigade hit it on the bounce; if enough of them hit it while it was weak, the rest of the men in the company behind him would make it through.

Even with every last erg of power he could eek out of his sled, he was still going to miss the opening.

Burning with frustration and only able to hold onto the sled against the g-forces tugging on him through virtue of the power assisted strength in his suit, he bared his teeth.

When the hole in the Omicron’s shields started to migrate, he didn’t hesitate.

The turbulence as his grav-sled slammed through the barrier was enough to fracture of the duralloy stays holding him to the sled.

He didn’t even have enough time to properly realize he was through the barrier before point defense fire started lancing all around him.

Dodging and weaving, he saw one of the faster sleds start to push past him, its operator even more reckless than their commander in pushing every last ounce of thrust out of his sled. His overeager marine was suddenly gone in a flash of super heated metal and meat as a point defense laser found and annihilated him.

“Reverse thrust,” bellowed the Marine Colonel, turning his sled around and applying every bit of thrust in the opposite direction.

Tail end of the sled pointed at the battleship which was his assigned primary target, he activated the screamer attached to the hind end of his sled.

All around him, the other marines in the company he was leading ejected their screamers and maneuvered for advantage in the hail of blaster fire trying to burn them out of cold space, but not the Colonel. His screamer was welded to the back of his Grav-Sled. Not only did you have to be insane to accept command of a brigade of Royal Marines, but if you were going to lead them against a hulking big target like this pirate base, well… you had to go first and take risks no one else was willing to take.

Besides, after the way the advance teams had already gone in and got this party started, he needed to do something to show those cocky Confederation upstarts that not only did his Marines have just as much willingness to go above and beyond the call of duty, but twice as much starch in their bellies! Thus, the screamer welded to the grav-sled.

Which was why, even though it was hardened, the computer built into the grav-sled shorted out. With a spark and a fizzle, it gave up the ghost, and it took with it control of the only thing keeping him from slamming like a meteor into the hull of the battleship. The screamer was still working fine at throwing off every targeting sensor trying to get a lock on the rest of his men though, which was the main thing.

Going manual, the Marine Colonel forced the Sled to stay on course. Following the instructions projected on his face plate by the much simpler but still functional computer built into his battlesuit, he closed his eyes and yelled defiance at the universe.

With a crash, the arm-lock fractured completely and the Colonel went into a sickening spin as the grav-sled broke into several pieces around him.

Another impact had him seeing stars, and something in his shoulder popped with a sickening, sucking sound.

Something knocked the wind out of him as he was struck in the midsection, but after a moment he realized he was no longer spinning quite so badly.

By the time his head cleared he was still seeing stars, but this time it was because his faceplate was crisscrossed with fracture lines where it had broken. A small hissing whine filled his ears, indicating he’d hit something hard enough to cause a leak.

There was another restrictive sensation around his middle, and suddenly he was flying past another Marine. He had time to see a thumbs up signal before he slammed into the metal hull of the battleship butt first. Activating his strap on thruster pack and his magnetic boots, he tried to compensate but once again started floating off the hull.

Reaching down to his belt he pulled out a handheld harpoon with a magnetic end. Activating the foot long device in his hand, he aimed it at the hull and pulled the trigger. He could all but imagine the clang as it hit. Activating the auto-recover function, he watched as it pulled him in toward the hull. His visor automatically darkened as a nearby point defense turret fired into space.

“Report,” he barked, but there was an ominous silence in response to his command. Then he saw the marine, who he now realized had lassoed him around the waist and pulled him out of a dead spin, dragging him hand over hand back for another inglorious near landing on the ship.

The marine waved and then knocked on the side of his helmet.

The Colonel growled with frustration. At least one of them had no short range communicator. It was an easy guess that if one of them was having trouble, it was probably the one who rode a screamer down and then hit an enemy ship so hard his visor was leaking air.

The other marine continued to haul him down, but the Colonel pulled out a combat knife and cut the other man’s harpoon line. He wasn’t going to hear it said later on in the barracks how he was reeled back onto the hull of their target like some kind of hapless new fish that was too green to swim.

When he set foot down on the hull and his boots had made a solid lock, the other marine jumped over.

Leaning forward to touch helmets so they could communicate, the voice of the other marine came clear, if perhaps a touch distantly.

“You’re lucky to be alive, marine,” she shouted, “no more hot dogging it while you’re on my watch! The nearest boarding tube is over that-a-way,” she said jerking a thumb over her shoulder, “follow me and no more shenanigans.”

Before he had time to say anything, the other marine had already broke the physical connection and took a flying leap in the direction she’d pointed.

Without his communicator working, there was no way for her to know he wasn’t just another marine, as he always made sure his suit was the exact same model as that worn by his privates. Sometimes sharing the exact same danger as the rest of your marines was actually beneficial to the health and survival rate of an officer, especially when snipers started singling out the leaders.

Shaking his head, he turned to follow her. Deactivating his magnetic boots he took a flying leap, and then once again fired his harpoon at the hull to help reel himself in.

Reaching the boarding tube about the same time as a handful of other marines, he squeezed forward to cycle through the lock.

Inside the ship, it didn’t much resembled the majority of pirate ships he’d had the displeasure of boarding. At first glance it was generally cleaner and somewhat more functional than the average, run-down rogue ship.

Flashes of light up ahead indicated a firefight of some kind was in progress. The same marine who’d saved him from the hull slapped him upside the head and he turned to focus on her.

“We’re going to take the engines and seize control of the fusion generators,” she barked, leaning her helmet forward so they were in contact once again. Then pulling back abruptly, she used hand signs indicating he was to take rear guard on the impromptu fire team she was now leading, before taking off down the corridor at a trot.

The Colonel narrowed his eyes. He’d just have to wait until he found a fallen marine with an undamaged helmet and make a swap. Until then, it was time to make like a line beast and hammer some pirates under the decking. This reminded him of his younger days…unfortunately.

Chapter 12: A Hug and a Snuggle

“Roll the ship,” I yelled as the Lucky Clover shuddered under another barrage of turbo-laser fire.

“That’ll just slow us down, Admiral! We’ll never make it in close,” screamed DuPont, holding the ship steady against my orders.

I was about to shout out in frustration when my Tactical Officer grabbed my attention.

“The Command Bridge is trying to lock us out,” he snarled, picking up the microphone at his station. “Belay that last set of instructions Gunnery and keep firing on those battleships!” Laurent barked into the pickup before turning to me.

“Helm is not responding to my commands, the ship is starting to roll,” exclaimed DuPont as his fingers flew over the control console before him.

“Get a system analyst on the job and get me back control of my ship!” I ordered furiously at the communications section, “and inform the Lancer Colonel that he is to send a team to the Command Bridge. Then get me Captain Heppner on the horn!”

“Aye aye, Admiral,” said the Communications Technician.

A few moments later an image appeared on my screen, it was Captain Heppner.

“What kind of game are you playing at, Captain,” I demanded drawing myself up into my most furiously regal pose.

“I assumed the Flag Bridge must have been damaged, Sir,” Heppner said acting surprised, “otherwise, why would you fail to roll the ship?”

“Keep your hands away from the controls while we’re in the middle of combat Mr. Heppner, or you’ll soon find yourself without a job!” I said heatedly.

“Of course, Admiral. Now that we know the reason our ship is taking unnecessary punishment is not because of battle damage, my team is more than willing to stand aside,” he said dryly before cutting the connection.

“I have control of the ship back,” declared DuPont, and even though I’d wanted him to turn the blasted ship in the first place, I was just about ready to tear the head off my parliamentary captain with my bare hands.

“Tell the Colonel to belay that order,” I instructed the internal communications tech, “and get his men ready for a boarding action instead.”

The Lucky Clover bored in like a Tirelian Mining Beatle, shrugging off blows that would have seen a lesser ship reeling away with broken shields and venting atmosphere.

So far, the hundreds of screamer warheads within and just outside its shields were making it impossible for the station and its fire-linked batteries to get an automatic lock on us, and the station was firing concentrated barrages off into cold space without hitting us. The battleships docked to her hull were another story entirely.

Several of the pirate gunners appeared to be quite skilled, and the closer we came, the more accurate their fire. Their sensors must have been operating on a different frequency from the ones we had programmed the Screamers to scramble.

“I’m instructing Gunnery to focus on counter battery fire, Admiral!” exclaimed the Warrant Officer Laurent.

“Do as you think best, Mr. Laurent,” I said, grimly holding onto the Throne as the ship shuddered around me.

“Reinforce our forward shields with everything we’ve got,” I instructed the Shield Operators. “Helm, I want to get in so close we’re practically hugging those enemy battleships, get us snuggled in so close the station can’t risk firing on us for fear of damaging their own battleships.”

“If you can make a hole in those shields, I can get us in so close we’re practically touching hulls,” DuPont said tightly.

“You let us worry about those shields, Mr. DuPont,” I said tightly, “you stay focused on getting us in close.”

Every time something on the order of just over a hundred long-ranged station based weaponry (including several overpowered turbo-laser batteries) fired in our general direction, I had to suppress a shudder.

“Why are they still missing us,” demanded Tremblay, “even with the screamers they should have been able to lock onto us by now.”

“Monkey Boy,” Laurent drawled, “didn’t just give us frequencies for our screamers to jam, he also showed us where several of their key sensor arrays and data link conduit nexus were located,” Laurent paused just long enough to give Tremblay a derisive sneer before turning back to his task, “it was one of the prime targets assigned to the advanced teams,” he threw over his shoulder.

My Chief of Staff flushed red. It must have hurt him each and every time he had to hear something positive about our erstwhile Primarch.

Chapter 13: In The Gun Pits

“Grease monkey !” screamed the Chief Gunner, leaping onto the turbo-laser and going to work with his multi-tool.

“Chief!” yelled a rating.

With another couple torques of his space wrench, he pulled out the overheated focusing crystal. “Catch,” he barked, tossing the priceless piece of the focusing array down toward the rating whose hands were already busy holding another crystal.

As soon as the rating managed to catch the steaming hot crystal and juggle it into a bag he was holding, Bogart impatiently gestured at him.

“Here, Chief,” said the rating, handing up the new focusing crystal array.

“Run that crystal to the workshop and then get back to your duty station,” he snarled, already turned back to the turbo-laser, multi-tool in one hand and space wrench in the other as he screwed the new focusing crystal in tight.

“We’re supposed to run a diagnostic and test fire the gun before using it for combat purposes,” reminded the gunnery’s mate in charge of this ships weapon.

“Run the diagnostic and then fire as she bears,” snapped the Chief of the Gun Deck, “the local fire control computer will compensate after a few shots!”

A miniature explosion followed by an electrical arc momentarily lit up the gun deck. It must have been a near miss since the automated bulkheads hadn’t slammed down, isolating the gun from the rest of the deck.

Rushing over, the Chief saw men leaping from a heavy laser mount, super heated hydraulic fluid flying everywhere.

Jumping on the fire hydrant sized manual cut off wheel set about twenty feet back from the gun, he started turning it, so as to shut down the flow of hydraulics to the damaged gun.

When the spray had slowed down to a trickle he straightened, grabbing at the communications device on his hip.

“Let’s see some counter battery fire, boys; we need to shut down those enemy gunners!” he ordered over the short range comm. device, before closing it back up and looking around. “Grease monkey ,” he screamed.

It took several moments before a rating popped his head up and then came running over.

“Fix that leak, man,” he instructed, pointing at the series of broken seals that had been spraying super heated fluid around the gun deck.

Ignoring the sudden pain he felt in his forearms where several large droplets of fluid had burned through his heat-resistant uniform and down into the flesh and muscle beneath, he headed toward the nearest turbo-laser mount.

Slapping the gunners mate on the shoulder he pulled the reluctant gunner out of his seat and slammed himself down in the other man’s place.

Looking through the firing screen, he swept the gun along the station mounts before lining up on a Dreadnaught class battleship still hard-docked to the Omicron.

Seeing a flash of fire from a heavy laser mount, he took careful aim. Exhaling slightly, he depressed the firing studs.

The turbo-laser whined in response as fire and atmosphere flared briefly from the area he’d been aiming at, before abruptly cutting off when the other ships automatic bulkheads sealed off that gun from the rest of the gundeck.

He grinned, knowing there was one less enemy weapon to worry about.

Leaping back out of the seat, he slapped the gunner he’d just displaced on the shoulder, “She’s all yours again, gunner,” he barked, then jumped back off the gun mount.

At the other end of the deck, he could hear bulkheads slamming down over the whine and sizzles of every still-active gun on the deck firing.

“Saint Murphy’s firing Broadside, but those pirates will know they’ve been in a fight before we’re done with them, boys!” he roared.

The gun mount crews within range of his voice gave out a cheer that was more roar than anything else, one that was soon picked up by other crews up and down the deck. Stamping their feet and giving vent to personalized battle cries, the crew of the starboard gundeck roared defiance at the pirate scum their Little Admiral had brought them here to teach a lesson, and it was one those pirates would not soon forget!

“Pour it on, lads,” screamed Chief Bogart, rushing down the line toward the next problem that was beginning to develop.

Chapter 14: A Desperate Maneuver

“Focus all our fire on the shields of the Omicron; we need to burn a hole large enough for the Clover to pass through,” Instructed Warrant Officer Laurent leaning over a consol in tactical, “and make sure to pass the proper firing coordinates down to the gun deck.”

The Clover continued to roll in, undeterred by the pirate fire, closer and closer until within what felt like moments the aging battleship was at the edge of the Omicron’s shield field.

“Turn the ship to expose the full broadside to their shields,” bellowed the Tactical Officer, “and prepare for emergency deceleration!”

“We’re going too fast,” warned Helmsman DuPont, “if we don’t slow down we’re going to have to swing wide to miss the Omicron, or we’ll crash into the Station!”

“Get me Engineering Officer Watson on my screen,” I barked.

“Yes, Admiral,” replied the same petite, black haired, Caprian beauty who had broken into my quarters not that long ago. Realizing where my mind was wandering in this moment of stress, I instinctively ducked to the side before realizing Akantha hadn’t noticed.

“Yes, Admiral,” the voice of the Engineering Officer came over the speakers built into the Throne, snapping me out of my temporary respite from the pressures of command.

“Pretty soon this ship is going to need to slow down, and by that I mean stop as closely on a dime as possible if we’re going to get in close to the station without giving them the chance to blow our engines to pieces,” I said evenly, looking the old Caprian royalist in the eyes.

Watson was already shaking his head, “We’re already giving you everything she’s got, Admiral. If you don’t want to crash into the pirate base, I suggest you turn the engines and start decelerating hard,” he said.

“As I said,” I began irritably, “if we do that, our engines will get shot to pieces; we’re going to need more power for a quick deceleration.”

“Not happening, Admiral Montagne,” he said flatly, “either slow down or change course. If you keep us pointed at that station, we’ll crash right into her.”

“I see,” I said harshly, slamming the disconnect button with my fist. “Communications,” I barked, turning back to Lisa Steiner the petite Comm-tech.

She held up a finger, “I’ve got Captain Heppner on the line,” she said, bouncing in her seat with nervous energy.

“Cut the line! I don’t have time for his parliamentary nonsense right now,” I barked, slashing the air with my hand, “what I need is—”

Once again she cut me off.

“But Admiral, wait!” she insisted looking alarmed.

“What,” I snapped glaring at her.

She started to wilt and look a little desperate around the corners of her eyes.

“The Captain-n-n,” she stuttered at my look of nearly unbridled fury, but then woman fully carried on, “he says he can stop the ship for you, if you’ll only let him!”

“How in the name of Murphy and all his Demonic hordes, does he know about what I….” I started out hotly but trailed to a stop. I stopped for a moment to think instead of just react and didn’t like what I came up with.

“Put him on,” I ground out, bitterly certain I wasn’t going to like what I was about to hear.

“Admiral,” Captain Heppner began, his lips curling into a self-satisfied smile as I looked at him.

“Captain,” I bit out, “we’re a bit busy up here, so if you’ve something you’d like to add to the mix, please make it quick.” If anything, his almost derisive smile got even more smug around the corners.

“I hear you’re interested in slowing down the ship, faster than conventional wisdom says possible so we can reach the Omicron before they have time to wreck our engines,” he said sounding professional. “The team over here has been looking at the problem and my Chief Engineer, Lieutenant Commander La-Skald, is more than capable of affecting the desired maneuver… if you give him the authority to make some drastic changes to the Grav-plate routing and Shield systems.”

“We don’t have a lot of time to monkey around with critical systems,” I said sharply.

Heppner shook his head at me, “He can make the necessary adjustments in short order, a matter of minutes only. Just so long as you give my team the necessary permissions both down in Engineering and here on the Command Bridge to coordinate the effort,” he finished, leaning back in his chair and looking far too competent and in control of the situation for my tastes.

Not particularly liking the man, this Captain that old cousin James had foisted off on me, but needing to acknowledge the services he and his people were offering at this critical moment, I paused.

“Thank you, I’ll issue the orders,” I said giving him a royal nod and a seated half bow, “Have your man relay to my Helmsman DuPont the expected time to effect these modification and when he should be prepared to initiate this full-stop maneuver, Montagne out,” I said, even as the Captain opened his mouth, no doubt to suggest we use his Helmsman instead of mine for this full stop maneuver of his. I was having none of it though, and stomped the cut off button with my thumb before he had the chance to speak.

“Mr. DuPont,” I snapped, turning to the Helmsman, “prepare to coordinate with the Battle Bridge and Engineering; the Captain says he knows a way to stop this ship on a dime.”

DuPont looked up from what he was doing for a moment, looking bewildered. “What?” he asked.

“But under no circumstances are you to relinquish control of the Helm,” I instructed him sternly.

“Sir! We need to slow down now or plot a course to avoid Omicron,” he insisted, and behind him the Navigator’s head bobbed up and down in vigorous agreement.

“Heppner and his men seem to feel this ship can do otherwise,” I said waving my hand dismissively, “just focus on your task and be prepared to slow down rather suddenly.”

The Helmsman opened his mouth once again but I slashed my hand through the air and turned away.

“Officer Laurent,” I continued, speaking rapidly, “as soon as we’re through their shields, instruct our gunnery deck to switch back to counter battery fire. It’s imperative that once we’re in close we survive long enough to drive our attack home!”

“Counter battery fire, aye,” Laurent confirmed, crouched over a tactical console. He didn’t even bother to turn his head as he spoke, instead choosing to focus on getting us in through those shields in one piece.

It was a task I was willing to admit was more important than holding the hand of one Jason Montagne and following proper bridge protocols.

“Heavy concentration of energy build up,” reported a Sensor Operator, “they’re about to fire!”

The weight of fire was so heavy this time that the line on the main screen representing the Station’s coordinated fire seemed twice as wide as ever before.

“Evasive maneuvers, Mr. DuPont,” barked Officer Tremblay.

Instantly the ship lurched around and underneath us, the emergency power of DuPont’s suddenly erratic course making itself felt. Then, as if by a miracle, the next concentrated barrage of turbo-laser fire lanced by us, mere meters away from our shields.

It’s pretty hard to jink and dodge around space in a big thundering battleship, but somehow DuPont seemed to have managed it! When fire from the Omicron petered out into a hail of random heavy laser fire, the whole bridge seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.

As Tactical started high-fiving themselves, and DuPont and Shepherd grinned at each other, I was about to get in on some of the celebratory action when a message popped up on arm of my throne.

With irritation I noticed it was listed under the header of one Technician Steiner. Glancing up at the petite little communications tech, I saw her give me a short nod and a significant look before leaning back down over her console in the communications section.

What could be so important that she would interrupt me in the middle of battle and make me take the extra time of reading it on a screen instead of just blurting it out and letting me get back to business. I didn’t like any of the scenarios I could come up with, and I determined that if this was a false alarm, she and I were going to have a little chat later.

I quickly scanned the message, and when the import of its words reached me, I stared wide-eyed for a second.

—Admiral, the Long Range Array has once again been activated. Somehow they managed to spoof our monitoring program and we were unaware that it was in use until Mike just did another manual check. Whoever they are, they’ve been transmitting and we can’t tell for how long.

Lisa—

My first thought in response to this message: Blast and Double Blast!

Forcing myself to take a deep breath (one soon followed by several more) I tried to think pro-actively instead of reactively. In the end I couldn’t come up for any good reason for someone to be transmitting from my ship in the middle of a pitched battle, I don’t care whose side they were on.

I typed out a quick return message to Technician Steiner instructing her to let me know as soon as the Long Range array stopped transmitting before pulling out the data slate I had used to contact Suffic after Lisa Steiner’s visit to my room. Linking it into the internal communication system, I tapped out a sixteen digit code.

Pressing the execute glyph, I waited expectantly. It was irrational and I knew it, but still I’d expected to feel something. Suppressing my sense of disappointment, I glanced over at the internal communications technician.

Lisa’s eyes widened and she glanced up at me. Raising her hand in the air she gave me a thumbs up sign. She quickly typed a message. —They’ve stopped transmitting, Admiral.—

Breath I hadn’t even been aware I’d been holding whooshed out of me. Cocking an eyebrow and flashing a superior smile, to let her and anyone else who might be surreptitiously monitoring me for a reaction, I leaned back in my chair and crossed my legs. I like to think I projected the image of a man in full and total control of the situation.

Whoever said a thermal detonator attached to the relay that handled the main control load to and from the long range array wasn’t the way to go when you had conspirators plotting against you? I had to remember to thank Suffic later.

“Sweet Murphy, what are they doing,” demanded Science Officer Jones.

My head whipped around and just as quickly as that my carefully constructed pose was destroyed.

“They’re linking the Shield Generator to the Grav Plates and shunting the entire load through one of the ship’s two primary power mains,” Mr. Harcone, the Damage Control Officer said hesitantly.

“Exactly!” Jones flared, standing up and leveling a finger at his screen, “Those systems are not designed for something like this, they could explode!”

“Our ‘two’ primary power mains,” I inquired, struggling to sound mild. I must have failed.

Heads whipped around and our Science Officer’s attention fixated on me.

“The ship has two main power distribution systems. Each one is more than capable of carrying the entire load for the ship; we have two of them for redundancy,” he said making the last word sound distasteful, “in case of battle damage.”

“The cross linkages they’re making between the systems should take weeks of prep time to set up at a minimum, Admiral,” protested Officer Harcone, our liaison with engineering and damage control.

“They’re cutting corners and taking risks,” I replied dismissively. That was nothing new onboard this ship, “So long as you don’t suspect sabotage—” I started, only to be cut off.

“You don’t understand, Admiral, what I mean is that it’s literally impossible to make these sorts of connections in the time frame we have. These cross linkages and relay junctions had to have been prepared long in advance,” Harcone explained, shaking his head and pointing to something on his screen.

I shook my head in response, mouth tightening. I not only wouldn’t have understood it if I could’ve seen it, but more importantly no one with normal human eye sight could be expected to see anything he was pointing at from as far away as I was from his screen.

“Are you saying they’ve been making secret modifications to my ship, and no one’s bothered to notice or report this,” I demanded, my voice in unison with my body as I stood up.

Marcone looked surprised for a second, “No, Sir,” he said hastily, “Whatever they’re doing, these modifications haven’t been done on the trip from Easy Haven to here,” he said with assurance, once again pointing at his screen.

“I can neither see that screen you’re pointing to, nor,” I said raising a finger as his mouth opened eagerly, “would I likely be able to understand it in the kind of time frame we have available here. So explain to me in simple terms how they are able to compress weeks’ worth of work into a matter of minutes!”

For the first time Marcone looked uncertain. Science Officer Jones on the other hand looked at me like I was stupid.

“Someone, perhaps even our very own dearly departed Chief Engineer, must have made these modifications at some point in the past,” he said speaking slowly, as if to a child.

I shot the science officer a look that said as clear as a blaster bolt that no one on this ship was irreplaceable.

“Then how are they aware…and we’ve no idea….” once again I trailed off. That answer was perhaps unknowable at this point. What was more important was the fact they were going to be able to actually attempt what they claimed they could do.

“We proceed with the operational plan then,” I said flatly, sitting back down in my chair. A lot of things weren’t making sense right now. I had hidden communications, secret linkages between the shield systems and the internal gravity system, pirates on the one side and parliamentary interests to deal with on the other. Something had to give, and soon.

Chapter 15: Close Encounters, as observed from the Flag Bridge

The Lucky Clover came barreling into point blank range, at the last minute cutting our engines and slewing to the side. As the Pirate Station almost unbelievably continued to miss our ship with wild shots all around us, we unleashed all the fury of a Caprian build Dreadnaught Class Battleship on a single point in space.

“It’s going to be close!” roared Warrant Officer Laurent.

“She’s spotting,” yelped one of the Sensor Operators. “Looks like the loss of those shield generators, combined with our broadside has started opening a hole!”

“Keep pouring it on,” screamed Laurent.

“Initiating Maneuver,” yelped our Helmsman, “here goes nothing!”

“I have a power spike in the shield generators,” reported the main Shield Operator with rising concern.

“Ship’s crew is to take emergency crash positions. I repeat: the crew is to take emergency crash positions immediately, the ship is undergoing emergency deceleration,” Tremblay relayed over the main speaker system, his voice distributed throughout the ship.

On the main screen the lines representing the power of our broadside, started to wither.

“I’m losing power to the main guns,” snarled Laurent.

“Shield spotting is fading,” cried the shield operator, “The Omicron is compensating despite those lost generators.”

“We need more power or we’re gonna bounce!” barked Laurent.

“Instruct main Engineering—” I started.

The Lights on the Flag Bridge flickered and everything turned red.

“We’ve gone to emergency power,” reported Damage Control.

“Shield load at One Hundred and Fifty percent and climbing,” screamed the Shield Operator.

“There’s no power to the guns!” roared Laurent.

The ship bucked underneath us.

“Everything’s being routed through the gravity and shield systems,” reported Officer Harcone as the bucking increased.

“I’ve got a wicked shimmy going on here,” yelled DuPont as the bucking turned into a jerky side to side motion, “adjust those inertial compensators before we’re splattered against the wall plating!”

“The inertial compensators are already beyond factory settings, and have been linked into this abortion of a maneuver,” Harcone said his voice rising, even as his fingers flew over his console.

“200% of maximum tolerance!” hollered the Shield Operator,” slapping his console, “I’m locked out, I can’t shut it down! The Shields are about to overload!”

“No,” I ordered, thundering out of my chair and down into the pit containing the majority of our bridge workers including the Shield Operator, “hold steady and don’t try to override the shield controls!” I didn’t like this talk of being shut out of control of anything, but even more I failed to like the idea of some mere shield operator trying to throw a monkey in the works because he was scared.

“Relays are overloading,” reported the Damage Control Officer, “one of our fusion cores is about to go into automatic shut down!”

I whirled around to yell at him too, when all of a sudden there was a crash and the ship lurched out from underneath me.

“Ayiee!” my scream was cut short by my back and the rest of my body hitting the ceiling.

Seeing the floor return with surprising speed I crossed my forearms in front of my head. Slamming into a console in the damage control section, my nose crashed into my crossed arms, which in turn took the majority of the impact. Like a top slowly coming to rest, first I slammed into the console and then the floor. Curling into a ball I rolled down the aisle, flopping and somersaulting until a pair of legs broke my forward motion.

For a moment I just lay there, stunned. I was still seeing stars, everything hurt but most especially my nose and arms.

A hand reached down and helped me up.

“Admiral, are you okay? You really need to get back into your chair, Sir,” asked a concerned Technician, “it’s really not safe out here.”

“I never would have guessed,” I mumbled sarcastically.

I would have continued, but the process of getting to my feet sent a lance of pain through my side.

“We’re gonna make it,” shrieked the Navigator.

A cheer started, then there was a crash. This crash was different; unlike the previous one which threw us around, this one sounded like something had broken off the hull.

“Cut it out you blasted jinx, before you kill us all,” snarled the Helmsman DuPont.

“Sorry,” yelped Navigator Shepherd, there followed the sound of knuckles rapping a hard wooden surface.

“We’ve lost our rear port shield Generator,” reported Officer Marcone.

“Is it gone, gone, or just temporarily overloaded?” demanded Officer Tremblay.

I started to get up when it felt like a giant suddenly sat on my chest, pinning me to the ground.

Grunts and groans sounded throughout the Flag Bridge.

“I can’t pull us out of this spin,” moaned DuPont.

“Battle Bridge…is…now routing everything through…the…hyperspace def—deflector,” Science Officer Jones managed to grind out, and despite the laborious effort of producing the words, he still managed to sound outraged and disapproving.

Suddenly the giant known as gravity threw me toward the front wall, except this time I was only able to move a few inches or feet before the console in front of me stopped my motion. Crammed under the feet of the Damage control operators and wedged into the crack where the console met the floor, there was nothing I could do but holler my defiance at the hoary old gods of cold space and the forces of gravity.

“It was just overloaded, coming back online now,” exclaimed the Damage Control Officer.

“We’re going in,” screamed DuPont, producing a sound any teenage girl would be proud to call her own.

The giant on my chest increased to the size of an elephant and the ship slammed into something. The console above me exploded into a series of hot sparks that rained everywhere, including on my face.

“We stopped. We made it,” declared DuPont, this time sounding more like a man excited to be alive and less like a terrified young girl. The gravity crushing everyone into their chairs or, in my case the floor, suddenly let up.

“Shields are down to only one generator,” yelled the Shield Operator.

“Counter battery fire,” ordered Laurent, shouting to be heard above the cheers spontaneously breaking out among the bridge.

“Focus, people,” roared Tremblay, “we’re at point blank range!”

Slapping at my face to take the fuzz out of my brain, I rolled out from under the damage control console.

Hands reached down to help me, but I slapped them out of the way, balling up my fists as I went.

Staggering out of the damage control area, ignoring my various aches and pains, I lunged for the Admiral’s Throne.

“Impossible,” yelled Jones, “You can’t just siphon your forward motion into an artificially created gravity sump like that, it defies the laws of physics!”

“The rear port shield generator’s not just overloaded this time; it sheared off the hull and slammed into the Omicron,” cut in Damage Control Officer Marcone.

“That’s our brand new shield generator,” protested Officer Tremblay. As if by pointing out the obvious reasons it shouldn’t have been the one destroyed, he could bend reality to his will.

Ignoring the ruckus of orders, counter orders and general reports of madness and mayhem, I climbed back into my seat.

“Get me my power armor,” I snapped, catching the eye of a battered yeoman.

“Yes, sir,” he said, unstrapping from an emergency crash seat he’d been wise enough to take refuge in, unlike myself who’d leap from the safety of my chair like a fool.

As the yeoman made a bee-line for my ready room, I turned my attention to the main screen.

We were in so close to the Omicron that our sensor display could make out every deadly detail of the blasted thing.

But what caught my attention wasn’t the Pirate Station, it was the two Caprian built Dreadnaught class battleships we were nestled in between.

The Lucky Clover shook and shields flared. “Red Alert, this is a Red Alert, hull breach in sector 8, and 11,” shrilled the overhead speakers.

“Cut that off,” instructed Tremblay.

“Why in the world are we stuck between two battleships, at point black range,” I yelled in sudden rage before remembering it had been my orders which had placed us there.

“Our boarders are crawling all over those two ships, Admiral,” barked Officer Laurent.

“It’s the only way we’re able to stay clear of the majority of the Station’s heavy weaponry,” explained DuPont, still riding his controls.

As I watched, a powerful beam lanced just past our ship as the Helmsman crept us just that much closer in between the two Blood Reaver ships.

“The only way we won’t be blasted to pieces by that much firepower is to use those ships as cover,” barked Laurent, “better two pirate ships than that whole Battle Station!”

I didn’t like what I was hearing, but there was nothing I could do about it.

“Cycle those barrels as fast as you can and suppress those pirates,” Laurent screamed into his speaker.

Chapter 16: Counter Fire

“There’s too many of them, Chief,” screamed Warrant Lesner, the acting deck chief for the Portside picking himself up off the floor, “we’ve already lost too many guns on the way in!”

“I always thought the mythical Montagne Maneuver was just another piece of space garbage, a bit of malarkey told around the poker table,” Bogart said, shaking his head in awe. “A-a holo-fiction created by the overactive imaginations of the big Studios,”

“If anyone would know how Captain Montagne, the old Jean Luc, figured the trick of stopping a ship on a dime, it would be someone privy to the family secrets,” exclaimed Lesner, “the Little Admiral doesn’t need our help with ship’s maneuvers, he needs us taking out those enemy gunners!”

“You’re blasted well right,” growled the Chief Gunner, “remove the focusing arrays on half our remaining heavy lasers, Assistant Deck Chief and insert the blanks.”

“Grease monkey ,” Bogart yelled.

“But Chief, you can’t use blanks for targeted fire,” protested Lesner.

The Chief Gunner scowled at his assistant, “Exactly, Warrant,” he said shortly before turning to face the grease monkey who’d just run over.

“Grab a couple friends and pull out as many blank, uncut arrays as we’ve still got on this ship,” he instructed the Rating, “and hop to it, grease monkey!” he roared.

Not bothering to make sure the grease monkey was following his orders, the Chief of the Gun Deck turned at the sound of another set of blast doors dropping down, signaling the loss of another gun turret.

“Blast those pirates, men,” he roared rushing over to grab the hands of a man who’d tried to jump clear of his weapon, only to have the blast doors sever his legs at the knees.

Pulling the other man clear, he took off his belt and wrapped it around one of the other man’s legs. Engaging the auto-tightening feature, he looked down at the other leg, which was still pumping out blood.

“Medic,” he yelled irritably, standing up. Collaring a rating, running around the deck like a chicken with his head cut off, he pulled the younger man’s head close to his.

“Use your belt to stop the bleeding on his other leg and then see that this man gets dragged over to a medical float,” he instructed the wild-eyed rating. Seeing the rating nod his head vigorously, he slapped him on the shoulder.

“Hold steady, boys!” he yelled over the whine of the weaponry and screams of the mortally wounded, “we’ll show those pirate dogs who’s the boss out here. Neither the Clover nor the Little Admiral’s out of tricks yet!”

The gun crews gave another cheer, but this time it was less energetic and not nearly as full of brash enthusiasm as before.

“This is what ships of the line do, boys,” he felt the need to add, staggering over to wall unit and activating the overhead speaker system, “we slug it out, right here, right now in the depths of cold space, so that complacent citizens everywhere and all those fat and lumbering luxury liners who roll their eyes at us in port don’t have to dirty their hands with the business of keep themselves safe. This is what battleships are made for!” he thundered, eyes flashing with fury and hands raised into fists.

“We won’t let you down, Chief,” yelled a grease monkey and the roar that followed this little exclamation produced a hungry cheer actually worthy of the term.

“Lucky Clover!” screamed the Gun Chief, running over to one of the turbo-lasers as molten hot hydraulic fluid started shooting out and spewing all over the decking. Hopefully Lesner managed to get in enough of those blanks installed to turn the tide before it was too late.

Chapter 17: In the Pirate Ships

The impromptu fire team had swelled to the size of a fully fledged squad, it was a testament to the leadership and mastery of small arms tactics evidenced by their acting squad leader that no one had been lost along the way.

Fortunately for the squad but unfortunately for the Marine Colonel, this meant that there had been no free communication’s arrays to swipe along the way.

Storming down several decks and cutting a swath through a crew of heavily armed but mostly unarmored pirates, everything was going well until they reached the last junction before reaching Main Engineering.

Unable to hear what was going on, because of an infuriating lack of working com-gear, the Marine Colonel kept in the proper position with the rest of the squad through dint of training and hand signals from the rest of the team.

Since he wasn’t able to hear the communication’s push, he was stuck in the back of the formation, blasting down heavily scarred metal heads, partial cyborgs and every other form of modified, mutilated or otherwise enhanced ‘human’ life infesting this former Caprian Battleship.

The first thing he knew of the trouble was when the flashing blue-white light of an Ion Cannon unloaded and the front rank started falling like flies.

Seeing his men start dropping ignited a fire in his belly and the fact that thanks to the ion cannon, the communication gear of anyone who fell was just as likely to be unusable as not, only stoked that fire hotter.

With his speakers internal, external and short range all disabled, everything seemed to be happening in deafening silence. Spotting a raging pirate charge out of a side passage with a vibro axe in hand, he crouched and blasted the woman down with a short burst.

Not even pausing to make a decision, the Marine Colonel grabbed hold of the dead pirate and lifted her up with his power enhanced muscles.

Leveling his improvised ion shield in front of him with one hand and maneuvering his blaster rifle so it was poking beneath one of her dead arms with the other, he charged.

Leaping over the bodies of fallen or crouching marines, he just had time to see the acting squad leader, the same marine who’d saved him from floating away from the hull, waving her hands in negation ordering him back before he was past her position.

The body in his hand jerked as a series of rapidly fired ion bolts from a tripod mounted, crew served rapid-fire ion cannon lashed out in his direction.

Screaming into his sound-deadened helmet, Colonel Wainwright serviced his blaster rifle from left to right.

Firing on the run and with your view obstructed by a corpse wasn’t the most ideal situation for aiming a rifle, but every Marine, even high and mighty Colonels knew how to deal with adversity.

One of the pirates went flying backwards, arms thrown in the air by the force of the blaster bolt, while the other continued to pour bolts into the charging Marine.

An ion strike hit his foot and Wainwright stumbled before catching himself, the actuators set in the heel going on the fritz. Undeterred, he unleashed a hailstorm of blaster-ignited fury on the remaining pirate.

Another bolt struck the hand holding the piratical shield he was using, locking it in place. Before he could worry about how he was to release the shield and regain the use of that hand, one of his blaster bolts struck home and the last pirate behind the ion cannon was launched backward in an cloud of blood and gore.

Stopping to pry the now useless human shield out of his locked up hand, he also shouldered his blaster rifle. Picking up the ion cannon in his single still functioning power-armored fist, he propped the long length of the barrel on the arm with his locked up hand.

Carefully maneuvering the long barrel around with his clumsy grip on the oversized weapon, he grinned inside his helmet at the sight of the acting squad leader frantically waving for him to put the thing down.

The Squad Leader, unaware that he wasn’t just some gung-ho fool, was doing the practical thing and trying to stop him from turning the crew served weapon on the main door to engineering. But he wasn’t about to try frying the door controls with a hail of ion fire.

Running at a trot and stopping only to unleash a rain of ionic fury on those pirates foolish enough to believe that hiding behind a tool crate would save them, he reached the main blast doors leading into engineering.

Turning to unleash a hailstorm of ion bolts down either end of the hallway intersecting the main blast door into engineering, he carefully propped the Ion Cannon up against the blast door.

Then he un-slung the pack still tenaciously clinging to his back and reached inside, pulling out a shaped charge. But this wasn’t just any shape charge. This one was a Caprian Marine, Mark 72c breaching package, nicknamed the ‘Yellowstone’ in honor of an especially explosive volcano from ancient history. It was specifically designed to penetrate and rupture a blast door or other form of heavy armor. Since these doors were designed and produced in the Caprian shipyards, he didn’t have to worry if their specs differed significantly enough from what the breaching package was designed to bust through. But just for good measure, he slapped a second Yellowstone against the blast door, and then series linked them. There were a few advantages of being a Marine Colonel, after all.

The other marines in his scratch squad had just started poking their heads around the corner when he snatched up his Ion rifle and went running back towards them. Waving them off, he held up the mustard yellow-colored detonator in his hand.

Flying past them he went back the way they’d come. After several twists and turns, he stopped to catch his breath.

The other marines came clanking up to join him.

The Acting Squad Leader was just about to come over and kick him in the hindquarters for hot-dogging it and violating the chain of command when he held up the detonator and pressed the flashing yellow button on the top.

A wave of force picked the entire squad up and threw them around like a bunch of hard peas in an old can that had just been knocked off the table.

Rolling onto hands and knees, the aging marine shook his head to clear it. Looking around it took him a few seconds to realize where he was. When he did, he groped around until managing to get a hold of that crew served Ion Cannon again. Anyone not in armor wasn’t likely to have survived that blast, and he’d been in armor and several junctions removed from the explosion. He bared his teeth, as it was no less than this scum of the space ways deserved!

With an abrupt gesture he rallied several of the other marines and not pausing to see if they were following, he charged back down the halls toward the main blast door leading into engineering.

Seeing the giant hole blown into blast door, he decided it might just have been a tad overkill to use two of the devastating shaped charges.

Aching in too many places to muster much of a grin, Colonel Wainwright gritted his teeth and stormed in through the still smoldering doors.

A storm of blaster fire came his way, knocking him around so fiercely that it was a struggle just to keep his footing. Eventually he dove off to the side he landed on his shoulder, which erupted in agony as he was reminded of his previous injury and cut loose with his oversized ion cannon.

This was a great year to be a Marine!

He hadn’t seen this much action in the past twenty combined… of course, it being a great year was predicated on him surviving the current engagement, an outcome which was still very much in doubt.

Chapter 18: Tis a Capture!

“Blood Lord, the fighting has been fierce but we’ve managed to isolate the invaders into three separate, and contained, breaching attempts,” reported Second in Command Krong.

“Sensors indicate a number of battle armored figures are spewing out of airlocks and onto the hull of that Confederal Battleship,” Connor Tuttle of the Blood Reavers and Jean Luc’s Master-at-Arms said grimly. He shot a look at the Captain meeting his eyes and giving him a significant look, “once they join the boarding action events might spiral out of our control.”

Jean Luc, sitting in the ornate Command Chair leaned back and crossed his fingers. Black leather, taken from the hide of an Elisyean Storm Dragon and crafted by his personal Armorer into an evil-looking (but quite blaster resistant) uniform creaked as he adjusted his position. The armor helped to enhance the desired aura of a ruthless pirate lord, but did little to help make his next decision any easier. Staring at his hands, he came to a decision.

The Commander cut in, “Let me summon reinforcements from the Omicron, Captain; these government invaders will be crushed underneath our boot heels in short order,” urged Krong.

“Blood Lord,” said the Master of Communications, “I’m receiving a message from one Lieutenant Colonel Brian Riggs, he says he is ready accept your surrender and escort you to the Lucky Clover.” The Master of Communications snorted after he finished relaying this message.

Jean Luc let loose a grim smile, “Inquire of the good Lieutenant Colonel, the status of his Commander, one Colonel Wainwright if you would, Communications Master,” he said lightly.

Looking perplexed at the question, the man did as ordered, before turning back.

“He says that Wainwright was in the first wave, and his suit transmitter went silent soon after his Grav-board was hit by point defense fire and crashed into the hull of our sister ship. Thus he, Lieutenant Colonel Riggs, is now in command,” relayed the Master.

“Excellent news,” Jean Luc said, a genuine smile taking the place of his formerly grim attempt. All around him members of the bridge crew stiffened. Everyone who had seen that look before knew it generally meant someone was about to die.

“I have to advise against this,” Connor Tuttle said, sounding unhappy.

“Advise against what?” demanded Krong, “Inside intel on the makeup of the enemy command,” his eyes narrowed. “What do you have planned, Capt—”

The bridge filled with the roar of an old chemical powered hand cannon and blood splattered out the back of the former Second in Command’s head, spraying the workers in the communication section with a splatter of brain and blood.

As the body of the ship’s former executive officer, Commander Krong fell to the deck, Jean Luc looked around the bridge.

“Any other questions,” he asked mildly. There was a pause, as many of the hardened pirates that made up his crew refused to even breath, let alone meet the gaze of the one eyed pirate king. “No?” there was another extended pause, “excellent,” he said, clapping his hands together for emphasis. “Communications Master, please relay to the good Lieutenant Colonel that I am now prepared to accept his most generous offer. Then instruct our hardened killers below decks that they are to return to their stations and await further orders.”

Despite a very recent example in the fruits of questioning their piratical master and commander, the bridge crew stirred unhappily.

Connor Tuttle, growled under his breath and while one gauntleted hand clenched and unclenched the other moved toward the sword strapped to his back.

In the face of their Blood Lord’s violently aggressive attack dog, the muttering stopped. Those members of the crew inclined to argue with Tuttle had either been killed or carved into pieces prior to being put into a regeneration tank and invited to join the Armsmen, or they could take a walk out an airlock without a rebreather.

From his Command Seat, Blood Lord Jean Luc, Tyrant of Cold Space surveyed his crew of cutthroats and die-hards.

Too bad, he thought, shaking his head sadly.

On the arm of his chair was a small, out of the way button. It was designed to make not even so much as a click when pressed, which he proceeded to do. He depressed the button and held it for two seconds before releasing it.

“You’ve all done well, my Bloody Reavers,” he said standing up and momentarily bracing to attention.

“Tuttle, Communications Master,” he said motioning abruptly toward the blast doors leading from the Command Bridge.

Left behind in the Command Bridge of the pirate battleship, the bridge crew of the Vineyard exchanged furtive looks before one genetically-engineered pirate with metal sticking out the back of his head stood up…as soon as the blast doors had cycled closed, of course.

“I say there’s no way the Blood Reavers surrender our flagship to a bunch of steaming Confederals still tied up by our wolves in the main cargo hold,” the modified pirate began, starting out tentatively but gaining steam as he listened to the sound of his own voice.

Around him other less bold members of the bridge crew grumbled their agreement.

“Maybe it’s time we had a new Pirate King,” barked the brutal looking, genetically engineered pirate.

“The Blood Lord isn’t known for his…” the ship’s Tactical Officer started to say, hand on his pistol.

He was interrupted when one of the assistant tactical officers stuck a knife in his back.

“What are your orders… Captain,” one of the junior communication operators asked of the genetically engineered new leader.

“Signal the general crew and tell them they are not to go to quarters, but instead stand fast. We’re going to send in the Armsmen,” he instructed grimly.

He would have continued but just about then several of the bridge crew started to cough.

Looking around suspiciously at what could be the first sign of discontent and disagreement with his orders, he pulled out a blaster pistol.

“Quiet when I’m speaking,” he barked, only to break off in a cough of his own.

All around him the rest of the bridge crew started to cough.

“The blooming’ backstabber’s betrayed us,” he yelled, running for the exit.

Several other pirates made to follow him. However, the silent but deadly gas left behind by Blood Lord Montagne had already done its job, and he and the entire rest of the pirate command team started dropping like flies.

Collapsing to the decking, the would-be new pirate lord was left gasping out his last few breaths like a fish out of water.

Chapter 19: The Great Surrender

“An extreme gesture, my Lord,” Connor said solemnly, as the blast doors slid closed behind them.

Jean Luc slitted his eyes as he considered his long time companion and Master-at-Arms.

“A gesture, Connor?” he said shaking his head slowly, “a necessary move, regrettable perhaps, but a gesture?” he made a slashing gesture with his hand. “No. A gesture implies I do what I do under the pressure of another. This is entirely my own decision.”

Connor nodded slowly, “Then I fail to understand…” he paused and smiled direly, “which is only as it should be, my King.”

“Yes, Connor, all is as it should be,” replied Jean Luc, striding down the corridor, “Let us go greet this Lieutenant Colonel and get the next part over with. You see I am eager to get to know my old ship again. Our time of exile out here in the far reaches of cold space has extended longer than even I expected, and it is time to put it behind us. Besides, I desire to meet this nephew of mine, a manling brash enough to try bearding me in my own lair with only a single ship.”

“As you say, Sir,” said Connor falling in a step behind and to the left of his master.

When the lift doors opened, spilling out Royal Caprian Marines, the Master and Commander of the Vineyard along with his faithful shadow were waiting, weapons out of reach and leaning against the wall behind them.”

“Hands on your heads,” screamed a Marine Sergeant.

“I hardly think that will be necessary, Sergeant,” the Lieutenant Colonel said mildly.

The Marine growled under his breath but stepped back.

“Down, boy,” Jean Luc said mildly, casting an amused look at the Sergeant.

“By special order of Parliament I am to escort you to the Lucky Clover while a battalion of my men secure this ship, your Highness,” Lieutenant Colonel Brian Riggs said stiffly.

“The Bridge crew has been neutralized, as has Engineering and the Gundeck, some of the general crew might still give your men a bit of a time, but any that have ignored my orders to return to their quarters should be shot for the disloyal dogs they are,” the Pirate King said with a nod.

“Thank you, Sir,” the Lieutenant Colonel Riggs, said gesturing to the lift.

“The ship is yours for the moment, Lieutenant Colonel,” said Jean Luc as a pair of marine privates ran a sensor wand over him and then physically patted him down for weapons, “although I am curious about one thing.”

“And that would be,” inquired Riggs, indicating the lift door now that both pirate men had been announced cleared of hidden weapons.

“You say you act at the behest of Parliament, and not this…Admiral Montagne,” he snorted mockingly before continuing, “or even our new sovereign, this Vekna King, long may he reign?”

“Jason Montagne is no Admiral of mine,” Riggs said fiercely, “as for King James—”

The Marine Sergeant growled again.

“Muzzle your dog or put it down, Lieutenant Colonel,” Jean Luc said mildly.

The Sergeant started to bring around his rifle, but the Lieutenant Colonel was faster and a shot from his heavy blaster rifle blew a hole clear through the sergeants head. “My apologies, your Highness,” Riggs said with a nod of his head, “the Sergeant was a recent addition who joined us on the way up here. Men from other regiments have been scattered all over the place, including a regrettable few mixed in with mine.”

“Quite understandable,” said Jean Luc, toeing the dead marine out of the lift so the doors could close.

“Now that your ship has been secured, I’ll retain a full Battalion of the 3rd Regiment to secure the ship, and send the orphans and stragglers from other units off to help with securing the other ships,” he said with a twist of the mouth.

“A wise decision,” Jean Luc agreed, “please lead the way to way to the shuttle bay, I am eager to meet this Admiral of yours.”

“Not mine, never mine,” Riggs growled again deep in his throat, before detailing two fire-teams to secure the bridge while the others joined him in the lift.

As soon as the doors closed he then activated the communicator built into his battle armor.

“Major Gaspard here,” hacked the man on the other end of newly opened the channel.

“The package is in hand and the bridge secured, the former crew has been neutralized,” Riggs said without delay.

“Excellent news, Sar,” growled Gaspard in that thick Stonelander accent of his.

“Engineering and the Gundeck should be lightly defended if they’re defended at all. If this is the case, my orders are to turn control of the 1st battalion to Captain Kwan. He can continue securing the ship with the loyal 1st,” Riggs said evenly, “any remaining resistance should be light if any is still present.”

“What am I supposed to do in the meantime, stand around twiddling my thumbs,” grunted Gaspard.

“As the senior surviving Marine Officer in the field I am placing you in command of the 2nd and 3rd Battalions of 1st Regiment,” said Riggs.

“Major Capucine might have objections to my taking over his battalion,” there followed the sound of Gaspard opening his helmet and spitting off to the side, “what you want I should do if he doesn’t accept these orders? The man has some starch in him.”

“I don’t care if he’s so loaded with starch his battlesuit automatically polishes itself, I want a man with loyalties I trust in control of 2nd,” Riggs said derisively.

“And once I’ve assumed command?” said Gaspard.

“Why then, my good Major, you are to jump your men from the Vineyard over to the old Armor Prince and secure her in the name of Capria and her glorious Parliament,” instructed Riggs, “although you are to use your discretion as it regards informing any men outside of the loyalist 1st Regiment as it regards the second half of that statement.”

“My pleasure, Sar,” replied Gaspard with gusto.

Chapter 20: On The Bridge

“The Vineyard’s fire is fading away,” reported one of the tactical operators, then there was a pause followed by a hurried consultation in the tactical pit.

The ship lurched under our feet.

On the main screen the weight of fire from the Vineyard slowly faded to half its former number of beams. Then it stopped entirely, except for one heavy laser mount that continued to fire on the Clover.

“Then why are we still taking hits,” I demanded angrily.

“It’s the old Armor Prince, Admiral, they’re still going strong,” snapped Laurent, then there was a pause.

“The Marines must have seized control of their Gundeck, Admiral,” announced Warrant Officer Laurent, “I’m ordering counter battery fire on that single outlaying heavy laser.” A moment later, what looked like every single remaining weapon that could be brought to bear unloaded on that heavy laser mount. With a flash it exploded, and then the Vineyard fell entirely silent.

“Excellent news,” I exclaimed turning to the Communications Section, “please instruct Colonel Suffic to send the majority of his Lancers over to assist in the securing that ship!” I instructed. If we could just get our hands on another battleship, and the pirate flagship that! Why, we might just be able to pull a win out of this thing after all!

“Yes, Admiral,” acknowledged the Communications Operator jumping in his seat before opening a channel.

“Just a second, Admiral…” There was a pause as the External Communications Technician received a message, with a face flushed with excitement he turned back, “We just received a message from a Lieutenant Colonel Brian Riggs, Admiral! He’s assumed overall command of the entire Marine Brigade and says his regiment has just seized near total control of the Vineyard. He advises that any reinforcements should be sent elsewhere in the theater!”

“As long as Jean Luc is still at large on that ship, we can take no chances,” I barked, shaking my head vigorously, “My orders stand: Suffic is to personally lead his men onto the Vineyard, and then and only ‘when’ we have Jean Luc’s head on a pike and the ship totally under our control are the Lancers to move over to assist in the Capture of the Armor Prince! We will…” I slammed my fist into the arm of my Throne, “we must cut the head off this snake before we dare to turn out attention elsewhere!”

As the External Communications Tech relayed my instructions and the main screen flashed with updates, I turned to face the bridge, “This is going to be a fight to the finish, people. Nay, the fight of our lives! Stay focused, stay on task. For the MSP and the Clover!!!” I roared, and if I wasn’t still bruised from head to toe from the last time I jumped out of my seat I would have done so again right now. As it was I settled for pumping my fist in the air.

All around me the Bridge gave a cheer. Even if it was more a thankful to be alive shout-out, and less a rousing yell of triumph, I’d take what I could get.

“But, Sir, wait!” protested the Ex-Com Operator.

I made a throwaway motion with both hands, “My decision is final,” I replied with ringing finality.

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” the Communications Officer all but shouted, “Lieutenant Colonel Riggs reports that he’s just captured Jean Luc and he plans to personally escort the Pirate Traitor back to the Clover while his men finish mopping up the last few hold outs!”

For a moment I sat there stunned. Then a slow smile crept over my face.

“Excellent news, Operator,” Tremblay interjected, sounding deeply satisfied with this turn of events.

But even Tremblay and his little maneuvers for advantage couldn’t dampen the satisfaction I was feeling.

“Sweet Murphy Triumphant,” I said, clenching my fists down at my side to hide just how wonderful this news was to me. I then turned back to the Communications Technician, “You are to instruct the Lieutenant Colonel that he is to take no chances; if it looks like my Dread Uncle is about to escape, he is to shoot him until he’s dead and then cut off his head for good measure,” I instructed shaking my fist at him. “Only then he may neutralize him as he sees fit,” I added dryly.

“Relaying now, Admiral Montagne,” said Comm-tech, his back stiffening.

“You can’t trust a Montagne for spit!” I declared, then realized what I’d just said, “An old school piratical Montagne of that generation is what I meant to say,” I added hastily, and unconsciously started to smooth my uniform only to remember I was now in a battlesuit right about the same time my gauntleted hands started screeching up and down my duralloy armored flanks.

“Hrm,” I coughed out loud. I was amazed. Things were finally going our way; I’d rolled the dice and come up double sixes, and the thought brought me up short. Things never went this easy for me. I mean, my guys actually managed to capture the Vineyard and Jean Luc while the Clover was still in one piece?

The Ship rocked underneath my feet and a red alarm started flashing. “Decompression in decks 5-8 and 13 and 14,” shrilled the automated warning system.

Well, more or less in one piece. I hastily knocked on a piece of wood strategically placed on the side of the Throne, no doubt left there by some superstitious former Admiral.

“Get those ruptures under control,” Barked Tremblay, striding over to the Damage Control section.

“Right away, First Offi— make that Chief of Staff,” the Damage Control Officer corrected himself after a brief hesitation over Tremblay’s current title.

“We’re down to less than half our broadside still operational,” reported Laurent speaking over the top of a number of other chattering officers and system operators, “The Armor Prince is still servicing over two thirds of her guns right into our hull armor!”

“Roll the Blasted Ship,” I snapped.

Laurent looked at me in surprise.

“Haven’t you heard, Mr. Laurent?” I said with a shark-like grin, “We’ve all but captured the Vineyard, and to top it off she’s no longer firing so much as a spit ball at us. Roll us and get that other broadside back into the fight and do it now!”I snarled.

“Mr. DuPont,” yelled Warrant Officer Laurent.

“Already on it, Tactical Officer,” acknowledged DuPont, sounding on the ball and full of energy.

On the main screen the ship began to rotate in place.

The Lucky Clover rocked violently and enough of her rolled above the cover provided by the two pirate battleships to give the station a good shot at our bow.

“Shields down to 13%,” yelped the Shield Operator, “and dropping!”

“Keep us below those Turbo-Lasers, Mr. DuPont, if you please!” screamed the ship’s Tactical Officer. “We can’t go head to head exchanging broadsides with the Omicron at this time.”

“Sorry, Sir,” said DuPont, lunging around in his chair as he all but crawled over his consol in an attempt to keep the Pirate Battleships between us and the Pirate Super Station, “Several of our close maneuvering jets were destroyed in the exchange. It won’t happen again,” he added grimly, prior to slapping a button on his console. A joy stick popped out to either side of him and our Helmsman abandoned the buttons and dials on his console in favor of working with twin joysticks.

I was about to jump in with both micromanaging feet, when I felt my shoulder being shaken. That took strength when you factored in that I was sheathed in power armor.

My head whipped around. My angry rebuke of whoever it was that thought it was a great idea to interrupt the Admiral at a time like this going unuttered.

“Jason,” Akantha said her eyes lit with an inner fire, “we cannot win this battle if we continue exchanging strength for strength.”

“We’ll tear them apart,” I snapped, letting her see the hungry determination in my eyes.

“Yes, we will,” she said meeting my eye and giving my arm a shake, “but they have too many weapons for us to beat them…broadside to broadside,” she finished, speaking the last two words awkwardly.

I started to shake my head in an angry negation. We were winning, blast it all.

“We can take ‘em,” I flared, whipping an arm around to point at the main screen, but not breaking her gaze for a moment.

“Think,” she said, this time placing both her hands on my cheeks, “with your head and not the fire in your belly. There is still Fortress Omicron to take, and our ship is no longer fresh and unwounded!”

I clenched my jaw and then skinned my lips up over my teeth.

“What would you advise,” I asked after taking a deep breath.

“Suffic is to board an already taken ship,” she began smoothly. “If we cannot take these Star Bandits in a duel of citadels, then let us change the game. We can storm ship after ship until we are strong enough to match them blow for blow!”

I leaned back, unconsciously shaking my head. Seeing her start to pull back at this reaction, I quickly grabbed her hand.

Using my power-armored strength I pulled her back in close.

“You’re right, but we’re already doing everything we can,” I said meeting her eyes.

Still holding her in place, I turned my head over my shoulder.

“Tell Suffic there’s been a change of plans; he’s to jump his men over to the Armor Prince and that piecer they’ve stripped for parts. Victory or death, he’s to seize those ships and turn their main guns on the Omicron,” I said harshly.

I turned back to her. She opened her mouth but I interjected before she had a chance.

“What am I missing,” I asked quietly, seeing she still had more to add.

Her mouth closed and the fire in her eyes rekindled into a furious blaze. “Our men need the inspiration of personal leadership at a time like this,” she said fiercely.

“I can’t leave here while there are still pirate warships running around,” I protested, knowing she was right. “We could have a Corvette moving to shoot off our hind end at anytime,” I added, feeling a surge of reluctance at these words.

“Yes,” she said, “but that is not all.”

I gave her a penetrating look.

“I have spoken with the Primarch,” she continued, her smile taking on a triumphant edge as she realized I wasn’t trying to shut her down and was instead seeking her opinion.

“You spoke with,” I gnashed my teeth with frustration, I’d given specific orders that no one was to have access to the Primarch between the time he appeared in our command meeting and the attack on the Omicron. I took two breaths to settle myself. I knew we didn’t have time for another marital blow up right now.

“Go on,” I prompted, instead of any number of other replies I would have preferred. I didn’t like where this was going, not one little bit.

She flashed me a victorious grin, letting me know that she knew that I knew she’d successfully circumvented my authority and there was nothing I could do about it.

“I believe there is much to be gained from an Alliance with his people,” she said triumphantly.

“I don’t follow,” I replied blankly.

“His people wander the stars in broken ships, homeless and alone. A number of them have even settled on the Omicron,” she explained, giving me a significant look, “as have several other strains of…demonkind.”

“I see,” I nodded, not really getting the full picture, but with the glimmerings of an idea beginning to form.

“In their thousands and tens of thousands, Jason,” she continued, grabbing the hilt of Bandersnatch in her excitement and giving it a white knuckled squeeze, “these mighty warrior peoples are an untapped asset, if only as a distraction; one which these Star Bandits have foolishly squandered.”

“An interesting hypothesis, but I don’t see how we can make any such plan work in the time frame we have available to us,” I said shortly…then I closed my eyes. She’d obviously thought things through and thought she could do it. I didn’t have time to argue every little detail with her until I understood her entire plan. I was just going to have to shut her down now or trust her.

“You have my permission, Akantha,” I relented, keeping my eyes closed.

She paused and waited until I opened my eyes and then met my gaze a touch hesitantly, “If necessary, I will make a Pact with the Demons.”

“You can go, Akantha,” I reiterated with a sigh at this latest bit of superstitious drama. I was agreeing to send my wife into danger and the thought of it sent a stab of pain through my heart, “Just return to me, my love,” I added, giving her hand a gentle squeeze before releasing her.

“Always,” she said, leaning down to give me a deep kiss, “thank you,” she whispered before pulling back, already turning to the blast doors.

On impulse I caught the sleeve of her blaster resistant clothes. She looked back at me quizzically.

Fishing around in the space between my neck and the armor, with clumsy gauntlets I eventually pulled out a neck pouch holding two command crystals and a data chip.

Still using my overlarge power-armored gauntlets I clumsily pulled out the larger of the two crystals and the data chip.

I pressed the crystal and the chip into her hand and as gently as I could, folded her fingers over them.

“If things go against us or I die,” I said as I met her at the blast doors, “do not despair. The Lucky Clover has another Bridge, the Command Bridge, and this crystal will let you unlock any console on the ship including the hyper drive. It’s the Admiral’s Key, the very one I received from Janeski when I took command. Don’t worry, since I’ll still have the Captain’s Key on me,” I explained at her look of alarm, “but if you ever find yourself needing a miracle, just follow the instructions on this data chip. I promise you’ll be surprised with the results.”

“What have you done this time, Jason,” she asked, giving me a wary look.

I quirked a cocky grin, “I still have a few aces in the hole, unplayed as it were. Just because they made me an Admiral in spite of myself and against my very best efforts to the contrary, well…let’s just say that just because I don’t want the job, that doesn’t mean I can’t or won’t take a few basic and elementary steps to secure our position. Both for this ship and for Tracto,” I finished with a smirk.

Akantha made as if to say something but I gently pushed her toward the door, “I should have told you a long time ago,” I said with a sigh, “but right now there’s no time. Now go. Go!” I urged as she continued to hesitate, “you need to hurry if you’re to join Suffic before the battle is all but over,” I finished doing my best to put a supportive grin on my face.

Akantha scowled at me but I could tell her heart wasn’t in it. Shaking her head, she hurried out through the blast doors on her way to the turbo lift.

Chapter 21: In Transit and the Long March

“I was given to understand we’d be taking a shuttle,” Jean Luc said mildly, arching a brow at the full body skin suit offered to him by the Lieutenant Colonel.

“Oh, they’re sending a shuttle for you,” agreed Riggs, “but even though the Gundeck of this ship has been neutralized for the moment, I’m not willing to take the risk of a stray shot pointed at the only shuttle leaving this ship,” the Colonel said with a scowl. He then offered the skin-suit once again.

“Neither the Master-at-Arms nor myself are in need of a mass produced, commercially available item such as your garden variety skin suit,” Jean Luc retorted scornfully.

“I don’t see how…” the Lieutenant Colonel started, only to trail off as the Pirate Lord and his Master-at-Arms proceeded to slap metal studs worked into the dark leather of their uniforms. There was a whining sound as the openings between boots and storm dragon leather sealed themselves shut, followed by the coat and pants doing likewise.

His eyebrows rose in surprise as the two men pulled out gloves and tapped similar, rounded metal studs which looked to be nothing more than part of the intimidating, custom-made pirate uniform.

When they also pulled what looked like almost paper thin hoods from the collars of their jackets, complete with some kind of super light and very advanced model head bag, all he could do was shake his head.

Dressed in black, custom-made pirate armor and with dark-visored head bags, they looked like some kind of evil storm troopers from a bygone era.

“I won’t insult you by asking if you’ve got enough oxygen capacity to survive the trip or if you’ll freeze to death on the way over,” he said finally before leading them to an airlock.

Behind their Leader, a battalion of Marines assembled in the open cargo bay.

When the shuttle indicated its readiness to dock, fifty power-armored marines from the 3rd Battalion, 3rd Regiment marched on board. A full company followed the Lieutenant Colonel out onto the hull, while the remainder awaited the next shuttle back to the ship.

Once they were mostly assembled, Riggs attached a harpoon line to each of the two men he’d been sent to retrieve and then jumped off the hull of the ship.

Activating his still very much functional grav-board, the flight between Battleships took a fraction of the time it would have had he just used leg power to span the relatively short distance between the two ships.

Entering the Lucky Clover through an airlock eerily similar to the one on the pirate ship they’d just left (which wasn’t surprising since they were after all of the exact same design) the Lieutenant Colonel pulled Jean Luc and Connor Tuttle off to the side until a Sergeant and a pair of the Lieutenants had also cycled through the lock.

“I’m for the nearest lift leading to the bridge, I’ll be taking two fire teams with me,” he instructed the 3rd battalion officers, “I want you to contact Captain Heppner as soon as you reach a communications terminal, after that you are to proceed as he indicates. Until you hear from me again, you are to consider yourself under his orders,” Brian Riggs said flatly.

“Yes, Sir,” the two lieutenants said crisply.

“Sar,” grunted the Sergeant in acknowledgment.

The Lieutenant Colonel suppressed a grimace, another Stonelander, with that atrocious accent of theirs.

Chapter 22: Updated Instructions

Tremblay’s fingers flew over the Sensor Operator’s console.

“That’s how you collate a multi-data stream into a coherent, unified and most importantly, understandable format,” he rebuked, jerking away from the console.

Leaving the Sensor pit, he turned his hawk like gaze over to the Tactical pit. The royalist over there seemed to have things firmly in hand, he thought with a twist of the lips.

He was headed over to review the Shields section, when there was a buzz in his back pocket. Freezing in place, he paused for a moment before surreptitiously pulling it out. His official communications device was still clipped to his belt, this device was more than just a back up, it was also completely untraceable.

Moving to an unused workstation he sat down before activating the pocket comm.

“This is the Chief of Staff,” he said crisply.

“Officer Tremblay,” Captain Heppner appeared on his screen.

“Sir,” the Lieutenant replied with a nod.

“You have pledged yourself to the cause,” said Heppner before pausing, obviously waiting for a reply.

“You can count on me, Captain,” Tremblay said in a low voice, so as not to be overheard by those around him. Fortunately they were too busy fighting the ship to worry about the lack of attention from an officer most of the crew on the Flag Bridge would rather avoid having stare over their shoulders in the first place. There were a few advantages to having no one want to catch your eye.

“Just like I told you he would, the Montagne succeeded placing us in an untenable situation, Sir,” Tremblay said bitterly. “If we don’t kill or capture these pirate battleships, we’re dead men walking. On the other hand, even if we do defeat them, the station will then be free to blast the lot of us to kingdom come!”

“All of that has been factored into our plans, Junior Lieutenant; there’s no need for such defeatist talk,” the Captain rebuked the former Intelligence Officer with nothing but complete and utter confidence portrayed on his features.

Tremblay suppressed a frown, “As you say, Captain.”

There was a pause.

“You have a mission for me,” the younger officer quietly prompted.

The Captain shook himself, “Yes,” he said evenly, “this is your moment to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt where your loyalties ultimately lie. Today you either stand with our glorious parliament or with the royalist scum who’ve caused so much trouble on our fair planet, as personified by the very Admiral whom you currently serve.”

“I understand, Captain. Just tell me what to do,” the Lieutenant said confidently. “Anything to get a Montagne off the Flag Bridge,” Tremblay reiterated.

“All you must do is step outside the Flag Bridge for a brief moment, retrieve a package I am sending you by way of a crewman loyal to the cause and take it to the Admiral’s ready room. After you place it beneath the seat of the rightmost of the two chairs habitually facing the Admiral’s desk, your work will be done,” Jim Heppner said.

“I hope it’s not a bomb of some kind,” Tremblay grimaced, “not only is such an action distasteful, but I’d have to leave my electronic signature all over the place when I deactivated the automatic sensors built into the arch of the blast doors.”

“The cloth it is wrapped in is resistant to standard scanners such as the ones built into your blast doors, but it’s unlikely to set them off even if they were able to accurately scan the device I’m entrusting into your care,” Heppner said, narrowing his eyes.

Tremblay opened his mouth, but the Captain cut him off.

“Do you accept your assignment or not, Junior Lieutenant,” he asked firmly.

Tremblay paused and then nodded stiffly, “I hear and obey,” he said evenly.

Hearing this, the Captain terminated the connection.

Even though it felt as if every eye on the bridge was tracking his every movement, the former First Officer let none of his anxiety leak into his facial expression. He was a highly trained Intelligence Officer, he reminded himself, one loyal to Parliament and the Elected cause. Righteousness was his armor and loyalty would be his deliverance.

Retrieving the package outside the Flag Bridge from a crewman with damage control patches was a nice touch. Damage Control parties were able to move about the entire ship unimpeded by security checkpoints… assuming there were enough Lancers remaining onboard to man such points.

Placing the wrapped package underneath his arm, he reentered the Flag Bridge.

With measured and unhurried steps, he walked back to his usual post down in the pits. Under the guise of scanning for trouble spots popping up, it was easy to spot a moment when Jason Montagne was distracted (being kissed by his wife in point of fact) to notice his former First Officer and current Chief of Staff making his way into the Admiral’s Ready room.

Tremblay’s lip curled; it was just like a member of the royal family to abuse an Admiral’s privilege to the point of mockery by keeping his wife onboard ship and then engaging in public displays of gross marital affections. On the Flag Bridge and during combat no less!

Attaching the package to the underside of the proper chair took a little doing and necessitated the removal of the sensor-resistant synthetic covering.

Tremblay’s breath hissed out as the object inside was revealed. It was an ion spike! It seemed that whatever was in the works, it involved neutralizing the Admiral’s archaic suit of power armor. For a moment he hesitated and almost reconsidered exactly what he was doing here, but then a long black hair pinned underneath one of the chair legs caught his attention. It was a three inch long gorilla-man hair.

His eyes hardened.

Moving quickly, he found a metal hard point on the underside of the chair and using a magnetic strip thoughtfully placed on one side of the ion spike, no doubt for just this eventuality, he secured the spike to the bottom of the chair. After carefully adjusting it so that it would pass undetected by a casual survey, he carefully placed the chair back in its original position, gorilla-man hair and all.

Straightening, he adjusted his uniform and expression before marching out of the ready room with his head held high, secure in the rightness of their elected cause.

Chapter 23: On the Gun Deck

“It’s our turn now, boys,” roared the Chief of the Gundeck, “pour it on and right down their throats!”

Around him the turbo-laser he was seated at sparked and smoked. The previous gunner had been thrown from his seat, reduced to a burnt and smoking wreck by a close deflection shot from the enemy’s counter battery fire.

“Aim for their point defense arrays with your unfocused beams! We’ll melt the muzzles of those undersized arrays and clear a path for our Lancer boys to jump over there and ream them a new one,” he screamed.

Miraculously the blast doors hadn’t lowered, segregating this Turbo from the rest of the gundeck. But seeing the melted remains of the gun chair and fried surface of the fire-control computer, not to mention the still smoking wreck that was its former gunner on the deck behind it, would have been more than enough to put most would-be gunners off of manning the particular weapon.

Not so for Chief of the Gun Deck Curtis Bogart. Even the live current passing through the rubber glove of his left hand as he aimed the Turbo would not stop the Chief from keeping a working main gun on the firing line.

Lining up for another shot on an enemy turbo-laser, he skinned his lips back from his teeth.

“Take this, pirate scum,” he screamed, his voice rising to previously un-reached levels as the weapon fired and enough current to burn his hand. The rubber gloves he wore were not rated for this level of current, yet another ‘gift’ from the departed Imperials, who had taken the good equipment with them.

Jerking and twitching from the increased current as the weapon fired, he was just glad for the automatic cutoffs which engaged after the weapon started to overheat. The amount of electrical current flowing through the substandard glove and into his own body would have eventually overcome his nervous system.

As soon as the turbo was done firing, he jumped out of the melted wreck of a chair and danced around, hopping from foot to foot as his muscles initially refused to obey. When the shock of the electrical charge had dissipated, he furiously kicked the still defunct targeting computer before plopping back down.

As he was minutely adjusting the aim of the gun and eyeballed the enemy ship, a spray of superheated hydraulic fluid started shooting out of the turbo’s alignment mechanism, and molten hot droplets started raining down on his chair. The Imperials had taken the entire complement of heat-resistant gear with them, leaving the gunners vulnerable to fire and heated fluid.

Diving out of the chair and falling to the deck, he rolled as fast as he could away from the dividing lines marking where the blast doors would fall, isolating the gun pod from the rest of the ship.

When the tombstones (a term the gunners had given the blast doors centuries earlier when they had first been used on ships of the line) failed to fall, he rolled onto his front and lay there for a moment before getting on his hands and knees.

“Grease monkey ,” he yelled, struggling to his feet.

This was the only reason he noticed the power-armored figures stepping onto the gundeck, accompanied by several officers in clean pressed uniforms.

“Yes, Sir,” exclaimed a Rating with a face so soot-stained and covered with grease it was black all around, except where the pinks of his eyelids shown through.

The Chief of the Gun Deck fingered his auto-wrench and growled under his breath.

“Chief Bogart?” the rating asked hesitantly.

Bogart looked at him blankly or a moment.

“You want I should fix the leak,” asked the grease monkey , pointing to the Turbo-laser still spraying fluid.

“Change of plans, lad,” he said grimly, as he started rolling up the sleeves of his utility uniform, “I want you to find Heirophant and Warrant Lesner, in that order and then you’re to tell them it’s all about to go in the pot.”

“Heirophant, Chief?” the rating said looking uncertain.

“Hop to it, grease monkey ,” he barked rounding on the rating with a fierce glower.

Face clearing with understanding of his new orders, the soot-stained grease monkey took off, tearing down the gundeck strewn with broken equipment, superheated fluid and in several cases still smoking bodies the Medics hadn’t gotten around to removing yet, as they had more important things to worry about than dead bodies. For instance, the still living ones that needed immediate attention if they were to stay that way.

“What you need, Chief,” Lesner said a few moments later, striding down the deck a pipe wrench in his hand.

Curtis Bogart jerked his chin at the party making their way to his position.

He spat off to the side, before pulling out a cigar and biting the end off.

“What you make of that, Lesner,” he said bitingly, then taking his cigar and lighting it off a nearby sparking electrical cord, he took a big puff.

Lesner stared at the power-suited figures stomping down the deck in the middle of a firefight.

“Parliament making its move for the ship?” he asked uncertainly.

Bogart took another big puff, then blew out a pair of smoke rings.

“That’s what I’d say, Warrant,” he said glaring at the approaching figures, “that’s what I’d say, no other reason for a gaggle of no-good Tactical and Gunnery officers along with a quad of power-armored buffoons to show up at a time like this if’n they wasn’t.”

“That’s insane, Chief,” Lesner protested, “even those parliamentary boys wouldn’t be crazy enough to start something at a time like this!”

Bogart just pointed to the rapidly approaching men in battlesuits. “You’ll note those aren’t grandpa’s old power suits like the ones our Lancer boys come equipped with neither,” he said speaking under his breath.

“Blast,” cursed Lesner, moving off to the side, “what you want I should do, Chief.”

“Back my play, assistant Deck Chief,” Bogart said with a wink, “we may all die but if we do, at least we’ll go out the airlock with some blasted style,” he paused and smoke poured from his nostrils. “Unlike last time,” he spat off to the side of the deck, “this is our day, our Royalist Confederation day, if you take my meaning. No panzified parliamentary boy is going to rain on this old gunner’s last parade.”

“If you say so,” Lesner said doubtfully, even as if took a practice swing with his pipe wrench, “I just hope you’re right.”

“Now if only that genetically-engineered attack dog would show up to the party, we’d be all set,” Bogart said glancing around for the giant Tracto-an native. “Just like that one to take his own sweet time following orders,” he cursed.

Then there was no more time to wonder about disappearing, oversized grease monkey s.

The parliamentary lick-boots were upon them.

Chapter 24: A Deadly Game of Finger Pointing

“Lieutenant Colonel Kyle Riggs is outside the blast doors with the prisoner and seeks entry into the Flag Bridge,” reported the Internal Comm-technician.

I almost said they should just bring in my piratical Uncle but something inside made me hesitate. Maybe it was the sudden remembrance that most of my Lancer detail had jumped off the ship with Suffic and my wife to try storming the Armor Prince, or perhaps it was simply a desire not to have to deal another set of Caprian interests: the Royal Marines interested in securing my oath of loyalty to our soon to be beloved King James. Either way, I decided to let the Marine Colonel cool his heels outside my Flag Bridge while I debriefed my piratical uncle.

I would have preferred to have this meeting down in the ship’s brig but there was no way I was leaving the Flag Bridge under current conditions.

“Thank the Lieutenant Colonel in my name, and then have our Lancer guards take custody of the prisoner from the Marines,” I said decisively. This might cause me no end of trouble with the Royal Marines later on, but I wasn’t going to be taking any chances, not when everything I had was on the line and put to the hazard, as it was right now.

Space gods, but I had even thrown my wife into the meat grinder that was a boarding action! I knew what that could be like from my own experience storming the Imperial Medium Cruiser. Admittedly, she had leapt at the opportunity, but still. I refused to risk anything further, at least not until I saw some tangible results!

“The Colonel is protesting this startling lack of trust and disrespect for the actions of not only himself but those of his men who helped to capture the Pirate King,” reported the Comm. operator.

My eyes narrowed. “Tell this Colonel Riggs that if he will forward the names and unit designations of the men that captured the piratical scum he currently has in his custody, I’ll make sure that they are rewarded as the deserve. He has my personal pledge on the matter, but neither he nor his men are setting one power-armored foot on this Flag Bridge,” I said with ringing finality.

“He says he accepts, under protest,” relayed the Comm-tech.

“He can protest all he likes,” I said, dismissing the matter and standing up from my chair, “have the Lancers escort this Blood Reaver Pirate, formerly a Prince of the Caprian Realm and known to us as Jean Luc Montagne, into my ready room.”

“Are you sure you want to speak with him in there, Admiral,” inquired Warrant Officer Laurent.

From the way several of the yeomen shied away from me, the pleasant expression I tried to put on my face must have been a dismal failure.

“There are a few questions I’d like to ask my treasonous Uncle, Montagne to Montagne,” I said dourly.

“As the Admiral wishes, of course,” Laurent said with an accepting nod before bracing to attention and saluting me.

Several other members of the bridge crew also stood and saluted.

I gave a wave in reply, then stormed into my ready room to pace back and forth, in an attempt to burn off a bit of nervous energy. It was easy to tell the moment Jean Luc stepped onto the Flag Bridge.

The bridge staff let loose a victorious cheer, along with a few mocking wolf howls as the former Piratical Master and Commander of all he surveyed was frog marched into my ready room.

As soon as the doors cycled open, I leaned back in my chair as if I hadn’t a worry in the world. When they closed, I cut loose with my first verbal barrage.

“Welcome to my ship, Jean Luc,” I said letting the faintest hint of a sneer cross my face as I took in the dark leather uniform, one almost thick enough to qualify as armor with its wing tipped shoulder guards, metal-studded exterior and general attempt at piratical intimidation.

“Love what you’ve done with the place,” the one eyed Jean Luc said mildly, stepping away from his lancer guards and taking a seat in one of the two chairs in front of my desk. I ignored the mockery in his tone in favor of bestowing upon him a superior expression. After all, he was the prisoner here, not me.

“You want us to stay, Admiral,” asked the Caprian half of the Lancer pair who had escorted the pirate King in here.

“You checked him for weapons I hope,” I said archly.

“Yes sir, he registered clean on our scanners,” the more tech-savvy of the pair responded with a decisive nod.

“I like to think that I can handle one unarmed, defeated old man,” I said dismissively with a wave of my power-armored hand to emphasize the point. The lancers looked uneasy but stepped back outside the room. Who knew what plots and schemes my uncle had been involved in? The last thing I needed was for my lancers, or the crew at large, to hear any of his attempts to implicate me in some kind of deep Montagne plot.

“If you need us, we’ll be right outside, Sir,” said the same one who had asked if they should stay.

The doors slid closed as they exited the room.

I turned and looked at the scar-faced Caprian man sitting in the chair before me. There was something about looking a man in the eye that was different from seeing him only through the main screen, and I wanted this traitorous old style Montagne to feel the full weight of my withering disregard.

For his part, Jean Luc gave me back a look that was equal parts mocking, derisive and, oddly enough, as if he were somehow humoring me with his presence.

“So, a pirate is it,” I asked mildly, deciding to open the conversation with a simple statement of fact.

Jean Luc shrugged dismissively, and fired back, “Admiral Montagne I hear,” he arched a brow. “I’m surprised they started you off at that rank, when they were unwilling to go so far as to promote me from Captain to Commodore, not even if their lives depended on it,” he deadpanned, “as it very nearly did on more than one occasion.”

I shook my head. I couldn’t give too figs for the trials and tribulations of a man passed over for promotion, one who then faked his own death, stole several Caprian Battleships and proceeded to use his supposedly hard luck story as some kind of justification for his descent into piracy.

“I’m surprise you think I’d have any sympathy for a man who had very nearly everything handed to him on a sliver-platter. Respect, power, a position as Captain on a Caprian Battleship,” I said ticking off some of the many advantages he’d had over myself on the fingers of one hand. “Then you threw it all away in favor of raiding the spaceways to relieve your silver spoon-fed angst at the world,” I said derisively, “it’s Montagne’s like you who give the rest of us a bad name.”

“If you want to dispense with the usual pleasantries, I’m game,” Jean Luc said with a grin, “but don’t think for an instant I’m justifying myself to you of all people, you little squeak ant. I justify myself to nothing and no one,” he continued, his voice turning deathly serious, “everything I do is with a specific purpose, and there is very little I’ve regretted along the way,” he paused and very deliberately continued, “I assure you that turning pirate was not one of those few trifling regrets.”

“You not only betrayed the uniform you once wore, but also this ship and everyone back home on Capria who once looked up to your example,” I fired back, my lips pressed into an even line, “to say nothing of such minor matters as oaths of fealty and the loyalty you owed to your own House.”

Jean Luc raised his eyebrows, “Son,” he said rolling his eyes, “I haven’t betrayed Capria… the Royal Family, perhaps. I stood aside and allowed Admiral Cornwallis, and then Flag Captain Janeski, to turn the Summer Palace into a smoking crater, but Capria itself? Betrayed? Hardly,’ he scoffed. “We’re all better off without King Harry, the perpetually corrupt and ineffectual buffoon that he was.”

My eyes burned with silent fury at these words, as I tried and failed to suppress the surprised reaction I had to these words.

“So you were in league with the Imperials, is that it? Or perhaps it was nothing more than rank cowardice that stayed your hand,” I ground out, “that and simple fear for your own skin that allowed you to let your crew think they were doing a good thing by faking your death and saving your miserable spoon-fed life. But the whole time you planned to spit on their loyalty and hopes for your future by betraying everything they ever believed in, including you!”

“I’d be very careful with your words, boy,” Jean Luc said, the smile disappearing from his face, “else you might find them shoved right back down your throat!”

“I think you forget who is the Prisoner here, the one who’s lost everything he ever held dear, and who is the Admiral in command this ship who can determine your fate with a simple snap of his fingers,” I riposted. Who did this guy think he was, that he could threaten me with impunity on my own ship?

“You’re nothing but a pale imitation of a real Montagne, Prince-Cadet Jason Montagne Vekna,” he sneered as he repeated my last name, the Vekna name, “Admiral of a Confederation Imitation; a formation that doesn’t even qualify for the word ‘Fleet,’ so I won’t bother to deign it with the title. What you have isn’t even good enough to qualify as a rank pretender to such stature.”

“Oh,” I said leaning back in my chair, my features hardening into a killing mask, “if you think the opinion of a cowardly, piratical dog, one who’s no longer worthy enough to shine my shoes, would instruct me on subjects far more material to the matters at hand, then you’re sorely mistaken, Uncle!”

“One of us will walk out of this room, Master and Commander of all he surveys,” Jean Luc replied with deadly seriousness. “I wouldn’t be so confident that it was going to be me, were I you,” he finished, leaning back in turn and rolling his wrist, causing it to crack as he loosened it up.

For a moment I was almost sucked into believing that this man had the kind of sheer unmitigated moxy at his beck and call that he could bend the universe to his will just by simply wanting something badly enough. Then I threw back my head and roared with laughter.

“What a good joke, Uncle. For a man about to spend the rest of his terminally short existence in the Brig, you’ve certainly got a positive outlook on life,” I laughed with a tight smile, “I’ve never met a more skilled bluffer in my entire life. You really should give out lessons.”

“Is there some reason you summoned me into this…room,” he paused and then said cuttingly, “other than a chance to see me and perhaps gloat for a bit?” If anything, Jean Luc seemed to be losing interest in me, which for a man completely within my power seemed a very arrogant thing to do.

“In point of fact, there is,” I replied, pulling something straight out of my proverbial hindquarters as I mentally shifted gears, “I would like the location of every hidden port and secret pirate base along the entire edge of the Spine, as well as any information you have about pirate ships, numbers and their usual ports of call.”

“Is that all,” he asked mockingly.

“No,” I said flatly, “I also want the command key to your battleship, the…” I twisted my lips mockingly, “Vineyard. As well as any other command codes and captain’s keys you have to Omicron Station and the rest of your Pirate Fleet.”

“And I would be interested in giving you any of this…why?” demanded Jean Luc with a hint of amusement in his voice.

For a prisoner, he seemed overly demanding and dismissive, which was really starting to irk me something fierce.

“We can start off with the fact that I can determine the level of comfort you will have as you spend the remainder of your life in the brig prior to standing trial for your many crimes,” I explained hotly. Outside this room, both on this ship and off it, people were dying left and right by my orders; it was time to cut through the small talk and start producing results that would help save lives.

“My crimes, boy?” Jean Luc asked with a wry shake of his head. “Upon my return to Capria I will be hailed as a hero of the realm and welcomed back into the fold with open arms, while you will be promptly clapped in irons and greeted as nothing more than the mutinous, self-righteous traitor that you are.”

“I didn’t realize you were delusional as well as a complete sociopath,” I drawled with a wave of my hand.

Jean Luc made a chopping gesture, “Even on a ship this old, you would have done well to use your access to the computer banks, as Admiral of this ship, to look me up. If you’d bothered to take this most elementary of steps, you’d have found me listed quite prominently under a Top Secret Parliamentary file, codenamed Operation Budget Balancer.” He shook his head piteously at me, “But it seems you’re such a complete and utter fool that you couldn’t even do that much prior to gunning for me like a hormonal teenager late for the prom.”

I jerked in my seat, and stared at him with open eyes, “Operation Budget Balancer?”

“This grows tedious,” Jean Luc remarked with a sigh. “You didn’t actually think that an elected government could balance its own budget, year after year, decade after decade without fail or fiat…and not resort to either foreign loans or assistance? Or more precisely, domestic assistance from some remove, as the case may be,” he finished with a shark like grin.

“You mean—” I stopped stunned by the implications that Jean Luc had been working hand in hand with parliament all this time. Raiding the space ways for over fifty years, at the behest of Capria’s very own elected government.

“Which entirely ignores my involvement in Operation Rounding Error, which helped remove a number of the more prominent and, more importantly vociferous opposition to our gloriously elected domestic rule…whenever such opponents were foolish enough to travel off planet, that is,” Jean Luc continued with a hollow smile in my direction.

“Sweet Murphy,” I said stunned at the implication.

“Murphy can’t help you now, son; the Demon’s got his hooks into you good and hard, and I’m his most faithful of servants,” my Uncle said.

“You’ll rot in Hades before I’m done with you,” I snarled, “both for what you’ve done to Capria and the Confederation-at-large, if I have take matters into my own two hands to see that justice is finally done,” I yelled, standing up behind my desk. “Why, all those innocent colonists and freighters…” I floundered.

“Sit back down you precocious fool, before I end you,” Jean Luc ordered coldly, leaning back in his chair and snapping his fingers for emphasis.

“Next you’ll be telling me the space gods are real, the AI’s only had our best interests at heart, and you’ve been secretly involved with Admiral Janeski and whatever Imperial plans he’s had for the Spine,” I sneered, determined to bust this unsubstantiated lunatic bubble my Uncle had been living in. “You can take your threats, warnings and lies and shove them right back up where they came from!”

There was a thump outside. This caused me to stop in the middle of my tirade and look to the door leading outside.

For his part, Jean Luc leaned back in his chair and pointed his index finger at me, then mimed pulling back the trigger of a non-existent gun.

“As for your first two suggestions regarding space gods and AI’s,” he shrugged, “I really couldn’t say. But for the last,” this time he grinned, “well, let’s just say there may be more Montagne in you than I previously thought.”

I stared incredulously at Jean Luc. I was suddenly filled with the intense desire to shove my power-armored fist through the back of his head.

Then Jean Luc brought his thumb down as if firing a pistol, and the end of his pointer finger exploded.

I barely had time to realize what was happening when searing agony shot through the side of my neck and face.

I could feel blood pumping out of me and scrambled with my power assisted servos to right myself.

“Plucky little sod, aren’t you,” Jean Luc began with a grunt, and through the doors of the ready room I could hear the sound of blaster fire break out on the Flag Bridge.

“Diluted as it is, I wasn’t foolish enough to underestimate the blood that flows through your veins, Vice Admiral Jason Montagne Vekna,” he continued, turning my military rank into an insult. There was a grunt as he knocked over his chair, and a clang as he pulled something free, “More than enough people seem to have done that along the way, and while they may say many denigrating things about Jean Luc,” continued the Pirate King, “underestimating the competition has never been one of them.”

Staggering to my feet, I wobbled and tried to talk, but all that came out was a wet burbling noise. I could feel something popping out the side of my throat every time I tried to say something. Strangely, the pain was somewhat less than I had expected.

“Stay down, you fool; you’re already dead,” barked Jean Luc, lunging forward and driving something directly into my armored midsection.

I tried to knock his hand aside, but I was off balance and uncoordinated.

There was an explosion that sent electricity writhing throughout my body, and in an instant my suit locked up, causing me to topple face-forward onto the desk. I was still aware enough after the convulsions ended to realize I had just been hit with an ion spike, but at that moment all I could think was that I had been a fool not to wear my helmet.

As I lay there twitching, unable to move so much as a single solitary muscle under my active control, all I could do was watch as a pool of blood slowly spread out onto the wooden desktop in front of my field of vision.

“I wonder if they’ll even give me a medal,” my murderous Uncle paused, “you understand, don’t you, Jason?” Jean Luc stepped back and picked my head up by the hair, “For putting down the ‘real’ Montagne villain, who stole this top of the line, Caprian Battleship and paraded around the Sector, picking fights with Imperial Captains, while completely ignoring both his Provincial and Confederation Superiors.” He let my head drop back down to the desk with a thump.

By this point, everything was going dark, and I couldn’t see a thing. Vaguely, I tried to reach down into my belt, where I’d stashed a vial of combat heal, but my muscles wouldn’t obey me and even if they would, I was currently stuck in a prison of ion-shorted duralloy.

“You never should have let a parliamentarian crew, staffed with a number of my very own former officers — Parliamentary Loyalists, who I personally saved from a royalist purge — under the skin of your ship. That wasn’t your first mistake, but quite probably it will be your last.”

I tried to yell my defiance, but nothing more than a few bubbles came gurgling out.

“The fact that you thought you could get in close enough to the Omicron without being blown to cinders is laughable in its own right,” he said seriously, as he rooted around in my desk until he came up with my spare blaster pistol.

“You never would have gotten here fast enough to avoid serious damage if I hadn’t told Captain Heppner how to initiate the Montagne Maneuver. That old full-stop trick made me famous, back in the day,” he continued, jerking my utility belt off my power-armored body and rifling around inside it, before throwing it to the floor in disgust.

“Those screamers and advanced wave of Marines though, that was actually something of a surprise… well played there, but you never would have gotten close enough to exploit them if I hadn’t opened the door and kept it open for you,” he reached around my neck until he found my neck pouch. With a triumphant jerk, he tore it loose before dumping its reduced contents on the desk. Discarded as abruptly as it was claimed, I could hear the pouch as it landed behind the back of my head. I was unable to see it, but I knew what was in there.

“Ah, my old Captain’s key,” Jean Luc commented with deep satisfaction, “oh, and one last thing,” he added, leaning down so he could whisper it in my ear. There was a dramatic pause.

“Admiral Janeski sends his regards,” with a laugh, Jean Luc stomped over to the door. “Really, you never should have crossed that man. Lifting a battleship and a heavy cruiser right out from under him? Why, that’s almost as good as something I might have done, back when I was young and stupid. Of course, it was destined to end poorly, but still… very well played,” he paused as I lay there, my vision tunneling. “What am I even saying,” he asked rhetorically, “talking to a dead man. It must be some misplaced sense of familial loyalty.”

There was the sound of Jean Luc slapping the door sensor before he stormed out onto the Bridge with a roar.

For me… everything slowly… down-spiraled into… darkness.

Chapter 25: Treason on Deck

If there was one thing about this whole series of events that filled him with satisfaction, it was watching that Pirate Montagne Dog being frog marched by the Lancers into the Admiral’s ready room.

Despite himself, Tremblay hoped that the ion spike really was a bomb, one that would blow up right underneath Jean Luc and disable Jason Montagne all in one fell swoop. Nothing would have pleased him more than to see both Montagne architects of this cluster-bomb masquerading as a space battle dead and disabled in one fell swoop.

It was just too bad the parliamentary move against Jason Montagne would be delayed, unless the Captain had somehow managed to turn one of the Lancers escorting the former Pirate King into the Admiral’s ready room.

Turning back to the console he was sitting at, Officer Tremblay had to suppress a smile as the small pop-up screen he had slaved to this console gave a warning shake, causing the image to shiver from side to side, indicating motion outside the blast doors of the Flag Bridge.

Seeing Captain Heppner, dressed in recently repaired, old-style power armor, Tremblay had to suppress a shiver as adrenaline shot straight through him. The Captain was followed by a mixed squad of Caprian Marines in their newer armor, and other men in repaired version of the armor worn by the lancers,

Hand shaking slightly, he reached down to feel for the mechanical catch that would open a panel built into the side of his console. Popping it open, he pulled out a small, sensor-resistant stunner.

Holding it down in his lap, he activated it and checked the charge. As expected, the stunner was fully charged, just as he had left it.

Careful not to pick his head up from the screen and give anyone — particularly that royal reactionary Laurent over at Tactical — any excuse or indication that something was about to happen, the former Intelligence Officer kept his eyes glued to the miniature screen on his console.

If anyone looked at his monitor, all they would see was a view of shield values and power generator outputs, and think he was mirroring someone’s console. It was the electronic equivalent of looking over their shoulders… which he regularly did, and would have been doing still, if not for the sudden arrival of Parliament’s loyal sons.

He watched with bated breath as the Captain pushed his command crystal into the side of the wall. He was able to listen in through a miniature speaker he quickly placed in his right ear.

“This blast door is locked under co-equal command level authority, password required to proceed,” he could hear the computer say to Captain Heppner.

“The Password is Heppner 1015,” said Captain Heppner.

“Password accepted,” confirmed the ship’s DI, but even as it did so, Tremblay was alarmed to see the anti-personnel gun ports on the side of the entrance to the blast doors pop open.

Unperturbed, the Captain calmly continued speaking, “My voice is my password, verify me,” he replied, giving his crystal a twist to the left.

“Automated defenses standing down, welcome to the Flag Bridge Captain Heppner,” the computer said in its vaguely feminine, mechanical voice.

For Lieutenant Tremblay, it was something of a shock when the blast doors actually slid open and power-armored marines charged through it, yelling and shooting. Despite all of the action the Clover had been involved in during the year and a half he’d been assigned to her, this was the first time he’d been personally exposed to a hand-to-hand action.

“This ship has been repurposed from the Confederation Fleet! Under direct order of both Parliament and the Palace, the Lucky Clover has been returned to the SDF,” roared a Caprian Marine, unloading his blaster rifle into one of the two Lancers standing guard inside the Flag Bridge blast doors.

The second lancer screamed and launched himself into the fray. His attempt to block the blast doors with his presence ended almost as quickly as it began. He barely had time to sink his Imperial mono-Locsium boarding axe into the helmet of the Marine blowing away his companion before he was knocked to the ground by a stream of power-armored Parliamentarians as they rushed into the bridge.

There was the sound of a plasma rifle being unloaded at point blank range and the now thoroughly stomped and shot-through-the-visor Tracto-an lancer fell silent.

The two Lancers standing guard outside the ready room didn’t stay out of the action. The larger of the two launched himself across the bridge, screaming a war cry.

Only to be shot down by his companion. “For Parliament,” screamed the Lancer who until now had been motionless. Tremblay had taken him to be nothing more than just another royal stooge.

The Tracto-an Lancer was not done for yet, but a hail storm of blaster fire from the Marines sent him scrambling for cover behind a console.

Tremblay sat frozen at his console, while all around him bridge staffers started screaming and diving for cover.

Or, in the case of a few like Warrant Officer Laurent, rose up and tried to stem the parliamentary tide.

Two blasters in his hands, Laurent leapt out of the Tactical Pit and, finding cover at the back of a console, unloaded his weapons at the parliamentarians.

“For the Little Admiral,” Laurent screamed.

The sight of that middle-aged, royal interloper diving into the fray spurred Tremblay out of his rigid pose hunched over his console.

Picking up his stunner and bending down so he could use the nearby consoles as cover, he walked carefully around to a position behind the Tactical Officer.

Leveling his stunner, he shot the twin blaster-wielding Laurent in the back.

With an “oofh,” the Warrant Officer stiffened before collapsing over the console he had been using for cover, prior to sliding down to the floor.

“Traitor,” yelled an overeager tactical staffer, charging at Tremblay.

Caught flat-footed, Tremblay stared wide-eyed at the other man. It took him a moment to process the fact that someone was actually trying to kill him. Once the situation registered, training took over and he smoothly brought up his pistol and fired.

All around him, despite the hopelessness of their situation, Bridge Staffers were overcoming their shock and a majority looked like they were planning some kind of resistance, which was just plain suicide when faced with power-armored Marines.

Seeing one would-be hero turned into a smoking pile of meat from several simultaneous hits by a Marine sized blaster rifles, Tremblay crouched down and quickly thumbed the selector on his pistol from a focused beam to wide spread.

Standing back up he unloaded it at as many of the idiots trying to get themselves killed as he could.

Don’t those fools realize they’ve already lost? he wondered silently. But apparently they had not, as several more ducked out from under their consoles holding wrenches and multi-tools.

Rapidly switching his stunner from widespread to narrow beam, he shot several of them down before the others realized he was there.

Instead of acting like any rational person and putting down their weapons prior to surrender, they chose to charge his position instead.

“Clover and the Little Admiral,” screamed a sensor operator, throwing his multi-tool at the Chief of Staff.

“Stay down you fools, and that’s an order,” barked Tremblay dodging to the side to avoid the multi-tool and servicing his stunner left to right, taking out Montagne loyalists until it suddenly ran out of charge.

“You’ll all be thrown in the brig if you don’t put your weapons down,” yelled Tremblay, and some of the less partisan bridge standers (or perhaps simply those more conscious of the fact they might get killed) hesitated.

The rest charged. The former First Officer threw his stunner at the first and raised his fists to deal with the rest, when the power-armored marines showed up and unleashed a storm of blaster bolts that killed everyone in the aisles holding a makeshift weapon.

Tremblay stood there for a moment, then he turned to the marines. “Thank you—” he started, just before an armored arm clotheslined him, sending him to the ground choking and clutching his neck.

“Stay down,” growled a marine placing a boot on top of him, “this Ship is now under parliamentarian authority, stand fast or be blasted.”

Tremblay punched the leg on top of him with a hammer fist while the other hand clutched his throat. The weight of that foot pressing on him hurt.

The Marine leaned over. “Royalist boot licker,” the marine sneered, pressing down to the point the former intelligence officer felt ribs pop and was unable to breathe for an entirely different reason.

“Long live parliament,” he was finally able to wheeze.

“Save it for the Morale Officer,” scoffed the Marine, securing his hands with plastic ties, and added an additional bit of pressure with his foot to emphasis the point.

“Your parole, Junior Lieutenant,” demanded the Marine.

“I’m a loyal parliamentarian in the Caprian SDF,” Tremblay exclaimed, right before a crushing pressure bore down on him until he could hear even more ribs pop.

“Your parole,” the marine repeated grimly, as he pulled out a stunner and leveled it at Tremblay.

“My sworn word, of course,” Officer Tremblay wheezed out.

With a grunt, the Marine re-holstered his stunner and then clamped a bracelet around Raphael Tremblay’s wrist before picking up his boot and moving on.

Staring down at the bracelet in horror, the former Intelligence Officer recognized that he’d been fitted with an explosive bracelet. If he broke his ‘parole,’ a simple click of a button or transmission on the appropriate frequency would set it off.

More commonly known as slave bracelets, thanks to half a dozen different laws and treaties, they were entirely illegal to use on prisoners of war, and only reserved for use on traitors and rebels, neither of which applied to him!

Half terrified and half fuming, the Chief of Staff waited until the marines had moved further into the pits tying up those staffers still alive and kicking before making his next move.

When the coast looked relatively clear, he staggered to his feet, a little awkwardly thanks to the improvised hand cuffs. Lurching around the corner due to stiffening muscles, more than anything else, the sight that greeted his eyes left him stunned.

Jean Luc Montagne stood in front of the Admiral’s chair, his armor smoking and dotted in several locations by what looked like blaster marks. It took several second for Tremblay to realize he was clasping hands with Captain Heppner!

Chapter 26: It ‘tis, it ‘tis, a Glorious Thing… To be a Pirate King!

(Ever so slightly earlier)

He had almost forgotten something before heading out into the fray. Lunging back to the Admiral’s desk, he relieved the still-twitching Jason of the sword strapped to his side before slapping open the door sensor.

Leaping out onto the bridge, he saw a power-armored guard in old style Caprian battle armor firing into the middle of the fray, and a mixed bunch of Caprian marines and old style armored crewmen rushing into the bridge.

Down in the pits he saw a wounded Lancer use a vibro sword to cut down a Marine.

With a grin, Jean Luc took a running leap and jumped down into the fray. Casting the sheath off his vibro-weapon, he had long enough to realize that despite the black metal with crystals glinting in its depths that it was neither vibro nor, as he had mistakenly took it for originally, his long-hidden family heirloom.

No matter. With a grunt he brought it into position over his head and attacked.

The oversized lancer was quick, and knew how to wield his weapon, bringing it around in time to block the attack and the power of the other man’s attack knocked the pirate king’s sword wide. Before the lancer could take advantage, Jean Luc brought his other hand up and unloaded the blaster pistol into his visor at point blank range.

That ought to put him off his stride, Jean Luc thought confidently, keeping the pressure on as the other man backed away, raising one hand to guard against further strikes from Jean Luc to his face shield.

Alternating sword strikes with blaster shots to the visor, Jean Luc chased the stumbling Lancer past several terrified bridge staffers.

Jumping forward with a mighty head swing, followed by a kick to his opponent’s bad leg, the Pirate King overbalanced his opponent. Reversing his sword to bring it down in a two handed thrust, Jean Luc was about to run the Lancer through when he was struck in the side by a blaster bolt.

Fortunately, his specially treated storm drake armor was more than up to the task of protecting him. The special treatment had turned it an intimidating shade of black, as well as making it highly blaster resistant. So aside from a half inch wide hole, and a slight kicking sensation where he had been hit, the pirate lord was essentially unaffected.

Two more bolts landed in rapid succession, hitting him center mass. Someone was deliberately targeting him, which simply would not do. After all, what if they took aim for his relatively unguarded head and got off a lucky shot?

He snapped off a return shot, releasing his second hand’s grip on the pommel of Jason’s sword as he did so.

The other man ducked down behind the console he was using for cover. Jean Luc was surprised to see he was unarmored. Turning to the side and staring down the barrel of his pistol, Jean Luc unconsciously assumed a duelist’s stance. It was the same stance he had been trained to use long ago back on Capria.

The other man ducked back, firing wildly with one gun while taking aim with the other. As the other man’s head entered his sights, Jean Luc felt a feral grin cross his face. The other man unexpectedly fell forward onto his console and slid down, disappearing from sight.

Growling his displeasure, and more than a little irked that someone else had gotten to the shooter before he had the chance, Jean Luc glanced down at the Lancer at his feet.

Not a moment too soon, he saw a power-armored hand reaching for his leg.

Leaping into the air to avoid the other man’s groping hand, he came down on his feet with the grace of a cat. Whipping the sword over his head for power, he brought it down full force on the fallen Lancer’s helmet. One strike, then a second. Blow after blow rained down, while the Lancer scrambled and kicked trying to get away.

A final blow split the helmet like a watermelon, causing a spray of blood to splash on the deck.

Raising his mouth to the ceiling, Jean Luc gave a brief yipping howl of triumph before leaping around the next aisle.

The sight of several figures in a different style of power armor from the fallen lancer brought him up short.

For half a moment, he was tempted to continue further into the pits in search of blood, but he reluctantly brought himself up short.

Jean Luc absentmindedly clubbed a cowering sensor operator into unconsciousness as he leaned over and wiped the blade of his sword clean. He heaved a sigh and started back up toward the Admiral’s Throne.

A marine charging down the stairs paused half a second to give him a hard look, before passing him on the outside.

Jean Luc nodded with satisfaction; it looked like Heppner had already put the word out. Not that he had any particularly reason to doubt the other man, but in his most recent line of work (even more so than in the one immediately before that, as a prince of the Caprian realm) it paid to take as few risks as possible, and leave as little chance as one could.

Of course, sometimes chances and risks were unavoidable. He released a wolfish grin, unconsciously fluttering his fingers. That was one of the main traits that separated a Montagne from the rest of the common herd: the ability to ride the waves of chance, and successfully bend the universe to his will.

Reaching the top of the dais, he glanced briefly down into the pits where the Marines were still throwing people onto the ground and zip-tying them.

Pausing before the Admiral’s Throne, he nodded with satisfaction.

A power-armored figure clumped up beside him, but he continued to look at the Throne for a moment before nodding a second time.

“Glad you could make it, Captain,” said the man beside Jean Luc.

“It’s been a long time, Jim,” the one-eyed pirate replied, turning back to a face that represented some of both the best and worst parts of his previous life.

Stepping forward, the two men clasped arms.

“You’re looking well, if you don’t mind my saying so, Sir,” said the Caprian Officer.

Despite the fact that his arm was held in the other’s power-armored grip, Jean Luc’s eyes drilled into those of the other man.

“I hear you made Captain, yourself,” Jean Luc said with twist of the lips and a hard glint in his eyes.

Jim Heppner met his steely gaze without a hint of apology and nodded.

Jean Luc smiled. It was nice to see that his former First Officer lost none of his spine serving in what had become an increasingly backwater System Defense Force.

“Well then,” Jean Luc prompted with a narrowed gaze.

Before he had time to do anything more, Heppner released his hand and drew himself up into a salute.

“Allow me to be the first to formally welcome you back aboard the Lucky Clover, Jean Luc Montagne,” Jim Heppner said formally.

“My ship, Captain Heppner,” Jean Luc said with an easy tone of voice that belied his readiness to make the point stick any which way he had to.

Jim released his salute. “Just like old times, Sir. You give the orders, and I carry them out.”

Jean Luc paused to consider this, then shook his head from side to side slowly.

“There’s only one captain on a ship, Jim,” he said regretfully.

Heppner paused slightly, and gave him an assessing look before reaching into his utility belt.

Only someone who knew him, and knew him well, would have known the pirate king tensed up at this move. From the outside he looked as easy and loose as a man who had not a care in the world.

Pulling out a pair of metal comets, Heppner held the Commodore’s traditional insignia for Jean Luc to accept. “A long overdue promotion, if I do say so myself, Sir.”

Jean Luc’s lips tightened.

“Captain and Executive Officer before; Commodore and Captain now,” Heppner said easily, “I don’t see as there needs to be much, if any difference in the way we run things.”

Jean Luc scowled thunderously as he snorted a breath through his nose. Around them, several marines whose job it was to guard Captain Heppner sighed in relief.

“I put them back in power and they don’t have room for me in the regular navy, let alone a simple promotion to flag rank,” the pirate lord grudged. “I spend the better part of five decades carrying their water out here on the rim and they still won’t make me an Admiral! What a bunch of unmitigated pikers,” he said hotly.

“I couldn’t say,” Heppner said calmly.

“Of all the ungrateful, pig-headed, elected swine!” roared the former Caprian Prince.

“I take it that you’re ready to input the new IFF Codes, so the Omicron doesn’t decide to pulverize us into space dust as soon as we clear the docking ring?” Heppner asked, arching a brow.

“That would be a ‘yes,’” Jean Luc agreed, pivoting around to take one last look at the Flag Bridge before seating himself on the Admiral’s Throne.

He placed the Captain’s crystal into the appropriate slot and input the old override code, giving him direct access to the comm. system and the ship’s navigation beacon. Tapping rapidly on the miniature keyboard built into the arm of the chair, he entered the appropriate information to turn one Dreadnaught Class Battleship from a hostile invader into a bona fide member of the Blood Reaver Fleet, at least as far as the Pirates of Omicron Station where concerned.

Jean Luc took a look around the bridge, which was so very similar, and yet so completely different than his Vineyard and laughed. The leaders of the universe at large, and the Spine in particular, only thought they knew what they had unleashed upon themselves when the Spine was cut off from the rest of known space. But no one, not even Admiral Janeski, realized the full extent of Jean Luc’s plans for the future of the Spineward Sectors.

Chapter 27: Tremblay-ing at the Sight

When it looked like the Captain and that never to be sufficiently blasted Pirate Montagne were done talking, Tremblay started to move forward, only to feel his jaw drop open as Heppner saluted the criminal.

As if in a daze, he watched as Jean Luc seated himself in the Admiral’s Chair as if he had every right in the world to do so.

Unable to believe his eyes, Tremblay forced his jaw back into place and his features under control. Striding up to the real Captain of this ship, Tremblay drew himself up to attention. It was hard to properly salute when both of his hands had been zip-tied together.

“Lieutenant Tremblay, reporting for duty, Sir,” he said stiffly.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jean Luc look on with interest, but refused to allow that blue-blooded pirate the satisfaction of his attention. Whatever deal Heppner had struck with the one-eyed pirate, Tremblay was certain they would put the traitor where he belonged as soon as they returned to Caprian space.

Heppner raised an eyebrow. “Why, so you are, Junior Lieutenant,” he replied coolly.

“Who is this fool, to think he can stand between myself and the main holo-screen,” Jean Luc asked in a mild tone.

Tremblay stiffened, but continued to ignore him.

“I must protest this treatment of a loyal parliamentary officer, Sir,” Tremblay insisted, indicating his tied hands with a shake before pointing to the explosive strapped to his wrist.

“He’s the Chief of Staff to the former Admiral of this ship,” Heppner explained, ignoring Tremblay and focusing on the pirate as if Raphael was just another piece of furniture.

“Why does he feel free to wander around, when the rest of his cohorts are being hauled off to the brig,” Jean Luc asked conversationally.

“He was instrumental in helping us take back this ship,” Heppner replied with a nod in Tremblay’s direction, “he helped place the ion spike in the ready room.

Tremblay felt himself start to puff up with pride, only to realize the Pirate would see it, so kept himself under tight control.

“I see,” Jean Luc said, “which is why I’ll forgive the insolent cretin for having the manners of a churl as he continues to impede my line of sight,” he said harshly.

“Stand aside Tremblay, before you find yourself forcibly moved or worse,” ordered Heppner, caving in to the Pirates demands, as if anything he said could be more important that Tremblay’s loyal service to Parliament.

Burning on the inside, Tremblay stiffly moved to one side.

“Better, Sir?” Heppner asked.

Tremblay’s ears burned to watch a Parliamentarian Officer debase himself in such a manner.

“Much,” Jean Luc agreed with a dour look in Tremblay’s direction, “however, as I have no need for the services of a traitor who would betray his own Admiral, I think it best if he leaves.” The Montagne pirate paused emphatically as he turned pointedly to Captain Heppner, “To the brig, perhaps?”

“Of course, Commodore,” Heppner replied with a nod.

“Commodore,” Tremblay spluttered, first at the outrage of being judged by a criminal such as this Montagne, and then at the thought that at his orders, the Captain was about to eject a loyal officer from the Bridge. “Jason Montagne was no Admiral of mine! Chance and misfortune placed him in command of this ship. My loyalty is, and has always been, to Parliament and the elected order!”

Heppner took one giant step and grabbed Raphael Tremblay by the scruff of his neck. “Come along,” the Captain ordered.

“You’re going to throw me into the brig on the orders of some jumped up Royalist, and a bloodthirsty Montagne Pirate at that!” Tremblay demanded in disbelief.

“This ‘Pirate’, has done more for Parliament, Capria and her people than you could ever dream of accomplishing,” Heppner growled, lifting the junior officer from the floor by his collar, “which doesn’t even mention how he personally saved the lives of her current command staff, as well as a large number of her remaining senior crew, decades before you were born. So keep a civil tongue in your head, Junior Lieutenant,” he warned, emphasizing Tremblay’s lowly rank, “before it’s removed.”

Tremblay gaped and gagged, as the neck of his uniform cut into the very same spot those marines had just clotheslined him. “A Montagne,” he protested, almost despite himself.

Jean Luc threw his head back and laughed.

“I still have no use for him, Jim,” the Montagne Pirate chuckled, “but he’s got spunk. Put him down.”

As abruptly as that, Tremblay was released.

Looking at Heppner, the former First Officer no longer saw a kindred spirit as dedicated as himself to the removal of royalist rule over this ship and the restoration of Parliament. Instead, he looked into the pitiless gaze of a man who had used him for his own purposes, namely to remove one Jason Montagne from power. Now that Tremblay had outlived his usefulness, Heppner was prepared to jettison him, if necessary. And all on the whim of yet another Montagne who, by any sane person’s reckoning, had to be at least ten times worse than the previous one!

“Don’t look so betrayed, son,” Jean Luc said consolingly, “as I said, while I have no use for a man who would betray his superior, I do have one final task for you.”

Heppner knocked him on the back of the head when Tremblay failed to reply quickly.

Seeing stars from a tap which, however gentle, had been delivered with the metal gauntlets of a power suit, Tremblay staggered.

“Stand at attention and salute when you are receiving your orders from the Commodore,” Heppner ordered severely.

“Ye-yes, Sir,” Tremblay stammered, unable to believe his change in fortune. How could this have happened?he wondered silently.

“Quite,” Jean Luc said with a nod at Captain Heppner. “As I was saying,” he continued as Tremblay drew himself up to attention and saluted, “there is one final service which you may render, both myself and the previous occupant of this chair,” Jean Luc continued, patting the side of his Throne as if stroking some kind of pet.

“Wha-what, Sir,” Tremblay said, seeing which way the ship’s political winds were blowing. Unbelievably, they seemed to be blowing in yet another, insanely, Montagne direction.

“You can clean up the mess in the Admiral’s Ready room before proceeding to whatever assignment Captain Heppner has for you,” he instructed with a benign nod before turning his attention to something on the main screen.

Tremblay stared at the Pirate. He was stunned; was he to be turned into a yeoman now, and sent to clean up messes?

Another clout to the back of his head sent him reeling once again, and spurred him into motion.

How had everything gone so wrong so fast? he wondered as he moved toward the Admiral’s ready room. All he had ever wanted to do was get Jason Montagne out of command, and return this ship to Capria, its rightful owner.

Jason and his insane do-gooder policy of trying to police the Galaxy was out, but Jean Luc the Pillaging Pirate Montagne of Black Space was in. Captain Heppner, it seemed, was firmly behind his ascension to power, along with most of the new crew. Tremblay realized he had been played for a fool!

Space gods save us all, he thought to himself as the door to the ready room opened.

Chapter 28: Cleaning a Royal Mess

Stepping into the ready room, Tremblay stared at the overturned chair; a chair he had recently placed an ion spike beneath.

Numbly, he picked the chair up and placed it upright.

Looking over at the Admiral’s desk, he grabbed his mouth with both hands, feeling his stomach lurch.

A pool of blood covered the top of the desk and was dripping down onto the floor underneath it. Draped across the desk itself was the armored, motionless body of one Jason Montagne.

Wincing, he turned his gaze away. He had thought multiple times about such a scene, and even at times hoped the false Admiral would come to this precise end, but the sight of it was stomach churning. Almost despite himself, he felt an incredible surge of regret.

Swallowing to keep from vomiting and adding to the mess already in the ready room, he turned to the small lavatory door. Once inside, he leaned his back against the wall as he began hyperventilating.

Everything had gone wrong. He was supposed to be a hero, not threatened with brig time! The ship was supposed to be free of royalist influence, not at the beck and call of a man a thousand times worse, and a thousand times more royal than Jason Montagne could ever hope to be.

He had not gone through and done everything he had, just to replace one Montagne with another… had he? Captain Heppner had been sent by Parliament; he was supposed to set things right!

Or had that just been another lie as well? Tremblay wondered as his shaking hands cradled his head. Along with the promise that they would get the Montagnes off the Flag Bridge! No, he recalled, Heppner was listed in the Intelligence database as a loyal Parliamentary Officer. How was this possible? Had the royals turned Heppner? If so, what about the rest of the officers and crew? They would never stand still for this… not unless Parliament really had placed a Montagne, of all things, in command of the Clover.

Outrageous, unacceptable, and worst of all… there was no longer anything he could do about it. Tremblay drew his hands down over his face. Shaking his head, he reached over and roughly grabbed the hand towels.

Moving back into the ready room on legs which felt like rubber, he threw a towel down onto the floor to sop up the blood near the crimson pool’s edge.

He placed another right in the middle of the blood.

Then he started picking up the various contents scattered on the floor. A data slate, a stylus, a few data chips, a chip reader, and a vial of combat heal.

Placing them on a nearby chair, he turned back to the desk. The sight of all that blood started him shaking again. Closing his eyes, he forced the shakes away.

I’m a trained Parliamentarian Officer! Tremblay scolded himself. Even if everyone else on this ship seemed to have forgotten what that meant, he most certainly had not. It meant loyalty to the people, defiance in the face of elitism, and that a person’s birth did not define who they were. It meant dying to ensure that the people had a vote, and that each vote was not only recorded, but actually counted!

A few deep breaths later, he had calmed down enough that he was about to open his eyes when he heard something.

It was faint, and only lasted for the shortest of durations, but the sound was unmistakable.

His eyes popped open of their own accord, almost bugging out of his head.

Tremblay took a step back in dismay. The sound had been unmistakable: a half-gurgled exhalation.

“I’ve been cursed,” Tremblay said, feeling as if he was now interacting with the rest of the world through a head filled with cotton; everything seeming distant, like he was lagging a second behind the rest of reality.

Tremblay placed a hand on his forehead, and staggered over to the nearest chair. It was his duty to finish the job. The assortment of items currently using the chair for a miniature desk prevented him from sitting down in the chair, so he grabbed the first sharp object that came to hand.

It was an old-style letter opener.

He stared down at his hand, which held the slender metal blade. He knew what was expected, what he was supposed to do; what he had to do. Tremblay’s face hardened and he took a step over to the young man known throughout the ship as the Little Admiral.

Placing the blade against a part of Jason’s neck not covered with blood, the young officer started to press. A few seconds later he dropped the letter opener. His hands (or perhaps his heart) had no more strength for the task.

Once again, he stared down at those hands, only this time he acknowledged the truth. It was a truth which that Montagne Pirate had seen with his first glance; that no matter what anyone else ever said later, Tremblay would always know that his hands were those of a traitor.

“Either Parliament has no idea what’s going on out here,” he said fiercely, “or it’s up to its elected neck in these shenanigans.”

He glared down at Jason’s immobile form. “Either way, you don’t deserve to die like this, and if Parliament is involved in this… this farce…” he exclaimed.

Before he could think too deeply about what he was about to do, Tremblay marched over to the chair which had a vial of combat heal resting on it.

With a brutal strength that had been entirely lacking when he had held the metal-bladed paper opener, he jammed the vial into the side of the Admiral’s neck.

Moving rapidly now, he used the rest of the towels to clean up the worst of the mess, before throwing them into a chute destined for a thorough cleaning or the waste recycler.

Ignoring the weakly twitching form of Jason, movement which indicated the ‘Little Admiral’ might be too far gone even for combat heal to save, Tremblay quickly straightened everything up.

Taking a deep breath, he popped the emergency releases on the stiff and unwieldy power armor Jason was still encased in. After several minutes, he managed to free his former ‘superior.’

“I still think you’re a Montagne, and a natural enemy of the common man,” he spat at Jason, who he wasn’t even sure was dead or alive, “but I won’t give that pair of traitors out there the satisfaction. If they want you dead, they can bloody well do it themselves, and clean up their own mess when they do!”

So saying he bent down and, after a struggle, managed to sling Jason over his shoulder. Staggering under the weight of the Little Admiral’s body, he moved to the door. Waving a hand in front of the sensor, he moved out into the Flag Bridge.

“Make sure and dispose of that for me,” Jean Luc said with a grin and an airy wave.

Eyes facing forward, Tremblay staggered out of the Flag Bridge and toward the lift.

Chapter 29: On the Gun Deck, Again

A trio of tactical officers in dress uniforms, chests full of fruit salad and one gunnery officer in a clean work uniform, came to a half in front of Chief Bogart.

The Chief glanced down at his torn, burnt and grease-stained work utilities and scornfully exhaled smoke in their direction.

Behind the parliamentarians, a quad of power-armored figures came to a halt and snappily fanned out a pair to either side of the officers. From their insignia patches, they were Caprian Marines.

“Well, well, well, a bevy of junior ship’s officers, and a side party of marines to stiffen their spines,” Bogart said, puffing on his cigar. “What does a well-oiled operation,” he said quirking his lips and taking the cigar out of his mouth to tap the ash out in the direction of the hydraulic leak to the side and immediately behind him, “like our fine gunnery deck, need at this 11th hour with a passel of youngish pups like yourselves?” He pointedly ignored the gunner accompanying the blighters.

The leader of the trio from tactical drew himself up stiffly, while the gunner with them simply worked his jaw prior to blowing a small bubble of gum.

Bogart’s mouth tightened.

“It’s Lieutenant Commander Quentin Absolon, and since the ship has so recently been in combat, I’m willing to overlook a few things like banned substances on the gun deck, but you’d best be mindful to keep a civil tongue in your head, Chief Bogart,” Absolon said stiffly. “These are my officers: Lieutenant Hector and Junior Lieutenant Anok McBride.”

Behind the trio, the gunnery officer started noisily chewing on his gum. He wore impossibly dark glasses, and had a barely regulation length, flat-top haircut which stood at a stark, upward angle from his skull.

Bogart’s nostrils flared at this bit of gum-chewing provocation.

“I’m sorry if you didn’t get the memo,” he said solicitously, refusing to let the real threat amongst this gaggle of ship’s officers get his goat, “but this here’s a Confederation outfit. Only thing illegal on this gun deck is chewin’ gum.”

The gunnery officer behind them flashed Bogart a grin before looking off to the side lazily, as if the current confrontation was beneath his notice.

“I don’t know when your exact date of retirement and the new regulations intersected, but cigars and other forms of smoking have been illegal within ships of the Caprian System Defense Force for well over 45 years,” Lieutenant Commander Absolon said stiffly, “which is entirely beside the point!”

“Which would be, Lieutenant Commander,” Bogart asked evenly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one tall native Tracto-an surreptitiously move over to a nearby turbo-laser; in his hand was a crystal headed axe. One corner of Bogart’s mouth lifted slightly.

“By order of King James, the Caprian Parliament and the master and commander of this battleship Captain Jim Heppner, you are hereby ordered to stand down this broadside,” Lieutenant Commander Absolon ordered formally. “By order of the Captain, hostilities with this Pirate Station are temporarily suspended!”

“Warrant Officer Lesner,” Bogart barked.

“Yes, Chief Gunner,” Lesner said crisply.

“Have the pirates infesting the fine Caprian-built ship of the line ceased firing and struck their fusion generators?” the Chief snapped.

There was a fractional pause. “The main guns on the pirate battleship,” Lesner said, “have fallen silent, but their point defenses are still targeting our Lancers!”

“Inform our men that they are to proceed with counter battery fire!” Bogart instructed in a loud, carrying voice.

“Refusal to carry out legal orders while under enemy fire is mutiny against the Caprian Government!” yelled Lieutenant Absolon, and the Marines behind him started to move to either side of the Gun Chief. “You will be subject to summary execution, along with anyone following your illegal orders,” he added angrily.

Bogart stuck out his jaw, ready to go down in flames. Then he noticed a large, pale figure creeping up into a position on top of the nearest turbo-laser cab. “My table of organization lists Tactical Officer Laurent. You, my boyo,” he said pointing his cigar at the Lieutenant Commander, “I’ve never heard of.”

Then he rounded on the gum-chewing upstart. “And stow that illegal substance in the waste bin,” he snarled at the other gunnery officer.

The gum-chewer paused as if in consideration before giving Bogart a long look and, slowly pulling out his gum, he flicked it off to the side.

“Warrant Officer Laurent has been officially removed from your Chain of Command, Chief,” Absolon growled with barely restrained fury. He pulled out a rolled set of hard copy orders and slapped them into Bogart’s hands.

Taking as much time as he thought he could get away with (which, under these conditions, which was not very long) the Gun Chief checked the seals and signatures before reading the text. As expected, it was a bunch of mealy-mouthed parliamentary garbage.

“Listen, son,” Bogart began in a reasonable voice, one that nevertheless caused the Parliamentarian Lieutenant Commander to stiffen with outrage, “there’s only two ways you’re going to get me to order this Gun Deck to stand down. You can go back up to the Flag Bridge and get Laurent or the Little Admiral on the horn with orders to stand down,” he took a deep draw off his cigar, and slowly released the smoke out of his nostrils like an angry dragon. “’Cause there’s only one man on the gun deck who issues orders, and that’s the Chief Gunner.”

“The other way you’ll stand down?” demanded Absolon, motioning to the Marines to move in and take the Gunner Chief into custody.

“Over my dead body,” roared the Chief Gunner.

“That’s it,” snapped Absolon, “Marines, you are hereby ordered to take this old fool into custody, using any means necessary!”

“Hold fast, Marines,” said a cool voice with ringing authority.

“Not now, Officer Bernard,” Absolon said stiffly, “I’ve got this well in hand.”

“I have been granted special dispensation to deal with the Chief Gunner of the gundeck, from Captain Heppner himself,” the flat-top sporting gunner said evenly, “do you dispute these orders, Sir?”

“Oh, of all the superstitious, departmental nonsense,” glared Absolon at the gunnery officer, “we could be violating the ceasefire at any moment and you want to—”

“Do you fail to recognize the special authority granted me by the Captain of the Ship,” Bernard demanded, “yes or no, Lieutenant Commander Absolon!?”

“Of all the fife,” Absolon exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air and motioning for the Marines to hold fast, “carry on, Bernard.”

Chief Bogart watched with a smile, his cigar clamped firmly by the teeth on the left side of his jaw.

“Sorry about all that,” Officer Bernard said, propping the oversized dark glasses up on his forehead.

“Elected incompetence,” Bogart sneered, determined to make his position clear from the get-go.

“You prefer royal tyranny and corruption by appointment?” Bernard inquired mildly as he cracked his knuckles.

“Gonna make me ask, are you,” Bogart said dropping the cigar onto the deck and grinding it beneath his boot-heel. A gun deck was no place for a stray heat source.

“Yep,” Bernard replied, taking a step forward with a hard glint to his eye.

“Well then, what are you here for, if it’s not a job on my gun deck,” growled the Chief, clenching his fists and giving the other man a dire look.

“Are you sure we can’t hash this out first? You have to know your position’s untenable,” Bernard said, motioning to the Marines behind him, “even if by some miracle you win… you won’t.”

“I haven’t got time to stand around jawing all day! By all the green blazes, put up or shut up,” Bogart barked as he raised his fists. This had been destined to be an old-style gun deck challenge. Parliament might have tried to do away with the old tradition of challenging for the position of chief ramrod on the gun deck, but the Royal Regimes had never even tried. This Bernard looked like he was old enough to have cut his teeth on the proper way of doing things.

“It’s your funeral, old man,” Bernard said shortly. Then he drew himself up into a brawlers version of formal attention, “In response to your original question, Chief of the Gun Deck, I’m here to kick ass and chew bubble gum.” Bernard pulled his lips back in what at any other might have been misconstrued as a smile, “Thanks to you, I’m all out of gum.”

“Well, what the Hades you waitin’ for,” snarled the Chief Gunner when the other man didn’t just wade right in, “come on, ya pansy!”

“Oh, you old bastard,” growled the Parliamentary Gunner as he popped his glasses back down over his eyes. With his fists raised, he charged forward, leading with his chin.

Presented with such a tempting target, the aging Gunner decided it would be a right shame not to finish this thing before it had begun, even if the Marines would immediately move in anyway.

With a grunt, the old Chief unleashed a patented Iron Hands uppercut. His fist connected square on the other man’s jaw, landing with such force that he felt something crack upon impact.

Shaking his hand, Chief Curtis Bogart watched with poorly concealed triumph as this Bernard’s charge came to a sudden and immediate halt.

The other man stood there, shaking his head from side to side for a moment. Then, like an old bull that had smashed headlong into one too many rock walls, he snorted harshly as he regained his balance.

The spiky-haired Bernard gave a red-toothed smile. Spitting blood off to his left, the other man glared at Bogart. “Duralloy jaw,” the gum-chewer explained, tapping his chin, “lost the original back in the Toge Offensive.” His lip curled, “I hope that’s not the best you’ve got, old Iron Hands,” he finished derisively.

Resisting the urge to shake his right hand, the pain making it clear that whatever crunch he’d just felt had to have come from his side of the equation, the Gun Chief growled fiercely. He knew it took more than a metal jawbone to keep from the deck after a shot like that. The gum-chewer probably had black market spinal shock absorbers installed as well.

“I’m just getting started,” Bogart taunted.

“Take as much time as you need warming up,” sneered Bernard, “old bones, and all that.”

With a roar, Chief Gunner Bogart waded in, this time aiming for the body. If he there was no quick way to finish this bruiser, it just meant it would take a little longer to chop him down to size.

This time it was his turn to take a blow to the back of the ear that wobbled his legs and had him seeing stars, but Bogart was an old hand at scraping and brawling. Instead of retreating like most men, he started swinging wildly instead.

Once, twice, then a third time he connected with the younger man, before his fourth swing whiffed over the other’s head.

A punishing blow to his own side caused ribs to pop, and the older man coughed air in a spasm of controlled pain.

“Blast,” muttered Bogart feeling blood in his mouth, that blighter had landed a blow on the same side that parliamentarian assassin had scored with his knives.

There was a pause as both men temporarily unclenched and started circling.

Behind his original position, a silent crowd of grease monkeys armed with pipe wrenches and plasma torches had gathered. On the other, a quad of power-armored marines trained at riot suppression and all other forms of general killing and mayhem.

Despite the fact he knew they would lose if it came down to the ratings versus the marines, the old Chief wouldn’t have rather had anyone else at his back.

Buoyed by a surge of pride, the old chief lunged back into the fray.

Twice more they both came in with fists flying and feet kicking. Bogart gave as good as he got, but the simple fact was the other man was younger and ever so slightly quicker to the target. The old man was going to have to change things up and fast, he decided.

Thinking his next overhand left was a fake, the parliamentary gunner took advantage of a temporary opening and landed another punishing blow to the body before Bogart left came home and splattered his parliamentary book licking nose all over his smug upstart face.

Hoping this would send the other reeling, the Chief was taken off guard when Bernard came forward and clinched.

He struggled mightily for several moments; pitting brute strength against raw brutal strength before age and the damage already done to his side sapped him. His breaths became harder to come by, the longer the duel went on.

A head butt had Bogart once again seeing stars and he knew that if he didn’t come up with something quick, his time as Chief of the Deck was about to come to a second, crushing end.

When all his dazed brain managed to come up with was a big empty blank instead of a winning strategy, just like any other aging champion whose time was nearing an abrupt and unseemly end, he had no choice but to fall back on emergency tactics. That is to say, he lunged forward like some kind of angry striking snake and went for the ear.

Chomping down on the Challenger’s flesh his teeth dug deep into cartilage and the other man screamed. The resulting thrashing around knocked the both of them over.

Riding the clawing and striking parliamentary fur ball down to the ground Bogart grimly held onto that ear and gnawed for all he was worth, even when desperate searching fingers started to dig around his cheek seeking for an eye, he held on tight and just chewed harder.

When a nearby crashing sound was followed by a loudly screamed, “Messene,” and blows rained down on the back of his head, the Gunner just grabbed at his auto-wrench, determined to give back as good as he got. Parliament would only ever take another deck out from under him over his dead body.

Chapter 30: A Little Diplomacy… with a Boarding Axe

Heirophant knew that an unarmored man against four warriors in power armor was a losing proposition, even throwing in a bunch of overeager grease covered young ratings. The test for his fellow grease monkeys wasn’t going to be piling on when the fur started flying, it was going to be standing their ground if and when those marines cut loose with those rifles and the bodies started hitting the deck.

That’s why he had to wait until the right moment to make his move.

Watching the Chief Gunner defend against the upstart challenger who thought he could just come in here and take over the gun deck was interesting. The Chief didn’t have an ounce of surrender in him, but the challenger was proving an obstacle.

Then the moment he’d been waiting presented itself. Just like everyone else on the gun deck not firing their main guns, and probably even a few of those, the Marine nearest him turned his attention, however briefly, to the fight taking place between the Chief Gunner and his Parliamentarian rival.

With a flying leap, Heirophant jumped off the turret.

“Messene,” he screamed, planting one foot on the shoulder of the nearest marine jack and the other on his armored helmet. The force of his leap overbalanced the marine causing him to fall over to the side, just as the former lancer and current gunnery rating had planned.

Riding the now falling marine to the ground, he brought the mono-Locsium edged Imperial boarding axe down with all his strength on the helmet of the Marine standing in front of the one he was knocking to the ground through sheer kinetic force.

Glass shattered as the marine, sensing motion out of the corner of his field of vision started to look up, just in time to receive the edge of Heirophant’s axe right in his reinforced visor.

While the other half of the marine quad turned in response to the attack, the Warrant standing to the side made his move.

Holding the male end of a power cord normally hooked into a point defense array, Lesner smashed it against the side of wall, damaging the housing that protected against an accidental discharge of electricity.

When the marine nearest him turned his back, Lesner lunged forward, jamming the now-exposed leads into the back of the marine style power armor.

Heirophant savagely bared his teeth as the Marine to his front, blaster rifle leveled, suddenly started jerking as a torrent of electricity powerful enough to supply a small point defense array surged through his body.

Continuing with his current movement and jerking his axe free, he brought it up just in time to knock the last marine’s blaster rifle temporarily out of position. Unfortunately, even the strength of one of Tracto’s sons wasn’t enough to do more than move it a few inches out of the way, and the power assisted arms of the marine almost instantly had it back in position.

The molecular thin edge of the boarding axe did more to upset the Marine’s intent of blowing a hole through Heirophant heart than his well muscled arms had succeeded in doing, causing the Marine to glance at it to assess damage before pulling the trigger of the weapon pointed right at the Tracto-an warrior’s chest.

Unfortunately, when his axe cut a line through the duralloy metal the rifle was made out of, it damaged the rifle’s miniature crystalline focusing array and when the marine pulled the trigger, power shot from the power pack into the focusing array which promptly caused the rifle to explode.

The array exploded, sending fragment shards out its forward end, a number of which scattered on and around the figure of the former Tracto-an lancer. Those very same fragments shot out the rear end and, ultimately harmless to a man in a duralloy power suit, they ruptured the containment of the power pack causing the rifle to explode in the Caprian marine’s hand. Even the strength of the powered armor wasn’t enough to fully protect the Marine, as half his hand shattered into a weltered wreck of blood, bone and burnt flesh.

Not willing to let a little thing like dozens of little bits of shrapnel lodged into his torso stop him, the former Lancer raised his axe for the coup de grace, while the Marine Jack was distracted.

However, the marine he had knocked to the ground, by virtue of landing on top of him had other ideas and came up swinging. The force of the kick from one of the Marine’s flailing legs hit the Tracto-an hard enough to cause something to snap inside and sent Heirophant flying back in the direction of turret he’d just leapt from.

With a jerk and a grunt, Heirophant leapt back to his feet only to collapse back to the floor, one hand bracing out for support to keep him from falling entirely prone as his right leg bent in the middle like a broken twig.

With a second scream of effort, the six and a half foot tall native hauled himself back upright.

Raising the axe up over his shoulder and not daring to place any weight on his broken right leg, the genetically engineered warrior crouched ever so slightly and hopped forward, jumping as far as he could to try returning to the action.

“Stand fast, men,” cried Lieutenant Commander Absolon leveling his sidearm at the ratings that had gathered round to watch Chief Bogart and his challenger duke it out for control of the gun deck.

“Get him,” shouted a gunner’s mate standing in the front of the crowd.

Absolon fired, his blaster pistol striking the gunner’s mate in the chest, knocking him to the floor.

There was a moment of shocked silence. Then servos whined as the Marine Jack who had been knocked to the floor started to get up.

The gun deck gave an outraged growl and a storm of thrown multi-tools and auto-wrenches erupted from the pack of ratings and warrants.

“Subdue the officers and stop those Jacks before they kill us all,” screamed Warrant Lesner, pointing to the man down on the floor with a smoking hole through his chest.

The marine, with a still smoking wreck of a hand, stopped clutching it and screaming, long enough to backhand the Assistant Deck Chief into the wall. As Lesner crumpled against the bulkhead, the tactical officer went down under the hail of hard metal objects thrown at them from not more than, in a few instances, a few feet away.

A swarm of ratings washed over the officers. The single, still fully functional Jack, brought his blaster rifle to bear. He quickly mowed down half a dozen soot-faced grease monkeys. The immediate area in front of him cleared, the Caprian Jack turning to lay down suppressing fire for the officer’s who’d just been swarmed over.

His compatriot once again let go of his shattered hand and fumbled for his sidearm, while his feet lashed out with power assist to break bones and smash bodies

Heirophant knew he had to get back into the fight and with one more mighty hop that didn’t quite get him close enough, but alerted the marine to his presence. This caused the marine to swing around, bringing his blaster rifle to bear, and the Tracto-an gunner fell to the floor rolling forward to clear the last remaining distance been his axe and striking range.

Not in the best position for combat, being half crouched on the floor, Heirophant nevertheless swung his legs one way, and ignoring the shooting agony as his broken leg flopped one way and then the other, swung his axe with all the heavily muscled strength in his upper body.

The force of his axe as it connected with the highest part of the Jack’s armored body he could reach — the joint of the knee — and its mono-molecular edge penetrated several inches into the servo, causing it to shoot sparks and lock up.

Between the force of the blow and the damage to his knee actuator, the Marine once again fell to the deck.

Heads on a level with each other, the Tracto-an could see the bare-teethed grimace of the fallen marine. Baring his own teeth in defiance, Heirophant pulled back on his axe, raising it above his head. With a growl, the heavily armored hand of the fallen marine grabbed hold of his axe, jerking it from his grip.

Sensing his doom, the Tracto-an lunged on top of the Jack. However, his attempt to wrestle the weapon free, and back into his control, failed. When the Jack slammed the arm still holding the blaster into his side, the Tracto-an once again went flying.

This time, instead of instantly jumping back up, the Tracto-an gunner coughed, and a coppery taste flooded his mouth. With a struggle wherein he instructed his bruised and battered muscles to obey him, he flipped back over onto his front and once again started to pick himself back upright.

Half expecting his head to be blown off at any moment, the oversized grease monkey finally picked his head back up in time to see a senior chief slam an ion spike into the side his the marine he just been battling and another senior rating rammed a grav-cart going full speed into the marine with a damaged hand, pinning the unarmed marine up against the wall while a horde of grease monkeys pounded on him with their multi-tools. An enterprising young crewman leveled one of the parliamentarian officer’s blaster pistols into the Jack’s face.

Seeing his Imperial boarding axe stuck in the chest of some hapless assistant gunner, the Tracto-an shook his head at the carnage that had descended on the portside gun deck.

Spitting blood on the floor, Heirophant slowly hopped over to his axe. Internal strife almost always caused more damage to a war-band than the enemy ever could.

Placing the foot with a broken leg on top of the dead gunnery assistant, he grabbed hold of his axe with both hands. Ignoring the agony shooting through his leg as he forced the body to stay still, he growled deep in his throat and with a wet sucking sound, pulled the axe free.

Chapter 31: Grease Monkey!

There was a riot of screaming, shouting and blaster fire, but it wasn’t until someone rammed their knee into the duralloy-jawed freak Bernard on their way to the main battle, that Bogart managed to regain the upper hand.

A broken bone in your good hand becomes less of an issue when your opponent is already stunned. A good wallop to the side of his head with an auto-wrench, followed by a choke-hold, would do it to them every time. Ignoring the feet that stomped on them, or people falling on and around them, the Chief Gunner spat out the mangled ear as he bucked around until he got his hold sunk in good and hard. Bernard flailed around a bit, even trying for a fish hook towards the end, but Bogart now had his back to the deck. Bernard was positioned on top, where he would take any blows from the herd of grease monkeys trampling all around them, so it was all over but the flailing.

Soon, even that was over as Bernard lost consciousness, and the Chief Gunner hauled himself back up to his feet by virtue of pulling down a black faced grease monkey and using him for a climbing board.

Stuck in the middle of the pack, there was little he could do but push forward. By the time he got front and center, the fight had been knocked out of the parliamentarians.

Taking in the two suits locked up from electrical overloads and the other two with holes in their face plates, Bogart stopped and absently patted his burned and grease-stained work suit for a cigar, before pulling up short.

This was no time for a smoke he thought, slamming a cigar into the side of his mouth and chomping down but failing to light it. His mind quickly moved on to more important matters, like the bunch of crewmen in gunnery patches milling around aimlessly or beating on fallen parliamentary officers.

That wouldn’t do at all, as it was hardly professional or in keeping with the best traditions of the gunnery service. But what could you expect from a bunch of amateurs? No doubt, they were amateurs willing and eager to learn, but amateurs all the same.

“Knock it off,” he growled, leading with his boots and kicking a number of red-faced gunners and gunner’s mates away from the battered and bloody tactical officers.

“They came down here to kill us Chief and—” started a furious rating, shoving a finger in Bogart’s face and shouting.

Hauling back with his left fist, the Chief of the Gun Deck landed his patented Iron Hand on the loud mouth’s jaw, which knocked him on his hind end.

“Stick a finger in my face again laddy and I’ll cut it off,” roared Bogart, turning and glaring at the other men surrounding the fallen officers.

The others stared at him sullenly as they backed off, and he could feel more than see the rest of the gun deck looking at him in growing disbelief.

“Did you pack of green-eyed blighters think a passel of officers and a quad of marine jacks is the worst they’re going to throw at us?” he snarled, sweeping the gaze around the deck.

Surprise started to replace disbelief and sullenness as he swept the deck around him with his stormy gaze.

“Heppner’s decided he’s no longer content playing second fiddle to the Little Admiral and is making his move for the ship,” Bogart roared, deciding it was best to play off this mutiny as a case of the Captain against the Admiral, at least for the moment. “He’s decided to wait until our boys in the Lancer contingent are good and dug in over there on those pirate battleships before making his move.”

All around him, members of the gun deck stared in disbelief. A growl started to grow amongst the gun crews.

“We can’t just go easy on these traitors, Chief,” barked a Gunner with heavy laser battery patches, “they killed more of our boys than the pirates did!”

Bogart nodded in agreement, although cynically he figured that counter battery fire had actually killed more of his men on the gun deck than the handful he could see cut down by blaster fire.

He gave a sharp nod. “We don’t have time to waste around beating on a bunch of mutineers,” he said harshly.

“What are we supposed to do then,” demanded the same idiot he’d just knocked on his tail for sticking a finger in Chief Bogart’s face.

His lip twitched and the Chief of the Gun Deck manfully resisted the urge to talk with his boots, at least as it regarded the finger pointer.

“Space ‘em,” he said decisively.

The loud mouthed finger pointer looked taken aback, “What?” he said sounding dumbfounded.

Bogart pulled his unlit cigar out of his mouth and shoved it in the finger pointer’s face, causing him to take a step back in surprise.

“I said space ‘em, you motherless cur,” he snarled, ramming his cigar into the other man’s chest and grinding it until it frayed and split in half.

“Me?” gulped the suddenly white faced crewman.

“You’d rather beat on them all day, when we’ve got a battleship to save,” barked Bogart incredulously, turning to sweep the deck with his hot, angry gaze.

In front of , the former finger pointer gulped.

“You, you and you,” Bogart said, first indicating the finger pointer, and then several of his buddies who liked to beat on a man when he was down. “Haul these mutineers to the nearest airlock and let them walk the last plank that is every mutineer’s Murphy-given right to experience, and then get back here on the double!”

He watched for a few seconds as the now dumbfounded ratings started picking up and hauling away the tactical officers. He glared around at anyone who looked like they were about to protest. Because just as soon as those parliamentary officers were shoved out the nearest airlock without a suit, the entire gunnery department — regardless of royal or parliamentary sympathies — would be in the same boat.

“What about the rest of us, Chief,” wheezed Lesner, moving to the front of the group with the assistance of a pair of helpers.

Bogart jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Haul that gum-chewing son of a leaky hose into the nearest supply closet,” he instructed when the ratings began to collect the fallen mutineers. “I’ll deal with him later.”

Lesner leaned against the wall, struggling to catch his breath.

“You look in a bad way, Warrant,” Bogart growled.

“I’ve still got some fight left in me,” Lesner replied, baring his teeth and then scowling, probably at the pain.

Bogart looked in his eyes searchingly, and saw what he had hoped to see. Giving Lesner a thumbs up, he turned back to the deck.

“The Assistant Deck Chief’s got some fight left in him, after tangling with a quad of Marine Jacks, how about the rest of you?” he challenged thunderously.

Several of the ratings looked at each other questioningly but the majority of the men near him made a harsh angry sound.

“Alright then,” he shouted, “Every gunner on this deck is to stay at his post and keep firing on those pirate ships until they stop firing back! I want you to smite out of cold space with Murphy’s wrath anything and everything that even look like it’s going to take a shot at us,” he said turning back to look at Lesner.

“All Assistant Gunners are to assemble on the Assistant Deck Chief here,” pointing at Warrant Officer Lesner. “He’s going to lead you in dismounting a point defense array and aiming it at the main blast doors that access this deck,” he roared. “We’ll also isolate ourselves from the ship’s main air supply, and lock down every blast door and maintenance hatch on the portside!”

He stopped to catch his breath.

One crewman, in heavily grease stained utilities, looking like he was afraid of being left out, interjected “What about the rest of us, Chef?”

As for the rest of you,” Board’s face hardened, “GREASE MONKEYS,” he yelled at the top of his lungs, “I want every hard hitting crewman, and rating, who can swing a pipe, or run a grav-cart, to assemble on my position, NOW.” he finished in a raised voice, as every grease monkey on the deck, not currently surrounding him, made for his position at top speed.

It took a few moments for the group of grease monkeys to assemble, and the Chief took those minutes to catch his breath and do more than just run on instinct. He didn’t like what his brain was coming up with, but that’s why he was the Chief Gunner. Not to like what he had to do, but do his darnedest to make sure it got done.

“What do you want us to do,” Asked Heirophant, his eyes hard, despite the fact one of his legs was hanging uselessly and the foot on that leg pointed at an unnatural angle. The mono-Locsium boarding axe he was using as a crutch only added to his general aura of intimidation.

Bogart grinned savagely, “We’re going to take back this ship from those parliamentary swine,” he replied, “now start getting into that power armor, since its current operator no longer needs it and you’re no use to me if you can’t move.”

Heirophant just smiled as if this insane plan was exactly what he’d been hoping to hear while the less insane members of the human race standing all around him looking more than a little uncertain.

Bogart raised his voice, “Cower in the maintenance lockers if you want,” he said scornfully, “But know this: anyone who does will look back on this day and hold his honor cheap. To have been here and not be able to say,” he paused, letting the tension of the moment drag out.

“That he stood there beside his brothers and sisters for the Last Charge of the Grease Monkeys!”

The vast majority of the crewmen looked at him like he’d gone crazy.

“For the Clover,” he yelled and heads started nodding.

“For the Little Admiral,” he screamed, pointing at the door, and this time more heads started to nod and feet moved as people started shifting towards the main blast doors leading to the rest of the ship.

“For the Gun Deck,” he shrieked, and not bothering to see how many grease monkeys had the courage to follow him, started running toward the blast doors. Using his crystal he savagely slotted it in and unlocked the door.

“Don’t stop until we’ve freed out brothers on the starboard side and then secured Engineering,” he roared, charging down the corridor surrounded by a number of poorly armed grease monkeys.

Someone jostled him on his injured side, and he turned with a growl.

“Warrant Lesner said you might need this,” said the slender looking grease monkey beside him, proffering an officer’s sidearm, complete with belt and holster.

Bogart’s scowl turned into a grin. Scooping up the blast pistol, he jacked the slide and checked the power charge. More than half charged, for a charge he hoped had more than half a chance.

There was never a better time to have been a Royal Gunner than when you got the chance for a little parliamentary payback. It was time to show how a democracy really worked.

Chapter 32: The Armor Prince!

Despite blowing a super-sized hole in the blast doors leading into main engineering, the Pirates inside were putting up one Hades of a fight and unfortunately, the same blast that disabled the main doors leading in also discombobulated the squad of marines behind him.

Combined with the fact that Wainwright been unable to communicate beforehand what he was going to do or coordinate things under his direct authority meant that his one man charge had stalled out just inside the Main Engineering compartment.

He was pinned down under a hail of blaster fire from a pair of crew-served blaster mounts set up specifically by these pirates to defend Main Engineering from borders exactly such as himself.

Whoever had designed the defenses on this ship knew his business, which was a very unfortunate fact for Wainwright and his men. Still, it was unlikely to slow down his Marines for very much longer. Blast this lack of a reliable communicator, he thought to himself.

They’d been on the go ever since boarding the old Armor Prince, and his few attempts to get one of the other marine’s communicators had failed due to the fact that in his standard issue marine armor, he looked just like any other low ranking marine. And no marine liked to just give away critical pieces of equipment, especially to someone like himself, who was stuck in a damaged power suit which might not work if said communicator was jacked in.

Another storm of blaster fire crashed into the metal workstation he was crouched behind. This was growing intolerable. Either the squad of jacks out there was going to have to force its way in, despite those two crew-served, floor mounted tripods, or else he was just going to have to take matters into his own hands and force the issue himself.

For a moment he shook his head in disbelief. He’d always espoused leading your men personally instead of from behind a computer screen (or worse yet, a desk), but this was taking it to an insane extreme. Wainwright was a full bird Colonel for Murphy’s own desperate sake; he should be leading his men and sharing in their dangers, yes. But not leading literally so far out ahead that his personal tip of the spear was so far in the lead that no other marine was even within spitting distance was unreasonable.

The second tripod opened up on his position and the second desk he’d taken cover behind in as many minutes started to melt into slag.

That’s it, he decided. He was through dinking around waiting for reinforcements to come barreling through that door, and to Hades with whatever damage the ion cannon did to Main Engineering. He had a crew-served weapon of his own to rain some pain with. Sure, it was a bit unwieldy with only one good hand, but a physically fit man in power armor was just about strong enough to wield such a weapon effectively, at least in close quarters. He was about to teach these metal-headed yahoo pirates that very lesson in just a moment.

Taking a pair of rapid, deep breaths, he pulled the portable ion cannon close to his body. When an ion bolt blasted through a part of the table right next to his shoulder, he knew he’d waited almost too long.

Too much lead in my pants from driving a desk job for the past decade, he thought grimly, as he crouched forward and then pivoted bringing his ion cannon around in one swift motion.

His locked up hand didn’t slow him down, although it did mess with his aim until he managed to get it properly repositioned again.

Good aim or poor, he depressed the trigger and cut loose with a storm of ion bolts into the mass of what passed for engineers on this ship.

Servicing the weapon from left to right, the pirates screamed and dropped like flies, at least until their own blaster tripods locked back onto his position and opened up.

When a pair of blaster bolts sizzled into his armor, locking up the shoulder joint of the same arm with the bum hand and not inconsequentially knocking him spinning to the floor, he knew it was time to reposition.

Moving with both a bum shoulder and hand on the same side was no picnic, but a scorching shot to his rear when he failed to move fast enough lit the hind quarters of his suit a cherry red, and the cooling system built into his armor didn’t work fast enough for his personal taste or comfort.

Scrambling up just long enough to dive behind the nearest cover, Colonel Wainwright was more than a little surprised to find another metal head hiding behind the very same workstation he had been planning to use himself.

A quick thrust with his good hand pounded the butt of his ion cannon into the pirate’s head, quickly settling the issue before the metal head could bring his vibro knife to bear.

He was just starting to congratulate himself on another quick escape, when the pair of pirate tripods once again opened up on his position.

“Blast and double blast,” he cursed. Reaching down, he tried to grab the fallen pirate, but his seized gauntlet made that virtually impossible. With an angry thrust of his torso, he smashed his locked up hand into the pirate and levered him up. If his marines still weren’t interested in coming in and getting him, then more drastic measures were called for. He was just going to have to settle those tripods himself!

Human shield raised before him to take the weight of the blaster fire from those infernal tripods, Colonel Wainwright leveled his captured Ion Cannon.

Roaring his defiance from within inside the deafening silence that was his sound proofed helmet, he staggered as the pair of enemy tripods started tearing up his human shield.

Resting his cannon on the top of the workstation he’d been crouching behind and wedging it between the desk and his shield as best he could, he lined up on the nearest enemy cannon and cut loose with a flurry of fire.

Refusing to cower behind cover anymore, he stood tall even when his other shoulder took a hit that had him struggling to stay upright.

Tracking his fire visually, because his visor was damaged and was never designed to link up with the pirate weapon in his hand in the first place, he kept firing until the enemy cannon ceased doing likewise. Quickly switching targets, he had just started laying down suppressing fire on the second cannon when a pair of thermal detonators landed at his feet, courtesy of a braver pair of the pirate scum than usual.

With only a split second to decide what to do, he dropped what was left of his smoking shield (which was minus both arms and a leg at this point) right on top of the detonators and then threw himself back, desperately scrambling for cover.

Before he could reach anything worthy of the term, the detonators went off and he slammed into the wall behind his position so hard that the cushioning in his helmet wasn’t enough to protect him, and there was a flash of red across his vision.

Chapter 33: Mopping up?

Aware of the faint sounds of heavy combat, as if coming from a holo-screen in the next room, Wainwright’s eyes snapped open. Flashes of angry red strobed across his field of vision, giving testament to the fact that the sounds he was hearing were not from a holo-screen, nor where they happening the next room over. He must have only been out for a matter of moments, minutes at most. It was time to get back in the game.

The HUD normally portrayed on the visor of his helmet was no longer functioning, and the spider web of cracks that had previously crisscrossed his field of vision ever since slamming into the hull of this pirate battleship were no longer present. Instead, pieces of the visor where entirely missing.

He tried to roll over but stopped when a series of verbal alarms went off, his suit informing him of severe joint damage to all the places he was already familiar with and a few that he wasn’t. Even more importantly were the razor sharp fragments of visor that had fallen back into the front of his helmet when he flipped over.

He could feel them all around his face and neck, and he knew he might very well end his own life if he wasn’t careful, as the term ‘cutting your own throat’ gained new meaning for the Marine Colonel. More than damaged joints, those razor sharp fragments encouraged him to move very carefully.

Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a trio of marines, leap-frogging further into the room, providing suppressive cover fire for one another.

Picking himself ever so slightly up off the floor was an effort in utilizing one semi-functional arm and one nearly non-functional one. With a grunt of effort, he finally achieved the position he was aiming for and shook his head from side to side, causing a small cascade to fall out the cracks in his helmet.

When that wasn’t enough to get all the fragments out of the helmet through the cracks and holes in his visor, he reached up and tore another section loose. This time, a cascade of diamond dust and fragments fell out of his helmet. He once again grabbed the pirate ion cannon after his field of view was no longer obstructed by visor fragments.

His left side was locked up at both the shoulder, wrist and finger joints, with only limited elbow mobility. His right, on the other hand, still had over 80% function on hand and elbow, the shoulder was down to 50%, but for Colonel Wainwright’s purposes that was more than sufficient.

Popping up one more time, like a rabid children’s toy that refused to say die, he once again propped the cannon on his less functional arm to stabilize it and depressed the trigger.

Keeping in mind the phrase ‘friendly fire isn’t,’ he made sure to keep the ion bolts blasting out the end of his gun well away from his fellow marines. Pirates fell and machines exploded in a series of electrical sparks as he raked his ion bolts across the enemy crouched and in some cases cowering behind any pieces of cover they could find.

A plasma grenade exploded suddenly, reducing the team manning the second and final pirate tripod to a smoking pile of body parts. Then the remainder of the scratch squad he’d followed down to Engineering, plus what looked like a few reinforcements, pelted through the still cherry red remains of the blast doors leading into Main Engineering.

Like any rat that’s been backed into a corner, the pirates of engineering put up the fight of their lives, but without any significant power armor of their own and their tripod blaster cannon mounts disabled they were quickly suppressed, pushed into fallback positions deeper in the hold and then finally overrun.

Chapter 34: The Aftermath, and Tries against Our Interests

There was a blow against his shoulder and another marine raised her visor. It was the leader of the impromptu squad that had coalesced around them; the same marine that had helped keep Wainwright from drifting off into cold space during his rocky landing.

Unfortunately, his visor seemed stuck. Not only was it busted up, but now it wouldn’t raise either.

“Hey Stupid,” she snarled, “I wondered if you were crazy or just plain dumb when I first dragged your hind end back onto the hull after that hot dog stunt you pulled on the way in, but after seeing you try to make like a one man army and take off without orders or fire support, I finally figured it out,” she glared, and if eyes could act as daggers, hers would have skewered him in place.

“I’m sorry, Marine?…” he began with deceptive mildness, deliberately trailing off to invite her name and rank.

“That’s Buck Sergeant, Melissiandra Kopenhagen to you Private,” she snarled, slapping his unadorned and very much damaged power-armored arm for good measure, the same place where a chip was installed so that friend or foe systems automatically updated their HUD with rank and unit designation.

He’d left his chip deliberately and deceptively blank, a paranoid fear perhaps of the enemy breaking into their encryption channels and targeting the senior officer. Then, as his visor had been damaged in the boarding action and his communicator knocked out by the screamer, there had been no way for him to either send or receive such information.

“Well, Sergeant,” he started only to be cut off as her eyes flared with molten fury.

“You’ll stand at attention when you address me, Stupid,” she said jumping in his face, “and you can thank the fact we’re in a warzone that you’re not holding a salute while doing so!”

“Now hold on just a minute, Buck Sergeant—” he started hotly, only to come to an abrupt stop when the business end of her blaster rifle pointed at his head.

“You will stand at attention and address me with military courtesy, you old reservist,” she snapped, “because you’re too old to be one of our green recruits, and only a reservist would be old enough and stupid enough to try a pair of stunts like that and attempt to get himself killed twice while on my watch,” she flared. “You’re lucky I don’t report you to my CO!”

He opened his mouth only to be cut off.

“After the series of stunts you just pulled, the next words out of your mouth had better begin and end with words ‘yes Sergeant,’ or ‘yes Buck Sergeant,’ Private Stupid, or as Murphy is my witness I guarantee you won’t like the results,” she added grimly.

He stared at her through narrowed eyes, most of the effect of which was lost due to the shattered visor. “Buck Sergeant, of course, Buck Sergeant,” he drawled, fully cognizant of the situation’s irony. He swung his captured Ion Cannon up over his shoulder in the closest possible approximation to port arms he could manage one handed and with an oversized, normally crew-served weapon.

He was about to say more and firmly put her in her place, when she cocked her head to one side and slapped her face plate closed.

“Incoming hostiles rigged in power armor detected,” her outside speaker blared, no doubt for his benefit. “First team: continue to secure Main Engineering and establish blocking positions in case they get past us. Bernadino, you and your team are with me,” she paused then turned around and smacked Colonel Wainwright on the arm. “Stupid, you’re rear guard since you still don’t have a working comm. Just try not to shoot any of us in the back with that oversized popgun of yours!”

The team had just deployed outside the entrance when a series of yips and howls could be heard coming down the hall.

“Blood Guards,” screamed the first figure equipped with mismatching power armor, wielding a plasma rifle in one hand and a Vibroblade in the other. Behind him came a stream of pirates also dressed in rust red power armor.

A storm of uncoordinated firepower was unleashed on the marines guarding Engineering.

Wainwright leaned forward to get a decent shot.

“Take cover, Stupid,” Sergeant Kopenhagen ordered, knocking his legs out from under him and then scrambling around behind so that she could use him as an improvised firing position.

Rolling onto his front, he once again pointed his weapon at the incoming enemy. While it was safer than standing up, it was much harder to aim.

Finally free to fire, he cut loose with a hail of ion bolts aimed at the center of the Blood Reaver horde.

One, two, three metal heads and genetically enhanced pirates fell to his fire as their cobbled together battle suits locked up. Around him the marines and their standard issue blaster rifles also took their toll on the pirate swarm in from them.

Dropping blaster rifles in favor of vibro-axes and handheld ion spikes, every marine except the Colonel popped to their feet and the battle descended into hand to hand. Wainwright didn’t give up on the Ion Cannon that had served him so well so far, not because of any attachment to the pirate weapon, but instead because with almost no mobility on his left side and with his shoulder actuator down below 50%, he figured he was as good as gone without it.

Instead he rolled on his back, set the cannon between his legs and took careful aim, or at least as careful aim as he could, blasting every foe that came within range with a series of ion pulses until their armor stopped working. When that failed, he wasn’t above kicking with his power assisted legs swinging the cannon like a club to ward off enemy attacks.

The First pirate to get through the other marines saw Colonel Wainwright flat on his back, legs in the air and ion cannon out of position and led with an overhand swipe of his vibro-sword.

Kicking with his feet to block, the vibro blade was knocked aside with a clang, sparks flying as it carved a chunk of metal off the outside of his leg from the force of the pirate’s power-assisted blow.

Bracing his back by arching against the floor for leverage, he kicked with his other leg to back the pirate off and pivoted on the floor. The pirate struck with another mighty clang, this time cutting half his metal armored foot off, but the force of the blow allowed the Marine Colonel spin far enough to get a bead on the pirate with his Cannon. Firing from this position, his lone remaining functional arm wasn’t quite enough to overcome the kick back from the cannon and the butt of the weapon drove into his well armored chest. The clag when it hit caused him more distress than his near complete inability to feel the blow. For the pirate it caused a lot more distress, taking him clean in the head.

The pirate twitched and spasmed, dropping to the floor, but just to be on the safe side Wainwright hammered two more ion pulses into his prone figure just in case he was faking and not as badly injured as he was making out.

All around him pirates screamed battle cries over their external speakers, while the Caprian Marines battled silently on the outside, although he knew from experience there was a lot more noise and action occurring on the inside of those sound proof helmets.

Then from the rear of the pirate formation a hail of blaster fire erupted and a new battle cry could be heard.

“ROSSSSSS!” came the traditional battle cry of the Caprian Marine force, no doubt for intimidation purposes.

An unwilling smile came over Colonel Wainwright’s face at the sound of reinforcements, followed almost instantly by a scowl. His marines should be exercising better noise discipline than this. Whoever the officer in charge of the relieving unit was needed to remember that this was a professional fighting force, not some ragity-tagity group of over eager barbarian warriors like the type he’d heard were currently onboard the Lucky Clover.

Quickly feeling the pressure, the pirate force finally stopped yelling that terrible ‘Blood Guard’ nonsense and instead turned like the rabid dogs they were on everyone and everything nearby, even each other, in a desperate attempt to retreat.

Chapter 35: Command Changes, or Changes in Command?

“Well-well-well, what do have we here,” said the voice of Major Gaspard, a particularly vicious specimen of 1st Regiment of Wainwright’s 2nd Independent Strike Brigade.

Wainwright’s face hardened, even as the other members of the hastily thrown together squad assembled for inspection. There was no reason to be performing an inspection during the middle of combat, much less doing so verbally, instead of through battle suit’s built-in systems.

“Main Engineering has been secured as instructed, Major,” announced Sergeant Melissiandra Kopenhagan’s hard bitten marine voice. “The Pirates put up one heck of a fight but in the end every marine in the squad pulled their weight and those pirate blood-bums were like grass and we the lawnmower, Sir,” she snapped.

The Colonel could all but feel the Sergeant Kopenhagan’s ill regard over his taking the initiative blowing up the main blast doors into engineering and then taking the fight to the pirates, even as she stuck up for her team and its successes.

“Good work, Buck Sergeant,” Gaspard allowed slowly, his Stonelander accent making a hash of the Sergeant’s proper title, “your team did quite a number on the blast doors though, didn’t you,” he remarked, striding down the hastily assembled line of marines standing outside the entrance to Engineering.

“Thank you, Sir,” the Sergeant said with much more respect than she’d ever shown to the actual Colonel in command of her entire Brigade.

Wainwright scowled. She was probably right to do so he allowed in the privacy of his mind. But after a decade of being shunted off to the side, stuck pushing an electronic pencil in an empty, nearly abandoned supply dump back on Capria, he’d needed to knock some of the rust off. To get out front and show his people he could still lead them in combat.

He might have…he paused, no he certainly had over done it. If not for the Sergeant’s quick acting, the Brigade would be short its latest commanding officer.

“Who authorized the use of a portable bunker buster, Buck Sergeant,” Gaspard asked, his voice as thick as ever with that heavy Stonelander accent.

“I expect my people to show initiative, Sir,” Sergeant Kopenhagen replied stiffly, “as you can see, we were successful and Engineering now belongs to the Corps.

From where he stood, Colonel Wainwright could see the Major give the Sergeant a hard stare before letting the matter pass.

“It’ll take a bit of work to repair those, Staff Sergeant,” Gaspard said pointedly with a hint of a growl.

“We’re marines; we break things, Major,” she paused, “and I’m just a Buck Sergeant, Sir,” she added.

“Not anymore, Kopenhagen,” Gaspard said decisively, “job well done.” He then turned to face the rest of the assembled squad outside the ruined blast doors.

“Listen up, Marines,” he barked, causing the men and women all around Wainwright to stiffen to attention.

Wainwright failed to follow suit; he hadn’t corrected everyone’s impression that he was just another grunt with a broken communicator yet, but even so he was a full bird Colonel and outranked the Major by two steps. That said, he was interested in hearing what the Major had to say before he broke up this little mutual admiration society and got back to the real business of running the Brigade.

The fact that he was still getting his breath back and recovering after being thrown about and knocked around like a man three-fourths his age also had something to do with it. Regardless, this little excursion fantasy as just another one of the boys was about to come to an abrupt end.

As the only one not standing at attention, the Major gave him a hard look but let it slide for the moment, no doubt the fact they were in a war zone and had just gone through combat had something to do with that. His busted up, blacked and damaged to the point of near non-functionality combat suit probably had more. For all Gaspard had to know, the insolent marine in the damaged suit wasn’t being insolent at all; with his cracked visor and battered suit, Wainwright might have been suffering from a concussion or head wound.

“I’m only going to say this once,” Major Gaspard began, turning away from considering Wainwright’s battered vista, “so listen good.” The Major paused again for effect.

“There’s been a change in our orders and Mission Profile,” Gaspard said flatly, causing the Marine Colonel to stiffen in surprise, “By Hidden Directive, a Secret Order available only to the Commander of this Brigade and his Executive Officer Lieutenant Colonel Kyle Riggs designated Proclamation 41889z has now taken effect.”

Colonel Wainwright growled with outrage. He was unaware of any hidden orders, and as the Commanding Officer of this Brigade he should have been the first to know, not his Executive Officer who was also doubling as the 1st Regimental Commander.

“What’s the Proclamation, Sir,” Sergeant Kopenhagen inquired hesitantly, after the Major failed to continue.

“This Brigade is to no longer consider itself attached to Admiral Montagne and his so-called Confederation Fleet,” he said with ringing finality, causing Wainwright to frown. These orders were starting to sound both more and less plausible.

“Our new orders are to seize control of these pirate battleships and place ourselves under the orders of Captain Vaughn Heppner and our Duly Appointed SDF Superiors,” the Major Gaspard said flatly.

“And if our former allies, the Lucky Clover Lancer contingent should object to us taking the prize ships, to say nothing of the pirates we are still busy dealing with?” the disguised Colonel demanded stepping forward.

“Our orders are clear, anything and anyone that gets in our way are to be dealt with using maximum force,” Gaspard replied evenly, his eyes flaring as he glared at the single visible eye of the marine in the battered power armor and shattered helmet visor. “Now lock it down and get back in line, Marine. Those jumped up natives posing as Confederation Lancers have done nothing to earn either our loyalty or our respect. I, on the other hand have,” the Major finished with a silent, thousand meter stare.

Wainwright’s muscles tensed. Being stared at like that might have intimidated another marine, but not only was Wainwright a Superior Officer, he was too old and too experienced to melt in his boots over a simple look. He may have been shuffled off to a support unit for longer than he cared to remember and not participated in live combat for even longer, but the day a look caused his knees to buckle and the iron in his stomach to turn to water was the day he placed a sidearm to his head and retired early.

“Just one last question, Major,” he said in a gravelly voice designed to mask his identity, “you said that Colonel Wainwright is aware of and agrees with these orders.”

“Not that it’s any business of your, Private,” Gaspard snarled, marching into his personal space and shoving his nose into Wainwright’s battered visor.

Wainwright held his ground, refusing to take action until he was totally certain of just what exactly was going on. Gaspard might be an overbearing officer both up and, as apparent from this little display, down the chain of command, but the Colonel had to make sure he understood exactly what was going down before he took a position and potentially kicked off something he didn’t want in his worst nightmare.

“That said, your—” Gaspard snapped, and then hesitated glancing at the men and women around the disguised Colonel before continuing, “that said, the Colonel, Space Gods rest his hard-charging soul, not only knew about the orders; before he perished in the initial attack wave, he personally signed off on them before we ever left Caprian space!”

Colonel Wainwright stood paralyzed for a moment, his blood suddenly turned cold and then rose to molten fury. He wasn’t worried about Gaspard. He’d had his eyes on the little weevil ever since he’d been assigned to the Brigade. Now he’d shown his true parliamentary colors, his loudly proclaimed loyalty to the Royal Cause worth less than the spit which flew from his lips as he did so.

Most likely thinking he’d cowed the busted up Marine in front of him, Gaspard turned and marched down the line of assembled Marines who’d taken Engineering.

“That’s not true,” Colonel Wainwright said slowly and evenly.

“Shut up, Stupid,” Buck Sergeant Kopenhagen hissed at him from two marines down the line. “Lock it down before you get—” she broke off as Gaspard turned back from

“What was that,” Gaspard demanded, placing a hand on the blaster rifle slung over his shoulder and handle hanging down within easy reach, ready for a quick grab-and-shoot if the moment required it.

“I said that’s a lie, cut from whole cloth no doubt, you miserable sack of excrement,” the Colonel replied, fingers releasing the catches holding his helmet in place. The one side was sticky, and unfortunately it was the side with the locked up hand, so it took a few moments to fumble it free.

“I’d be well within my rights to shoot you where you stand for insubordination,” the Major threatened, a savage feral gleam entering his eye, “retract it and agree to accept administrative punishment from my hands at a later date and we can let the matter pass,” he ordered, his voice lowering and his pupils dilating.

“That’ll be the day,” said Wainwright as he pulled up on the helmet, breaking the seal and then lifting it.

“What did you say—” the Major’s words cut off abruptly, his voice terminating in a choking cut off sound.

“I said that’d be the day you disloyal, mutinous dog,” Colonel Wainwright reiterated, slapping his Ion Cannon down from his shoulder and catching it on his bad hand for support.

Around the Major, Marines leveled their blasters at him and then goggled moving their weapons ever so slightly to the side as recognition formed.

Hand frozen with his finger on the trigger of his blaster rifle but the barrel of his weapon still out of position, Gaspard glared with silent, mounting fury at the still very much living Brigade Commander standing in front of him. “You,” he hissed, the corner of his mouth turning down in barest the hint of a sneer.

“I see a lot of 1st Regiment, 2nd Battalion men standing around you Major. Whatever happened to Battalion Commander Cuisini?” Wainwright said in a raised, but deadly voice. “He have a mysterious case of suddenly finding himself dead?” the Colonel demanded, ignoring the weapons pointed at his side and back from the scratch squad

“The Kernal,” he said in that atrocious Stonelander accent of his, “seems to have come unhinged from his sudden and abrupt reentry into line command and then finding himself cut off and back in the heat of combat.”

“I was in combat, handing the enemies of Capria their heads before you were born,” Wainwright scoffed, and out of the corner of his eyes he saw the questioning looks from the members of the scratch squad. He frowned “Once a line beast, always a line beast; as events can bear out I can handle being on the tip of the spear,” he finished evenly.

“Stupid?” Sergeant Kopenhagen asked tentatively moving forward half a step, just enough to see him in profile, “Colonel?” her eyes widened ever so slightly.

“With the deaths of so many fellow marines on his conscience,” sneered Gaspard, “after allowing himself to become distracted by the thought of a return to glory and significant prize money from this fool’s attempt to storm the pirate citadel, it’s no wonder our Commander now wants to deny he ever had any orders to follow other than those of the School-boy Admiral,” Gaspard spoke quickly, yet with all the force of his snake-like deadly personality behind it, “Which orders I might add would have preserved our Brigade in its entirety, instead of scattering us all over the various hulls of this pirate Battle Station!”

The 2nd battalion men standing behind him started muttering and several blaster rifles reacquired his position.

“I rode a screamer down onto the hull of this ship to protect your miserable life, among others vastly more worthy of their position in this Marine Corps,” Wainwright added quickly, seeing the negative response starting to form in the eyes of the 2nd Battalion men, “and you have the audacity to accuse me of being some Montagne Lapdog,” he finished with a roar. He was their C.O., not this parliamentarian snake in honorable marines clothing.

“Men,” Gaspard shouted, “The Colonel’s clearly become unhinged from combat exhaustion, just look at his armor! NO! We must take him in for a full medical evaluation!”

“Only the Executive Officer can temporarily remove the C.O. from command for a medical evaluation and only three Brigade Doctors working in concert can do so during a combat situation!” Wainwright retorted, his voice rising until it resembled nothing more than the bark of an angry attack dog just challenged for leadership of the pack by an interloper.

There was the sound of additional power-armored feet trotting down the hall in quick order and Wainwright knew he had to do something fast or he was going to lose the initiative.

“What’s the meaning of this,” called a clear, carrying and most importantly, female voice with ringing authority. Wainwright knew all the top female officers in the Brigade and this wasn’t one of them.

“Now that his puppet is in trouble of losing the Brigade Command he just used to get a lot of good Marines killed, that Montagne whelp sends his woman to prop him up,” cried Gaspard motioning over his shoulder.

“Surrender or be slaughtered by my Lancers,” snarled the female voice.

Gaspard opened his mouth and Wainwright could see eyes hardening on the Marines facing him, the marines from the 1st Regiment. Whatever else the Major had to say to try and make the situation worse, Colonel Wainwright wasn’t interested in hearing it. He’d spotted something in the traitor’s eye that told him the other man was about the make a move.

He watched, carefully tuning out the hubbub breaking out around him, and then acting simultaneously with the Major when Gaspard started to lower the barrel of his blaster rifle, the Colonel pulled the trigger of his Ion Cannon.

Shot right in the face at point blank range with a crew served Ion Cannon, the right half of the Major’s face turned into cooked meat as blood and other particles exploded out of the left side of his mouth, his right eye melting instantly.

Several bolts hit Wainwright in the chest and shoulders in rapid succession, even as he raised his bad arm to cover his face from the hail of blaster fire that soon followed.

“He killed the Major, take him down,” screamed a 1st Regiment Sergeant.

“Mutiny in Cold Space,” roared Wainwright like some kind of angry wounded lion, as blaster bolts struck the arm covering his face. Depressing the trigger of his ion cannon, he fired wildly, blasting a line up the floor and then across the ceiling more than anything in between as he was now forced to use the Ion Cannon one handed. Each shot tried to jerk the oversized weapon out of his single still functional hand, “The Major’s a treasonous Parliamentary dog who just fragged a fellow officer for command of the 2nd and then tried to kill me, his Commanding Officer, as well,” he said forcefully, staggering to his knees under the force of the blaster bolts hitting him, not sure if he was right or wrong about the fate of Cucini, but certain it was probably true and could only help right now.

There was a yelp beside him, “Hey you’re firing at us, you Jackanapes!”

“Get ‘em lads,” he screamed, pointing towards the 2nd Battalion, “Don’t stop until you link up with the Lancer reinforcements, or they throw down their weapons and cease fire!”

There was a longish pause. “You heard, Stupid… I mean the Colonel,” Melissiandra’s clear, biting voice broke the silence, “For the Colonel! For the Crown,” she screamed, and a few blaster bolts started striking out from the Marines beside and behind him. That trickle soon turned to a hail and the 2nd Battalion men fire concentrated in earnest at the rest of the Marines around him.

From the hall behind the 2nd Battalion, the Marine Colonel could hear strange battle cries in even more strangely accented voices. Calls of “Messene!”, “a-Clover!” and “For the Hold Mistress,” echoed down the hall, accompanied by blaster and plasma rifle fire as well as the metallic clang of hand held vibro weapons on duralloy strong powered armor.

From what he could hear, other than being overly vocal, this Lancer Contingent which Suffic had been training seemed to have enough follow-through to qualify as fighting men.

Then a pair of vibroblades cut a man-size shape through the corridor bulkheads and plasma grenades started going off at close quarters right in the middle of the 2nd Battalion Marines, while a new set of Lancers screamed, “a-Lyca”, “a-Lyconese!” and “Jason Montagne!” Just as quickly, a flood of Lancers came pouring into the recently cleared space from the hole in the wall even before the last of the grenades had finished going off, as evidenced by a couple of battered and blacked old style Caprian battlesuits staggering against the wall, that’s when Wainwright knew the entire contingent were stark raving loonies.

The old Royal Lancers, back when they still existed and perhaps they would once again under King James, were known for being more than a bit mental. According to his file, this newly minted Colonel Suffic of the Confederation Lancers was a tried and true former 1st Lieutenant of the selfsame crazy and deranged Royal Lancers. But these new Confederation Lancers took things to whole new realm of lunacy.

For a moment, Colonel Wainwright was halfway jealous. Then he frowned furiously and tried to get to his feet, only to hear his battered suit give one final squeal and lock up solid. Blast it, he was stuck! Since all he could do now was watch the battle rage around him, he took another long look at the hole in the bulkheads and vowed that as soon as they had some down time, his Royal Caprian Marines were going to start practicing the same trick! There was no way a defunct organization, manned by a bunch of illiterate primitives and officered by a former Royal Lancer was going to show up a highly trained formation like his Brigade, or else he wasn’t a Colonel in the Caprian Royal Marines!

“Traitors to the Crown must die,” screamed Wainwright from within his temporary prison of useless power armor.

Chapter 36: A Ride to Remember

“Yeah,” yelled Hansel Suffic, as the jump seat he was strapped into rocked from side to side from a near miss and the sound of atmosphere escaping through a leak in the hull sounded throughout the troop bay. He pumped a fist in the air.

All around him Lancers, both native and Starborn (the term his unit had selected for those members of the contingent not from Tracto) gave him sickly or in some cases stoic looks.

“You are insane,” Akantha said to him shaking her head.

“I don’t think so,” he laughed as the Shuttled jerked, the sound of its onboard engine changing to a high-pitched whine.

“The man who our warriors wager could not smile if his life depended on it is now laughing and grinning like a jester,” Akantha challenged.

Suffic punched her in the side of the arm.

“You,” Akantha started with a snarl, turning on the Lancer Colonel with rage on her face.

“Call me a jester in front of the men again and you’ll be the last one off the transport, Hold Mistress,” he growled, pushing his helmet right up against hers and glaring through the visor. Seeing her face was still stiff with anger he added, “And that’s if I don’t confine you to the shuttle until the ship is secured!”

“You would not dare,” she retorted, rearing back.

“I never take off in the same shuttle unless I’ve got a few hardcore Lancers ready, willing and eager to sit on top of a high and mighty Hold Mistress, if the need arises,” he shot right back.

“You would dare,” Akantha cursed, knowing he probably would, “World of Men, but you Starborn males can be a burden intolerable at times!”

“Right back at you, My Lady,” Hansel chuckled, sounding distracted at the same time. He was looking toward the pilot’s compartment, which caused Akantha to do the same.

“Is there a problem?” she demanded after a moment’s silence.

Suffic shook his head irritably. “Some of these pilots are little better than civilians,” he grumbled under his breath. “Local reservists are fine for shuttling troops and gear into or out of atmo, but show them a hot LZ and things are liable to go pear shaped.”

“Are they incapable of executing their charge?” she asked.

Suffic shrugged. “Their skills aren’t in question, My Lady,” he explained, “it’s what’s between their ears that kept these boys from combat missions. Combat pilots are some of the steadiest, most dependable men you’ll ever meet.”

Akantha was alarmed, but she kept her features neutral. “What happened to our usual pilots?” she asked.

His face darkened and he met her eyes meaningfully. “Some unusual personnel transfers, including more than a few suspicious last minute medical cases,” he explained in a low voice.

Akantha’s eyes narrowed. “Do you suspect treachery?” she asked sternly.

Suffic’s gaze swept back to his men. “It’s a question for a different time, My Lady,” he said with finality. He slapped the button over his chest, releasing the restraints keeping his power armor from being knocked around with every jig and jag the pilot took them through.

“You all look like some of the surliest, least can-do-bunch of sorry-for-my-lot warriors I’ve seen since I first started whipping you in shape onboard the Clover,” Colonel Suffic yelled at the small sea of unexcited faces staring back at him in their belted down rows.

Some of the Lancers facing him stared curiously at their Leader, while the rest frowned before turning their attention back to the walls of the shuttles, no doubt imagining being annihilated by enemy fire and unable to do anything while they were stuck inside the shuttle like a can of battle-armored sardines.

Akantha sniffed at being ignored and her face hardened into any icy mask. Unlocking her own belt, she stood up only to be ignored after one quick assessing glance by Suffic.

As she turned away to push forward into pilot’s cockpit,

she could hear over the local push, “Alright you sorry sack of younger sons! Let’s hear it,” Suffic roared.

Behind her the contingent groaned.

“Unit song, now,” he bellowed.

As she grabbed the side of the walls for support against the up and down, then side to side rocking of the shutter, she could hear, tentatively at first and then with growing force the Lancers behind her start to sing. From previous experience she could imagine the rolling eyes and shaking heads as they launched into the first chorus.

“Oh!” they started making a production of clearing throats and fake coughing to get their voices ready, before charging into the song, “We’ll follow the old man wherever he wants to go!” they sang, “wherever he wants to go,” she could hear Suffic’s exuberated bellow starting in on the next line of the song, “Officer to the Fro!”

“Oh! We’ll stay with the old man wherever he wants stay, as long as he stays away from the Grav-plates, HEY!

“With feeling, you insubordinate lot,” screamed Suffic, who then broke down into a series of what sounded like unwilling chuckles. No doubt over the time he’d tried to teach the Tracto-ans a lesson by manually turning the grav-plates up so high the entire contingent, including himself, was stuck to the floor for over an hour, unable to move until Engineering noticed the increased power drain and sent someone down to reset the gravity.

“Because we love him—” they screamed, losing their former mood.

“You’re the saddest bunch of loveless curs I’ve ever heard of, if that’s the case,” he cursed them, even as they continued to sing right over the top of him.

“We love him,” they yelled back in defiance. “Even when he tries to keep us on the ball, because he’s the greatest son of a Lancer of them all! Oh he’s…“

Shaking her head, Akantha switched frequencies inside her helmet until she was on the same push as the pilot and co-pilot. If Hansel Suffic was less than confident in their pilots, it warranted her personal attention. Besides, it was best to let the Warriors have their moments of mirth and horseplay without their Hold Mistress and Admiral’s Lady standing there watching them as they went about it.

Pushing her way into the cockpit she loomed over the pair of skin-suited coxswains steering the shuttled.

“What are you doing up here,” the pilot demanded, sounding surly and put out, “get back in the transport hold where you belong, soldier.”

“My place is wherever I say it is, crewman,” Akantha replied stiffly to let them know they were not just addressing just any member of the Contingent.

“Are you the Admiral’s Lady, ma’am?” asked the co-pilot.

A dozen harsh replies ran through her brain, but mindful of the flashes of heavy laser fire coming from the ship they were flying towards, she held the worst of them.

“You could say that,” she answered coolly, “I have taken him as my Protector.”

“Great,” snapped the Pilot, even as he jerked the shuttle through an evasive maneuver, “fifteen years on active reserve duty, and I get the Montagne’s wife standing over my shoulder.” Green and red flashes of laser fire projected on the front screen as lancing all around them. “Now get back in the hold!”

“Guard your tongue more closely pilot, else it might come off some day!” she snapped right back at him.

“Listen, ma’am,” the Co-pilot tried sooth the situation, “you really should get back to your seat and let us do our job.”

Akantha opened her mouth to reluctantly agree, as the view from the forward screen in here was worse than sitting in the back of the hold wondering what was going on outside, but the pilot cut her off.

“We don’t have time to waste on supernumeraries, be they married to an Admiral or not,” he snarled, “so get back in the hold and stow your threats in the nearest maintenance locker for the rest of the trip, or as the Demon is my witness, the Captain will hear about this!”

“Who is this Captain that I should fear him,” she shouted, grabbing hold of the pilot by his right arm and hauling him half out of his chair. The Code of Men, which Akantha’s people followed explicitly, demanded that open insubordination be rooted out wherever (but more importantly, whenever) it was found, especially on the field of battle.

The co-pilot shrieked and grabbed at his controls with renewed vigor, flipping switches and pushing buttons as he took sole control of the shuttle.

“I am the Hold Mistress of Messene, and I have faced Sky Bug Demons more fearsome than your Captain,” she spat. “The fact that I am also the Sword Bearer of Admiral Jason Montagne and have the power in these two hands,” she continued, shaking him from side to side, “to crush you like the little four legged bug you are should give you cause to mind your tongue, lest I remove it!”

“You can’t—” gurgled the Pilot within her grasp, so rather than try and switch hands and pull out her Bandersnatch, she instead activated the duralloy blade she’d had specially installed in the forearm of her battle suit. The snick as if popped out instantly created a deafening silence in the cockpit.

“You were saying,” she asked coldly, maneuvering the blade until it was between his lips.

“You are insane,” the pilot breathed, staring with what looked like sick fascination at the blade hovering two inches from his mouth.

“Who is more insane,” she grunted, realizing it was probably the only way to get through to the stiff-necked Starborn, “the one holding the knife and promising to use it, or the fool whose words and actions beg its use upon him?”

There followed the sound of heavy breathing in the cockpit as no one said anything for several moments.

“Look,” started the co-pilot, the more respectful of the pair by far, “if you want us to get you to the old Armor Prince with the shuttle and most of the Lancers still in one piece. You need to let us get back to doing our job,” he pleaded, sounding desperate, “the both of us, ma’am!”

“You’re going to get us all killed!” agreed the pilot in her hands, still sounding slightly belligerent.

Releasing the rude one from her grasp, she watched as he landed halfway out of his seat and then had to scramble to get back into his harness.

“I am not going to kill us,” she said coldly, “but you just might do so, if you continue to insult me and ignore basic safety measures like the one requiring personnel inside a shuttle to wear their safety harness.”

The pilot turned red in the face and quickly started to buckle himself in.

“Which safety harness I will add, might just have kept me from removing you from your seat like that. To say nothing of what might happen during an explosive de-com-pression,” she fought to enunciate the relatively unfamiliar word, “such as my last shuttle trip when we fought the Demons.”

“I’m not the only person who isn’t,” he paused to finish clicking in, “wasn’t,” he muttered, “buckled in.”

Even now the fool thought to test her. For a moment she glowered at him silently. Perhaps Suffic had been correct, and their new pilots were oathbreakers, which would explain their intransigence. Then a hard smile crept over her lips as a solution presented itself.

“I need both of you to fly us in,” she said coolly, “however, I need only one of you to fly this shuttle back.”

The sudden silence in the room was deafening. Noticing the naturally calmer co-pilot’s hand slowly creeping down to his side arm, she placed a hand on his shoulder and gave a slight squeeze; one that she knew was more than enough to cause significant pain but no actual damage. To her surprise, he refrained from making a sound. Her respect for him increased.

“I have no murder on my mind,” she assured the co-pilot, “quite the opposite, if it’s truth you want from me,” she said in a deliberately deadly and ominous tone of voice.

When neither man was foolish enough to provoke her further, so she smiled happily. “Far from it,” she again assured them. “No,” she said placing a hand on the pilot, so that now she had a power-armored hand on each of their skin-suited shoulders, “your pilot here can redeem his poor manners as is only proper: with action, taking his place as one of my personal guard when we storm the ship!”

Chapter 37: Cleaning House

The initial surge out of the shuttle and into the decompressed shuttle bay passed in a blur of fire and counter fire as the Armor Prince’s defenders cut loose with everything they had. Outnumbered and quickly overwhelmed, Akantha didn’t start paying attention to her surroundings again until one of her Honor Guard grabbed her attention, so focused was she on blasting down her pirate foes.

“What is it,” she demanded irritably, eager to get into the ship and start cutting a bloody swath.

“This is the second time this one’s tried to run back to the shuttle,” said Cyrus, shoving the shuttle pilot at her.

“I’m not used to combat, I just keep getting turned around,” protested the pilot.

Akantha shook her head at such a transparent fabrication, then an idea struck her.

“Do not worry,” she said pulling out the grappling cable built into the belt of her battlesuit, and attaching it to his skin suit, “you can no longer get ‘turned around,’ with this,” she assured him, giving the cable a quick tug to ensure it was secured.

The Pilot staggered from the force of her tug on the line, slow to regain his balance before staring at her like she was the worst sort of ravenous, disgusting Sky Demon.

“Now you needn’t fear becoming lost,” she said triumphantly, then turned her attention back to the serious business of getting into the ship. There were still many of these pirates, the road bandits of the stars, waiting for her to maim and slaughter with Bandersnatch!

“You’re just trying to get me killed,” shouted the Pilot.

“If I wanted you dead, you impudent little man, I would simply kill you myself,” she assured him with rising irritation.

“I have no weapon, and without armor I’ll be shot dead during the first encounter,” he squealed.

“You are not unarmed,” she reminded him, tapping the side arm strapped to his right leg.

“A stunner,” he protested.

“When an enemy falls, we will fit you with their armor, now cease your sniveling,” she said pushing him out of the way with the back of her hand. “You may collect a better weapon along the way as well; I promise there will soon be plenty,” she finished with a flash of her eyes.

So saying she clicked off their private channel and back onto the main frequency. Striding over to the nearest airlock, she didn’t even notice him kicking and flailing about as he tried to do anything he could, even grab hold of a structural beam to try to prevent their entrance into the rest of the ship.

“Stop flopping around,” she scolded, switching back to their private channel where she heard him screaming for help, “are you a man or some kind of fish?” she demanded.

“This is illegal; it’s a violation of the Caprian military code of conduct. You can’t do this,” he screamed, holding onto a pylon for dear life. “I’m a member of the flight crew, not a Marine!”

“Act like a man, not a fish,” she reprimanded, shaking her head, “because if you keep playing the part of a fish with this incessant flopping about, I will be forced to use my Bandersnatch and gut you like the landless water creature you pretend to be!”

Grabbing hold of the grappling cable, she gave a savage tug and he came flying toward her. Suffic had not trusted this man, and neither would Akantha.

Looking to be temporarily stunned out of his childish antics, Akantha pushed her way to the front of the line seeking entry into the ship.

Pulling the pilot close so that the line wasn’t at risk of being cut in half by the hatch, she dragged the two of them into the airlock.

Cycling out into the rest of the ship she felt the barest sensation of something pressing against her back. It passed almost as soon as it was felt, then a slightly stronger series of pulses could be felt all along her back and then up her neck to the back of her head.

Turning around she was just in time to see a stunner go whizzing past her head.

“Only a fool would discard his lone weapon,” she growled, shaking her head at the sight of the shuttle pilot standing there empty handed.

“Useless piece of junk doesn’t even work,” he glared at her, fury in his eyes.

“Finally, a hint of a spine! We will find something more powerful as we go,” then she frowned, irritated at waiting for several more lancers to cycle through behind her. “Move,” she commanded as soon as enough of her Honor Guard had come through the airlock to justify heading deeper into the ship, “we have Star Bandits to destroy!”

Striding through the halls left over signs of battle were clear to see in the scared and in a few cases melted pockmarks on the wall and blood stains on the floor. Then they came across their first set of blackened, yet still smoking power armor.

“Looks like the Jacks got here before us,” growled Colonel Suffic over the general push. “So step lively; we don’t want to get shot by our own side,” there was a pause, “although I use that term loosely, since we are talking about Marines here,” he added with a gravelly chuckle.

“Don’t worry, Sir,” responded one of her Tracto-an Lancers, “we won’t let them steal our glory!”

“Enough of that thick-headed nonsense,” snapped Hansel Suffic, “I said step lively, and remember to watch your six.”

Behind her, the Primarch finally made it through the airlock. Dressed in the very same equipment he’d been captured in, Glue was decked out in the same sort of interlocking armor plates and head bag that previous members of his particular brand of demonkind had been equipped in during the last time she saw them in combat. Bandersnatch had torn through that armor easily enough, she reminded herself.

Although in Primarch Glue’s case, his weaponry was conspicuous by its very absence.

“This not what we talked, Land Mother,” he told her, with an exaggerated facial grimace that appeared to be normal fare for his kind.

Inside Akantha suppressed a grimace of distaste. Bargaining with a warrior demon… if her mother could only see her now, she’d realize just how far her daughter had strayed from the Code of Men, and how much further she was about to go.

In fairness, the Code only listed a series of dire punishments and projected outcomes to be expected for those who trafficked with demons without the prior approval of Men, but it didn’t actually forbid anything.

Even more technically, it might even be argued that as a Hold Mistress and with the fate of both the race and world entire hanging around her shoulders in the form of the threat posed by the Sky Demons, that she had all the authority she needed already preapproved.

“You must learn to embrace the unexpected,” she said stiffly.

“The unexpected not concerned me,” he said flatly, “It is the posed and counter-posed that fills the mind of this Sundered, Land Mother.”

“We each have a place in this fallen world, Primarch,” she replied evenly, no longer forced to pull the shuttle pilot along behind her, “to each it is given sometimes that their place is simply to wait.”

“Much you ask of this Glue,” the Demon grunted.

“A leader of warriors, Demon or not, must have patience in excess of the common band,” she scowled.

“Let us speak this more,” Glue said in a rising voice.

“Let us not,” she flared, “I ask much of you?” She stopped and glared with fury at the giant Demon. “Warrior hearted or not, I offer you and yours more than you could ever possibly give in return. Show me the worthiness of this alliance, lest…” she pointed commandingly down an uninhabited side passage, one clear of both Lancer and Pirate, “you should go. Leave now, but never again dare to show your face to me within this lifetime, or I will know your complaints are as the whining of a child who claims that all his life he has been denied that which was rightfully his, only to later refuse that very same privilege because of the obligations inherited by those who have already received a similar bounty!”

Glue stared at her silently, and some might say sullenly. Perhaps he enjoys the Bandit life too much, she wondered silently.

“Make your choice, Primarch of Demons; are you a whining little child, or a Warrior among Warriors and a Leader of the… Sundered People,” she finished, her fire melting into a cold nearly all consuming fury. “I have no use for a people who, when put to hazard, turn and walk away.”

“Give me a weapon,” he rumbled from somewhere deep in his chest.

“Among my people a weapon is not simply given, it is earned,” she retorted, her eyes lighting up at his answer. Around her, the honor guard stiffened with tension.

She turned to the nearest Lancer. “Give the Primarch the weapons which were found on him when he was captured,” she instructed.

The low rumbling sound that had been coming from the genetic uplift since she answered paused.

“Use these weapons to harvest a blood price from the Star Bandits, and you can consider the ransom price of those weapons fully repaid,” she stated imperiously.

Reluctantly, a warrior in the back of the group (not the initial Lancer she had instructed to return his weapons) brought the Primarch a large demon sword and scythe-shaped knife, the ones logged in the ship’s armory as having been taken from the Primarch during his capture.

“I could kill you with these weapons, and none could stop me,” the Primarch said evenly, causing the Lancers all around them to stiffen and the tethered pilot to raise his hands and slowly back away to the limits of the line attached to his body.

“I have not wronged you or yours,” she spat contemptuously. “Not only would you fail,” she continued, pointing to the sword in her hand, then tossed her chin to indicate the Honor Guards around her, “but the very attempt would brand your people the honorless swine they are,” she sneered. “But if that is your nature, be true to it, and prove the futility of our bargain!”

“Your mate destroyed my ship, and many Sundered died at his command,” Glue rebutted, “that not nothing.”

“I have personally slain more of your kind than my Protector, if that is the root of your grievance,” she snorted. “Do your worst,” she challenged, turning her back on the Primarch and continuing down the hall. “I have a ship to capture, Star Bandits to kill, and no time for your games.”

There was no sound of movement behind her. “Fight, flee or join, but do it now, as my patience wears thin,” she snapped, refusing to look back.

Feet started thumping behind her. “I must take your words to my people,” Glue said smacking his lips together, “I cannot take such decision entirely myself.”

“Be gone, then,” she said coldly.

“Glue will be back, whatever the decision of his people,” he promised.

Akantha shrugged, and when one of her Guard made a sound of protest, “Let him go,” she ordered giving a toss of her head to indicate she could care less if the Primarch stayed or went.

The oversized demon creature gave a regal nod of his head and turned abruptly, heading back the way they’d just come.

“What an evil-looking brute,” remarked one of her Honor Guard as soon as the Primarch was out of earshot, “good that it is gone.”

“It claims the need to speak with its people,” Akantha said with a shrug, “perhaps it will return.” She shrugged again after a moment’s thought, “But perhaps not. Time will tell.”

“You are too generous,” the lead warrior in the Honor Guard stated.

“I disagree,” Akantha stopped and turned to stare at the other Lancer.

“But to offer them citizenship and hold-minor of their own,” he protested heatedly in their native tongue. “The Starborn are one thing; stunted as they are, at least they have the shape and appearance of true men. In the history of our people, it has not been done to truck with demons of any stripe, or to cater to them, whatever the situation.

“To become a member of an honorable polis with lands to call her own; is this not the dream of every mother past, present and future?” Akantha straightened herself, drawing the weight of her office around her even as she pushed her face into his. “Does she not wish her sons to be given the opportunity to join a mighty war-band, winning fame, fortune and the chance to secure their bloodline into the next generation?”

“Our world was given to the Children of Men; it was not meant for these creatures,” the Lancer barked angrily.

Her eyes narrowed. “The Children of Men, whether we hail from Argos, Messene or that foul stain upon the map Lyconesia, will each and every one of us become as less than dust, passing through the gullet of the Sky Demons as they feed the next generation of their foul spawn,” she said, shoving her forearm in the join between helmet and chest. “Everything I have learned says there is no guarantee that the world itself will continue to exist after we are defeated,” she shouted, slamming him against the wall. “World of Men, but you would quibble over a few thousand hectares of land, while everything burns to the ground!”

She paused and continued coldly, “I no longer wonder why the Mistresses of Men were given dominion over the land holds and all those who reside therein, instead of his Warriors.”

“Such things are the province of Hold Mistresses and Protectors,” he replied, sounding taken aback by the vehemence of his Hold Mistress, “they are beyond my ken.”

“Then keep to the Code,” she flared, releasing him, “and let me worry about saving the world entrusted by Men. Focus on your duties as a warrior, if those are not beyond your ken as well,” she finished, glaring at him.

“Contact,” the voice of Colonel Suffic said coming over the suit-com.

Akantha opened her mouth, but the sound of blaster fire erupting up the hall cut her off.

All around her the members of her Honor Guard leaned forward and picked up the pace. The only one lagging behind was the Shuttle Pilot.

“Messene!” screamed Akantha, picking up the pace until they were moving at a jog. She was eager to meet the bandit foemen on the field of battle.

“You’re all insane,” yelped the Pilot, forced to pick up the pace or be dragged.

The hallway ahead became clogged with lancers and there was no way to get to the front without trying to force her way through the massed warriors in front of her.

“We need to go around,” Akantha ordered imperiously.

“Yes, Hold Mistress,” a pair of Lancer Guards said eagerly.

“There’s no way around, you meat heads! We’re just going to have to wait and make sure they don’t sneak up behind us,” said the shuttle coxswain with the tongue that just didn’t seem to know when to stop, glancing over his shoulder.

Akantha looked at him disdainfully, “This looks like a good spot,” she said pointing to the selected area, as the two Lancers pulled out vibro blades and immediately started hacking a man shaped hole in the wall.

She’d seen more than her fair share of mentally-deficient specimens of the male half of the species thanks to her Uncle Nykator, and in her considered opinion this parliamentary version might be almost be too stupid to live.

The shuttle pilot gaped as power-assisted, genetically strengthened arms grunted and strained, using vibroblades to tear their way through the bulkhead.

“You can’t do that…” the pilot stuttered, then his voice firmed, “and you’re going to ruin those blades if you keep treating them like that!”

Akantha blinked her eyes and then shook her head in mild disgust. Turning away, she eagerly watched as the new opening was created.

As soon as the opening was kicked in, she smiled savagely.

“Yes! Good work, Warriors,” she shouted and then, before anyone could react, she jumped through the new entrance.

“Wha-gurk!” yelped the shuttle pilot as he slammed into the wall on the wrong side of the hole and then was dragged through the opening by the force her power armor.

Realizing she’d forgotten about the little man as soon as she felt the tug on the line, she was annoyed with herself.

“Keep up,” she snapped harshly, but slowed just enough to let him catch up.

“No wonder he married you,” the shuttle pilot puffed between breaths as they ran down the empty hall.

“What?” Akantha demanded, increasing her pace.

“You’re just as crazy as he is. No wonder he picked you. Probably makes him feel normal,” he muttered.

“Perhaps I should release you here,” she mused out loud, before stopping and cocking her head. “Right here,” she said coming to an abrupt halt and pointing to a section of wall, “Make a hole,” she instructed imperiously, as only one raised to power can.

“Yes, Lady,” said the same pair who’d opened the last section.

“Unarmed in the middle of a battleship, chock full of pirates,” the Pilot said shaking his head from side to side rapidly.

“Have you ever heard of a Neural Whip?” she inquired, cocking a brow.

“Wha-what?” he gasped.

“The way you insist on offering insults like they were candy, those are rapidly becoming your only options,” she remarked casually, “I am uncertain if heroism in battle will continue to be enough, the way you insist on flapping your fish-like mouth,” she said flashing him a grin.

He gaped at her.

“My patience does have limits, you know,” she said just as the pair cut the rest of the day down to the floor on either side of the door. “Stay close or don’t,” she barked, severing the line connecting the shuttle pilot to her with a slash of Bandersnatch prior to stepping forward and lashing out at the silhouette of the door with a power-armored foot.

“My Lady,” protested several of Tracto-an Lancers as her second kick sent metal flying.

“Messene,” she screamed jumping out into the middle of the corridor.

“Blood Guard,” snarled the nearest pirate.

Decked out in a battlesuit, with diamond and emerald jewels hanging off gold studs littered all over her nose and cheeks like shrapnel wounds, she looked more like a grenade victim to Akantha than a hard-bitten bandit and a single overhand slash of her Bandersnatch cleaved through her foe-woman’s blade and into her helmet.

Akantha gave her first, still-twitching victim a quick kick, and with a shower of sparks Bandersnatch came free.

“A little help, Armsman,” yelled a second pirate boarding axe raised over his head, even as he unleashed a stream of blaster fire from the rifle clutched in his other hand.

Staggering away from bolts slamming into her faceplate, Akantha lashed out with her vibro-sword catching the rifle with the tip of her blade. As suddenly as they’d begun, the blaster bolts ceased.

Already off balance, Akantha was unable to regain her footing before she was pushed off to the side and out of the way by her Honor Guard as they rushed into the room. Landing on her knees, she snarled, placing one foot under her and starting to get up.

“Blood-men,” roared a third pirate, a plasma rifle in one hand and a vibroblade in the other.

Grimacing with anger even as she struggled back to her feet, Akantha observed as the pirate blocked the blade of one of her honor guard just through the breech, shoulder charged another who’d been giving the 2nd pirate a hard time, and then fired at point blank range, blowing a hole in the face plate of another, killing him instantly when super charged plasma ate through his visor and into his skull.

Back on her feet, Akantha waded into the fray. An overhand chop with her Bandersnatch cut through the hand of the 2nd pirate’s boarding axe, and then it was his turn to eat blaster fire in the face.

Meanwhile his companion, this Armsman, was battling two of her lancer’s at the same time. By forcing them to guard against his Plasma Rifle with one of their arms, he was able to deal with their vibroblades.

The second pirate scrambled back, bringing his blaster rifle to bear. Forcing every last erg of speed out of her battlesuit, Akantha lunged forward. Batting his rifle off to the side, one final chop of her Dark Sword of Power ended the bandit’s life.

Jerking Bandersnatch from his neck took a foot to the chest and a mighty power assisted heave. Task completed, she was able to get back in the battle. By this time, the bandit Armsman had two of her Honor Guard backed into the break in the wall and no more of her Lancers were able to get into the fight.

“Blood!” screamed the Bandit Armsman stabbing one of her men in the leg and slashing a deep score in the chest of another.

“We’ve got ‘em now, Armsmen,” hollered an unarmored Pirate, “Blood Gua—,” that was as far as he got before tasting Bandersnatch in all its black metal with sparkling crystalline beauty.

Jumping forward, Akantha came at the highly-skilled Armsman with a massive overhand chop of her vibroblade.

Angling his blade, the Armsman shunted her overhand strike away and to the side. Now facing three opponents, the Bandit was forced to scramble taking first one step back and then another.

Further up the corridor blaster and plasma rifles thundered. Pirates screamed and a stream of bandits started pulling back towards Akantha and her Honor Guard’s position.

A plasma burst to the chest sent one of her men reeling, knocking the other Lancer’s sword high and wide as the Armsman shoulder charged Akantha, knocking her to the side on his way out.

“See ya later, chumps!” he called over his shoulder.

Furious, Akantha scrambled after him on all fours.

“My Lady,” cried her guards.

Growling with rage, Akantha ignored them, instead diving forward and aiming for the hamstring. Metal sparked but not from the armor over his hamstring; the Armsman had interposed his blade between hers.

“Good night, chump,” he snickered, aiming the end of his plasma rifle at her head.

There was nothing she could do in time to stop her head from turning into a rapidly cooling pile of super heated meat and metal. In that split second, she wondered if perhaps it would have been wiser to stay on the ship.

Then something whirred over her head, there was a thunk and the exceptionally skilled pirate stiffened. She continued to stare at the barrel of the plasma rifle for several more seconds but the pirate failed to fire. Breaking out of her trance, Akantha rolled to the side and away from the rifle.

“My Lady has been told before of the need to stick with her Honor Guard,” Colonel Suffic rebuked, kicking over the body of the Armsman and pulling an Imperial style boarding axe out of the side of his head.

Akantha stiffened at these words and got back to her feet, her mouth a tight line as she refused to say any number of words that occurred to at that moment. After all, it would be the height of poor manners to yell at the man who had just saved her life.

The remaining members of her Honor Guard gathered round her in circular formation.

“Are you just going to stand there looking put out,” Hansel Suffic barked, pointing down the hall where the remainder of the bandits where in full retreat, “we’ve many more pirates to kill!”

Despite herself, Akantha found a grin on her face.

“Forward,” she ordered, gesturing to her guard with a sweep of the arm and setting off down the hall.

“And stick with your Guards,” the Colonel called out behind her in a stern voice, before trailing off into a mutter too low for her to follow.

Akantha rolled her eyes, instead of giving in to the cold feeling that threatened to sweep through her.

“A Hold Mistress goes where she wills,” she said as grandly as she was able, more to keep herself from giving in to that cold feeling of doom, than because she intended to give her guards the slip.

Chasing the pirates down one corridor and then another, Akantha and the Lancers left a pile of broken, smoking pirates along their trail.

“This way,” called Suffic pointing one way while the pirates continued to retreat another.

“They will escape,” Akantha disagreed, continuing after the Pirates.

“This way leads to the port side gundeck,” Suffic barked, “all lancers take the starboard corridor and let those pirates get away. We’ve got a duty to the Clover that transcends hot blood and the desire for payback.”

“World of Men,” Akantha grumbled under her breath, firing one last shot with her blaster rifle before reluctantly turning back the way she’d just came.

“Don’t worry; they’re not going anywhere,” the Lancer Colonel said a hard note in his voice, “there’s only so many places they can go across this ship. I’m certain we’ll run across them again sooner or later.”

After letting the heavily armored group of pirate warriors retreat, the going got much faster. Not because they ran into any less pirates, but because the ones they did cross paths with were unarmored and equipped with a variety of hand weapons and only the occasional rifle.

Carving a bloody swath through the ship, they arrived outside the main blast doors leading into the portside gundeck several minutes later.

“Breaching charges,” ordered Suffic, “set the timers for thirty seconds.”

As soon as the charges were set, the Colonel ordered them back around the nearest corner.

Akantha would have complained about running away, but she’d already learned from direct personal experience that standing too close to a charge when it went off could knock a person, even a heavily armored woman in a battlesuit, off her feet and leave a ringing in her ears that lasted for hours afterwards, to say nothing of the damage done to the outside of the suit from being too close to the blast.

Regardless of ringing ears, the incessant complaints from the ship’s Armorers would have been enough all one their own to dissuade her from doing it again. They were worse than a batch of moldering old women, those ones!

Someone’s voice echoed over the unit com-channel, “FIVE-FOUR-THREE-TWO-”

The young Hold-Mistress almost instinctively ducked her head right before the young male lancer got to “ONE” and by “ZERO,” the corridor bucked around her position.

“Up and at ‘em, boys and girls,” roared Suffic. “It’s time to take it to the enemy! I want our forces in there so deep and so hard, they never have a chance to put together an effective respond,” he snapped, and all around her, squads of Lancers threw themselves in through the breach.

“Clover!” cried the first squad through the breach, unleashing a flurry of blaster bolts on their way in.

“Don’t stop until you see the back of their pearly whites,” he bellowed, “not until we’ve pulled each and every tooth, right from the biggest turbo-laser down to the smallest point defense cluster!”

“The streets shall flow with the blood of the oppressors,” raged a wild eyed young lancer.

“Promethean fool,” the Colonel glared at the young hot-head and collared him, dragging the younger man away from the rest of his shouting formation, “there are no streets on a gundeck, and these pirates aren’t your run of the mill civilian political oppressors back home! They’re not looking to take your civil liberties; they want to kill you and sell others as slaves! Get your head in the game, boy,” he shouted, pushing the young man back into the stream of charging lancers.

“Sir, yes, Sir,” shouted the young lancer bracing to attention.

Suffic shook his head in disgust. “Get out of my sight and catch back up with your unit,” he snarled, following this sage advice with a swift kick in the hind quarters to hurry the over-motivated young Lancer on his way.

Seeing her chance, Akantha inserted herself into the flow headed into the gundeck.

The first thing she noted was that the guns weren’t firing. The second was the flashing back and forth of blaster and plasma rounds, with the occasional heavy stun rifle thrown in.

Despite a serious lack of power armor, the pirates on this deck seemed determined to make a fight of it. She found this out the hard way when a gravity load lifter came screaming around the corner. Battlesuits were knocked over, pushed to the side and in a few cases simply run over as the pirate driving the conveyance cackled insanely.

Leveling her blaster rifle, she fired at the pirate to no effect, with the rounds of her rifle splattering against some kind of miniature force-field that replaced the more traditional forward facing window of those grav-carts that came so equipped back on the Clover. With only moments left, Akantha drew herself into side profile with Bandersnatch fully extended. The tip of her blade pointed right at the face of the madly cackling pirate astride his death machine.

The pirate opened his mouth, his metal-studded tongue lolling out in her direction as the load lifter adjusted aim ever so slightly so that it came straight at her.

Sparks flew when her sword encountered the force-field, and without her power-enhanced musculature, Bandersnatch would have been jerked out of her hand. Instead, her feet started skidding backwards on the ship’s decking and her legs wobbled.

Suddenly there was an explosion on the side of the cart and the miniature shield failed. Her sword shot forward, stabbing into the pirate through his still protruding tongue, which she must have unconsciously been aiming for, and then coming out through the side of his upper neck.

Then the laws of motion caught up with her and the load lifter slammed into her torso. Unable to keep her footing, Akantha stumbled and fell beneath the load lifter. The force of its passage as it came over top of her was punishing. There followed a crash as the heavy load lifter slammed into a wall. Unfortunately, she’d been too close to that very same wall when it hit and so when it came to a halt she was still underneath it.

She tried to move, to get out from underneath the death machine but couldn’t manage to do anything more than clench and unclench her muscles.

The weight and pressure that up until now she had considered merely restrictive slowly became oppressive as the heavy machine rocked back and forth, still recovering from its impact with the wall.

Being trapped like this reminded her of the demonic Hell Ship where Jason had freed her. She felt a sense of panic take hold as she remembered the strap which had pinned her to the wall of the Bug vessel, and she found herself struggling to control her breathing. There was a tugging sensation and then the sword leapt from her hand. A loud clang came from outside the undercarriage of this death machine.

The death machine started shifting from side to side, each movement placing increased pressure on her torso. Then something started tugging on her legs.

Slowly at first and then with increased force as the power of the machine suddenly assisted in ejecting her from underneath it, she emerged from beneath its massive bulk. With a final tug, she went flying into the air a good three feet before landing on her back with a thump.

Glancing down almost undid her when seeing a grappling line around her feet, she let her head thump back to the ground. Gasping for air, the next thought to enter her head was the sword. Eyes which had been half closed as she tried to recover from the beating she had just received snapped wide open.

Routine gasps for air turned into a gurgle as her fingers clawed in the air for purchase to help her get up.

It was only when the hilt of a sword, her sword, was placed into a wildly clutching hand that she calmed down. Shaking her head to clear it, she gave the member of her honor guard who had returned the blade a grateful look.

Her eyes widened and then her eyebrows lowered thunderously when she saw the person who’d most likely handed her back Bandersnatch to be none other than that slimy little skunk weasel in human form of a pilot.

The man had a sickly cast to his features and clutched a deadly looking plasma rifle in his two hands as if it was a life line.

A member of her Honor Guard, a real member, showed up and offered her a hand. Grasping it, she regained her feet before stamping her foot in frustration. There was still some fighting taking place further down the gun deck in either direction, but the pirates were clearly losing and just as clearly, there were too many warriors already finishing their foes for her to find any action. Especially not with the group of wet-nurses Suffic had assigned to her Honor Guard hanging around her like a cast iron weight.

Had she not known better, she would have suspected he had deliberately saddled her with most unaggressive, least glory-hungry warriors in the entire contingent!

“Let’s get out of here,” she said in disgust, “it appears our part in this action is done.”

“As you command, Hold Mistress,” replied the current leader of her Honor Guard. She’d insisted on that part at least; she wasn’t going to be stuck with some senior stick in the mud Starborn as the head of her personal guard, not unless she made that decision all on her own and for her very own reasons.

“Where can a Lady go to find a fight around here,” she demanded in frustration.

Her guards shared a glance.

“The Marines have been struggling to take and hold Main Engineering. Word on the Comm is they are sending reinforcements,” said the head Lancer in her Honor Guard.

“Do you think we can get there first,” she asked, trying to suppress any eagerness from sounding in her voice.

Her Guard frowned. “It’s possible,” he said slowly.

“If we hurry,” added Isis, one of the few female warriors in the group.

“Suffic’s has this under control,” Akantha said, a hungry smile creeping over her face. With an imperious gesture she gathered her guards around her and hurried back they way they’d just came.

“I hope they get there first,” muttered the shuttle pilot.

“What?” demanded Akantha.

“Nothing, just a cough,” he replied, smacking his chest for dramatic effect.

Chapter 38: The Gun Deck is Ours

“Why the blazes weren’t you firing at our ship,” Suffic demanded, lifting the pirate in his grasp up by the collar, “I can see she’s still firing at you!”

The pirate petty officer, or at least the closest thing to a petty officer they had over here on the old Armor Prince gave him a bloody, gap toothed smile.

“Cap’n said to hold fire,” he gurgled, somehow managing to spray blood out of his mouth and into the Suffic’s open visor.

“Why, blast you?” Suffic asked, shaking the pirate like a rag doll.

“The Blood Lord’s already on your ship,” the pirate said with a laugh, “she’s taken and you don’t even know it,” he howled with laughter.

The laughter cut off mid-howl with a sickening crack.

Colonel Suffic realized he’d unconsciously applied too much strength and with a grimace, he released the body.

“Find me another Officer,” he ordered flatly, then scanned the area one more time. The mopping up of this gun deck was almost complete.

“Yes, Sir,” said the Tracto-an Captain of the Company he was currently imbedded with.

“And someone try to raise the Admiral,” he suddenly shouted. “I’ve got important intel to relay.”

He watched with deep satisfaction as all around him, Lancers hopped to obey. Then he froze in mid step and took another harder look around. Everything was as it should be, but not as it usually was.

“Where’s the thorn in my side,” he demanded, rounding on his adjutant.

“Wh-What Colonel,” stammered the other man.

“You know, the one person who never stops issuing demands,” he clarified.

At the continued look of stupidity on the face of his Adjutant, Suffic rolled his eyes.

“Akantha,” he said urgently, “where has that crazy Lady gotten herself off to now, you fool!”

The Adjutant’s eyes widened and he immediately got on his communicator and started talking rapidly.

With a sinking heart, Suffic realized she must have given him the slip during the general melee to take the deck.

“Sir, we’ve got another one for you,” said the Company Captain.

For half a moment, the Colonel hoped he was talking about Akantha, but the sight of another broken up pirate quickly crushed that flight of fancy.

“Someone find the Hold Mistress,” he barked, causing the rest of the Lancers around him to jump and start looking at fallen comrades in hopes of turning her up.

Giving himself a shake, Hansel Suffic turned to the new prisoner.

“You’re going to tell me everything you know about this Blood Lord of yours and any plans he has to take our ship,” he said grimly. The pirate in front of him, now held up by virtue of two lancers, one on either side, stared at him and shivered.

Two minutes later Suffic had squeezed out everything the pirate knew about his top commander’s plans, which wasn’t much. As a final offering the pirate, desperate to keep breathing, had offered to show him a picture of this Blood Lord.

“I can still be of use,” begged the pirate.

“I’m done with him,” Suffic said shortly; he had more important things to do than interrogate some nearly clueless mushroom.

“Should we dispose of him out the air lock, Sir,” asked the Lancer, referring to the traditional punishment for pirates.

“Wait-wait, I can show you an image of the Blood Lord,” pleaded the pirate, “it’s saved in my hand held!”

“I doubt it’s anything I need to see,” Suffic said dismissively and motioned for the Lancers to take him away, by pointing in the general region of the airlock.

“I have bios with pictures of each of the fleet’s top commanders,” squealed the former pirate officer as he was dragged away.

Suffic hesitated, then strode over to the man, “On you? You have these images on you,” he demanded.

Nodding his head like some kind of old style bobblehead, the pirate fell all over himself signaling agreement.

Intel they would likely be able to use later and, at the very least with the pictures, they’d be able know if one of the top pirates was captured later on. So he or she could be sure to receive their just deserts.

“Show me,” demanded Suffic, indicating his lancers were to release the other man. They grimaced but obeyed orders.

“Here,” said the man pulling out a battered looking hand held and flipping through it. The Pirate then thrust it at the Lancer Colonel, “See, just like I promised you, it is.”

Suffic flicked is thumb from page to page, seeing just the usual run of the mill heavily modified, metal faced scum. The same as the rest of the general run of the mill pirates he’d seen on this ship so far, except perhaps their leaders tended to have a higher grade adornments implanted into their persons.

Then his thumb froze in recognition, it was a member of the Tuttle family. “Connor Tuttle,” whispered in recognition, then his eyes widened. “Impossible,” he muttered under his breath, rapidly flipping through the images on the screen, “The man just went rogue, there’s no possible way—” his voice trailed off into a deathly rattle.

There, under the heading of Blood Lord, Supreme Pirate Commander was a face that Capria of Old had known quite well. One of her most favored of royal sons, now apparently gone bad.

“Jean Luc,” Suffic said in disbelief. Then his face hardened. Suddenly, the outrageous tales told by his prisoners seemed more believable not less.

“Adjutant,” he said hoarsely, then repeated it with growing strength.

“What, Sir,” asked his Adjutant.

“Order two squads detached to hold the Gun Deck, and then instruct every Company Commander within range to form up on my position,” he said harshly.

“Are we going after the Hold Mistress,” asked his Adjutant looking concerned.

“Akantha’s just going to have to see to herself,” he said shaking his head abruptly, “we have to move fast.”

“But, Sir, we’ve just managed to locate her. The signal is intermittent, but it seems she’s heading down towards Main Engineering, along with a number of Marine reinforcements,” protested the Adjutant at this sudden change in plans.

Suffic hesitated, “Do we have anyone near her who we can send for back up,” he asked. He turned and started yelling at Lancers more concerned with looting pirate bodies than getting back into formation.

“Only two companies of Lyconese, Sir,” the Adjutant replied doubtfully.

“Instruct them to go to her assistance. The rest of our Lancers are to be given a new assignment,” Suffic said decisively. Around him, the Tracto-an Lancers looked at each other in dismay but the Colonel deliberately ignored them. Lady Akantha had managed to get herself into yet another pickle with her constant pursuit of combat, and this time she could just go and get herself right back out.

Events were taking place outside this ship that needed his direct and personal attention. The best place to be if what he feared was about to happen went down was on the Bridge of this ship!

“Come on, you ugly sods,” he shouted in frustration, “the rest of us don’t have time for your dithering,” he turned to the Company Captain.

“Captain, are your men ready to follow me to their new assignment,” he snapped, staring him in the eye.

“Of course, Colonel Suffic,” the Captain said confidently.

“Then let’s go,” Suffic barked, setting off with long corridor eating strides.

“Our orders, Sir,” asked the Captain.

“Don’t stop until we have the Bridge,” Suffic said flatly.

Chapter 39: Those Traitorous Marines!

“I’m registering a large number of power-armored figures up ahead, My Lady,” reported one of the more technically inclined members of her honor guard, stereotypically it was one of the Starborn.

“Pirates,” Akantha asked, delighted with this turn of events.

“From the readouts they look more like…Marine Jacks, My Lady,” said the technician.

Akantha scowled. “Well, what are they doing,” she said with a sigh.

“It looks like they are all stopped outside of Main Engineering,” he reported.

“Let us hope they haven’t succeeded in mopping up all the Star Bandits in Engineering, or this trip will have been for nothing,” she said with a sigh.

“You call blasting over twenty armed pirates on the way down here nothing,” protested the Shuttle Pilot in a rising voice.

“The only battlesuit we encountered was using the one you’re wearing right now,” she said scornfully, “the rest were mere fodder for our guns.”

“My Lady, the first of the Marines is just up ahead,” informed the Starborn Lancer.

“Send out the friend or foe signal,” she commanded imperiously.

“It does that automatically,” reminded the technically proficient member of her staff, “that’s why they don’t register as enemies on your battle screen.”

“Right,” she said stiffly, remembering to activate her own battle screen, “then let’s introduce ourselves.”

However, instead of greeting her group of warriors with open arms, the Marine Jacks blocking her way further down the hall stiffened at the sight of her and the back row turned around, lowering their weapons.

“What is the meaning of this,” Akantha demanded in a clear, carrying and most importantly ringing voice authority, drawing herself up stiffly. While all around her, her own men had their weapons aimed at the marines.

The two groups of men were staring at one another like opposing packs of angry attack dogs.

“Now that his Puppet is in trouble of losing the very Brigade Command that just got a lot of good Marines killed, the Montagne whelp sends his woman to prop him up,” cried a faint voice from further up the corridor.

“What is the meaning of this outrage,” she demanded coldly, “shoulder your weapons.”

“Surrender your weapons, and you won’t be harmed,” said one of the Marines in a low voice, pointing a blaster rifle at her.

“Surrender or be slaughtered by my Lancers,” snarled Akantha, infuriated at the insult.

“Long live Parliament, you blasted Montagne lover,” sneered the Marine, “now on your knees, hands behind your head.”

“Clearly you haven’t the slightest clue who you’re dealing with,” Akantha said in a stiff imperious voice.

“Don’t be a fool, we’ve got you outnumbered, Lady,” scoffed the Marine, “if you even qualify for the title.”

“Watch out, she’s insane,” called the shuttle pilot.

“I won’t warn you again,” Akantha said evenly, “Starborn, turn their signals to hostile on our network.”

“Your funeral,” sneered the Marine.

Suddenly, weapons fire sounded down the corridor and as if this were a signal, her Honor Guard activated their plasma grenades and tossed them at the Marines.

Marines swore, “Montagne lick boots,” and returned fire with their blaster weapons.

“Messene,” screamed Akantha, one arm up to guard her face plate and the other wielding Bandersnatch high and behind her head, readying it for a brutal overhand strike just as soon as she closed.

Several spheres of molten plasma exploded amongst the marines in that part of their formation facing Akantha and co.

“Capria,” cried the disagreeable Marine who thought it a good idea to insult her, drawing a boarding axe.

Unfortunately for him, his version of the boarding axe was not made out of Imperial mono-Locsium.

With a savage grin, Akantha unleashed Bandersnatch. The marine tried to block, but her skill with a blade was superior and with a deft move, her blade cut into the haft of the weapon he was holding, passing into and then through it. Sadly, the force of her blow was stopped just enough that when Bandersnatch landed on the top of his head, it failed to cleave through, instead making a loud clang.

For a moment, the Caprian Marine stared at the short pole still in his hand that was all that remained of his once potent boarding axe.

“2nd Battalion,” he screamed, forcing his rifle up with the clear intent of shooting her in the face plate.

But Akantha was quicker, and jerking her blade back just as quickly, she reversed direction and Bandersnatch lunged straight through his visor, into his skull and out through the back of his helmet.

Further down the hallway, near what she estimated to be the middle of this Marine formation, came a new Tracto-an battlecry.

“A-Lyca, A-Lyconese,” bellowed the new warriors. Their arrival was heralded by the sound of plasma grenades going off.

Akantha’s eyes narrowed and behind her she could hear a rumble of discontent amongst her Honor Guard.

Worse, all around her Marines started to raise their hands in the air. Not all of them, but unfortunately there were enough of them and the intent was clear.

“Slay any who fail to surrender,” she instructed imperiously, and strode deeper into the enemy formation. She wanted to defeat more than just one enemy after all the work it had taken to get down here in the first place.

Chapter 40: Going Down

“You’re heavy,” Tremblay complained to his limp and lifeless burden, “you really needed to spend less time in the mess hall!”

Tremblay quirked a smile, “Not that you’re going to have that problem any longer,” he guffawed. Then the sensation of something hot and sticky dripping down his backside could be felt. His smile curdled and he felt sick. For a while he’d been able to forget the exact condition of the burden still around his neck.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he panted at the dead weight, “but somehow, you manage to ruin everything you touch.”

Feeling slightly better, his mood was just starting to lighten again when he felt another drip.

He scowled.

“This is all your fault,” he continued harshly, “you and that soulless crub from the underworld, your Uncle.” There was another drip, and he had to pause to take a few breaths.

“And don’t even think about getting the last word while I’m recovering my wind,” he instructed firmly, “you’ve had the last word more times than is good for you already.”

Tremblay paused to think about the manifest injustice of the world, that it sent not one but two Montagne to plague him. The worst part of his current predicament was the possibility, however unlikely, that Parliament actually was somehow involved in this mess. He shuddered at the thought, which he quickly dismissed from his mind.

“As everyone and their sister can see from your current condition, sometimes it’s not good to win every single argument each and every time,” he continued. “It’s good to lose every now and then; it gives you character and puts hair on your chest.” He frowned at the elbow of his burden, the only part he could get a good look at that very moment. “I hope you’re taking this lesson to heart,” he said sternly. The elbow flopped from side to side as he adjusted his posture.

He paused to pant and then glanced over at the control panel, “What’s taking so long,” he said glaring at the panel, “Space gods, you’re heavy! On second thought, forget the hair; you’re heavy enough as it is.”

Finally, the lift signaled the imminent opening of its doors with a high pitched ding.

The doors opened to a scene of death and destruction. Dead and wounded littered either side of the corridor leading into medical. Many of them were well-muscled Caprian men who looked like they had only recently been taken out of their power armor, with the rest being general crew. Orderlies in blue and white hurried up and down the corridor, administering sedatives and combat heal.

Gurneys maneuvered up and down the hall, taking the worst cases directly into Medical. In some cases, the ‘gurney’ was nothing more than a hastily converted grav-cart.

Stepping carefully, to avoid the possibility of placing his feet on one of the moaning figures stuck outside Medical in the corridor, Trembaly paused.

Am I really doing Parliament’s work, taking a wounded royal directly into Medical, when there were already so many others outside already? he wondered. Many of these men and women were no doubt members of the common weal; the very people Tremblay had dedicated his life to defend and protect!

Besides, his load seemed to weigh more with every passing second. It was with mixed feelings. but an overriding sense of physical relief, that the former First Officer and Chief of Staff bent forward until both his head and Jason’s body were leaning against the wall. Maneuvering to shuck his burden for the last time, Tremblay reflected that while he might have chosen a non-standard manner of cleaning up the Admiral’s ready room, he was still technically acting within the bounds of his new orders.

“Hey, what the blazes you doing with that wounded officer?” snapped an orderly.

Tremblay looked down his nose at the orderly, “Clean up,” he said shortly, and reaching into his back pocket he pulled out a handkerchief. Pouring a dollop of alcohol sanitizer into his hand, he proceeded to get the worst of the blood off his hands.

“Corpses go to the port hold,” the Orderly said flatly.

“Piker was still alive… last time I checked,” Tremblay replied with a shrug, then calling it good, he snapped his handkerchief to remove the worst of the dried blood before folding it in preparation for a return to his back pocket.

The orderly looked at him suspiciously, “He’s alive?”

“He had a pulse anyway,” Tremblay hesitated, “at least, he did after I jacked him full of Combat Heal, couldn’t hear much before that.”

“You save this man’s life, and now you’re just going to abandon him in the middle of a public corridor like this,” the orderly sounded outraged.

“You’re here, that’s hardly abandoned,” Tremblay pointed out with an eye roll, “and besides, he’s in good company,” he added, sweeping the other wounded with his gaze.

“That’s inhuman,” the orderly admonished.

“Carry on, Orderly,” Tremblay said, turning away.

“Wait, I need help,” called the blue-clad man.

Ignoring the Orderly, Tremblay started back down the hall.

“Stop, Junior Lieutenant,” snapped the orderly.

“Get one of the walking wounded, I’ve more important things to deal with right now,” the Parliamentarian Officer said shortly.

Tremblay just shook his head as he retraced his steps to the transportation lift. Since he was no longer on the command track, he decided it was time to return to his roots, pulling out a pair of black gloves. Matters on this ship stank to high heaven, and it was his duty as an Intelligence Officer to discover what that stench purported.

The way these new officers and, more importantly their Captain, were throwing themselves all over that Pirate Montagne, he might actually be the last real Parliamentarian left onboard the ship! That overeager, no-good piece of insubordinate trash Oleander hardly counted. That klutz had done more to set back the elected cause than any dozen royalist bootlickers put together, as far as Tremblay was concerned.

The way the man had fallen all over himself helping Captain Heppner with this new scheme, which now that he was thinking about it, Tremblay was calling ‘out with the incompetent, egotistical Montagne and in with the treasonous Montagne pirate.’ No, Oleander was right out.

He was going to need help but where was he going to turn with the ship back under the control of a group of supposedly true-blue parliamentarians.

A grim smile crept over his face. If he couldn’t find real loyalists, or rely on them if he found them, then he was just going to have to sink his hooks into the next best thing. Yes, Jason Montagne might not have been good for much in his insistence of getting them all killed far from home, but in this specific instance his cult of personality should serve Tremblay well. They’d have nowhere else to turn…literally.

Stepping into the lift, he slapped the button destined to take this lift to the one place on the ship where he could be certain of finding the very sort of people most inclined to help him. He was going to the Brig.

Chapter 41: Guarding the Murphy Gate

Nikomedes stood stiffly at attention. On the outside he appeared blank-faced and impervious to all the little insults that had come his way since the first moment he set foot onboard the ship, but on the inside he was quietly furious.

The others didn’t want him as a battle-brother, which was their loss and one they’d discover sooner or later. That they didn’t trust him had been made completely and totally obvious by this point in the cruise. But to refuse him a place in the boarding action, and suggesting he transfer to a Lyconese Company if he wanted Glory and Battle Honors?! That was almost more than he could bear.

When had he acted without honor? His actions had always had the best interests of Argos, his home polis, at heart. There was no cause for such an insult. Him with the Lyconese, he would rather rot on board this ship, and that, in all fairness, was exactly what was happening. Jason Montagne may have accepted him into the ship’s Lancer Contingent, but so far he was the only one. So while just about every other Lancer, not guarding the Warlord or the Bridge, went off the ship in search of battle honors, here he was, stuck in Main Engineering.

He could not complain about his assignment. Of course he wanted to, more than anyone outside his head would ever know, but in fairness someone had to stand guard over Murphy’s Portal. As the tale was relayed to him, the last time someone left this portal unattended, the Demon Murphy had tried to come out of it and destroy the ship. Only the Wizard Spalding had been powerful enough to beard him in his lair and seal the rift before the Demon destroyed the ship.

So now, since they had lost the Chief Engineer, a Lancer stood guard outside the entrance to the Gate, named Fusion 3 by the Starborn, and guarded it with their lives. Their orders were simple: never again.

Never again would Murphy use this Fusion Generator as his play tool for endangering the ship. If it looked like that was about to happen, he had been trained in what to do.

He heard the sound of a crash which came from towards the front of Main Engineering.

Stoically, he maintained position. There was no way they were going to trick him away from his duty.

“What’s the meaning of this,” said the voice of Lieutenant Commander Burgundy.

“This is your one chance to stand aside,” said a cold voice with just the barest hint of gravel in it.

“What have you done with the Guards outside the blast doors? This is a Confederation warship in the middle of battle,” shouted the Lieutenant Commander.

“Your loss,” said the cold, gravelly voice. The sound of a sword being drawn and then buried in someone’s flesh came clear through Engineering.

Hearing the Lieutenant Commander gurgling on his own blood, until the cold voice sighed and there came the sound of the sword being withdrawn, quickly followed by another strike as something the size of a football hit the deck, which convinced Nikomedes that this was no drill.

His own sword already clasped in both hands and pointed down toward the floor, it was the work of a moment to crouch and bring his vibroblade into a ready position.

“Anyone else feel the same way as the former Lieutenant Commander,” asked the cold voice, “anybody? Speak up, ‘cause I won’t be asking again. I’ll just cut your miserable heads right off your two-bit bodies.”

Nikomedes’ lip curled, and moving slowly so as not to give away his position with a sudden whine from his power-assisted joints, he crept around the edge of the fusion generator.

“What are your orders, Armsman Tuttle,” asked one of the new officers, the ones they were supposed to keep an eye on. He had been told something about a Parliamentary Faction, whatever they stood for, trying to take control of the ship. Suddenly Nikomedes was wishing he’d paid a little bit more attention during the briefing.

As he recalled, it was something or other about hating Warlord Jason because of his Family name.

“I am the Prince’s Armsman, this is the Prince’s Battleship,” the cold, gravelly voice loudly proclaimed, “The Lucky Clover is no longer part of any Confederation Fleet, it has been recalled into the Caprian SDF. Anyone who has issues with these new orders can take them up with Commodore Jean Luc Montagne or Captain Heppner at the appropriate time and place, which this very much is not it!”

“Of course, Armsman,” replied the Parliamentarian Officer. “You heard the man, get back to your stations and keep your heads down!”

“I guarantee if you are so foolish as to try and take the matter up with me,” continued this Armsman Tuttle, “it will be the last thing you ever do.”

Seeing a quad of men in battlesuits, what must be some of those disloyal Marine Jacks there had been so much speculation about heading toward his position, Nikomedes smiled savagely.

Whoever said being stuck on the ship would deprive him of his chance at battle honors had clearly been wrong.

Pulling back several feet, he listened until the clomp of battle-armored feet were almost on him.

Taking several quick steps, Nikomedes came around the corner of Fusion Generator 3 and into main engineering with his old-style Caprian vibroblade already in motion.

Before the Marines could react, his sword shattered the visor and half his first foe’s helmet. Drawing back his blade, Nikomedes roared forward.

“Argos,” he screamed at the top of his lungs, batting away a boarding axe and a blaster rifle with one mighty heave of his blade and then spun into a new maneuver he’d learned here in the Lucky Clover, bringing one of his power-armored legs up in a strike so powerful it folded the fourth marine in the quad over his knee.

Bringing the hilt of his sword down onto the helmet of the marine still bent over his knee with such strength that sparks flew from its pommel and the sword stopped vibrating. He watched with satisfaction as the Marine helmet stove in from the force of his blow.

“Jason Montagne,” Nikomedes roared with rage as he lay about him with the very much no longer vibrating vibroblade. When his vibroblade snapped against the boarding axe, a front kick sent the puny Starborn staggering back.

A stream of blaster bolts striking the back plates of his armor caused the Tracto-an to bellow with surprise, and without looking he stabbed behind him with his broken vibroblade.

Something shattered from his strike and an electrical surge shot up his arm, but the blaster bolts stopped.

“Argos for a Warlord,” he bellowed, forcing his fingers to release the shattered vibro-weapon, “a-Warlord Montagne,” he raged, taking a pair of quick running steps and then mimicking a maneuver taught to him personally by the Warlord, he jumped forward both feet in the air.

The Marine with the boarding axe had just raised it when Nikomedes crashed feet first into him and the Starborn went flying.

Seeing the boarding axe clatter to the side, he fell into a roll and snatched it up. Half back on his feet, he raised the boarding axe high and brought it down with such force it clove right through the breastplate armor and into the chest of the marine. A jerk filled with the entire strength of his Tracto-an frame failed to release it, and Nikomedes gave it up in disgust.

Striding over to one of the fallen Marines, he relieved the dead man of his no longer needed sword.

“Nikomedes Minos,” he snarled, raising his arms to the sky, “Minos!” He had once again laid claim to his desired second name; his warrior name, which he had surrendered after suffering defeat at his new warlord’s hands back in Argos.

The sound of slow clapping brought him back to himself.

Nikomedes turned with slitted eyes on the source of the clapping.

“Taking down a quad of battlesuited Marines alone… quite an accomplishment,” a short man in stylish black armor, holding a wicked-looking blade said with a quirk of his mouth. He had the same, cold voice with the hint of gravel in it as the man who had murdered the Lieutenant Commander.

Nikomedes leveled his sword at the taunting Starborn.

“Of course, it would have been much better if you had done so minus the power armor and without the theatrics,” the little man continued with a dismissive flick of his blade, “now that… that might have been a feat almost worthy of myself.”

“Your mouth yaps a lot for such a little man with his little sword,” Nikomedes grunted. “I don’t like little yappers.”

“I like to play with my food a little too much sometimes,” the little man admitted with a shrug of his narrow shoulders, “it’s a character flaw.”

Up on the catwalk, Nikomedes saw movement out of the corner of his eye. “Spalding would want us to try and save Engineering,” he heard a furiously whispered voice.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to cut this tet-a-tet short,” said little man with the cold voice, “it seems that when the cat’s away, the mice will try to play.”

“What are you three doing,” demanded an officious voice from up above, “hey wait… Stop!”

There was the sound of a human body being struck with a wrench.

“You got him,” said a gleeful sounding Starborn voice, “You got that pompous Shift Supervisor.”

“Parliamentary this and parliamentary that, elected blah blah blah, don’t they get that we’re out here saving the Sector from pirates,” the first voice protested, sounding incredulous, “We need the Little Admiral at the helm if this is going to work!”

“Are you okay up there,” Nikomedes asked, never taking his eye off the little man with the sword.

“You watch out for yourself down there, Lancer boy. Us engineers have you covered up on the catwalk,” said a boastful voice from up above.

“We’re not Engineers,” furiously whispered the second voice, “we’re just a couple of low-level repair technicians.”

“Speak for yourself,” hissed a third, the sound of a plasma touch being lit reached Nikomedes ears.

“Afraid to make the first move,” asked the little Starborn with the cold voice.

“You remind me of someone I used to know,” Nikomedes said, trying and failing to snap the fingers of his off hand. These power suits sure made some things almost impossible to do while wearing them.

The little man cocked an eyebrow and shuffle-stepped a few paces closer. “Do tell.”

“My former weapons trainer,” Nikomedes said pulling a plasma grenade off of his belt, “he was evil, that one.”

The Tracto-an activated the grenade.

“Not as honor-stupid as I’d been led to believe, I see,” said Tuttle appreciatively. Then, when Nikomedes tossed his grenade, the Tracto-an dove behind a series of workstations for cover.

The grenade exploded with resounding force, showering the area immediately around it with burning plasma.

Nothing moved.

Nikomedes took several steps closer and then waited listening.

“What’s he waiting for,” muttered a voice from up above.

Another step and Nikomedes swept the area with narrow eyes.

Popping from cover like some kind of rabid, insane weasel, Tuttle cleared the data terminal he had hid behind in a single bound, his sword coming forward like a serpent’s tooth of doom. Nikomedes was forced to backpedal in surprise.

Despite expecting a surprise of some sort, the force and vigor of the attack caused him to backpedal. It was all he could do to keep his vibroblade interposed between himself and the little man with the cold voice. This ‘Armsman’ was fast as lightning.

Once, twice, three times Nikomedes was forced to parry, each time giving ground. The Tracto-an bared his teeth with fury and launched a brutal overhand attack.

His blade was effortlessly deflected to the side, with a minimum of counter-force, and before he knew it Tuttle’s blade was hunting for his head.

Forced to backpedal for all he was worth, Nikomedes leapt up and back, landing several feet behind his previous position on the deck with a resounding thump. Now crouched with his sword between himself and his foe, Nikomedes stared at this Tuttle.

For his part, the short Armsman issued a smile that failed to reach his eyes.

“None can stand against a man in magic power-armor,” Nikomedes said in surprise.

“There’s that superstition I’ve heard so much about,” Tuttle agreed, flicking his sword to the side derisively before lunging without warning.

Scrambling for his best footing, Nikomedes sidestepped and counterattacked.

Tuttle grunted and the Tracto-an’s sword was deflected toward the floor. Before Nikomedes knew it, his head was knocked to the side with a terrible screech.

Infuriated by the scarred glass that suddenly crisscrossed his field of vision, the Lancer gave a mighty sweep of his sword and when this failed to connect, the Tracto-an pulled a string of grenades off his belt. A savage downward flick of his hand relieved the majority of them of their pins and whirling the string over his head, he sent a slew of sonic grenades flying in every direction.

Once again Tuttle rolled behind cover, but this time Nikomedes refused to be deterred. Even as booming walls of pure sonic force knocked him side to side, the Tracto-an Lancer cleaved through Tuttle’s cover with a brutal overhand sweep of his blade. Spotting movement, Nikomedes kicked with his mighty power-armored feet, clearing half the workstation out of his way.

Sidestepping the lower half of the ruined workstation, Nikomedes gave a power-assisted hop and cleared the rest of the wreckage.

Tuttle glanced up in time to see several hundred pounds of metal-shod, native warrior aimed to land somewhere on the lower half of his body and Nikomedes grinned. The grin was soon wiped away as Tuttle’s body rolled to one side, and the Armsman stabbed Nikomedes in the leg as he completed the roll.

The leg gave out as he crashed into the deck, but Nikomedes still managed to slash Tuttle’s side. Sparks flew as the black armor the Armsman was wearing made its defensive properties known, easily protecting its wearer from the Lancer’s vibro-weapon.

It was necessary to overextend himself in order to make contact with the little Armsman, and when his vibroblade skittered wide, Nikomedes landed on his side. Nikomedes caught a sudden motion out of the corner of his field of vision as he came to a stop on the deck.

Instinctively punching out, Nikomedes felt a slight stinging sensation in his side before the infernal Tuttle went flying into the side of fusion generator two from the power-assisted force of his punch.

“You’ve got heart kid, but you’re no match for a Tuttle,” came the cold, gravel-filled voice of the Armsman.

“World of Men,” Nikomedes cursed, matching the other’s tone with an equally cold voice of his own in return. “What are you waiting for,” he growled, making a come-hither motion with his free hand. The Lancer tried to straighten himself, but Tuttle’s strike had landed with precision, and the mechanical joint of his right leg had been completely ruined.

The little brown man raised his sword over his head and, holding it parallel to the ground, stopped with the point of his sword aimed unerringly at Nikomedes.

The Tracto-an Lancer drew himself up, two hands holding the hilt of his sword for extra power. He was only going to have one chance at this, as the other man was too small and too fast. Somehow, without power armor of his own, the little brown Armsman was able to leap about as though he was on a spring. It was too bad that neither trick with the grenades had worked.

“In the end, there can be only—” the little man started conversationally, sidling closer a half step at a time before rushing in midsentence.

Ducking under Nikomedes blade with a forward roll, Tuttle turned regaining his feet in a swift, assured motion.

His sword high and wide out of position, Nikomedes felt a cold burning sensation in the middle of his torso. The two men froze in place. Tuttle stood mere inches in front of the Tracto-an, his back to Nikomedes with both hands on the hilt of his sword with the blade pointed behind him and through the larger man’s chest.

Feeling his hands weakening, the native warrior heard his vibroblade clatter to the ground as if from a distance, his senses suddenly overcome by the wound he had sustained.

“—one Montagne Prince, and I am his sworn Armsman,” the little man said with flat, ringing finality.

Nikomedes knees were like rubber, and he could feel himself listing to one side, his natural strength no longer enough to compensate for the damaged joint. He knew he had seconds to do what he must.

The Tracto-an warrior activated a mechanism in his vambrace by flicking his wrist, causing a bladeless hilt to spring from a compartment located the suit’s arm and into his palm. The hilt nearly sprung past his numb hand, but he closed his fingers around it through sheer force of will, and not an instant too soon.

I cannot allow the Legacy of Men to fall into the hands of the Starborn, he seethed internally. The Voice of Men said that I could not wield it until I was ready; if that time is not now, then it is never!

Almost too quickly to see, a stream of liquid crystal poured from the top of the hilt, hardening into a broad, shimmering blade as it extended to a length of just under three feet. Nikomedes had no time to gape in wonder at his first sight of the weapon’s true form; instead, he brought the blade around in an attempt to decapitate his foe, hoping to strike Tuttle down before his own badly damaged suit took his feet out from under him.

Recognition flashed in Connor Tuttle’s eyes, and in a lightning-quick reaction, he pulled his own sword free from Nikomedes’ chest. Impossibly, he managed to bring his vibroblade into the path of Nikomedes’ Light Sword of Power.

But Nikomedes knew in that moment that he truly was a hero of Tract Two; only such a man could wield a Light Sword of Power without suffering instant death. He used every shred of his strength to bring it down to sunder the nimble Armsman’s Imperial weapon.

And sunder, it did.

As Tuttle’s blade shattered into a shower of razor-sharp pieces, Nikomedes drove the Light Sword of Power toward the other man’s neck, but the Armsman was too nimble. He let Nikomedes’ powerful attack’s energy drive him toward the deck, taking his head out of the Light Sword’s path. Nikomedes roared as he felt himself begin to topple, and he knew he had no time for a second attack with his mighty weapon.

Instead, he swung his free off-hand in a wide, chopping motion as he fell to the deck. He was rewarded with a satisfying series of pops and crunches as he struck the Armsman’s shoulder with enough force to drive the smaller man’s body to the floor.

Nikomedes crashed into the metal deck beside his foe, and he briefly lost his vision as he felt a warm, prickly sensation spread across his lower half. He shook his head like an enraged Stone Rhino to clear his vision. After a few seconds of gathering his senses, he saw Tuttle dragging himself away. Nikomedes lashed out the smaller man, striking him in the side. Tuttle curled up in pain as he rolled a few meters away, clearly unable to catch his breath.

Much as he wanted nothing more than to finish the quick little man, Nikomedes had a duty. Taking off his helmet, he threw it in the direction of his opponent and then spat, but both projectiles went wide of the mark. The Tracto-an grimaced with pain as he drug himself from the scene of the battle, using nothing but his hands, as his legs no longer responded to his commands.

His vision tunneled, and were it not for the sound of his shoulder actuators firing as he pulled with his arms, he would have believed he was already dead. With this auditory reassurance that he was still making forward progress, he grimly kept to his task.

He had a duty to perform, one final chore before he could let go and surrender to Men’s welcoming embrace.

The sound of pounding feet rattling and clattering on metal steps filled his ears.

“Internal sensors show half a company of Jacks are on their way here right now,” said an annoyingly familiar voice, “we’ve got to get you back in the fight.”

“I am finished,” Nikomedes said wearily, collapsing on his face.

Nikomedes heard a slight release of air and felt something sharp injected into his neck.

“Stay the course, Lancer. We’ve got to hold fast,” said an excitable sounding voice.

“I have run my course,” Nikomedes coughed, blood on his lips and fire in his veins, “a half-company is too many, even for me.”

“What can we do, all the rest of these fat sobs in here can’t wait to fall all over themselves following Captain Heppner’s orders,” spat the first voice.

“Take me to fusion generator three,” Nikomedes croaked, even as his body started twitching uncontrollably, fire and ice running up and down his arteries.

The sound of a grav-cart being activated and then a cable attached to the hard point on his back came to him vaguely, as he slowly drifted away.

Being slammed into the side of the fusion generator brought him back to wakefulness.

“Sorry,” mumbled one of the three stooges from up on the catwalk, “still getting the hang of this thing.”

“Never again,” said Nikomedes.

“Look, I said I was sorry,” the driver protested.

Feeling the barest hint of strength in his upper extremities, Nikomedes just shook his head and with his power assisted arms grabbed a hold of the fusion generator, pulled himself to his knees.

“Help me inside,” he said with a grunt.

“There’s no need to throw me into the reactor just because I knocked you around a bit on accident,” protested the driver.

“Jacks are on the way and you think I am worried about your careless driving,” Nikomedes growled, grabbing the other man by the collar of his uniform.

The driver stared at him wide eyed, “No,” he squeaked.

Nikomedes shoved him toward the manual controls.

“Now open it,” he ordered, pulling on his manual release lever.

For a wonder, the other man pulled his lever simultaneously, and the door to Spalding’s Number Three reactor slowly slid open.

“Never again,” Nikomedes mumbled as he clawed his way through the door to Murphy’s Gate.

“What are you doing,” demanded the first, more authoritative voice.

“My duty,” Nikomedes replied, heading for the next door leading further in.

Several figures piled into the small access room behind him.

Nikomedes paused, and with effort turned his head.

“What do you think you are doing,” he asked irritably.

“They’ll kill us or put us in the brig if we stay,” said the leader of the three hooligans, “we’re better off in here with you.”

“Fools,” Nikomedes said with a sigh, “it will be your funeral.”

Opening the second door he headed inside, the others squeezing in behind him into the much smaller, more cramped room.

“What are you doing,” asked the tremulous third voice, the driver of the grav-cart.

Shaking his head, Nikomedes reached over and activated the manual release.

There was a roaring sound and suddenly the lights inside the room flickered, cut off and as a great weight of gravity smashed him into the floor knocking him out, the lights flickered back on red.

The grav-cart driver looked shocked. “He just ejected the entire fusion generator out of the ship!”

“There’s not enough oxygen for us to survive in here for long,” said the slightly calmer leader of this impromptu group.

“We’re all dead then,” wailed the second member of the trio.

Suddenly and in unison, the Starborn began screaming and punching on the control interface built into the second room while Nikomedes slipped into unconsciousness.

Chapter 42: Armor Prince - Engineering

Colonel Wainwright was stuck in his battlesuit, unable to do anything except stare helplessly as 2nd Battalion 1st Regiment Marines were caught in a brutal crossfire and then either killed or captured. Although being marines, it was mostly killed with very few captured.

A tall figure in old style power armor came to stand over him, a black blade right out of Caprian history clutched in power-armored gauntlets with the rest of the suit crisscrossed in superficial scars and divots.

Working his way free of the metal death trap previously known as his battlesuit with the help of Sergeant Kopenhagen, the Marine Colonel glared up at the figure towering over him.

“Bandersnatch,” he growled, looking at one of secondary objectives assigned to his marine brigade for recapture.

“My Bandersnatch,” the Lancer in front of him said with icy coldness in her voice. “Who’s in Command here,” she demanded imperiously.

“That would be me,” Wainwright growled, even as Kopenhagen and the other marines from the scratch squad that had helped seize control of Main Engineering pointed in his direction.

“Who do I have the honor of addressing,” she asked in a voice so icy in its precision that it was obvious she felt no honor at all speaking to him.

“Colonel Wainwright, Brigade Commander, 1st Expeditionary Brigade, Royal Caprian Marines at your service,” he replied, his voice making it just as clear as could be that he didn’t consider himself at her service whatsoever, “and you are?”

“Akantha of Messene, Hold Mistress and Land Bride in my own right as well as Sword-Bearer,” she said waggling the sword in her hand from side to side, “to one Jason Montagne.”

“The Prince’s wife,” Wainwright scowled.

“The Admiral’s Sword-Bearer,” she corrected with stiff precision, popping the visor of her helmet to glare at him.

“The difference being,” he said with a wry shake of his head and a roll of the eye that abruptly cut off as six feet of naked metal pressed against his throat.

“I bear a sword,” she said fire igniting in her eyes as she pressed the razor sharp edge of Bandersnatch against the underside of his chin.

After starting at her for a moment with his eyes as hard as agates, Wainwright couldn’t suppress a twitch of the lips, “I think I’m starting to acquire an appreciation of the subtle differences,” he admitted with an involuntary chuckle.

“Good,” she said flatly, as she pulled the sword from his throat.

“You are not the first to gaze upon a Sword of Power, eager to possess that which belongs to another, nor will you be the last,” she said with a stern look, “so all the warning I will give is this: touch the sword and die.”

“That sword is the property of the Caprian Blood Royal,” Wainwright said evenly.

“The sword is mine, as I will be more than willing to display upon the body of anyone foolish enough to dispute my claim,” Akantha retorted, “from the lowliest serf to the mightiest ruler.”

“I see,” Wainwright said with a pause, “perhaps, in the interest of expediency, we should agree to move on to another subject.”

“The Lancer Colonel moves on the Bridge of the Armor Prince even as we speak,” Akantha began with a sniff, “this is Main Engineering, and before I came here I had assisted in the capture of the gun deck. The ship is all but in our grasp.”

“Yeah, well,” Wainwright said, gesturing for Kopenhagen’s assistance with Major Gaspard’s armor, “I’ve been out of contact with the brigade for quite some time. This isn’t the only ship we need to take, I dare say it’s not even the only battleship, which completely ignores Omicron Station itself. How about let’s delay the celebration until after things are a little more secure than…this,” he said gesturing to the fallen lancers and marines all around them.

Akantha raised her nose in the air. “My partisans move within the Bandit Stronghold, even as we speak,” she said haughtily, “however,” she allowed, “you are correct that there is much yet to do before victory can be declared.”

“Riiight,” the Colonel drawled, clearly this Akantha was more than a little touched in the head. Hopefully it was from the recent exposure to combat and not a permanent condition, because whatever she seemed to believe, this one believed it strongly.

“Going to the bridge might be the next logical step,” he said instead of any one of half a dozen other things that came to mind.

Akantha turned to her Honor Guard. “Rally the Lyconese,” she said disdainfully, “and pray the last of the foemen along our path to the Bridge haven’t already been slain.”

“My Lady,” they replied, bracing to attention.

“This Citadel will yet be ours!” she said fiercely.

Chapter 43: Lucky Clover – Raging from the Gun Deck

“To the starboard side,” yelled Chief Bogart, bashing the head of another stout Parliamentarian with his auto-wrench. The enemy crewman staggered to his knees and collapsed.

“Elected Order,” screamed another unarmed foe with more starch than sense.

“Royal rage,” screamed Bogart in stout return, lashing out with his wrench again and again until he’d cleared a path through the parliamentary crew.

“For the Little Admiral, for the Gun Deck, and for the Clover,” he cried, waving his auto-wrench above his head and seeing a pair of crewmen wearing Armory patches setting up a crew served sonic cannon further down the corridor; the Chief Gunner decided it was time to use his blaster pistol again.

Taking careful aim he unleashed his weapon, sending blaster bolts spewing down the corridor as fast as he could pull the trigger, he gave another wave of his auto-wrench.

“Charge,” he roared, putting feet to action and hauling down the corridor towards the Armory men at top speed.

The Armory boys broke and ran as soon as the blaster bolts started falling around them and the Chief of the Gun Deck yelled with victory.

Only the cowardly Armory boys weren’t as cowardly as they initially seemed, and no sooner had they disappeared down the corridor in apparent flight than they came right back around the corner, arms cocked.

The first sonic grenade knocked the Gun Chief off his feet, while the second had him seeing stars and the third sent him for a loop.

As if from a distance he heard cries of, “Messene!” Following which, no more grenades went off around him.

“Man the number three turbo-laser, and cut off the hydraulics to the heavy laser batter, the main trunk line is about to blow,” Bogart bellowed, grabbing the arm of the first man to pass by him, forgetting for the moment that they weren’t even on the gundeck. In his head he was back on the old Armor Prince, taking a broadside from a pair of pirate cruisers.

Even with his eyes crossed though, the old gun chief spotted the parliamentary patches on this crewman’s shoulders and with a cry of outrage, he swung his auto-wrench.

A fist to the face had him down for the count and by the time he’d recovered wits enough to wonder what was going on around him, the parliamentary fist swinger was long gone.

“They’re getting ahead of us,” Heirophant grumbled, clumping up beside him.

Bogart looked up the corridor where his grease monkeys were swarming over the pair of crew served sonic cannons.

“We just took two crew mounts and probably a bunch of sonic grenades,” the Gun Chief said, grabbing a hold of the overgrown grease monkey’s arm, which he used to pull himself upright. The pain in his side made itself known with a kick that had him bent over breathing hard.

“Are you sure you can go on,” Heirophant demanded.

Bogart shook his head and glared, “Even if I couldn’t, there’s no one else around here to do the job for me,” he growled, “I can take a break when I’m dead!”

“I’m glad to see that you haven’t let circumstance dictate your battle plan,” Heirophant said with a laugh.

“Battle plan,” Bogart said with a quizzical wrinkle of his single remaining eye brow, the other had been burnt off sometime in the not too distant past, “We don’t need no stinkin’ battle plan! Those things are for high and mighty Officers like our Little Admiral or Tactical Officer Laurent. I’m just in charge of the ship’s Gun Deck, and down there we don’t need no stinking plan to lock on target and give it to ‘em with both barrels!”

“Go Argos,” Heirophant said waving a fist in the air lacklusteredly.

“Dismount those sonic cannons and prepare to carry them and their tripod mounts with us,” Bogart ordered with one hand on the wall for support as he came up on the celebrating grease monkeys.

“There’s a long, hard slog before us before we can retake the ship,” he snapped, shaking his arms in the air, both to give a sense that he was joining in with the grease monkey s in temporary celebration and then with a slashing motion to indicate they were to get back on task. There would be no slacking around while there was still a ship to save, Sweet Murphy take the hindmost!

“I sure hope you have a plan for how to deal with more of those power-armored Jacks, if and when we run across any more of them,” Heirophant said stumping up behind him.

“Leg still hurting you,” Bogart asked.

“Like I’ve never felt before,” Heirophant said stiffly, then he paused to take the weight off his bad leg, “those Jacks aren’t going to just roll over like these unarmed crewmen we’ve been dealing with. I hope you have a plan.”

“Sure I do, lad,” Bogart said slapping the overgrown grease monkey on the shoulder, “and he’s standing right here beside me in his very own set of power armor. Our very own gun deck attack dog.”

“World of Men, you’re going to get us all killed,” Heirophant said staring down at his bum leg in dismay, “I’m only getting around because of the suit, and you’re half out on your feet!”

“What a pair we make,” Bogart agreed, smacking him on the arm with his auto-wrench this time. “Whoever said this royal bull was too stupid to say die had it right!”

Heirophant clutched his Imperial boarding axe and started clumping down the hall.

“Forward! Forward lads,” Bogart barked at the nearest pack of grease monkeys, “don’t stop until you see the back of their teeth!”

“Parliament breeds them all weak and snivelly,” Bogart added, limping down the hall, auto-wrench clutched in one hand and nearly empty blaster pistol in the other, “Not like us tough as nails Confederation boys. Grit and determination will carry the day!”

The grease monkey ’s cheered and continued streaming down the corridor.

“Space gods help us, something needs to break our way here,” Bogart muttered, staring up at the ceiling beseechingly. The Little Admiral had better get around to rallying some reinforcements or else things were going to start getting dire… very dire indeed.

Chapter 44: From One Bridge to Another

“Why has this ship’s Port Gun Deck not yet ceased firing at every pirate ship to enter its arc,” Jean Luc demanded, his voice like a hot rock in a sauna where water has just been poured on it.

Captain Heppner closed his eyes briefly and then motioned abruptly at the ship’s Communication’s Officer.

That Officer quickly started yapping on the horn and then his eyes widened with shock.

“The Gun Deck says we can go straight to Hades, Sir, they’re only taking orders from Warrant Officer Laurent or the Little Admiral,” the new Comm. Officer reported, “they also said they intend to shoot at every pirate to enter their field of fire until they’ve learn better than to mess with the Lucky Clover.”

Jean Luc’s face twisted with barely suppressed rage.

“I will not have a few imbeciles on the Gun Deck setting this ship’s policy and doing its best to start a shooting war with every pirate ship in the sector,” Jean Luc seethed, his voice like molten lava.

“Perhaps if we got Mr. Laurent to give them the stand down order,” Jim Heppner said slowly.

Jean Luc stared at him with eyes that seemed to look right through the ship’s nominal Captain, “I’ve got a better idea,” he said flatly, “activate the anti-mutiny suppression system. I happen to know it was installed and operational the last time I was onboard this ship.”

“An extreme gesture,” Captain Heppner protested mildly, “wouldn’t you say, Sir?”

“Sirs,” exclaimed damage control, “I’m getting reports of mutineers on decks 5 and 8,” he paused and listened for a moment before looking over at Captain Heppner, “it’s the gunnery department, Captain. It seems they’ve risen up against Parliament.”

Jean Luc looked from the Communications Officer over to the Damage Control section and then he glanced at Jim Heppner.

“Release the gas,” the one-eyed pirate lord said with a short chopping gesture.

Captain Heppner’s face hardened, “Make it so, Mr. Bruenswich. Activate the anti-mutiny suppression system on the Port Gundeck,” the Parliamentary Officer instructed, slotting his key crystal into a slot on the Admiral’s Throne and giving it a twist.

Jean Luc Montagne followed suit and slotted in the Command Crystal he’d taken off the previous occupant of the throne, also giving it a twist.

“With pleasure, Captain…Commodore,” Bruenswich, the current Chief Tactical Officer on the Flag Bridge said, saluting first the Captain and then the newly minted Commodore in his black leather armor before turning and pressing a series of keys on the main tactical console.

Mr. Bruenswich frowned, “Initial results are mixed,” he said shaking his head, “it would appear the anti-mutiny suppression system has been partially disabled on the port side gundeck.”

“It seems we are…anticipated, Jim,” Jean Luc said with a smile that failed where it met the twin pools of molten magma that had become his eyes.

“Your orders, Sir,” Captain Heppner inquired mildly.

“Send in the marines,” the Montagne Commodore said with a languid flick of the wrist, “it’s time for Riggs to start earning his keep.”

When the Captain failed to add anything, Jean Luc glanced over at him, “Wouldn’t you say, Number One?”

“Of course, Sir,” replied the Captain nodding his agreement.

“Then do it, Jim,” said the man on the Admiral’s Throne.

Captain Heppner strode over to the communications section and leaned over to issue the necessary orders.

“It’s done,” reported Jim Heppner, straightening from his task.

“Excellent,” Jean Luc smiled. “Now, there are a number of individuals I will need to contact in order to secure the safe passage of this ship out of the system,” he gloated with a knowing smirk.

“Commodore,” called the Communication’s Officer, “I have a channel request from the Armor Prince, a person identifying himself as Captain Dowell is demanding to speak with you. He says it’s extremely urgent, Sir.”

“He’s a little earlier than originally expected, and I doubt ‘extremely urgent’ was the manner in which he phrased the request,” Jean Luc replied, his smile intact on his face but his eyes narrowing. “Put the Black Dowell through to my chair’s screen, Mr. Bruenswich.”

Just then all the lights on the Flag Bridge suddenly went dark. One second, two seconds and on the third an angry red emergency lighting was all that returned.

“What the blazes is going on here, Heppner,” snarled Jean Luc.

“Just a second, Sir,” Captain Heppner answered in a tight voice.

“Contact,” stated one of the sensor operators who had been transferred to the Flag Bridge following the purge of its former Caprian/Confederation crew. “I’ve got visual on one of our fusion generators floating away from the ship.”

“My power readings concur with the loss of a fusion generator, Commodore,” reported the lead Damage Control Officer.

“Murphy’s knuckle bones, we lost a fusion generator,” Jean Luc barked jumping out of his chair. “I sent Tuttle down to Main Engineering to handle the matter personally! When I get my hands on that miserable excuse of a human being masquerading as my Armsman, why I’ll…” the newly minted Commodore reached into the air with both hands as if squeezing the life out of someone.

Face contorted into a rictus of rage, it was several breaths later before Jean Luc calmed down.

“Damage control,” demanded Jean Luc, “would I be correct in my assumption that with the loss of this generator my ship is now down to only two power plants?”

After several seconds had passed, causing tensions to mount, “Yes Sir,” the Damage Control Officer finally confirmed.

“Well, that certainly puts a damper on things, as well as a significant crimp in our plans,” Jean Luc grudged, composing his face and retaking his seat on the Throne.

“We will triumph and overcome as always, Cap— sorry, Commodore,” said Jim Heppner addressing the former pirate king.

“Put Captain Dowell on the main screen, he’s been waiting more than long enough,” Jean Luc said with an irritated wave.

On the screen appeared the image of a man slumped over the Captain’s chair, and Jean Luc saw an all-too familiar sword’s blade sticking through the front of his piratical uniform.

An armor-shod boot then appeared, kicking the body off the chair.

“We’ve got a live feed here,” snapped someone off screen, and then a white-skinned female face appeared on screen.

“Get me a channel to the Lucky Clover,” she said imperiously.

“My dear, it would appear that you already have one,” Jean Luc said, leaning forward in his chair while all around him, officers and crew drew back in dismay.

“Who do you think you are,” the blond woman in power armor demanded, glaring at him as she did so. “Put Jason on the main screen, I’ve important news.”

Jean Luc quirked a smile and leaned back in his chair. “If you are referring to the Little Admiral, I’m afraid he’s indisposed. I, on the other hand am more than willing to take any message you’d care to relay.”

“I know not who you are, nor do I have time for your games,” the woman said stiffly, “put Jason Montagne on the main screen, now!”

“And you are?” Jean Luc paused for a moment as if just now remembering. “I’ve got it,” he said snapping his fingers, “you must be this Akantha person I’ve been hearing ever so much about.”

Another face pushed its way into the pickup of the main screen and started talking urgently to the woman in power armor while gesturing toward the holo pickup.

“Trace this line back to its source,” she snarled to someone off screen.

If it were possible, Jean Luc felt his smile grow even wider.

“What you have done with Jason,” she demanded in a voice filled with glacial ice.

“I disposed of the little pipsqueak, myself,” Jean Luc replied, buffing the fingers of his non-damaged hand on his black piratical uniform, “after his yammering got to be worse than annoying. Really, nephews these days seem to be completely lacking the respect due their elders.”

Akantha closed her eyes briefly and her gauntleted hand grasped at the joint at her neck where helmet met power-armored torso. She seemed to be reaching for something which she failed to retrieve.

“Am I intruding on an intensely personal moment,” Jean Luc asked cuttingly. “Please forgive me if all of this comes as something of a shock, but I’m afraid there simply isn’t going to be a better time to break the news. If you’ll recall, you did attack me, not the other way around.”

“Whatever you have done with him,” Akantha began as she opened her stormy, blue-green eyes that seemed to pin him to the Admiral’s Throne he was sitting in, “for the sake of my people, I am prepared to come to some sort of an arrangement.”

“Unfortunately, the only terms I am willing to entertain at this point in time involve your unconditional surrender,” Jean Luc said flatly.

“Is that your final answer,” Akantha’s eyes were like icy flints as she glared at his. “Think twice, then thrice before you open your mouth again,” she warned with icy precision.

“I fear all decisions are final my dear, even when appeals for reconsideration are presented by such a beautiful, if grieving widow such as yourself,” Jean Luc replied evenly.

“I see,” Akantha nodded stiffly, then switched back to her native language, “then you will come to rue the day you made an enemy of Akantha of Messene,” she said, placing the blade of her vibroblade against the palm of her hand and pressing downward until blood flowed.

“Oh really,” he asked, cocking an eyebrow in surprise even as he followed suit with the language shift, having learned that same language years earlier. “I don’t see as there’s much you can do while I’m over here and you… well, you are stuck over there and, if I’m not mistaken, about to be overrun by a fresh horde of infuriated pirates. They are the scum of the spaceways, but I am can vouch for their ferocity, having been one myself until very recently.”

“You are just like Jason,” she said coldly, biting each word as she said it. “I actually do believe you to be his uncle; you both talk too much.”

“Then let me bid you good luck and good day, my lady,” Jean Luc said mockingly, “for I very much fear you’re going to need it.”

“Someday I will find something you cherish, even if it is merely your life, and when I do we shall have this conversation again,” Akantha said with slitted eyes. “I am eager to discover if you will take such a tone with me again.”

Jean Luc threw back his head and laughed, then signaled for the connection to be cut.

His laughter cut off as abruptly as the signal when Akantha’s image disappeared from the screen.

“Transmit this string of code on the frequency I’m now sending you,” he ordered in a deathly voice to the main Communication’s Officer.

“Sir—” started the man at comm.’s.

“Just do it,” Jean Luc cut him off, still staring ominously at the now blank screen, his mind racing with what he had just learned.

“Commodore, if I may be so bold,” interrupted Captain Heppner.

Jean Luc cut him off with a raised hand.

“Inform the Vineyard to follow us out, then turn this battleship around,” Jean Luc said flatly. “It’s time we headed for deep space.”

“But the Armor Prince, Sir,” protested Jim Heppner, “she’s still salvageable.”

“All I had to do to get the better of my Nephew was imagine a younger, idealistic and infinitely more incompetent version of myself,” Jean Luc said flatly, “but that’s because I knew about him on the way in.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” Captain Heppner frowned.

Jean Luc turned hot eyes upon his former Executive Officer and current Flag Captain.

“Why did no one inform me about Akantha of Messene,” Jean Luc demanded coldly, and it seemed as if the entire bridge went silent.

Heppner looked taken aback.

“Thanks to the incompetence of your political masters, not to mention the loss of our number three fusion generator, I just had to throw away a perfectly good battleship,” Commodore Montagne said severely.

“I sincerely doubt the throw is beyond all retrieval, Commodore,” Heppner insisted, shaking his head, “she is one woman!”

“I was called in because no one, not one,” he thrust a finger into the arm of his chair emphatically, “individual in this entire sector of bureaucratically motivated interests, knew how to remove an irritating little pipsqueak like Jason Montagne from command of this Battleship.” Jean Luc snorted with outrage, “let alone how to disband his little imitation Confederation Battle Fleet! And now you, Jim, of all people have the gall to try lecturing me on threat assessment!”

“Perhaps if you could explain, Sir,” Captain Heppner said sounding concerned, “how a barbarian woman of whatever stripe could cause so much trouble, that we have to automatically concede the Armor Prince as permanently lost to us.”

“When you looked at that screen, you saw a barbarian woman!?” Jean Luc stared at him incredulously. “You have spent entirely too much time riding a peace-time assignment in the SDF, if all you saw on that screen was some savage little ignoramus,” Jean Luc snapped, a vein bulging on his forehead.

The look on Heppner’s face suggested he was still at a loss, causing Jean Luc’s blood pressure to rise to a level he had not felt in decades.

“That impossibly straight nose, tall stature and signature features, and all you saw was some wild primitive playing with hi-tech toys! I don’t see a native savage when I looked at that screen, Jim,” he leaned forward in his Throne emphatically, “I see a genetically engineered monstrosity, a veritable AI slave-race fanatic, in the flesh!”

“Genetically engineered?” Heppner repeated, rearing back in surprise.

“Did you think that MAN was the only Artificial Intelligence to leave its mark upon the cosmos,” Jean Luc sneered. “I assure you, the remnants of the Multi-Access Network may be all around us,” he looked at the captain like he was some sort of bug under his microscope, “but it was not the ‘only’ AI to find something worth tinkering with in the genetic structure of the human race! Not by a long chalk, Captain.”

Heppner frowned and then shot Jean Luc a narrow glance, “Still, she’s just one person, Commodore Montagne,” he said doubtfully, “how much trouble can she be?”

“It boggles the mind,” Jean Luc deadpanned, looking toward the ceiling as if in search of inspiration. “Just one person,” he scoffed, “nearly the entire Marine contingent on board this ship was comprised of genetically-engineered super soldiers, and you ask how much damage can she do?”

“Super Soldiers… you didn’t say anything about that, my Prince,” Heppner said sheepishly, his features turning grim.

“And then you go and cap it all off, from your own mouth, Captain Jim Heppner,” Jean Luc stabbed a finger into the arm of his Throne.

“Sir?” asked Heppner, looking irritated at this game of twenty questions.

“Montagne, you fool,” he said glaring at his chief new subordinate, “those Lancers have most certainly been exposed to a Montagne, one Jason Montagne, the pipsqueak in the flesh.” The Commodore made a savage slash in the air, “And according to my clearly incomplete reports, they accepted him as some kind of war leader!”

Captain Heppner’s eyes slowly closed, and it was clear to Jean Luc that his XO finally understood the severity of the situation. “Not good,” Heppner agreed in a low voice after a demonstrable pause.

“Genetically engineered super soldiers accepted that watered down pipsqueak of a Montagne as one of their war leaders, and you still ask ‘why’ we have to burn the entire mess, root and branch? All I asked for was accurate intel, and it was staring everyone and his sister right in the face the entire time!” Jean Luc bellowed, storming out of his chair, he grabbed the Captain’s power-armored collar. “This was very badly run, Jim,” the one-eyed Commodore said damningly. Giving the man a forceful shove, he turned to reclaim his Throne.

“Should I order the main guns turned on the Armor Prince,” Heppner asked after a moment, when his face had the chance to lose it reddened appearance.

“The destruction of the Armor Prince has already been set into motion,” Jean Luc gestured as if throwing away something unworthy of his attention, “there’s no need to waste another moment on her. If all else fails, within the next 4 hours the Armor Prince will be nothing but a rapidly expanding memory,” he said with a grimly satisfied expression on his face. “No, let’s waste no more time on that abortion of a salvage project. Instead, hail Station Command; it’s time for the Blood Lord’s last ride from Omicron Station.”

“As you command, Sir,” Heppner replied with a salute.

Jean Luc leaned back with an extremely satisfied expression on his face, “As always, Number One,” he said unable to keep the barest hint of a gloat out of his voice, “as always… although,” he paused in reflection and then smiled. It was a smile that made those who knew him turn away with a shudder. “There might be some potential use for the rest of that genetically engineered people,” Jean Luc said with an unholy gleam entering his eyes. “Since my nephew was more than kind enough to lay the groundwork, why not advantage myself of at least a portion of his misguided effort? It would be such a shame to let it all go to waste.”

Chapter 45: The Last Charge of the Grease Monkeys

“We’re two turns away from victory,” shouted Chief Bogart, raising the arm on his good side but too wary of that intense shooting pain on the side he’d been stabbed to risk using both hands to emphasize his point, “Down this hall and turn right, Main Engineering will be straight ahead,” he hollered, and putting action to words he began limping down the hall.

All around him the little grease monkeys, battered and bloody as they were, made a hungry sound and picked up speed. The Chief Gunner made a determined effort but was too exhausted to keep up with the front of the pack.

“Those with ranged weapons to the front,” he started to shout before breaking off in a coughing fit. Glancing at the back of his hand he saw bright red blood. “Bah,” he flicked loose droplets of it on the floor before rubbing the back of his hand against his trousers.

The worst of the blood now smeared on his legs and not the back of his hand, the Chief paused to gather his strength. Lifting his battered auto-wrench and a sonic pistol he’d picked up somewhere along the way, after his blaster pistol finally ran dry, he blanked his face. This was going to be the hardest part yet; even those parliamentary fools up on the bridge had to know they couldn’t let loose of Main Engineering without a fight.

The first of his grease monkeys had just rounded the corner when the blaster bolts started flying and his valiant boys in the front ranks fell in droves.

“Heirophant,” he shouted, pointing at the hailstorm of blaster bolts cutting, in some cases, his brave gunners in half.

Heirophant raised high his Imperial boarding axe and hopped to the front.

The first of the Marine Jacks were rounding the turn in the hall when the oversized gunner and former lancer piled into them.

Leveling his sonic pistol, for all the good it was going to do him, the Chief Gunner unloaded the little weapon as fast as he could depress its sensor trigger.

“Die, you parliamentary lap dogs,” he barked, waving whatever reinforcements were still behind him forward.

Chapter 46: Lieutenant Colonel Kyle Riggs

“Those royal buffoons walked right into it,” a junior Lieutenant said to him with glee in his voice, “just like you said they would, Sir!”

“Fighting a bunch of Gunners hand to hand is no more difficult for a Marine than taking candy from a schoolyard bully,” Riggs said dismissively, even as the first rank of mutinous gunners started falling in job lots.

“It’s like leading lambs to the slaughter,” remarked Captain Jones.

“They had to come here if they had any prayer of taking the ship. It was as predictable as it was stupid,” Colonel Riggs said flatly. “Are the holdouts still pinned down in the ship’s barracks?”

“Companies A and C still have them pinned down, those few Lancers that were too injured or too sick to take part in the main attack on the Omicron are isolated in the Lancer Contingent’s quarters, Colonel Riggs,” Captain Jones said stiffly.

“It’s not like they’re fellow Marines or even real Lancers, at that, Jack,” Riggs said consolingly. “Half of Company B along with the Volunteers equipped out of the ship’s armory will be more than enough to break this insipient little rebellion. We crush the Gunners outside of Main Engineering right here, right now, and last chance these Confederation holdouts have of surviving until reinforced are history, along with their foolish notions of retaking the ship.”

“Toast, Sir,” Captain Jack Jones agreed heavily, but with rather less enthusiasm than the Lieutenant Colonel would have liked.

“Come now, don’t tell me you are actually feeling sympathetic towards this pack of Confederated Royalists, after they way King James has been running roughshod over our civil liberties back home?” Kyle Riggs said angrily.

“One man, one vote Sir, it’s what we all believe in,” Jones agreed stiffly, “it’s just these boys haven’t even been home since the new troubles started, and many of them aren’t even Caprians in the first place!”

“What does one man one vote even mean when you live under a King who can disband Parliament and send your elected leaders back home!?” Riggs raged. “Sometimes, to make an omelet you have to break a few eggs, Captain,” he said shoving a finger in Jones’s face, “are you with us or against us, Jack?”

The Captain of Company B’s face hardened, “Down with these royal bootlickers, Sir. No one loves our civil rights more than I. You can count on me, Colonel!” he braced to attention, even if he didn’t offer an actual salute, this was the next best thing in a warzone.

“Good man,” the Colonel said slapping the Captain on the shoulder, “Long live our glorious New Revolution!”

“It starts here, Sir,” Jack agreed. “I’d like the chance to personally lead my men and prove myself, Colonel!”

“Go get them, Captain Jones,” Lieutenant Colonel Riggs ordered happily, under his breath he muttered, “we’re just fortunate that old royalist curmudgeon Wainwright had splattered against the shield in the first wave.” He shook his head. Who knew what might have happened with the rest of the Brigade if that angry old royalist had still been around to contest Riggs’s assumption of Command Authority?

Speaking of which, it was just about time to order a general recall to the rest of the regiments in the Brigade.

“This is Lieutenant Colonel Riggs,”’ he began, patching into the ship’s communications system, “I need an omni-directional broadcast link so I can speak with the rest of the Brigade still outside the Vineyard and Lucky Clover. It’s time to issue the recall order.”

Chapter 47: Broken Dreams

Watching Heirophant lunge into the fray, the Gun Chief felt a brief moment of hope. That deadly boarding axe of his smashed through one visor and then nearly cut off an arm holding a blaster rifle before lodging in the heavy chest plate of yet a third onrushing Marine.

Heirophant disappeared briefly under the tide of Jacks flooding the hall, only to briefly appear again, this time with a fresh marine holding him down while another man brought a blaster rifle to bear. There was a flash, and the armor suit encasing Heirophant twitched and went limp.

“Oh, lad,” Bogart groaned and turned around amid the force of the crowd that was his shocked and panicky ratings.

Merciless as only Jacks can be, he could hear the Marines put the boots to anyone left alive further up the hall.

The last charge of the grease monkeys had finally broken.

Going back the way he’d originally came, he saw the pair of sonic cannons. Their bearers had been forced to a standstill at the side of the corridor due to the sudden reversal of movement as the grease monkeys broke in the face of the fury that was the heavily trained and battlesuit equipped Marine Jacks.

“Here! Right here,” roared Chief Bogart, pointing imperiously at a point just to the side of the middle of the corridor, “set those cannons up here!”

Putting words to action, he grabbed the barrel of one cannon and kicked one of its bearers in the leg to gain his attention.

Face lightening with dawning comprehension of the task and recognition of Chief Bogart himself, the ratings leapt to place the tripod and situate the sonic cannon atop it.

As soon as it was in place, Bogart stumped up behind the padded metal harness and placed his hands on the dual triggers. Depressing the sensor, he unleashed a stream of sonic blasts over the top of his retreating gunnery force.

“I’ll hold them here,” he screamed at the rating, indicating with his shoulder that they were to retreat along with the rest of the group. “Set up the second cannon at the next hallway!”

The little group looked uncomprehending, but the flood of fleeing ratings had slowed to a trickle by now and Bogart had a target rich environment to deal with.

He roared wordlessly, flicking a switch and sending the cannon to full auto.

Laughing maniacally, he swept the corridor from one side to the other, knocking Jacks off their feet and sending them careening into walls. He might not be able to kill any of the green faced blighters, but by all the Demon’s angry Blazes, he could die content with the knowledge he’d fallen beside the lads he’d led to the slaughter.

He was still laughing when a well-aimed blaster bolt took him in the shoulder. He spun around from the force of the impact and hit the floor. Those Parliamentary lickspittles had hit him on his good side! Seeing power-armored boots starting toward his position, he tried to rise but when he couldn’t and the world spun around him, he lay back. He’d run his course and it’d been a good show right up to the end.

When a hysterically screaming young rating jumped to his former position behind the sonic cannon, he would have shook his head had he the strength.

“Run, lad… save yourself,” he mumbled.

Then a pair of hands came under his shoulders.

“Take the Chief to an escape pod,” yelled a rating with a blaster rifle using part of a wall at the intersection for cover, “we’ll hold them here until you can get him away!”

“No,” Bogart groaned, “No!” he repeated with rising force and then collapsed back limp from the exertion.

“We got you Chief, don’t worry we can carry ya!” said a worried-looking face over him.

He tried to push the blighter away. “Leave me and save yourselves,” he attempted to say, but his lips moved silently.

“He’s going into convulsions,” said one of the ratings as they dragged him further up the hall.

“We just have to get him back up two more corridors,” said another, “I left the grav-cart back there in lock down mode!”

“Fools,” he tried to say but all that came out of his mouth was blood, they were too ignorant to realize he was as good as dead already and they were supposed to leave him here for the Jacks to finish, buying them precious seconds to get away.

Feeling nothing but the vague sensation of motion for an indeterminate amount of time afterwards, he was soon beyond caring about whether he was going to die in the halls or from being carried by a pack of fools too stupid to realize he’d just led them to their deaths. Then everything spiraled into darkness, and blessedly he no longer felt anything.

Chapter 48: Akantha or Jason?

The young rating’s head darted from side to side, and he reached forward his hands simultaneously pulling the emergency eject handle as he slapped the silence button on the alarm.

Feeling insanely guilty, he hazarded he could almost feel the eyes of invisible security cameras recording his each and every move. Lower lip quivering, he stood for a moment filled with indecision. Then, realizing his lip was moving in a most unmanly manner he straightened, placing the traitorous lip firmly between his teeth both upper and lower.

Heroism and bravery don’t only exist on the bridge during combat or turn up in the middle of a fusion reactor just before it’s about to destroy the ship, he reminded himself firmly.

Nor did such a person have to necessarily come from royal blood or be the son or grandson of an important person. Today he, Robert ManCaster, was going to enter the Hall of Records.

He paused and glanced at the name of the person he was about to condemn to death. For a moment he felt his whole body waver. Then the ship lurched underneath him, it was the most minor of lurches but it was enough to remind Robert of his task.

“Sorry, Luke Sky Wachter,” he said pulling open the glass lid. Squirming with the slimy feel of the healing substances surrounding his soon-to-be victim, he grabbed a hold for all he was worth and rolled the hapless crewman toward him. Dropping him to the deck with a thump, he could hear the crewman gasping for life at his feet.

Stomach lurching up somewhere around his eyes, ManCaster collapsed forward, spewing the contents of his stomach into the healing tank.

By the second and third heaves he had corrected his aim, and now instead of contaminating the tank with his gastric rejects, he was covering the victim of his crime with the detritus of his stomach.

Unable to look any longer, he hurried over to the grav-cart masquerading as a stretcher, and once again activating the manual controls pulled the cart as close to the tank as he could get it. A significant flaw in his transportation method was instantly revealed, and even if it meant a few more minutes wasted, he just couldn’t justify crushing the hapless Luke Sky Wachter under the gravity repulsors of the cart.

Maneuvering around, he grabbed the former inhabitant of the healing tank by his ankles and dragged him out of the way.

Returning to the cart, he pushed until it was inches away from the tank, then manipulated its anti-gravity system until the edge of the cart was level with the opening he locked the cart in place.

He placed his hands on the man lying atop the cart. Careful to avoid touching the heavily damaged neck area, he gave a gentle push.

When the gentle push proved insufficient he quickly produced a much stronger heave, one that started his patient moving into the tank.

“Here you go, Sir,” he said as the Little Admiral landed in the slimy sludge that was one of the ship’s limited supply of Healing Tanks.

Glancing at the crewman on the floor with a shudder, he quickly tapped in a series of commands on the touch screen built into the tank.

The current Medical staff might not approve of Orderlies performing tasks and duties well above their official training levels, but Robert ManCaster was a veteran of Dr. Presbyter’s understaffed sickbay, and he’d been thrown off the deep end as the ship’s over burdened medical service handled one crisis after another. He knew how to activate a tank and get it running in an emergency. Sweet Murphy knew the Clover had seen more than her fair share of emergencies during his tenure here.

As crewman Wachter gasped his last, the young Orderly finished imputing the last series of commands. He could now breathe easy; the Admiral’s life was no longer in his hands. Whether he lived or died was now the sole province of the Healing Tank.

Realizing the likelihood of discovery, he left the name of the crewman on the tank, the same as before he’d swapped his victim for his patient.

Staring at the sticky gooey substance on his hands, he realized these were not the hands of a hero. They were the hands of a murderer. He felt the sudden urge to scrub his hands and keep scrubbing until all the blood that rightfully lay on his hands had been scrubbed away.

Another gasp from the floor broke him out of an instinctive lunge for the sink.

Realizing the crewman wasn’t quite dead yet, he fell to his knees on the deck beside Crewman Wachter.

“Space Gods, what have I done,” he beseeched the greater powers, knowing with total certainty at that moment that Saint Murphy, Patron Saint of Spacers, had just turned his back on him. Turning to Murphy now would only be to invite the Demon down on himself.

He popped in a needle and started an IV on the hapless crewman. Running a scanner over the tank’s former occupant, he applied a dose of quick heal, which along with a few tubes of stolen combat heal where all the new medical staff felt were appropriate for a mere orderly like himself to carry around in his kit.

Chapter 49: Akantha: Queen of Woe

“They’ve cut the signal and are no longer transmitting, Hold Mistress,” reported the man at the Communication’s Console.

“Thank you,” Akantha said simply. Setting her gaze on a room that looked very similar to the Admiral’s ready room on the Lucky Clover, she held herself stiffly as she picked her way through the blood and bodies scattered throughout the bridge of the ship.

“My Lady,” began Hansel Suffic, taking a step toward her.

She raised a single hand in negation.

“A moment if you would, Hansel,” she said, trying and failing to keep emotion from her voice.

Stepping into the room she automatically scanned it for foes. Finding none, she palmed the sensor to close the door.

She was alone for the first time since she had heard the terrible news that her Protector’s pirate Uncle had taken the Lucky Clover and, if she understood him correctly, also slain Jason.

Removing her gauntlets, she placed both hands over her face. Seconds which felt like several lifetimes passed.

Whipping her hands on the hard metal of her thighs, her face once again an impassive mask, she calmly replaced the gauntlets on her hands.

Slapping open the door, she returned to the Bridge of the ship.

The two Colonels stood; heads together in heated, albeit muted, conversation by the Captain’s chair. Not nearly as impressive as Jason’s Throne, she thought in passing, her heart feeling a pang at the memory of a Protector who mere hours earlier was still within her personal regard. It seemed impossible that he was dead, but equally impossible that his Bandit Kin had seized the battleship that had been their home these many months.

Stepping up to the Captain’s chair, she forced first Colonel Suffic out of respect and then Colonel Wainwright out of a clear sense of reluctant courtesy, out of her way.

Standing in front of the chair, the heart of this ship’s power, she turned to once again face the main screen, which was as dark as death itself.

“Lady Akantha,” Suffic said with what sounded like reluctance, “pirate reinforcements have begun streaming into the ship from the boarding gantries in the main cargo hold where this ship is attached to the Omicron.”

“Send in the Lyconese,” she replied simply, “the time has come for them to pay for their keep with honor in battle.”

“A temporary measure at best,” Colonel Wainwright said shortly. Clearly he was unhappy to include anyone in his councils; bad enough Suffic, but he only thinly disguised his lack of regard for her.

She stared the Marine Colonel dead in the eye until it was he who looked away, which was fortunate for him. With the mood she was in, she was ill prepared to tolerate less than her full and proper tithe of respect.

“We must decide if we are to hold in place, break this ship free from the station and maneuver for effect, or abandon this ship entirely in a last desperate bid, face the point defense lasers of the Clover and attempt to regain control of the Flag Ship,” Wainwright offered dourly, placing a hand on the arm of the Captain’s Chair.

Akantha stared down at the hand on the Captain’s Chair until he realized the focus of her gaze and removed it.

“I am here to destroy this bandit scourge root and branch,” she said coldly, “there will be no running, abandoning or maneuvering which does not lend itself to that task.”

“My Lady,” protested Suffic.

“This is insane, and I’ll not be a part of it,” Wainwright said flatly.

“You have been attached to the Confederation Fleet by this King…James, cousin of my Jason, yes?” she asked flatly. “Unless that is a lie as well as everything else you have also told us.”

“I have told no lies,” Wainwright said angrily, “and as for the Fleet, it seems to be making best time for the hyper limit, battleship and merchant conversion alike!”

Akantha could feel the whites of her eyes revealed as she glared with mounting fury at this servant of a feckless King. “The only reason I can imagine the Clover leaving at this exact juncture is because the very crew provided by this James—” her voice rose sharply as she repeated, “James!”

It was the name of the man who above all others she blamed for this current turn of affairs, closely followed by this Montagne Uncle who thought he could slay her Protector, and then insult her by refusing not only to offer to take his place, but then demanding her unconditional surrender in turn.

“Clearly this King of yours prefers that his men seek the company of Pirate Kin to that of his own Cousin and rightful fleet commander,” she raged.

“I warned your Husband of this exact danger,” Wainwright flared, jamming his finger on the arm of the chair. “This very danger,” he repeated, “an uprising among those with Parliamentary Loyalties. Is it now my fault that he refused every single warning and offer of assistance?”

“Warned him, did you?” she grated, “Did you say to him, ‘your very own Pirate Uncle is in league with this Parliament,’” she asked, leveling a finger at him, “which Parliament I blame second only to your faithless King!”

“This is not the doing of our Sovereign King,” Wainwright said grimly.

“A king,” she declaimed loudly, throwing her arms wide, “who demands the fealty of his relatives as soon as his servants lay eyes upon them, not even bothering to appear personally for such,” she flared, “but when his assistance is sought in return, gives to us only traitors who have turned at the very first opportunity!”

“Wait, I forget,” she said direly, “in fairness, I failed to mention the apologists amongst us who would stand here before me and excuse his each and every action!”

“I shall ignore your insults against myself in the name of unity in the face of our mutual pirate threat. The King, on the other hand, is another matter and I will not sit still for—” started Wainwright only to be cut off.

“Stand ye with us or stand ye against us,” Akantha snapped, picking Bandersnatch up to eye level and pointing the tip of her blade at Colonel Wainwright.

“I have said I stand with you against the pirates,” Wainwright replied, not batting an eye at the blade in his face. All around the bridge, Lancers and Marines started to separate, eyeing one another with suspicion.

“I will have you declare your loyalty here and now to the Confederation Fleet you claim to have been sent to serve,” Akantha said with icy precision.

“What fleet,” Wainwright demanded, throwing his arms wide, “the fleet is captured by Jean Luc and the Parliamentarians among the crew. There is no longer any Confederation Fleet, girl!”

“Is this not a Battleship captured by Confederation Forces,” she demanded in return, “the loss of your Admiral is punishing, but it hardly cripples us beyond all recovery!”

“‘My Admiral,’” Wainwright blurted, “this is insanity. One ship does not a fleet make! The dream of a semi-independent Confederation Star Fleet died along with your husband. It’s time to face facts and accept the truth, Lady Akantha.”

“There are fleet detachments stationed both at my own Tracto and in Easy Haven at the Wolf-9 Star Base under Commodore LeGodat,” she declared with righteous indignation, “to say nothing of the Promethean Medium Cruiser currently on patrol. All this, and you would still try to claim that the loss of a single Citadel and a handful of transport barges ends the sworn obligation of the King who sent you here!”

She was about to continue on when the Lancer holding down the communication console chimed in.

“I am receiving a general recall order. It’s from a Lieutenant Colonel Kyle Riggs and addressed to all Brigade Marines, as their commanding officer,” the Lancer paused then exclaimed, “the transmission is originating from the Clover!”

Chapter 50: Wainwright in Command

“He must have thought I was dead,” Wainwright said, grateful for a break in the conversation, “Let me talk with him.”

“By all means,” replied Akantha sitting down in the Captain’s Chair, acting as if she had the right to command now that her husband was gone.

“Put me on the general broadcast,” he instructed the Lancer. The young man in the aged battlesuit looked over to his commander, Colonel Suffic, and after receiving a nod deigned to follow his instruction.

Wainwright growled under his breath but decided to let the matter go. Things were hot enough in here already without letting some low level little Lancer throw a monkey wrench in the whole deal.

On his screen the Lieutenant Colonel was ordering his marines to abandon whatever ships or structures they were currently in the process of boarding and consolidate on the Lucky Clover and captured Vineyard battleships.

“This is Brigadier Colonel Alabaster Wainwright, commander of the 1st Royal Expeditionary Brigade by order of the King Himself. Stand down, Colonel Riggs,” he snapped at the screen, “all marines are to disregard the Lieutenant Colonel’s last set of orders and continue with their assigned mission objectives and duty.”

“We’re getting a transmission from the Lieutenant Colonel, it’s addressed to you, Sir,” the young Lancer said looking up at him.

“Put it through,” Wainwright ordered with a frown.

“Colonel Wainwright, so good to hear that reports of your grav-sled striking the Omicron’s shield system on the bounce were incorrect,” Colonel Riggs began, sounding surprised.

“Rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated, Kyle,” the Brigadier Colonel said flatly, “sadly, over here we’ve been in receipt of a number of transmissions purported to be from Jean Luc Montagne and originating from the Lucky Clover, the same location I see that your own transmissions are coming from, Lieutenant Colonel.”

“I take it Major Gaspard failed to find you when he came over with reinforcements,” Riggs concluded, sounding perplexed.

“The Major took exception to my orders and attempted to have me killed; the man personally tried assassinate me, Riggs,” Wainwright retorted, breathing hotly.

“That’s unfortunate,” the Lieutenant Colonel in command of the 1st Regiment said sadly, shaking his head.

“Unfortunate,” glowered Wainwright, “that’s not merely unfortunate, its treason. Worse, it’s mutiny in cold space!”

“As you say,” Riggs replied stiffly.

“Lieutenant Colonel Riggs,” Wainwright said drawing himself up rigidly, “as you are currently onboard the MPF Battleship Lucky Clover, and that ship appears to be under control of the worst sort of Parliamentary interests, I am hereby ordering you to seize control of that ship in the name of the Royal Caprian Marine Brigade and return with it to the assistance of your fellow Marines.”

Riggs looked at him and then shook his head, “I’m afraid I can’t do that Colonel,” he replied matter-of-factly.

“You can and you will Marine,” barked Wainwright, “if its insufficient forces that stay your hand, just give the word and I’ll have a pair of battalions jump over there in nothing flat. You’ll just have to deal with the point defense systems, which should require a minimum of manpower.”

“I’m afraid you fail to understand the nature of my inability, Alabaster,” said Kyle Riggs, his eyes hardening.

“Don’t do this,” Wainwright said direly as he leaned forward subconsciously to rest his hands on the end of the console, “you’ll split the Corps!”

The Lieutenant Colonel rolled his eyes. “Such rigid thinking,” he shook his head and then looked at Wainwright earnestly, “forget the old thinking and cast off those appointed shackles of yours and join together with me and the rest of the Marine Corps in the restoration of our glorious, elected cause!”

“Royal or Parliamentary, we all have our beliefs, man,” Wainwright pleaded desperately. “But no matter which political agenda is in the ascendancy, the Corps always acts together as one,” he laced his fingers together before himself for effect, “it does not turn on itself. We do not fight among ourselves, and we always stand united as one with our brother and sister Marines!”

“Old thinking, from an old intractable marine,” Riggs replied, shaking his head sadly. “Hear me with everything inside you Wainwright: there are no Royal or Elected factions in Marine Corps politely giving way one for the other when the time comes. There is, and can only ever be, one true Caprian Marine Corps, its charter handed down and affirmed by will of the people, as made manifest by their Representatives in our democratically elected Parliament,” Riggs said, a fervent light entering his eyes.

“You’ve gone mad, Riggs. Give it up now and I’ll testify in your favor at the trial,” Wainwright warned severely, “don’t make a mockery of a more than two centuries old tradition of apolitical service to the rulers of our great nation.”

“No longer are the Caprian Marines willing to cater to a false and failed ideology,” Riggs retorted, shaking his head flatly, “it is time for the last of the old order, the monarchy, to be swept away. The days of Larry One are long behind us and it’s time to move beyond the disgrace his descendents have left us with.”

“When the Marine Commandant hears of this, you’re finished,” Wainwright growled, “you hear me? Finished, Riggs! You’ve dug your own grave, and dishonored the very uniform you wear, as well as the teachings of the instructors who trained you.”

“Who do you think enlisted me to the cause, issued my orders, and stacked my regiment with loyal parliamentary officers; men who knew what needs to be done, Colonel of the Royal Marines, Alabaster Wainwright?” Riggs glared at the screen, “Since it would appear you aren’t getting out of here alive, I’ll let you in on a dirty little secret. This assignment was handed to me directly by the Commandant of the Marine Corps itself,” Kyle Riggs said slamming his hands down on the desk in front of him forcefully, “Otherwise; I can assure you I wouldn’t have lifted a finger in support of a Montagne like Jean Luc.”

“Doubling down on one outrageous fabrication after another, each further fetched than the last doesn’t make you sound any less the lunatic, Kyle,” scoffed Wainwright.

“Sadly, you don’t even have that excuse,” Riggs sneered, “instead; you launched us on a blind death jump, happily following the orders of a new generation of Montagne murderer. Look in the mirror and see the seeds of your own destruction. It is you and men like you that have brought this end down on the rest of us!”

“King James,” started Wainwright, only to grind to a halt.

“A King too terrified of his own shadow to even think of replacing the Commandant, a man who he knows is actively working against him… that’s your King?” Riggs just shook his head, “If you care at all for the Officers and Marines under your command, you’ll release them to the duty of their conscience. Either to stay out here along with the last of the ‘Royal Marines’ doing something good for a change, to die fighting pirates, or free them to return to Capria a hero of the New Republic!”

“Get specked, you treasonous cur,” Wainwright ground out, “any marine who follows the Lieutenant Colonel in his personal treason can expect my blade through his heart when next we meet! To abandon even one fellow marine when we are still in the fight with victory yet within our grasp,” Wainwright breathed heavily into the mike, “such a person is no fellow marine of mine.”

With a slashing motion, Wainwright reached over and cut the signal.

“A courageous move,” Suffic said after a moment.

Wainwright glared at him with hot and angry eyes, “You can take your courageous move and go shove it straight into a reactor,” he said angrily.

Akantha of Messene, that crazy woman, stood up from the Captain’s Chair.

“For honor’s sake you have burnt your bridges with the traitorous scum, Colonel,” she said in an imperious tone of voice and then thrust out her hand, “accept this hand of friendship and reaffirm your Brigade’s loyalty to the Confederation and its Fleet Commanders, and I swear to you on my unborn daughters that the Pirates of Omicron Station and our various enemies gathered here will come to rue the day they left you and your men out here to die!”

“It’s a sad day when your allies are just as crazy as your enemies,” he grudged, then with a sigh reached out and clasped Akantha’s hand. It’s not like he had much of a choice at this point. He could refuse and fight the hysterical woman and her several thousand, mostly native Tracto-an lancers, or he could pay lip service to a lost cause and hopefully kill a few more pirates along the way. When put like that…

“I reaffirm the commitment of both myself and any of members of my Brigade still following orders to the Confederation Fleet,” he sighed. “Long live the Confederation,” he added and gave a lackluster cheer, the words like sawdust in his mouth, but she clearly needed to hear them and if that’s what it took to get her and her people motivated, then so be it.

The crazy gleam entering the eyes of Suffic and his Lancers made clear he’d guessed right. The most important thing, he reminded himself, was keeping his boys and girls alive for as long as possible. Failing that…their goal was to take as many of those pirates with them as possible.

Chapter 51: Recovering from Cupid’s Arrow

He was the very model of a recently upgraded Space Engineer.

Gants visibly started and then started coughing.

“It’s not as funny as all that, Gants,” Spalding glared at him.

“Of course not, Chief,” Gants agreed, hiding a smile behind his hand.

“If I had my old hair back, I wouldn’t be a half bad catch,” the old Engineer objected, sitting back down on his bed with a plop and gathering the pieces of his eye.

“Did you know before, or after she took apart your eye,” Gants asked with such a straight face that Spalding peered up from the remnants of his disassembled eye suspiciously.

“It was a gradual process,” Spalding allowed, throwing his arm wide for emphasis before bending down to pick up the supposedly defective chip, “could have been just before or just after.”

“Gants looked perplexed, “After what?”

“My eye, you fool,” Spalding snapped, looking up from the scattered remains of his eye, “before she just went and jerked it out. That’s when I started to suspect my current love-struck condition.” He shook his head sadly at the Armory transfer. “I see yer time in the armory has turned your brain all soft and flabby. We’ll have to work on that and get you back into thinking trim!”

“Right, Sir,” Gants replied, not looking at all enthusiastic. “Anyway, that was Ms. Baldwin. She’s the head of the Space Construction and Repair Committee, so it might be important to stay on her good side.” he urged.

“When Cupid strings his bow, men like ourselves — that’s you and me, Gants — should run for the hills.” Then Spalding stopped abruptly, processing the younger man’s last words. “A Committee,” he barked. “What’s this I hear about a blasted Repair and Construction Committee?”

“Well, Ms. Baldwin said we should just let her repair and build things,” Gants explained slowly.

“The first sensible thing I’d have heard all day, if she wasn’t a Civilian,” Spalding agreed.

“Right, she’s a civilian,” Gants agreed, nodding his head. “The Admiral put me in charge, but Doctor Presbyter is a real officer and actually outranks me. Of course, neither of us are actually engineering officers; I was only a rating before I transferred, since you never finished training me. So we decided to set up the committee with a number of the top civilian engineers from the Constructor included, so we could get ideas and veto anything that didn’t sound right.”

“Oh lad,” Spalding groaned, “you can’t get anything done with a committee!”

“It’s been a lot slower than I would have liked,” Gants admitted, “but I think that on whole…”

Spalding couldn’t stand hearing another word.

“A committee is like a mob,” the old Engineer shook his head fiercely, even as he leaned over the remains of his eye and began reassembling it. “You take the average IQ of the group and then divide it by however many members are present, and that’s how smart — or more realistically, just how stupid — a Committee really is!”

“I just didn’t have the experience, Sir,” Gants explained in a small voice, his eyes turning to the floor. “I can fight and maybe run the armory by myself but I’ve never done any of this administrative stuff before. Presbyter was no help, all he wanted to do was build his facility hospital and he’s a real officer.”

“Saint Murphy, preserve us,” Spalding snapped as he struggled with his tempter, staring up at the ceiling for patience and inspiration, “we’ve had a former rating and a Medical Quack trying to run things through a civilian talk shop. This is the very definition of insanity.”

“We did our best, Sir,” Gants said defensively.

“Well, there’ll be no more of this Committee nonsense once I’m out of Medical,” Spalding growled, “they’re bad business is what they are!”

“I’m not sure if they’re going to agree to that,” Gants began nervously, “I mean the owner of the Constructor, he might call for a work slowdown or a strike.”

Spalding stared at the younger man and had to forcibly remind himself that he was a good lad; he just needed a firm hand and a lot more training.

“You’d just let him strike,” old Engineer asked in a deceptively mild voice, “and stop building the things the Little Admiral and our fellows back on the Clover are going to need?”

“Of course not, Lieutenant Spalding,” Gants blurted indignantly, “but if I just locked him up, what would I do if the rest of the work force decided to stop working… kill them all?” The younger man threw his arms in the air. “Then who’s going to build the things we need?”

“There’s ways, lad,” the old Engineer paused, a gleam entering his eyes at the thought of an entire shift of slackers trying to pull an unauthorized strike on his watch, possibly even shutting down the one thing that could get him back to his beloved Clover, “and then… there’s ‘other’ ways…” his voice trailed off as he contemplated a number of ways he’d ‘encouraged’ under-motivated work crews in the past.

Gants eyed him uneasily.

Spalding gave himself a stern shake.

“But don’t you worry, Gants. I’m certain they’ll see the path to sweet reason just as soon as I explain it all to them,” the half-borged Lieutenant said in what he thought was a quite reasonable tone.

From the look in Gants eye, he hadn’t sounded quite as reasonable as he might have hoped.

“There’s another other thing, Lieutenant Spalding, Sir: the Cruiser,” Gants tried to change the subject, but was doing such a terrible job of it by beating around the bush that Spalding scowled at him.

“Well, what about it,” he growled.

Gants tugged at his collar. “Well, other than delaying the rebuild of the Strike Cruiser in favor of new Medical Complex, the Space Dock and the orbital refiner?” he asked with a weak smile.

Spalding stared at him in astonishment.

“You mean you really haven’t finished fixing her after all these months? I thought that was all just a bunch of poppycock and nonsense to talk me down,” the old Engineer glared.

Gants turned red.

“We started to work on her but the committee kept getting new ideas and everyone argued, so since we needed to build the Complex, the Station and the Space Dock anyway—” he stumbled to a halt.

“You’re not sayin’ you left her in pieces,” Spalding cried, staring at the younger man.

Gants looked guilty as sin.

“Not a man I trained, not you Gants.” Spalding shook his head in disbelief. “You wouldn’t take a ship apart and then just leave it half finished. Handing the job over to a bungling committee,” his voice rose as he expressed genuine disappointment.

The younger man mumbled and looked as if someone had just hit him. “That’s why we need you back, Presbyter said the Medical Complex took priority and then left it all up to me. It’s like trying to wrangle a bunch of cats in there,” he complained.

Spalding purpled.

“The Military isn’t a debating society,” he roared, glaring at the young man, “now I know why Saint Murphy went and took away my snooze button!”

“We’re all glad you’re back, Chief,” the head of the Armory said quickly.

“From a well-deserved slumber, I’ll have you know,” Spalding glared before turning back to his bed side table and quickly finishing the reassembly of his eye, “these old bones aren’t what they used to be…why; most of those bones are gone!”

“The Doctor said I wasn’t to get you too worked up,” Gants said before beating a hasty retreat towards the door.

“I’ll need a new processing chip for this contraption, or at least a diagnostic set,” Spalding ordered, lining up his eye and shoving it back into the socket. White fire flared through his head more painful than the worst migraine he’d ever had. Fortunately it was over with quickly, just in time for him to see Gants try to slip out the door.

“I’ll need a complete set of tools,” he barked at the door, letting the younger man know he wasn’t getting away that easily.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Gants replied with such a lack of enthusiasm that Spalding just knew that meddling quack of a doctor had gotten to him first!

Then a crafty gleam entered his eye. The doctor might have spoken with Gants about forbidding him from anything that smacked of work, but there were ways and then there were ‘other’ ways of getting what a man needed.

“On second thought, just leave me a porta-com. I’m too old and too sick to be jumping out of my bed all the time, so you can bring the tools tomorrow,” he said cannily, his voice the veritable note of sweet reason.

Gants gave him a suspicious look but Spalding lay back in his bed and draped an arm over his forehead dramatically.

“This eye, it’s still terribly out of alignment, Gants,” he lied, trying to sound as piteous as possible, “I just need something to take my mind off the pain.”

Gants shook his head and pursed his lips sourly before glancing from side to side as if to check if anyone was looking.

Ah ha! Spalding thought triumphantly, that Quack was still trying to keep an honest old engineer from doing an honest day’s labor. His mirth started to darken and then it was all he could do to keep the scowl off his face until after Gants had quietly placed a com-link on the bedside table.

The younger man bolted for the door and this time Spalding didn’t stop him.

Looking with interest, he observed that in addition to the hand comm. there was not one, but in fact two data slates.

Engineer Spalding grinned. It seemed he wasn’t the only one eager to foil the good doctor!

Chapter 52: Blood of my Blood, Steel of my Steel!

Akantha stepped back to the Captain’s Chair and swept the Bridge with her cool gaze.

“Have the Lyconese Companies been dispatched to deal with the incursion,” she demanded, eager to move on to new business.

“Do you happen to have a battle plan, My Lady,” Wainwright inquired mildly. She could still see poorly concealed doubt in his face but she didn’t care. “Battle by committee planning is one of the most hazardous ways of fighting a war known to man,” he began with a curt nod. “Perhaps we should agree to an outline. A general set of guidelines and objectives and then set the various formation commanders free to take and hold their individual objectives.”

“These pirates will rue the day they heard the name Akantha of Messene and backed a ruthless Blood Lord who, far from being an honorable Bandit King… if such a thing even exists, ran out on them at the first opportunity,” she declared, thrusting her sword at the main screen.

“A fine sentiment, I’m sure,” Wainwright started gruffly but Akantha cut him off.

“Mothers will teach their children to cower beneath their beds when they hear my name,” Akantha said fiercely, “a generation of pirates will be raised to know that everything fell apart for their parents the day they crossed the Hold Mistress of Messene!”

“Right, because that’s what we want, children cowering under their beds at the mere mention of our names,” Wainwright said mildly shaking his head with disgust.

“You’ll take a more respectful tone when addressing the Lady,” Colonel Suffic warned, stepping up to the Marine Colonel.

“And just who’s going to make me, a jumped up junior officer without the starch to stay in military service when the going got tough,” Wainwright challenged, sticking out his chin. “You and what army, Suffic?”

Akantha slashed her sword between them, rising sparks from the floor. “First, we will stop fighting amongst ourselves,” she ordered brutally, “the next one to insult the other gets my sword to the gut.”

“Next,” she continued in a carrying voice, momentarily at a loss of just what to say.

“Colonels, Lady,” interrupted a Marine over at the sensor station, “I’m reading a large number of escape pods breaking free of the Lucky Clover.”

“Our people causing damage on the inside of the ship, perhaps,” Suffic mused after an angry pause.

“Or abandoning ship, as Riggs and his Jacks put the boots to anyone who isn’t loudly and enthusiastically enamored with their new Elected Cause,” Wainwright suggested sourly.

“Then we must first ensure they are our loyal people, then guide them to the safety of this Battleship, the Armor Prince,” Akantha said firmly.

“Or as sure as we can be, over an open communication line, that they are your people,” Wainwright said unhappily, “this still does nothing towards unifying our command structure.” The Marine Colonel shoved a cigar in his mouth before realizing his new suit of armor didn’t have a built in lighter in pinky finger of his gauntlets.

“Command shall be thus,” Akantha said firmly, “you shall each of you command your own people, there is no point in merging your bands in the middle of combat.”

“Still doesn’t clarify who is in overall command of our allied forces,” Wainwright said pointedly.

“As the Commander of this Battleship, the two of you will both answer to me,” Akantha replied with a regal nod to each of the men.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Lady…Akantha,” Wainwright added at the last moment, “but not only are you not a Confederation Officer, but other than waving your arms around and getting other people to do things for you, you don’t actually command anything onboard this ship.”

“Is that a fact,” Akantha said coolly, then produced first one then a second command crystal. Inserting the one she’d taken off the dead pirate Captain and then the Admiral’s Key given her by Jason just before leaving the Lucky Clover, she inserted them into the Captain’s Chair.

The Chair activated and she twisted it from side to side to make her point. Then thinking that perhaps her point was not yet clear enough, she spoke.

“As I recall, it is possible to activate any system from the confines of an active command chair,” she said arching a brow, “should I test it, just to be absolutely clear I am actually in command of this warship?”

Wainwright stared at her for a long moment then threw his hands in the air. “What are your orders, Commander of the Prize Ship the Armor Prince,” he asked, his voice heavily laden with irony.

“My first order as your Commander is thus,” she said stabbing her sword so high in the air raked the ceiling, causing sparks to shower them. “We counterattack, into the Omicron herself,” Akantha declared with ringing authority.

Colonel Suffic coughed, “Estimates are the Omicron houses several hundred thousand pirates and their supporting staff, My Lady. Are you sure this is the wisest course of action,” he asked in a reasonable tone of voice.

Unfortunately, Akantha wasn’t feeling at all reasonable right at the moment.

“These Star Bandits and Oathbreakers have declared to all and sundry, over the long talkers, that they have slain Protector Jason. Then they turned their backs on me, choosing to take their ships — our ship! – elsewhere, as if I am the sort of Hold Mistress one may easily turn his back on without fear of retribution,” she finished fiercely, stabbing her sword into the floor. It sank in several inches thanks to her power assisted musculature.

“I will show these bandits that when my Protector was lost, they lost more than just a powerful foe. They lost any protection they might have had from the wrath of a Hold Mistress of Tracto enraged,” she snarled.

“Somehow, I doubt that two thousand Lancers and three or so thousand Marines are going to be able to defeat a fortified Space Station numbering in the hundreds of thousands, many if not most of them heavily armed pirates,” Wainwright argued, shaking his head. “They are strong words, but we lack the weight of numbers to make them stick, to say nothing of the fact our men are spread from one side of the Omicron to the other, and for all any of us know, are engaged in half a dozen disjointed boarding actions. Any several of which could be taking place on the same ship, independent of the knowledge of anyone including another strike team!”

“We do not need to defeat every pirate on the Omicron by ourselves,” Akantha said with confidence, “we need only show them our strength and the rest will flee or fall into line.”

“This is a fool’s plan,” Wainwright said flatly, making a chopping gesture of refusal, “and I won’t commit my marines to their certain death. Not on a plan doomed to failure the moment it was conceived.”

“We’re with you, My Lady,” Suffic said heavily.

“You can’t be serious,” Wainwright demanded glaring at the Lancer Colonel in outrage.

“Where my lady leads, her Lancers will follow,” Suffic replied, his eyes focused on Akantha, “there was only ever one man who could gainsay her when it became necessary to tell these men they were not going to go into battle, and I am not him.”

While the Colonels had been talking, Akantha had been focused on getting the internal communications system to work. Eventually, she thought she had it working.

“Blood of my Blood,” Akantha said imperiously, her voice echoing over the ship’s internal communications system, her words carried to every deck with a working speaker system, “Steel of my Steel. Today each and every one of you are my brothers and my sisters,” she declared speaking from the heart, “Stand or fall, we shall not retreat, we shall not surrender. When future generations ask, ‘who are you that they should know your deeds and honor your sacrifices?’ you will be able to answer with a single resounding voice saying, ‘I served with Akantha of Messene!’” she shouted into the speaker system.

“Women of my Blood, we shall hold that which is now ours, unto the last drop. This shall be our stronghold,” she said firmly.

Wainwright’s hand came up to cover his face, but Akantha barely noticed.

“Men of my Steel, let any who refuse the call to battle be ashamed to show his face. Let him be called a coward! It is declared that any warrior who retreats in the face of this enemy be branded, so that all who know he has surrendered his honor. We shall not give up one inch of that which is ours,” she screamed.

The Lancers gave a mighty cheer that rocked the deck.

“To honor,” she yelled, “to battle, and to the Omicron!”

Seeing the rising sentiment even among the faces of his own Marines, Wainwright grimaced. Crazier than a bat out of the afterworld, but she seemed to know her audience. He could tell his Marines weren’t entirely convinced, but the Lancer boys were already frothing at the mouth and howling for blood.

If we’re going to all die anyway, charging into the teeth of the enemy isn’t the worst way to check out, he admitted to himself glumly.

Chapter 53: Jean Luc and Environs

“Sir, the last of the Mutineers have been suppressed or fled the ship in escape pods,” Kyle Riggs reported, satisfaction dripping from his voice, “we have fewer marines available to us that I might like, but 3rd battalion was more than sufficient to the task. The rebel Gunnery Department has been put down.”

“Are there any further issues I should be aware of, before they erupt into a fully fledged mutiny in cold space?” Jean Luc asked, a light smile on his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“The loyalists in the Armory Department have been more than helpful in rooting out the few remaining partisans of the old regime,” The Lieutenant Colonel said flatly, “now that my Marines are onboard, there shouldn’t be any more trouble.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Jean Luc promised with the barest hint of what could either be a smile or a sneer lifting the left side of his upper lip. Slashing the disconnect button, he spun the Admiral’s Throne and surveyed his new/old domain.

“I still can’t believe how easily they are letting this ship go,” Heppner remarked with a shake of his head.

Jean Luc quirked a smile, “The Lord of the Blood Reavers has a reputation as a man you don’t cross,” he said coldly, “besides, I warned them a Confederation Battleship was due to poke its head around these environs very soon, and that I intended to add it to my Fleet.”

“Janeski’s ComStat Network, limited as it is compared to the old system, has proven quite useful,” Heppner said disapprovingly.

“Limited compared to the old system,” Jean Luc looked at him quizzically, “it is the old system… or at least part of it, Jim. Besides,” he paused, “do I detect a hint of resentment for the Imperial Admiral?”

“It’s debatable whether the man is still an Imperial Admiral,” Heppner retorted stiffly.

“Success breeds its own reward,” Jean Luc countered dismissively, then turned to look at the ship’s tactical section as a wolfish smile crossed his face, “as our own venture aims to do for us. As for the Rear Admiral, I doubt the Imperial Senate will act precipitously, even should they discover all of his dirty laundry before the endgame.”

“That man lacks any shred of decency,” Heppner said angrily.

“You’re just hot because under Admiral Cornwallis, our then First Captain Janeski put your Parliament back in power by bombarding the Palace,” Jean Luc said severely, leveling a finger at his Flag Captain. “Now Rear Admiral Janeski, while on his way to the Galactic North, has returned to place mighty King James,” he rolled his eyes, “of the Vekna line into power over our Planet.”

“He acts as if our Caprian planetary politics are his passing fancy to order around to his own wishes,” Heppner growled furiously.

“You’re just angry because your side lost,” Jean Luc snapped, making a slashing gesture with his hand, “I’m quite sure that man does nothing without a purpose behind it.”

“Our side,” corrected the Captain, “or have you forgotten that as well, from your time a-pirating,” Heppner asked tightly.

“I forget nothing,” Jean Luc stood from his Throne, glowering at his former Executive Officer, “and if I appear a less than eager Champion of our Elected Cause, perhaps it is because that very Cause thanked me for my critical services during the Troubles by exiling me to the far reaches of known space with orders to become a Pirate. Ordered to become a pirate,” he repeated, “as if I were some common criminal, given one last chance at redemption! Then, when I am finally recalled from this purgatory, is it because of my good and lengthy service to the Scrolls? It is not,” he said in a quiet, deadly voice.

“No one here disagrees you were wronged, Sir,” Heppner interjected.

“More than any man of Caprian descent, it is because of me… me,” he slammed his fist into the arm of the Throne, “that the postulating boil which was our Royal Family was overthrown, and what is my reward, when Parliament finally deigns to bestow it?”

Jean Luc glared at no one in particular as silence swept across the bridge. “Is it the Admiral’s Flag I was promised nigh on more than fifty years ago? Is it an official Fleet Command in the SDF, so that all may know my great service to the Common Weal? No!” he raged, “a Pennant, a filthy little Commodore’s Pennant and a handful of run-down vessels so besmirched from a dishonorable service to our Great World that one hesitates to even bestow the title of Privateer upon them!”

“That is part of why we, your former crew, are all here, Sir; to rectify that failure,” the sincerity in Heppner’s words were reflected in the faces of the other men. “None of us have forgotten the King’s original purge, or what you did for us personally, Sir.”

Jean Luc Montagne sat back down in his Throne.

“Well,” the eye patch-wearing Commodore began in a normal voice, as if the angry emotions of just moments ago were long past, “this is what happens when our leaders trust the intentions of an Imperial. I do so hope that Parliament-in-Exile has finally learned the lesson that Parliament-in-Power failed to understand. But, in the event they intend to betray me again,” he smiled malevolently, “let us just say I have my own plan in place for Capria’s return to Sector and, in time, Galactic Prominence.”

Heppner looked at him slightly uneasily and took a deep breath. “We’re with you Sir, one hundred percent,” he said.

“And this time no one; not Parliament, not Janeski and certainly no member of House Cornwallis is going to keep me from my prize,” Jean Luc assured Heppner, his face twisting into a rictus, “my water-blood Nephew and his band of hapless do-gooders will only be the first to fall, not the last,” he promised as an evil smile crossed his face. “This ship has more secrets hidden within her belly than an entire fleet, and once again those secrets are mine. All mine.” He had sacrificed much to get here but finally he was once again in position and this time he would not hesitate.

Jean Luc threw back his head and laughed.

Chapter 54: Discovered!… But what was discovered?

“You’ve got two broken collar bones, a busted up shoulder and several cracked ribs,” the doctor said severely, “you’re going into the tank!”

“I don’t think you understand Doc,” said a cold, slightly gravelly voice, “I’m not going under and that’s that.”

“There are four marine jacks assigned to this Sickbay, who I dare say would be eager to disagree with you,” the doctor said coldly.

“Maybe they could take me in my current condition,” allowed the gravelly voice.

“Then let’s drop the histrionics and see about getting you all patched up,” the doctor said, satisfaction at this minor victory evident from the smug note that entered his voice.

“I said maybe they could take me, Doc, but I wouldn’t go down without a fight. And when I get back to the land of the living, yours is the first face I’ll be looking up, so think twice and three times, you stupid quack,” hissed the would-not-be patient.

“There are certain drugs which can take care of that problem…short term memory, that is,” the doctor said coldly, “let’s not take this situation into places you most definitely don’t want it to go.”

“What did you say your name was again, Doc,” the patient asked in a threatening voice.

“Doctor Torgeson at your service,” the Doc, this Torgeson said arching an eyebrow, “and don’t threaten me with any parliamentary nonsense; my loyalty index is just about as high as they come.”

“I just wanted a name to fix with that ugly face of yours,” the patient said evenly, “you see, as a Royal Armsman I am more than slightly resistant to such mind and memory altering medications.”

“I have more than my fair share of success with the ladies using this face,” Dr. Torgeson said in a low voice, “and I doubt you’ve ever had to deal with a physician with my level of skill before.”

“That mug’ll be a face only a mother could love after I finish pounding the stuffing out of it and use a vial of combat heal to lock all that damage in place,” promised the Armsman in a deathly voice.

“’It’s a terrible tragedy, my Prince, the way your Armsman perished from his wounds, if only those incompetent orderlies had managed to bring him to my surgery in time to save his life, Torgeson said in an equally deathly voice. His words a clear practice alibi for murder, “or perhaps I should say commodore instead of prince, what’s your preference, Connor Tuttle?”

The Armsman sucked in a breath, “If you know who I am then you know better than to mess with a man like myself.”

“Who do you think created men like yourself,” Torgeson asked flatly, “It’s your call, Armsman. I can do my best for you or I can do my worst. A former special projects man holds little terror to a former special projects doctor.”

“You’ll do what you do, doctor,” the Armsman replied, as he lay back onto the stretcher with a grunt, his broken bones grinding against each other internally.

“A man such as yourself is quite valuable our new Commodore,” Torgeson mused out-loud, “much more valuable than, say,” he scrolled through a list of those individuals currently occupying his Healing Tanks.

“Yes, much more valuable than this one,” he said with a nod, “Mr. Luke Sky Wachter, a junior crewman in environmental, it seems you’re about to be decanted early. I do hope you’re in strong enough condition to survive the experience, as I have neither the time nor the space in my surgical suite right at the moment.”

“Come along, stretcher,” he ordered, clapping his hands to activate the verbal controls of the grav-stretcher Tuttle was resting on.

“Butcher’s work,” Tuttle opined from the stretcher, “must suit the temperament of a Special Operations man such as yourself, more so than the healing arts.”

“I enjoy pushing the boundaries of science, perhaps more so than the next man,” Torgeson allowed, “that said, however much your ‘butchery’ fails to disturb a man like myself, healing is still a vastly more complicated affair. Any fool can pull a plug; only a true surgeon can break the human body according to his will, and then return it whole and unblemished from the surgery table.”

The Armsman just shook his head.

“Small minds, they are all around us,” Torgeson muttered with a sigh as he activated the manual release lever on the Healing Tank. A siren sounded indicating a Tank was about to be decanted. He irritably silenced its braying.

With a clinical eye he glanced over the Crewman prior to summoning the orderlies to remove him.

“That’s odd,” he paused, hand held communicator inches from his mouth. “Significant shrapnel and torso burns, according to his admission sheet,” he mused, flipping through the screen on the side of the Tank, “it doesn’t mention anything about a neck wound.”

“Just pull the unlucky fool and let’s get this over with,” Tuttle groaned with an impatient sigh.

“I see it had time to automatically compile a full genetic profile…two complete genetic profiles,” Torgeson continued, ignoring the Armsman. “I wonder which, ah,” he snapped his fingers, “the second profile must be yours.”

“You’re sick, you realize that, yes?” the Armsman said shortly. “Many have accused me of the same, because I am, but you take things to strange new level.”

“Oh, silence,” the Doc said with an irritated wave of his hand. “Yes,” he continued, his fingers flying over the keypad built into the side of the tank, “running the profile against the ship’s database.”

“It’s just a crewman, someone misfiled the info,” the Armsman said irritably, “look, if you don’t want to put me in that tank, no one’s going to be upset, least of all myself. Just fish or cut bait already!”

“I’m surrounded by morons,” Doctor Torgeson sighed.

“Come closer the next time you feel like saying that,” Tuttle said in a deadly voice.

“A match,” Torgeson exclaimed triumphantly. “Someone’s been a very naughty boy, playing around in Doctor Torgeson’s private little sand box, and putting his own patients in my Healing Tanks. Hmm,” his finger scrolled down the list, “there are two matches.”

“Sure-sure, bated breath and all that,” Tuttle grunted.

“The first match…that’s impossible!” Torgeson yelped in surprise, then when he glanced at the second he turned pale, “I thought they said your master killed him,” he demanded. Heedless of dignity, he leaned into the tank and started wiping healing slime off the face of the patient in the tank.

“What are you talking about,” the Armsman demanded, his earlier deadly tone of voice returned.

“I’ve seen this mug before,” the Doctor replied rearing back his face white as a ghost, “almost as difficult a patient as you, in fact.”

“I said,” Tuttle grunted heaving himself back upright, “who did you say was in that Tank!”

“It’s the Little Admiral himself,” Torgeson said, turning back to the Armsman, his face and arms covered in healing goop, “and he’s still very much alive!”

Chapter 55: Tremblay-ing in The Brig

A quick side stop at the Armory produced a number of interested knick-knacks and gadgets, as well as a pair of extremely powerful hold out plasma pistols. The next person who tried to put an explosive collar on him was going to take a pair of plasma bolts right in the visor and that would be the end of that blasted idiot, Tremblay thought angrily.

His duty to Parliament no longer allowed him the luxury of being taken prisoner.

Returning to the turbo-lift, he dialed in the combination for the Brig. As the ship’s former First Officer, his access codes had automatically been given priority into a number of areas of the ship, the Brig being one of them. It seemed despite the fact he’d been demoted back to his commissioned rank of Junior Lieutenant and presumably been reassigned to the Intelligence section, that no one had bothered to remove his access codes.

And why should they? He had worked, and presumably once again worked in Intelligence and while the Parliamentary Black Gloves didn’t have quite as much need to enter the brig as the Black Hats (the ship’s security department) they came in a close second.

Black gloves firmly in place, Tremblay prepared to cause as much trouble for the ship’s new Royal Commodore and his main stooge Captain Heppner. He would only stay his hand if the Captain proved his loyalty to the will of the people and threw that Montagne in the Brig, or preferably spaced him right out the airlock for his crimes of piracy, just as soon as they were free and clear of this pirate system.

If the Captain proved more loyal to the Montagne branch of the Royal House, then he was to his fellow parliamentary officers…well, Tremblay was going to teach him a sharp lesson, a sharp lesson indeed!

Stepping into the Brig, Officer Tremblay blinked as a pair of blaster rifles were thrust into his face. Eyes crossing, he looked up to see a pair of battlesuited Jacks blocking entrance to the Brig.

“Stand aside,” he said evenly, thrusting his black-clad hands forward.

“ID scan,” one of the Jacks said brusquely and Tremblay obligingly lifted the sleeve of his uniform. There was a slight sting as the first Marine Jack took a genetic sample to compare with the authorized database and the second thrust a digital panel in his face.

“Authorization code,” the marine prompted tersely.

Taking a deep steadying breath to keep his fingers from shaking, he slowly and deliberately entered the access code.

“He’s on the cleared list,” said the first Jack.

“The code matches,” grunted the second.

“Can’t be too sure,” explained the first Jack, meeting Tremblay’s eyes, “there are still too many royalists wandering around on this ship, spouting their Confederation propaganda.”

“For the People,” Tremblay said, replying with a pro-people slogan.

“Parliamentary Power,” The Marines said agreeably then stiffened, shouldering their blaster rifles.

“Your purpose here, Junior Lieutenant,” the gruff one asked officiously.

“I am here to interview the prisoners for royalist intent,” Tremblay said equally officially.

“The Morale Officer has been having a go at the prisoners ever since the first ones started rolling in,” the Marine replied with a cruel smile.

Tremblay rolled his eyes sadly, “I guess a little vigorous questioning never hurt a Deep Cover Parliamentary Agent,” he sighed.

“Deep cover agents,” the first Marine asked sounding concerned.

“Why, yes,” Tremblay lied, his face the very picture of a concerned junior intelligence officer, “you didn’t think a person of parliamentary sympathies could both help Captain Heppner take back this ship while at the same time openly walking the deck, professing their true belief in the Elected Order, all the while surrounded by a crew of Confederation Royalists, now did you?”

“Uh, there was nothing in the computer files flagging any of the prisoners as deep cover agents, Sir,” the first Marine said, bracing to attention.

“Of course they weren’t listed in a computer system controlled by a Montagne Admiral,” left unsaid was the ‘you idiot’ at the end of that sentence. “All Montagne’s are the Royalist Spawn of the Demon himself!”

“Murphy take the blighters,” agreed the second marine, only to be punched with the clang of metal on metal by his comrade.

“Careful the Morale Officer doesn’t hear you,” he said stiffly, “he won’t hear so much as a cross word against the Commodore.”

“Those of us here know the truth, that’s enough,” Tremblay said forcing a wink, “if there’s one thing I’ve learned being surrounded by royalists for so long, it’s when you can and cannot safely exercise your Parliamentary-given Right to Freedom of Speech!”

“This whole conversation treads too close to the line for my comfort,” the first marine jack said looking uneasy.

“Enough said,” Tremblay agreed, reaching up and slapping the man on the shoulder. This only caused the Marine to scowl, so he quickly pulled his hand back.

“About those prisoners…” Tremblay trailed off

The Marine gave himself a shake. “Right this way, Sir,” he said gesturing with his right arm, careful to maintain his distance from further shoulder slaps, which being in a power-armored suit wasn’t that difficult.

Knowing exactly where he wanted to go, Tremblay swept past the Jack, Black Gloves resting on the outside of his arms for effect. The posture said as boldly as if he’d just shouted it that he was an Intelligence Officer, a member of the mysterious Black Gloves and he was on a mission.

The Jack might not want to socialize with him, but the man still knew his duty and having passed all the ID and Security checks, that meant escorting him into the brig.

Ignoring the Jack, Tremblay entered the monitoring section of the Brig. Selecting a room at random, he entered and activated the computer system. Completely isolated from the rest of the ship’s Distributed Intelligence, the monitors in the Brig recorded everything within view of their cameras.

Flicking switches in a seemingly random pattern which actually had a design behind it, Tremblay rapidly cycled through the various holding cells. He needed to get a feel for the kinds of prisoners held in the cells. He paused at the sight of a Tracto-an Native in blackened and literally still-smoking, but very inactive power armor, then shook his head and moved on.

Having scanned through the various cells without luck spotting anything to hold his interest, he took a deep breath. There would be an electronic record of what he was going to do next, and whether or not he was later discovered, this was the point of no return.

Next to the Captain of a Warship, on a ship dedicated to Parliamentary Service there was no other officer so flat-out terrifying as the Morale Officer. And Tremblay was about to spy on one.

He stiffened his spine, and before he could think about what he was going to be doing, he activated the cameras in the interrogation cells. Most ships were never assigned a Morale Officer; only those with actively rebellious (read restive royalist) crews were ever assigned one.

For a moment, Tremblay stared at Commander Justin Suddian, taking the measure of the man. He wore the Black Hat and Black Gloves, meaning that on any ship to which he was stationed, both the Security and the Intelligence Sections were answerable to this man.

Other than having the eyes of a snake, on the outside this Suddian wasn’t more intimidating than any number of Royalist Officer’s Tremblay had stared down in the past.

He reminded himself that he’d managed to deal with a Montagne on a daily basis and, in large part due to his own personal efforts, succeeded in laying him low. He could handle one lonely Morale Officer.

Listening in to the conversation currently going on, Tremblay watched with distaste as the Morale Officer leaned forward and punched a petite little communications technician right in the face.

She cried out as the entire chair to which she was tied crashed to the floor, slamming sideways into the deck of the Brig.

“How long have you been spying on this ship’s long range communications array,” Commander Suddian demanded harshly, “and no more of your royalist lies! We have records showing that you personally were monitoring active Parliamentary Class One Transmissions! The interception of such transmissions is considered treason during a time of war!”

“Even if I had done what you say, it would have been under the direct order of my commanding officer,” the little Communications Tech pleaded, staring up at the Commander with one eye so purple and swollen it was clear she could barely see out of it.

“The direct order of a Montagne,” shrieked the Morale Officer. “I want transcripts of every dot of every communiqué you decoded, as well as a full and complete list of your confederates,” Justin Suddian raged, then stopped for a moment, breathing hard. “We will get to the bottom of this little conspiracy if I have to break my way through each and every member of this crew you came in contact with!”

“I didn’t decode anything,” shrieked the Tech.

“Lies! Not just a lie, but a blasted royalist lie,” the Commander yelled, his voice like a saw as he reached down and jerked the little tech and her chair upright. “Who are you protecting? We have copies of your terminal logs. We have video of you sneaking into the Admiral’s Quarters in the middle of the night. Are you now trying to convince me it was for the purpose of some secret tryst, mere hours after you accessed the ComStat Network!”

“Yes,” she cried, “I was enamored of the Little Admiral, and—”

The Morale Officer backhanded her, knocking the chair over backward with the force of the blow.

“Oh, we’ll get to the truth of your deceptions soon enough,” the Morale Officer assured her as he uncoiled a neural whip from his belt.

The petite little tech stared at him with growing horror. “Neural whips are illegal to use on enlisted personnel simply obeying the orders of their lawful superiors,” she stammered.

“Which of the new crew members assigned to this ship leaked to you the fact the Long Range Array had been reactivated,” the Commander demanded, his voice as hard as duralloy.

“No one! I found it out on my own; I’m the communications tech,” she pleaded, trying to back away but held firmly in her chair. Her voice rose to shriek of pure, undiluted agony as the Morale Officer drew back his arm and lashed her with the whip.

“Where are the decoded transmissions,” he roared as soon as the worst the screaming had passed.

“I never de-decod-ed anything,” she hiccoughed, her body still jerking and spasming uncontrollably from the effects of the neural whip.

“Someone did; we have the Run Time Logs,” Suddian said forcefully. “If you didn’t decode them, then who among your confederates, did?”

“Al-lone, I acted alo—” as muscles clinched, her words froze in her throat, only to emerge as a silent scream, as the Morale Officer let loose the neural whip once more. As the whips strike dissipated, the scream was no longer silent but came out as a sob and then… a whimper, her muscles without the strength to reflect the full extent of her pain or fear.

“Who are you protecting” screamed the Commander with mounting anger, as he lashed her again—and again — and again in rapid succession, her every muscle locked in greater and greater agony without respite, or mercy.

Tremblay felt sick just having watched this. He owed this little technician nothing, as she was just another member of the Clover’s original crew who’d let herself be turned into a royalist stooge. Even by her own admission she’d been working for the Admiral trying to decode parliamentary transmissions. The most interesting thing from an intelligence perspective was the fact that the Morale Officer (and presumably Heppner) had access to interstellar communications under parliamentary seal.

Unfortunately, dry technicalities failed to keep him in the monitoring room, learning everything he could from listening to the Morale Officer and his prisoner.

The next thing Tremblay knew he was forcefully activating the security override to the interrogation room.

“It was the Admiral, it was all the Little Admiral, it must have been him,” the girl was screaming in her own defense when he entered the room.

“Jason Montagne didn’t have the training to decode a password protected email, let alone a priority one transmission,” the Commander snapped. “Who are you hiding—” he drew back his arm to utilize the neural whip yet again.

Tremblay stepped into the room, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

The Commander whirled around, “What are ‘you’ doing here…Tremblay,” he snapped, his nostrils flaring with rage before his lips twisted in a sneer. “Shouldn’t you be cleaning blood off the Admiral’s ready room floor with a mop!”

As the import of the dig sank in, as well as the knowledge that word of his humiliation had spread all over the ship, Tremblay trembled with equal parts fear and rage. “She was protecting me,” Tremblay declared as he carefully knocked the neural whip aside, careful to touch only the handle as he did so.

“You,” Suddian hissed, taking a threatening step closer to the former Chief of Staff, “I always had you pegged for a fool and an incompetent after hearing Oleander’s reports. I just never thought you’d have the stones for outright treason.”

Tremblay suppressed a gulp. He had to brazen this out or he would be the next to feel the neural whip. What the blazes was he doing here? He forced the down the fear, instead focusing on the outrage he should be feeling at the insults.

“If you are quite done brutalizing my Deep Cover Operative, I’d like to take her somewhere,” he said trying coolly, but unable to fully suppress the waver in his voice, he paused before continuing, “somewhere away from the brig,” he clarified, “to get her cleaned up.”

“Deep Cover—” Commander Suddian gobbled for a moment, “There was nothing in the hidden files about this technician!”

“We’ve been under royalist occupation for the better part of six months,” Tremblay replied, trying for a wry tone, and even to his own ears sounding more high-pitched than anything. “Surely you didn’t expect me to put down the names of my operatives on conveniently tabulated list,” he scoffed with a sinking sensation in his belly.

It didn’t look like the Morale Officer was buying it, and Tremblay was forced to wonder if this was how Jason Montagne felt the very few times he’d been put on the spot by a senior officer, like Captain Cornwallis or Rear Admiral Yagar. Then he shook off the thought. Since the crew’s ‘Little Admiral’ was so full of himself 24/7, full time around the clock, it was doubtful Jason had ever felt anything approaching the sort of fear or uncertainly Tremblay had to deal with right at the moment.

The joys of being born a royal, he thought savagely. Jason Montagne had gotten everything handed to him on a silver platter. His every need and want bought and paid for by the common man. Well, Tremblay had never been afforded those luxuries, so he was just going to have to carry on as best he could.

He raised his chin and, digging deep within he tapped into all the anger he felt at royal entitlement and what it had done to his world. He mustered up the will power to give the Morale Officer a glare worthy of a former First Officer and Admiral’s Chief of Staff.

Commander Suddian threw his neural whip on the floor and jabbed his finger into Tremblay’s nose.

“I want a full and complete list of all your operatives,” he snarled, grabbing Raphael by the nose and pulling him close, “do you understand me, Tremblay!?”

“You’ll have it by the end of the day,” Tremblay replied, hitting the Morale Officer on the inside of his wrist to force him to let go of his nose, “What am I, some kind of pig to be lead around by the nose,” he demanded with genuine outrage.

“Like a pig in the sty you throw filth around, mucking with everything around you, Junior Lieutenant,” sneered the Commander standing tall and tugging on his uniform, “and you’ll address me as Commander or I don’t care about your service to the ship during the royalist occupation, you’ll be broken from the service!”

He paused to glare at Officer Tremblay. “Breaking into class one priority transmissions without prior permission is still a treasonous offence,” the Morale Office growled.

The Comm-tech had stopped shaking and making noises closer to those of an animal than a human being, and was now looking back and forth between the two Parliamentary Officers like a deer caught in the headlights.

“If I had been informed of the existence of such a transmission, I wouldn’t have intruded,” Tremblay retorted, raising his voice as he mingled truth with volume in the hope of skating through. “You heard the woman, we never broke the communications which was I sent her to the Admiral in the first place,” he continued, each new thing he said sounding more improbable than the last “to see if we could discover if he was behind the transmissions!”

“You never broke the transmission,” Suddian said coldly, “you simply revealed their very existence to Jason Montagne. So he, not trusting your stooge here, could then set his own people to break them instead?”

The former Intelligence Officer felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. What was he doing here? He was going to get himself killed, and for what? He shot a glance at the petite technician, a pretty face that wasn’t even that pretty anymore.

The Morale Officer shook his head. “You disgust me Tremblay. A pretty-faced palace party boy succeeded where you, an educated and supposedly trained Intelligence Officer failed,” he sneered at the former Chief of the Admiral’s Staff. “How does it feel to have been shown up by a dilettante who never worked a day in his life?”

“You’ll have the report by the end of the day, Sir,” Tremblay said evenly, suppressing the flare of shame and outrage the morale officer had managed to make him feel. He hadn’t even been involved in the transmissions! The other man was good.

“Get out of my sight!” flared Justin Suddian, “and don’t let me see you again until your report is on my desk!”

“Yes Commander,” Tremblay acknowledged, reaching down to grab the arm of the Communications Tech.

“Now I can’t even properly interrogate the prisoners until I have that list,” Suddian yelled, throwing the keys to the restraints holding the Technician to the chair on the floor and stalking out of the room.

Tremblay bent down to pick up the keys and while he was down there, started working on the restraints attached to her ankles.

The tech stared down at him, her formerly pretty face now one giant bruise.

“I don’t know what game you’re playing at, Lieutenant, but I’ll never betray the Admir—” Tremblay slapped a hand over her mouth before she could say anything capable of incriminating the both of them.

“Do you want another session with the Morale Officer,” he demanded in a harsh whisper.

She stared at him wide eyed and then shook her head frantically.

“Then please refrain from saying anything for the cameras that might,” he paused searching for the right word, so as not to incriminate himself, “encourage him to come back and take another crack at you.”

Carefully he released his hand over her mouth, watchful so that if it looked like she was about to say anything stupid he could put it back and shut her up as fast as possible.

“Alright but—” she started unevenly.

“Clearly the neural whip scrambled your brains worse than I thought,” he said talking over her, “there’s no need to hide your true allegiance in here.” He glared at her.

She looked back at him with defiance clear on her bruised and battered face, and then she abruptly dropped her head and gave a jerky nod.

“Good,” he praised before unlocking her upper restraints, careful to keep a strong grip on her upper arm as he lifted her out of the chair.

“Ow,” she protested, coming up out of the chair cockeyed.

“You have to help stand up,” he hissed, putting his shoulder into lifting her up.

“Dastard used neural whip,” she hissed back, “a neural whip! I can hardly feel my legs except for pins and needles; everything’s on fire. How do you expect me to stand,” she exclaimed.

“If you want to stay here, just give the word,” Tremblay said darkly, starting to lower her back into the chair.

She looked at him with such a sudden look of terror that he paused, feeling like a heel.

The small woman reluctantly threw her arm over his shoulder. She was really too short for this but being just thin as she was short, it wasn’t that much of a burden to lift or carry her.

“Come on, Operative, it’s time to come out of the cold,” he muttered, staring at the door leading out of the room dourly.

She glared at him before dropping her face to the floor once again, “Get blasted, Tremblay,” she mumbled under her breath.

For some reason Tremblay found himself smiling. Realizing the expression on his face, he quickly wiped it clean.

“Come on,” he said jerking her toward the door, “I’m no mountain made of muscles like those savage Tracto-an scabs.”

From the stiffness in her upper body, he was sure the little Communication Tech had a lot she wanted to say. Fortunately they were in the middle of the Brig and she couldn’t unleash any of it.

With a sinking sensation, he realized that he might have made a very big mistake claiming she was one of his operatives. Hopefully she didn’t realize that until after she was in so deep she didn’t have a choice anymore.

I am Parliaments loyal tool, he reminded himself. Sadly, that reassurance no longer felt as ironclad as it once had. With his increasingly threadbare belief in something greater than himself like Parliament to help prop him up, he stumbled out into the hall with his brown little burden. Hopefully the information she was able to lead him to was worth all the trouble she’d already caused him.

Chapter 56: In the Sick Bay

“We should kill him,” Tuttle said wincing with pain as he worked to unsheathe his sword without further damaging himself.

“A Royal Montagne Armsman advocating the murder of a Montagne Royal,” Doctor Torgeson tisked, “what is the galaxy coming to?”

“Not only is he not my Montagne Royal, he’s a direct threat to my Charge,” Tuttle replied in that cold gravelly voice of his.

Torgeson hesitated and then glanced at him enigmatically, “There’s information you are not privy to,” the doctor said, stroking his cheeks and chin.

“When it comes to his Family my Prince keeps no secrets from me,” Tuttle said stiffly, swinging his legs over the side of the stretcher now that his sword was free. “Other matters perhaps, but not when it comes to the Royal House.”

“If that’s the truth then perhaps something has been kept from your Prince,” Torgeson mused.

“Jason Montagne has to die,” Connor Tuttle said flatly.

“I can’t let you go around killing my patients,” Torgeson said strictly.

Tuttle’s eyes hardened as he stiffly raised his sword.

“How’s about we let your Master be the judge of who has to die this day,” the doctor suggested, stepping between the Tank and the Armsman, “I’ll agree to abide by his decision.”

“Delaying the inevitable just to cause me physical pain won’t avail you anything Doctor,” Tuttle growled, sweat breaking out on his forehead from the effort of standing upright. “My Lord will just order his death and all you’ll have done, is anger me.”

“A risk I’m willing to take,” Torgeson shrugged. “This really is a decision that should belong to Jean Luc Montagne, not his Armsman.”

“Make your call,” Tuttle grunted, “then prepare to stand out of my way or be run through with my blade.”’

“Of course,” Torgeson replied with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

Activating the wall communicator, he called the bridge.

Working his way through an ever increasingly senior set of officers, he eventually reached the ship’s new senior officer.

“Doctor…Torgeson, I see,” Jean Luc greeted, sweeping the doctor with a brief yet comprehensive gaze, “for your sake, I would pray there’s a very good reason I have cause to speak with you, let alone know your name.” His eye was like the open pit of a volcano, and the doctor could well imagine falling into them and being consumed utterly.

Whereas the Armsman had failed to faze the doctor, his Master caused him to shiver.

Popping his neck from side to side to relieve the tension, Torgeson pressed a series of keys on the wall panel.

“I have just uploaded a file, including a set of genetic blueprints for you perusal,” he explained, allowing the faintest hint of a smile to flit around the corners of his mouth.

Jean Luc attempted dismiss the Doctor out of hand, “I haven’t time—”

“Make time, Lord Commodore,” Torgeson interrupted, “I guarantee you’ll find the information as illuminating as I did, if you weren’t fully aware of its contents already,” he promised.

Jean Luc stared at him with a gaze that made the Doctor certain that he wanted to be anywhere but on this man’s bad side.

“Slow and painful, do you understand the meaning of those words, Doctor,” Jean Luc said, sending a chill down Torgeson’s spine, before lowering his single eye to look at the reader.

The Commodore’s head jerked back up after a moment, and he fixed the doctor with a cold glare. “The contents of this file?” he demanded.

“You have the only copy, my Lord Prince,” Torgeson assured with a bow, “the contents are useless to me.”

Jean Luc relaxed slightly as he replied, “As they are to me,” Jean Luc shrugged dismissively. “It is a fortunate turn for you, since had they been what you thought, your sending me this information would have signed your own death warrant.”

“I guarantee the results are completely accurate,” the doctor said with a frown.

Jean Luc shrugged dismissively.

“I have Jason Montagne down here in one of my healing tanks and your Armsman wants to murder him,” Torgeson said with a matching shrug, “what do you want me to do?”

Jean Luc sighed and then rubbed his forehead, pausing mid-rub to look back at the screen, “Send my nephew to the Brig, post haste. He can rot in there until I can turn him over to the Sector Authority for trail and execution.”

“Your… nephew, My Lord,” Torgeson said quizzically, wrinkling his brow.

“Yes, throw him in the Brig,” Jean Luc repeated irritably, and Torgeson got the sense that the last thing he wanted to do was get this man irritated with him, “in light of the information you just handed me, it seems like the easiest way to repay an old debt.”

“I’m confused, Sir,” Torgeson said, “you want me to send your… nephew, Jason Montagne…to…the Brig, so he can be executed at some later date.” The Doctor shook his head, Royalty was a different breed entirely, with their own strange unfathomable motives and he would do well to remember that.

“I owe it to his mother,” Jean Luc said, “the son of Precious Montagne and Elaina Three will not die by my hands…not if I’m given the choice in the matter,” he paused then grinned. “Besides, I can get a certain amount of traction with those bureaucrats back at Central by handing him over to their Justice system. They are quite upset with him, and while I’d thought to spare him the experience, in light of this new information,” he shrugged.

“Whatever you say, Commodore,” Torgeson said with a short bow.

“Exactly Doctor,” Jean Luc said his eyes drilling into his own, “‘whatever I say.’” He paused before continuing to let his words sink in fully, “And you’d do well to remember exactly that in the coming days ahead.”

“Oh and doctor,” Jean Luc leaned into the camera, “transfer him to the Brig immediately; my Armsman has need of that tank.”

“The Admiral could die if we move him now,” Torgeson said.

The connection went dark.

Torgeson stared at it for a moment.

“Well, you heard the man,” he turned to Tuttle, “I was right, at least, that he wouldn’t want him chopped up by your sword,” the doctor said with a shrug.

“My Prince almost never changes his mind once he’s set his course on something,” Tuttle boggled.

“I’ll not stand in his way,” Torgeson assured him with a shrug, “besides, with this transfer to the Brig the Little Admiral might die anyway.”

“Better for your sake he does not, Doctor,” Connor Tuttle said with a shiver.

Torgeson’s blood ran cold.

“Perhaps I should personally escort him over…with my full medical kit,” he said.

“Perhaps,” agreed Tuttle leaning back in his stretcher.

Chapter 57: Stretcher Rolling into the Brig

Before Tremblay could exit the Brig, the lift system signaled an incoming cube and he was forced to the side of the passage.

When the door opened with a ding, a stretcher was escorted into the entryway with full medical support in attendance.

Who, or what was so important that they sent him or her to the Brig, but didn’t wait in sickbay until the medical situation was stabilized? Tremblay wondered.

Recognizing Doctor Torgeson (a man with a sealed file which Tremblay didn’t have access to) made Tremblay scowl. The man had been less than approachable prior to return of Parliamentary Control.

Then the little Technician he was half supporting, half carrying to the lift gasped and covered her mouth.

When the patient’s head lolled to the side facing him, Tremblay stiffened. Was his each and every questionable decision destined to intersect down here in the Brig!

“The Admiral,” gasped the Comm-tech. As well she might, since the poor fool looked even worse than the last time he’d seen him. When Tremblay had dropped him in Medical, Jason Montagne had been all covered in blood. If he had known exactly how bad the wound was, he would have forgone the combat healing injection and let nature take its course.

With a transparent membrane covering the side of the Admiral’s neck and the blood cleared away, the Intelligence Officer could see down to the bone and deep tissues. It was really quite sickening.

Especially disgusting was the way a white, macerated tissue was slowly creeping over the neck wound from the outside in, under the Doctor’s direction. The new tissue moved almost as if it were alive, not at all like the insta-skin grafts Tremblay was more familiar with. It moved like a worm or a blind snake, on a quest for something it smelled.

“Gross,” he muttered, feeling free to give vent to his emotional reaction to the ugly sight, “better to just let him die.”

“You brute,” the Technician hissed, slugging him in the arm.

“Ow,” Tremblay objected a little too loudly.

The Doctor’s head snapped around, “Stand aside, Officer Tremblay. You had your chance to kill him earlier and you flubbed the deal. This man is now under the protection of Commodore Jean Luc Montagne himself.”

Tremblay raised his free hand as if in surrender, “He’s all yours, Doc,” he assured him, feeling sweat break out on his forehead. The Commodore was already aware that far from finishing the job the Montagne had started, Tremblay had dropped the ‘Little Admiral’ off to be patched up in medical. Creative interpretation of the order to ‘clean up the mess’ might not be enough to save him.

He had been certain that no one, not even a legend in his own mind like Jason Montagne could survive that kind of sucking neck wound. He hadn’t thought his little indiscretion mattered, especially after he dropped him off in the middle of the blasted corridor! Blast that medical orderly! And double blast, because this was all really Tremblay’s own fault! That orderly must have been a member of the original crew still all enamored with his ‘iconic leader’. Well, there wasn’t very much ‘iconic’ about Jason Montagne right now was there.

Tremblay tried his best to get a good gloat going on, but between the sight of that ugly neck wound and the accusing glare of the petite communications operator at his side, he was unable to do so. Worse, he was actually feeling guilty. Him, an officer in the Intelligence Directorate, whose stomach was inexplicably upset over his part in the plot to bring down Jason Montagne! It was a sign of weakness, pure and simple.

Even a Montagne like Jason didn’t deserve this, Tremblay finally decided with disgust. This was all the fault of that Blood Lord Pirate, one Commodore Jean Luc Montagne. Jason deserved…he deserved, well whatever it was, this was not it!

“Come on,” he said gruffly, and dragged the tech out of the way. As soon as the grav-stretcher had passed them he pushed his way into the lift moments before it cycled closed.

“Look what you’ve done,” the Tech accused the instant the door had cycled closed, “this is your handiwork, high and mighty Lieutenant Tremblay,” she sneered at him through a pair of swollen eyes and a bruise so puffy it was starting to impact her ability to talk. “All hail Parliament, the murderers and mutilators of one Jason Montagne,” she seethed, and Tremblay felt his gut churn at her words as she continued, “a man foolish enough to save a quarter million colonists from pirates, stop a Bug Invasion cold in its tracks, and the only man who gave two figs about the Border Worlds!”

“Shut up,” he said fiercely.

“He held this ship together when everyone else abandoned us!” she screamed at him, “What are you going to do, beat me like the Morale Officer,” she demanded. Then she cleared her throat and fired a wet, sticky gob composed of equal parts mucous and blood onto his uniform. “Bring on the neural whip,” she yelled, “that seems to be Parliament’s first, best and only answer to dissent nowadays, unless they’re feeling all nostalgic and start warming you up with their fists!”

“Be quiet, you deluded little fool,” he hissed, still worried about hidden cameras in the lift cube.

But she was too far gone to listen.

“His only crime was being born a Montagne,” she slumped against his side and Tremblay glared at her with fury. “I don’t know how involved you were with this mutiny but I’ll find out,” she promised as blood suddenly poured from her nose, “everyone knew you were working against him from the beginning, but we thought you’d changed. Now that your Parliament has succeeded and you’ve gotten your dearest wish, how does it feel, Chief of the Admiral’s Loyal Staff?” she spat. “To finally have an old style Montagne in Command, one that you can really get your hate on, Mr. Tremblay,” she stumbled as her words suddenly slurring, “or are you so blind that Parliament points outside, says it’s warm out there in cold space and you would jump out with just a head back believing that also, Junio—”

She passed out before he had the chance to work up a good reply. He knew there was one… there had to be. Everything he believed in told him so.

“He’s not some old-time hero. He’s… bad,” he finished lamely but he was talking to an unconscious person. “For the People,” he muttered under his breath. While right beside him one of those very people slept the unconscious sleep of hatred against what he’d done. Was I wrong, he wondered.

Chapter 58: Flashes in The Brig

Flash: I was in a warm gooey chamber surrounded by flashing lights.

Flash: people were yelling and it was cold outside so very cold.

Flash: I was on a grav-stretcher, IV bags hanging from every corner.

Flash: I think I was in the Brig, and there was Raphael Tremblay, holding Lisa Steiner at his side. I felt betrayed. She was leaning against his side like they had known each other for a long time, but then I noticed the bruises on her face. The way he was propping her up, I wondered if they were also being taken into the brig. I hoped they weren’t, before hoping they were.

Flash: A big Marine in power armor was looming over me, he looked just like the one of the ones back at the Palace I’d been afraid of for so many years, but I wasn’t afraid any longer. I didn’t have to be afraid anymore if I was already dead.

Flash: Doctor Torgeson arguing with a Marine Jack about securing the stretcher to the wall instead of transferring me onto the uncomfortable bed in the holding cell. I knew it was uncomfortable because the last time I was in the Brig, I’d snuck into a room to see what it was like. I knew someday I’d find myself in one just like it, and I really wanted to send someone for my pillows.

Flash: There was Torgeson again and he was injecting something into my arm. Blast that man, I warned him the next time he treated me was going to be his last. With heroic effort I lifted my upper body a few inches off the stretcher and then grabbed him by the throat. I tried to yell at him and remind him of my promise to kill him, but my voice wasn’t working right and all that came out was a gurgle and a few bubbles out the side of my neck. Since I couldn’t tell him why he was going to die, I just squeezed.

Flash: A fist crashed into my face and a white light exploded behind my eyes blinding me. “Stop, you fool!” someone screamed, and that someone sounded like Dr. Torgeson. Was he stuck in the same afterlife with me? “Or you can be the one explaining to Commodore Jean Luc exactly why his prisoner was killed against his specific order!” There was a lot of shouting and hubbub after that but one thought stayed with me: Jean Luc Montagne, the man who had killed me, the man I was going to kill….

I’ll wait for you my love, I thought, realizing as if for the first time that I really did love my wife. Does she love me back? I wondered.

And then I didn’t wonder anymore as blackness overcame me.

Chapter 59: This Will Never Work;

We Need Gulliver!

He was the very model of a recently upgraded Space Engineer.

Spalding stared down at the screen in front of him and tossed it to the side in outrage.

“They’ve made a right hash of the entire mess!” he declared to the empty room.

Picking up both of the slates, he quickly scanned back to the most terrible parts and when he re-read those sections, he threw the slates against the wall.

He almost threw the comm. as well, but then he simply tossed it onto his bed in disgust.

Feet came running up to the outside of his doorway and an orderly peeked his head in.

“Oh aye, and what do you want,” he snapped at the medical man.

“I thought I heard something fall down,” the orderly glanced around the room, his eyes snagging on the data slates against the wall.

“I just learned some terrible new,” Spalding glowered.

“Well we wouldn’t want you to get over excited,” the orderly said firmly, then moved over to snap up those fallen slates like a billy-goat snatching a clump of grass on the run. Then just as nimbly as that intemperate brand of herbivore, the orderly was back out the door.

“Now isn’t that a fine kettle of fish,” the Engineer said, leaning his head back on the pillow and thinking. The orderly could have the slates, since he’d learned everything he needed to know already: this committee was a bigger bunch of space-fools than even a seasoned engineer like Spalding had been prepared for.

“All the more reason to shut them down now,” he grumped, but the sad and sorry facts of an operation run by committee for the past several months meant everything they’d built was a compromise, except for this blasted medical complex!

“It’s too small for a properly sized ship,” he fumed in the mental direction of the Strike Cruiser and the miserable excuse of a Space Dock they’d constructed, “and it’s not built to handle the kind load stresses we’d need to fix her up right!”

Of all the civilian cost-cutting measures! The military didn’t need the cheapest job from the lowest bidder; they’d already conscripted top of the line equipment, in the form of the Multiplex! The last thing they needed, including the Clover, the Fleet and anyone in this secret base, was a blasted Refiner! Not when they had a bloody big Constructor around to handle the job. A refinery was for after they put the Strike Cruiser back together and built a Hard Repair Slip or Fixed Form Space Dock, one large enough to handle a proper sized warship, not this flexible abortion they’d constructed instead.

It was all about saving time and money with civvies, as he was only too well aware from his time back on Capria.

How was he supposed to build a hardened space dock and fix up that fancy Imperial Ship properly in what little time remained to him? He didn’t stop to think that they’d been out here months already and might have just as many in the future. As far as he was concerned, the clock was ticking and the Clover could need him back at any moment.

“It’d take a Miracle!” he exclaimed, abruptly striking out and punching the wall hard enough to jar his new reinforced shoulder, “a flexible dock made out of duralloy can’t handle the load for what will need to be done!”

Oh, it might work well enough for a simple patch and repair job, the kind this Glenda had been advocating in her proposals, along with everyone else, from what he could read.

For the kind of job he was imagining, taking that newfangled Imperial tinker toy, smoothing down the rough edges and building her back up better than ever, the only kind of flexible dock he’d ever heard of, that could handle that kind of job, belonged to the Imperials.

“We simply can’t make mono-Locsium in those kind of quantities, even with a high-end Constructor like the Admiral pirated,” he sighed. If only the Imperials hadn’t suppressed…

He bolted upright in his bed. It couldn’t possibly be that simple, he thought, reaching over for his com-unit and activating it.

“Parkiny here, what do you need, Gants,” said the other man, no doubt misidentifying the Chief, since he was using the head of Armory’s pocket-com.

“This is Chief Engineer Spalding,” he scowled at the mix up.

“Lieutenant Spalding! No one said you were back on your feet yet, the rumor all over the deck is you were still in recovery,” the Engineering rating said gruffly.

“Never you mind all that now, Parkiny,” the Engineering Officer wagged his finger at the miniature image on little com-link, “there’s more important things than the hack job these quacks have done on me.”

“Yes, Sir,” Parkiny replied professionally, “what can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

“I need me pair of reliable men,” the older man said with a gleam in his eye.

“Just give the word and I’ll—” Parkiny started, only to be cut off by Spalding’s upraised hands.

“Its System Analysts I need, lad” the old Engineer interrupted, “men who live and breathe little ones and zeros, not honest Engineers, however willin’. Our time will come later,” he assured him with a hard edged smile.

Parkiny halted in surprise and then considered the Engineering Officer’s request. “I think I know a couple of reliable sorts,” he said cautiously, “although I can’t say as I understand why, but you’re the Chief, Lieutenant Spalding. If you tell me to do it, then me and the boys, we’ll get it done even if it means chumming up to a bunch of eggheads!”

“Good Lad, Parkiny,” he growled and started to flip off the pocket comm. before deciding the Engineering rating maybe deserved just a hint of his new plan.

“You’ve been in the SDF for a while now,” Spalding grunted, and on the tiny screen Parkiny nodded his head.

“I’m eight years into a ten year stretch and plan to re-up,” the rating replied proudly.

“Excellent news!” Spalding congratulated. “Do you remember what is it we always used to say back in the Yard, when a support beam was too weak to handle the load and we could never get our hands on enough mono-Locsium because the Imperials refused to sell it?” he inquired conspiratorially.

Parkiny looked at him quizzically and then his face cleared slightly.

“It’s too bad the Imperials suppressed the formula for Duralloy II,” Parkiny said hesitantly, “if we had a few beams of that stuff we could fix this up in a right jiff…and then we’d just got and patch it back together as best we could with plain old regular duralloy.”

Spalding smiled benignly, and Parkiny looked at the elderly engineer questioningly.

“Everyone knows Duralloy II’s a myth. It’s just used as a way to make a dig at the Imperial’s expense for their high handedness,” the rating said warily, “no one actually believes…”

“Oh Lad,” the ancient Engineer groaned, feeling his bad eye give a kick and suddenly shift into the infra-red spectrum, “that’s something I aim to find out for myself.”

“Those Analysts are for cracking into the Imperial Database on the Little Gift,” Parkiny breathed.

“Who knows what we’ll find if we look around in there long enough…the engineering secrets we could discover,” Spalding wondered aloud, his mind racing through the possibilities.

“I don’t pay that much attention, but I understand over the past several months our Analysts have cracked the main File Directory. They said something about each individual file has its own encryption key, so it could take decades to unlock them all and by that time,” Parkiny explained doubtfully.

“By then everything would be out of date, I hear you,” Spalding agreed aloud, “but in this case, all they have to do is crack one specific file.”

Chapter 60: ROS!

“Hold,” shouted Colonel Wainwright.

“We can take them, Sir,” someone said eagerly over the command channel.

“Hold,” he repeated in a rising voice.

“If we don’t act now, those Lancer boys are going to get chewed up,” insisted the voice of Sergeant Kopenhagen.

“They’re doing just fine,” he barked, then felt compelled to explain, “Hey diddle-diddle, straight up the middle may work for fools and overgrown Lancers in old-style power armor that don’t know any better, but a modern professional fighting force knows when to hold its powder.”

“We don’t even have any chemical projectile weapons issued in the Force you old fossil; the Palace Guard are the only ones who still carry those things,” snapped Sergeant Kopenhagen, clearly eager to get into the fight, “and they’re about to get trapped in a pincer movement!”

“Advance elements of 2nd Regiment, Battalions 2 and 4 are to advance forward one more corridor parallel the Lancer Contingent Companies, and prepare to mouse trap that pincer movement,” Colonel Wainwright ordered, with a snap of command in his voice. “And Sergeant, it’s an expression,” he explained dryly, “chemical weapons were gone from standard issue long before even I joined the Corps.

He heard something suspiciously like ‘yeah right’ muttered over the mike but he decided to let it pass. It wouldn’t do his grip on command any bit of good if, just as soon as he appointed Kopenhagen and her scratch squad as his personal protective detail, he turned around and broke her from Sergeant right back down to Corporal in the middle of combat.

“Omicron power-armored reinforcements have just arrived in Side Corridor C,” reported an advance scout for the Brigade, on a channel Wainwright had specifically designated, so that he would know the moment those crazy Lancers under Suffic finally stuck their heads out too far.

“As soon as they trip your remote sensors, use the chemical explosives to blow holes in the wall and counter charge,” Wainwright ordered firmly. There was no need to cowboy around damaging perfectly good vibroblades in macho displays of anatomical measurement with those genetic brutes, especially when his people had a surplus of chemical explosives and plenty of walls to use them on. Professional fighting force, he reminded himself. Just like he’d reminded his Marines when they’d grumbled at the way the Lancers were showing off.

The advance elements of the Omicron’s rapid response force tripped the sensors and had only moments to pile onto the lead Lancer elements when Wainwright’s boys and girls tore into their column like a hot knife through butter.

Expecting to be the tipping point that overwhelmed the Lancers advancing into their Station, the disorganized mass of pirates in their ‘sexed up’ power armor, covered with all sorts of strange designs (predominantly red and black with the occasional real skull attached) clearly intended to intimidate the masses and send their opponents cowering in fear. They were completely unprepared for their little ambushing force to be ambushed in turn.

“Have our Brigade reinforcements from the Royal Rage made the transfer yet,” Wainwright demanded on a side channel, as his two battalions piled on, making short work of the pirates. Those that weren’t killed outright were sent streaming back into the station howling with fear.

They needed to quickly consolidate their gains and post a few squads to guard their flanks as they pressed forward, Wainwright had just started issuing the orders when he was interrupted by Sergeant Kopenhagen.

“There they go again, Sir,” she said sounding outraged.

He glanced at his screen with mounting frustration. They were going to find themselves flanked and surrounded with their lines overstretched and broken if they didn’t slow down.

“Blasted Lancers,” he growled, then switched channels.

“Just what are you playing at Suffic,” he snarled, pounding the wall with his fist in frustration, “we don’t have half the flankers out that we need for this amount of territory, and the ones we do have out aren’t even in position yet!”

“Have to keep them off balance and on the defensive or we’ll be swamped,” Suffic panted.

“Are you in the front line,” Wainwright demanded and when several seconds went by without a response, “you are, aren’t you! You’re a Colonel, man,” he chided, clearly exasperated. “By Murphy’s Short Clip, you’re supposed to be directing the charge not leading it!”

“Saint Murphy’s seen fit to grace us with a plethora of Vibro-Weapons,” Suffic retorted wryly, “we’re not as concerned as you Marines about our ammo supply.”

“Slow it down man and pull your horns in,” Wainwright urged. “I’ve got a battalion and a half due over from the Royal Rage at any time, as well as squads and entire platoons from all over the outside of the Omicron trickling in as we speak. We can push forward as soon as they get here.”

“If you want to dictate how fast this force advances into the Station, then I advise you to get out front and lead,” Suffic said in short temper.

Wainwright stomped the floor so hard he left a dent. “I’ve half a mind to do just that,” he roared.

“It’d be a nice change from your guys hanging back and picking off the outliers as they come streaming in,” Colonel Suffic said pointedly.

“Your ‘charge’,” Wainwright sneered at the over-use of such a simplistic and archaic attack formation when applied to door to door and corridor to corridor station fighting, even if the Lancers somehow seemed to make it work, “would have been broken at least six times by now if not for my covering forces.”

“A little busy right at the moment, hold on,” Suffic interrupted, sounding preoccupied. There was a grunt over the com-link, followed by the sound of something shattering and faintly over the link Wainwright could hear, “Messene! For the Warlord, and Saint Murphy has blessed us with more foes than I can count!” Then the sound of a string of plasma grenades drowned out everything else.

“There’s gung-ho bravery, and then there’s just plain stupid,” he said, shooting a glance at Sergeant Kopenhagen standing behind him but isolated on another channel and oblivious to the words of her commanding officer, “as I should have cause to know. I can tell a damaged visor when I hear it over the link,” he urged, “bring it back Suffic, and let your boys pull flank duty. I’ll carry the drive for the next while. I swear to you, given the chance my Marines will show what they can do!”

“Yeah,” there was a short pause from the other end of the link, “well…I may have ‘accidently’ over motivated my fighting force,” the Lancer Colonel explained sounding embarrassed.

“Saint Murphy’s Smoking Blaster Pistol, how in the world did you manage that,” Wainwright said cocking his head to the side in patent disbelief.

“I may have told them the honor of the Lancer Force rested on reaching this Station’s Control Center before our reinforcements did, and that the Lady was counting on them not to disgrace her,” Suffic explained under his breath as the reports of weapons fire punctuated his voice.

“The only reinforcements we have; are those units spread out behind us and slowly converging on the Armor Prince,” Wainwright swore, “how could you lie to your own men like that,” he asked in a cold deadly disapproving voice.

The lack of response that hung in air pricked Wainwright’s suspicious nature. “Are there reinforcements deeper in the station Colonel?” Wainwright demanded.

“I didn’t exactly lie,” Suffic offered blithely.

“There are? How is that possible?” Wainwright’s eyes bulged with sudden hope.

“I didn’t exactly tell the truth, either,” the Lancer Colonel amended hastily.

“You sent another force on a dark jump to the other side of the station,” Wainwright accused, scowling thunderously at the blinking lights on his HUD indicating the still advancing Lancer Companies. “You know the odds of them pushing through from the other side are astronomical. Just how big a force are we talking here? I have a need to know on this, one Colonel to another,” he said firmly.

“I’m unsure exactly how large our potential reinforcements are going to be,” Suffic temporized.

“Don’t give me any of that bunk, man,” Wainwright said sternly, “I’m not one a low ranker who’ll lose hope at the first sign of uncertainty in command, you can give it to me straight. Did they make it or not, or do you even know yet?”

“Our ‘reinforcements’ certainly aren’t going to show up if we don’t drive into this space station deep and hard,” Suffic said, an angry growl in his voice. If it was at the situation or at his fellow Colonel for putting the screws to him, Wainwright couldn’t tell for sure, “just focus on that and let me take care of the rest,” the infuriating former Royal Lancer growled.

“You’re running around like you have some kind of death wish, fighting in the front lines like an amped up junior officer on his first tour,” Wainwright paused, breathing heavily. “Listen Hansel, if you die someone needs to be able to coordinate with these mythical reinforcements. At least give me the Com-link channel. Just give me that,” he pleaded and hated himself for doing it.

“There are no designated communication channels, this thing is extremely ad-hoc,” Suffic said shortly.

“I don’t believe you,” Wainwright said flatly, “either you don’t trust me or you’re blowing sunshine in my ears like I’m some kind of squirrelly private on his first combat op. Either give me the straight download, or me and my men are pulling back to the Armor Prince.”

“Do your Blasted worst, Marine,” Suffic snapped, “this Op, as you call it, was set up by the Hold Mistress herself, who as you may or may not be aware isn’t the most technically inclined of individuals and she failed to designate a communications channel beforehand!”

Wainwright grunted skeptically, “That has the flavor of something true,” he allowed, “power-armored I hope.”

“All you need to know is they are big, they are hairy and ‘if’ something big and hairy points a weapon at you and ‘if’ it doesn’t fire, then probably it’s one of our hypothetical reinforcements. So help me by all the Blue Blazes, your boys had better not mess it up,” the Lancer Colonel snapped before cutting the connection.

Wainwright stared at his HUD in disbelief for several seconds. “I am surrounded by amateurs and this is one Hades of a way to run an Engagement,” he said coldly, “might as well invite the Demon in on the planning session.”

He activated his link to the rest of the Marine force. For half a moment he was tempted to pull them back to the ship, but seeing the Lancers still advancing into the station he reluctantly decided he had no choice. His boys and girls wouldn’t understand him pulling back now.

‘Bug out now’ Wainwright would be the best new nickname he could possibly earn from his Brigade if he did so at this juncture. ‘Cut and Run’ Alabaster, was much more likely.

With a heavy sigh he got on the Channel and roared, “Marines, I am sick and tired of eating Lancer dust. Second Regiment,” he barked into the link.

“Yes, Colonel,” answered the Second’s Commanding Officer.

“Get me in front of those primitives. It’s time to show these Confederation wannabes what a real Fighting Force can do!”

He was already in for a penny, so he might as well push in for the rest of the pound. Besides, it was bad for morale to let the smaller Lancer contingent always take point, as if he and his Marines were afraid of a little close-quarters combat.

Chapter 61: Akantha in a Hot Mix

“We’ve got escape pods homing in on the ship,” reported one of the few men left on the Armor Prince.

Akantha glowered at the screen for a moment, “I wish I could receive that as good tidings,” she said and watched as the scant little bridge crew she had assembled scrambled to guide the pods into their cargo bay.

“Hold Mistress,” exclaimed the woman manning the Communications Console, one of Akantha’s native warriors, “I’m receiving a report; pirates have broken the line, and are fighting our guards stationed at the entrance to the ship!”

Akantha sat up in her chair. “How many are there,” she asked eagerly, “and will our warriors hold their position?”

“The entrance squads are requesting reinforcements; they report a mixed company of armored and unarmored pirates, with blaster and plasma weapons,” the woman at the com-links reported in a rising voice.

“Put me on ship-wide,” Akantha ordered, lifting her chin imperiously.

The Lancer pressed a few buttons on her console, producing a high pitched whine so loud many on the Bridge covered their ears. A few even slammed their visor plates down before she got it under control, slapping buttons like they were enemy targets.

The whining stopped and she pressed another series of buttons.

“It’s ready, Mistress,” she blushed, her eyes cast down upon her console.

Akantha gave her a sharp, penetrating look before turning to face the screen.

“Men!” she cried, even though almost every Lancer still on the ship, outside of less than a handful on the bridge, were actually women. Having fought so hard to become warriors, she knew that these women would actually be insulted if she addressed them as anything else, “as your Castellan and Commander of this new fortress, I bring new; a force of pirates has slipped behind the main force. It is currently digging its way into the soft underbelly of Omicron Station.”

All around her on the bridge, Lancers were picking their heads up and smiling. One singular exception, dressed in a captured suit of pirate armor and, after much fruitless posturing and protesting now sitting at the Helmsman’s spot, looked worried.

Akantha glared at the former shuttle pilot for attempting, with his very presence, to dampen the positive energy building in the room. Then an idea inspired solely by his thunderous rain cloud of a face gripped her in its clutches and she grinned.

“Warriors, Lancers, Men,” she called out, to the roughly company and a half of soldiers remaining to guard their fortress Battleship, “the rapid reaction force is to instantly make its way to our beleaguered squads guarding the main entrance. The rest of you are to begin gathering up the power armor of our defeated foes. We shall arm and armor the reinforcements even now trickling into our cargo holds like the first flash of rain before the storm,” she ordered, feeling inspired. This would allow her to turn a liability like all the refugees fleeing the Clover into an asset: more fighters to defend the ship! And it was all thanks to the scowling face of that insulting little man.

Around her the members of the bridge crew seemed stunned by this new revelation.

“We shall fight them…” she flushed realizing there weren’t actually any walls they could man on this fortress, unless one counted the outside?

“We shall fight them in the halls,” she stumbled, starting over again, the important thing wasn’t to never trip or make a mistake, the important thing was to never stop going. That was something her Protector had done so well, and through his example she would be guided. Angrily, she rubbed the back of her hand over her cheek.

“We shall fight them in the corridors,” she ground out, clenching her fists, “we shall even fight them on what passes for the walls of this ship, its outer hull!” she yelled with triumph rising in her voice, “to victory, to the confounding of our foes, and to a conflict which shall be a tale for the storytellers!”

Around her she could see her impromptu little Bridge crew sit up straighter in their chairs. Even though she couldn’t see it, she could feel her sisters in arms moving with a rising sense of purpose.

Now all they had to do was hold their ground, until the main force under Colonels Suffic and Wainwright either made contact with the Sundered People who worked as virtual slaves within this pirate station, or… she turned her mind from the thought. If these Sundered Demons proved to be faithless and ineffective, as many of her Honor Guard feared, the result would be catastrophic.

The demons… no, she reminded herself abruptly, it was not politic to call the creatures what they actually were. They called themselves the Sundered, and now so must she, even in the privacy of her own mind. These Sundered, she thought the word firmly, fought with skill and honor, which was why she had been inspired to approach them in the first place.

That, and she had sensed from the vast amount of information Glue had been able to provide on such short notice, as it regarded the Omicron, that there must be any number of his people within her at a given time. It only remained to be seen, if an honorable offer of a place within the ranks of her sworn citizens —with a hold-minor of their own, was enough to sway them to her side.

She had to hope, that through Glue, she had been able to sway them — sway and hold them, she thought glumly, after the crippling losses of Jason and the Lucky Clover.

Chapter 62: The Binding Glue

“Why should we trust mouth yappings of this human,” asked a large Elder of the Sundered People, his arms still thick and hale with the vitality of a much younger male.

“Her words had the feel of truth,” Glue mused, glad to once again be speaking the native tongue of his people. The lights of his cybernetics flashing as they wirelessly connected to the Core Systems of the Sundered and began uploading the entire record of his last battle and time in captivity. First a text file, then audio and after both of those were completed, if there was time or he was able to find a hard link first, there would follow the complete audio-visual record of everything he had experienced since leaving his people.

Several key files were flagged as of heightened interest, mainly the ones involving the Leader of the Battleship that had captured him, and the others of his conversations with that one’s mate.

The Elder rapidly skimmed the files, from the time he took, just enough to read a few highlights of the text, then popped his lips derisively.

“You are a brave Warrior of the Sundered, with many sacrifices,” the Elder allowed, “but even the bravest who has sacrificed and yet still lives can lead his head down a crooked path in the search of hope.”

“What hope, Elder,” Glue asked, bowing his head.

“Belief of that which is not believable merely because of the body’s natural need to survive,” the Elder said forcefully slapping his hands on the floor with resounding force. “They capture you and because of that, you leap to believe anything they feed into your brain, anything that seems a way to keep living!”

“In what particulars do you find deceit,” Glue asked calmly, turning his hands in toward his body to show his receptiveness to receive instruction.

“In every particular,” grunted the elder. “What I cannot believe — not that you would listen to her words, I cannot fault you there—” the Elder allowed with a sour flick of his lips, “the fault is that you treated the words of a female, this female as if she was both powerful and truthful to offer what she claims. Then folly heaped upon further folly, was the wrong thinking that hypothetical ideas are enough to risk the People entire!”

“You do not think a female can have such power, or having acquired it, think the deep thoughts I have relayed,” Glue asked mildly, still maintaining his receptive posturing.

The Elder snorted but before he could continue a low chorus of ‘blats,’ lip popping and outraged shrieks came from all around them.

Glue kept his face impassive. The Elder was parading his own unthinking biases for all to see, but in Glue’s opinion he would be wiser to slow his tongue and more carefully consider his words before condemning a new idea out of hand. The way he strutted into the word-clearing, which Glue had just politely placed along his path, had shown sunlight on the location of his deepest thinking, and in the process offended somewhere around 80% of the Sundered population.

Face darkening with embarrassment, the Elder stood up and raised his hands in an instinctive gesture both meant to be calming and intimidating at the same time. For a moment, the Sundered around them quieted and then an angry murmuring soon followed.

Realizing his error, the Elder sat down with a grunt, quickly placing his arms on the insides of his legs to reduce his size and posture. He looked two parts embarrassed and one part angry at the double pit trap he had walked into.

“It is a great risk, to support one faction of humans against another more locally powerful faction,” the Primarch admitted, raising to his feet and declaiming before the gathering. Unlike the Elder, he was careful to keep his posture neutral, non-aggressive, and as non-intimidating as possible. Or as much as a strong and powerful male in his prime, like Glue was, could do while strongly arguing a point. Body language was significantly more important among the Sundered, compared to humans.

He chewed on his upper lip, letting everyone: male, female, high status and low status, see that he was not himself one hundred percent sure.

“But however dangerous,” he continued, slapping his thighs, “remember the Sub-Clans here are not the entire body of the Sundered; we do not risk People entire with this proposed movement,” Sensing discontent, he sat down abruptly.

“We do not speak about those who have abandoned themselves,” the Elder snapped, standing angrily, “the Sub-Clans who have stayed in the hypocritical arms of the Alliance Against Alien Genocide are no People of ours; they are dead to us!”

“I did not mean,” Glue started to explain, splaying his hands toward the floor.

“You mean you did not think,” snapped the Elder, “as you have not thought the entire time since your capture!”

Another male stood slowly, cutting off the conversation between Primarch Glue and the Elder. He was shorter and wider than the other two males, but on the whole generally smaller as well. His arms and legs no longer bore the haleness of youth and sturdiness which came with it. Despite this, his face still bore the markings of a male with many mates.

“Each one needs to watch his words more carefully,” the male said with great gravitas, “Gorgon Alliance cannot be the topic of this discussion.” He then glanced from side to side, sweeping the group with his old and wily eyes, “And we will not have the Alliance contested again here, dragged like a fermented banana into a barrel of green fruit, sent to poison the whole lot!”

“I reject the Human Imperial’s name for the Alliance now, as I did when we were still Alliance Partners,” the Elder muttered rebelliously.

Sensing his chance to mend fences and form some unity, Glue broke in before either male spoke again, “The Great Wisdom is right in his words,” he agreed, speaking smoothly yet quickly. “However, so is the Elder,” he continued, sweeping the gathered Sundered in the room with eyes meant to gauge their mood.

Seeing more uncertainty than anything he hurried on, “Unlike many, some even within the Alliance itself, our People rejected the name given to an initial Grouping of which we were key founding members. A name bestowed by an Empire spewing hate upon its foes, upon that Cooperative-Structure of which we were once, but no longer are a part.”

The Elder also stood up slightly turned away from Glue but his words running parallel to the Primarch’s. “Mere stellar proximity of the original Moot — gathered together to save the slug-like Prichtac — and to that Star System called Gorgon by the Humans, does not give the Imperial Senatas the right, or even the ability to rename the Triple-AG,” he growled. “In no small part because they allowed the Humans to label us, and then embraced that label to inspire fear and terror, did we leave!”

“The alliance betrayed itself,” Glue agreed forcefully, “when it openly debated the possibility of genocide against the Humans, and then again in its official contingency planning. The Alliance was formed for, and was always supposed to stand against, genocide in all its forms; against Uplifts like ourselves, the Enhanced Humans who have shared our fate, and the Alien Races the Empire seeks to eradicate from this Galaxy.” Glue slammed his hands together emphatically as he saw the Elder nod agreeably. “Which aliens offered us the impetus we ever found to unite against this common threat in the very first place!”

The Great Wisdom once again stood, this time with a sigh, “I find myself in the unique position of censuring both Primary Position Speakers for speaking in unity. It is a shame that you chose to unify in ignoring a dictate of the Ruling Wisdom by continuing to speak on a forbidden subject,” he snorted half-angrily before once again sitting down, “five minutes of mutual silence as the Position Speakers consider the folly of ignoring Great Wisdom,” the smaller male snapped from his place in the circle.

Several elderly females with patchy fur hooted severely at Glue and the Elder, most likely the wives of the Great Wisdom as the majority of the younger females ignored them, except for a few flicks of the ear in the direction of the senior females, choosing instead to stay focused on the two Speakers.

During the next five minutes, the various males in the inner circle (those immediately surrounding the Position Speakers) used this time to review the files Glue was even now uploading. There was a certain amount of shuffling and shoulder pushing as the males generally positioned themselves behind one of the two Speakers in a show of support.

The females in the elevated stands, designed to let them see over the head and shoulders of the towering males down near the center, rolled their eyes at this display of physical posturing on the part of the males, and deliberately stayed put. It was their tradition; jealously guarding their coveted seats in the bleachers from other female poachers.

Throughout the station, many more Sundered were watching through video feed, unable or unwilling to come incarnate to the Clan Moot.

A few children clinging to their mothers in the stands started making noise during the extended silence.

Glue suppressed a smile. The males down in the circle considered themselves too important to take notice of the whining of children up in the stands, but he was certain that the very males whose younglings were the ones making the noise, were taking silent notes. Depending on the age of the little ones, no few of the children were destined to sit uncomfortably in the near future. A sire’s hand was a very large thing at that age, very large, as Glue himself had cause to remember.

“We should not risk ourselves and our families,” the Elder said once the minutes were up, “the risk is too great.” Instead of turning a confrontational gaze upon Glue, he was now speaking to the gathering itself.

Glue decided to follow suit, as perhaps the time for direct emotional confrontation had passed.

“The rewards are great,” the Primarch insisted, drawing himself up to his full height.

The Elder quickly stood as well, not wanting to be physically dominated by remaining seated but still looking at the crowd and not Glue.

“A place to stand, ground of our own. Both in space and inside a gravity well, a well supporting a vibrant Terran compatible World,” Glue continued, ticking off points on his thick black fingers one by one. “Official recognition within a Human Political Structure, and the right,” he slammed his fist into his open palm emphatically, “to protect ourselves, or destroy those that would subdue us on our own ground, without raising the ire of our human hosts, as has happened so often in the past.”

“A prelude of these Humans, to get help now, and then when our back is turned,” the Elder Paused dramatically, before slapping his hands together with resounding force, “annihilation! We must be fools if we think this female has the will or the ability to protect us.”

“That is the very point,” Glue retorted, stabbing his fingers at the males in the crowd, “we will be free to protect ourselves!”

“Something we already do,” countered the Elder. “This is no benefit, only the absence of a detriment, if we trust even this small part of the proposal to be true,” snarled the Elder.

“Homes, land, a place for our young to roam, outside of these four metallic walls,” Glue declared, slapping the floor hard enough to sting his hand, but also emphasizing the bounds of their current metallic world.

“Safety, the freedom, and ability to take ship and leave at a moment’s notice,” the Elder rebuked, glancing at the Primarch angrily out of the corner of his eye, “this is the strategy that has kept our People together, and it is the only thing that has kept us alive!”

“For those who choose the safety of space, and the ability to roam the stars on a moment’s notice, over the glory of: open spaces, breathing room and honest dirt between your toes,” Glue said in a measured tone, spreading his arms wide to encompass the whole room, “there is the possibility of vast untapped wealth in Trillium Deposits waiting to be mined in the star system of our human hosts,” he lowered his head fractionally, allowing this latest revelation time to sink in.

When he was certain they had done so, he continued solemnly, “By the very sacrifice of warriors and ship crews under my leadership, we have the factories necessary to advantage ourselves of such riches.” He raised a finger to emphasize the next point, “We did so without relying on the promises of others, or the foolish expectation that they will share their production capacity equally, between their populations and ours.”

“Our strength is scattered all over the border of this sector,” the Elder Ground out. “We have limited armament and are vastly outnumbered on this Station, to the order of twenty five to one!”

Glue nodded to his speaking opponent, showing his respect for this point.

“Now we come to the nut of it. The rub which turns normally fearless warriors into concerned mates and parents,” Glue nodded again, this time to the males and females around him. “As they should be!” he agreed with the rising sentiment, showing himself to understand and share the feeling, “even with the Confederation Humans and their power armor, we would be supporting the smaller of two factions in this conflict, and the price for failure is the dearest one possible.”

“How can we support such folly,” demanded the Elder, turning to Glue, “suppose by a miracle we win. What then? Even the reward is still a gamble, but if we lose or are crippled, all is lost!”

“As the Elder himself has said, our strength is scattered. Therefore, all will not be lost for the People,” Glue said solemnly, refusing to personally re-engage the Elder at this time. “Only those of us here personally, if-we-lose, will lose all,” he finished flatly.

“A cold comfort for the dames and sires here,” the Elder said icily.

“Yet no more than is asked of my war-band and the scavenger groups that follow with me each and every day,” the Primarch said finally turning to meet the Elders gaze.

“There is no path to victory,” the Elder pleaded, his eyes closing in acknowledgement of the sacrifice Glue and others had made, but stiff refusal still in his posture.

“The Hold-Mother was specific in her offer to the Sundered,” Glue replied evenly, “she made mention of the Sundered and any allies, or sworn forces we chose to include within our provisions.”

“I did not see that,” the Elder grunted, “but it is of small note.”

“No doubt she meant to include any Humans that are helping us,” Glue continued, ignoring the dig, “but I think it has a broader meaning. I think this is not simply an opportunity for the Sundered, but for all on this station who are trodden upon by natural-born Human Prejudice.”

“Now you would include the Out-Clans in this folly,” scoffed the other Speaker, “what next, the Tribes!? Battle is not even joined, and already you are frittering away our hypothetical reward, before we can even claim it,” the Elder rumbled in outrage.

“Yes,” replied Glue simply.

“And then what,” scoffed the Elder, “summon another Grand Moot and form a new Alliance with the much weaker, disunited gene-mods and uplifts in this region of space! We came here, to the other side of the known sphere in a hazardous journey which left nearly a million dead, losing four in five of our number. We do not have the strength for such action,” he slammed his hands down on the floor, “for all its flaws, the strength of the Triple-AG was indisputable, and even it is slowly being ground into dust by the Imperial War Machine. We have seen what they will do if we try that! They will send fleets, and more fleets, and new fleets to annihilate us to the last youngling if we are stupid enough to raise our heads up.”

“The Empire has abandoned these sectors,” Glue said flatly, “the humans know it, the pirates know it, and there are even indications that the cold minds of the metal tribes near consensus on the subject. It is time the Sundered knew as well.”

“Knew our own destruction,” The Elder cried in negation.

“The Sundered stood on principle and left the so called Alliance Gorgonus, the Triple-AG, when they proposed to break the code of morals we believe all sentients should live by,” Glue said flatly, “But today I look around and ask myself: are we any better than the pirates who are oppressing us? We are raiding here and there, taking what we need from the Humans; those whose race has wronged us badly, but who personally are not at fault. I have stood shoulder to shoulder with my cohorts, raiding and looting and killing and even,” he shuddered, “enslaving, because there was no other choice. To stand by and do nothing was a worse crime, as it would be the crime of genocide!”

“We all respect your efforts on our behalf. None present questions that your sacrifices of the moral code are all for the sake of our People,” the Elder grudged, “and it is appreciated.”

“Hear this then, with all the weight of that respect,” Glue said sternly, sweeping the room with his dark eyes. “Before, we had no choice and I… we… many of us here fought, committing offenses great and small, because we believed we had no choice.”

The Elder looked troubled, but still, he shook his head disapprovingly.

“Today is different,” Glue continued, his eyes gleaming as they saw a future that was not filled with a sire teaching his sons how to do evil, “today we have a choice. In the person of this female, we are offered not another Gorgon Alliance, not a coalition united only in fighting against humans who would genocide against us, but a deal ‘with’ the humans. With a part of their Confederacy, albeit a small one,” he allowed, “but also a place within a sovereign star system. Then, if and when the Empire comes against us, they will have to kill these humans alongside the much despised ‘monkey boys’!” he spat. “Humans have shown they do not care what happens to us, but they always care what could happen to themselves!”

“So many have been lost,” pleaded the Elder to the crowd, “many Sub-Clans decimated, others completely destroyed in our Trail of Tears, their lineage lost for all time. Think! Think before out of despair and on a fool’s gambit, you throw away everything we’ve sacrificed for so long to save!”

Glue frowned, “There is something to what he says, but I say that if we will not try this chance, we are no better than the Humans who destroyed our worlds and slaughtered our people, or the pirates that cannibalize us when they get the chance. If your choice is do nothing… then I will not fight,” he said heavily. “You can fight for yourselves, and I am done with you.”

He sat down with a weary thump, everything he wanted to say, said.

It was time for the Moot to vote.

Chapter 63: Holding Fast

Akantha felt compelled to speak with someone who had actually been on board the Lucky Clover, the need was so great she could barely tolerate it. What was this weakness that clouded her thinking?

She knew she needed to be on the bridge, she needed to be there and to be seen commanding, which was why she couldn’t understand why she suddenly found herself jumping into a lift, slapping the sequence for the main cargo hold and then running down a ship’s corridor.

Pulling herself to a halt just outside the main entrance to the hold, she adjusted her expression to one of icy indifference, then pressed the sensor to cycle open the large double doors.

She went looking for someone senior, and what she found was a Warrant Officer with a gaggle of grease covered, battered and broken looking ratings.

“What is the meaning of this,” she demanded striding up to the group. She tried for a reasonable, slightly consoling voice, but all that came out was icy fury.

Around him, half the ratings braced to attention, but the Warrant and the others just stared down at something in their midst, sadness and in a few cases tears on their faces.

Before seeing that sadness, she had been ready brandish her sword in order to get the respect she was owed, if necessary. But the urge passed and her heart melted, so instead she just pushed her way into the circle.

“My Lady,” the Warrant said looking up at her for the first time, tragedy and loss written all across his face.

“What happened,” she asked, acting on the impulse to put a hand on his shoulder. She looked down at a well-muscled, older man in a uniform so charred and black it was impossible to tell anything about the wearer just from looking at it.

“They came for us, Lady Akantha,” the Warrant Officer explained, clearly recognizing her, when she had less than no idea who he was. That wasn’t very unusual, as everyone on the Clover (at least among the old crew) had known who she was, not to mention she had experienced the same one-sided recognition during her life in Argos as the First Daughter.

Unlike Jason, she could recognize a moment that called for silence when she saw one. The realization that her Protector was lost swept over her again, and she found herself using the man’s shoulder for temporary support to hide the trembling of her legs.

Jason was just a man, she reminded herself, and men die. They died all the time, especially Protectors of prominent Hold Mistresses. But like countless women before her, this comfort was no comfort at all.

The Warrant drew in a shuddering breath, “But there were too many of them,” he continued, even though several minutes had passed between utterances.

“Tell me,” Akantha said simply.

“The Chief—,” he fumbled and then ran a hand over his face, “we drove off the first quad of Marines,” he sighed and then as if a dam had broke it came spewing out, “he led most of the new ratings — the grease monkeys – and they broke through liberating the port gundeck, before making a run for Engineering.”

“Who led them, Warrant,” she asked, her hope rising.

“Chief Bogart,” he replied, gesturing down at the smoking corpse at their feet, “he didn’t make it, My Lady,” the man said with tears in his voice.

Her hope crashed.

“They broke our charge, right outside Main Engineering,” chimed in one of the dirtier looking ratings, anger warring with sorrow in her voice.

“Who?” Akantha asked, fury rising inside her.

“The Jacks ma’am,” the rating said with some heat, although for her continued good health it was not directed at her Hold Mistress, but some invisible foe only she could see, “we could handle the regular crew; those parliamentary boys aren’t that tough,” she said with pride. Then she stopped, choking up.

“Power-armored Marines…” another rating trailed off, a look of fear crossing his face.

The Warrant nodded. “The Chief led the charge personally, and then stayed behind, manning a Sonic Cannon to cover the retreat. Although to hear it described, my Lady, it was really more of a route,” he added the last part in a low voice, “after he fell to counter fire, it was these boys who dragged him all the way to an escape pod, and then over here.”

Akantha looked at the ratings with respect, “You did well,” she offered, even though most of her wanted to scream. Accusing them of cutting and running when they should have fought to the last man wouldn’t get her anything now, nor would it in the future despite her current mood.

“We tried the Combat Heal, but he just seized and started gasping like a fish until he died,” said another rating, genuine loss on his face as he stared down at his former commander, a man he had clearly come to respect.

He’d died doing his duty trying to hold the ship, and even in her current state of confused emotions, that was worthy of Akantha’s respect.

She let out a sigh and gave them several moments of silence out of respect for Bogart’s loss. Now that she knew who he was, she could see the features of the man she had only known through during command staff meetings. He’d been loyal and true to the last. For his sake, she would forgive his men for running. Although it pained her to her core not to address their conduct, his sacrifice demanded nothing less from her. When a leader died, warriors ran; it was a fact of existence like the rain or the sun.

Finally she couldn’t hold the question in anymore, it just seemed to pop out of her. “And Jason,” she paused, “The Little Admiral,” she clarified, seeking for and finding control of her voice. These men didn’t need to hear a woman asking after her man like a desperate person; what they needed to hear was one leader asking after the condition of another calmly, collectedly and coldly rational, even if on the inside she was anything but.

“The Chief kept saying we just had to hold out and make enough trouble until the Admiral could get a relief force, but he never came!” cried one of the ratings.

“We don’t know what happened to the Admiral, my Lady,” interrupted Warrant Lesner, “there were all kinds of rumors.”

“Such as,” she asked levelly, clutching at straws but determined not to show it.

“Jean Luc Montagne, the former Captain of the ship, returned to take control of the bridge with Captain Heppner as his willing stooge,” spat the Warrant Officer.

“Unless we hear new information otherwise, that seems to be the case,” Akantha agreed, her chest tight and painful at this lack of new information. There was nothing new for her to learn here, and each moment she spent away from the bridge put everyone in danger.

Stiffening her spine, she removed her hand from his shoulder.

“I know it is much to ask of men who so much has been asked of already,” she said flatly. The words came out, but the feeling was lacking, and there was nothing she could do about that. “But I am going to need the survivors from the Clover to suit up in power armor and help hold this battleship.”

“My lady?” confusion was on his face, “we’re not trained in power armor.”

“Unless you think it too much to ask of them after the way they lost their last ship,” she snapped, her voice cracking like a whip.

Lesner stiffened, his face closing down.

“No, Lady Akantha, it’s not too much to ask. But some are too injured for a battlesuit and this ship has no one manning its broadside,” he suggested, staring down at the floor.

The benefits of being able to fire back at anything attacking her outweighed the flash of anger at being talked back to and corrected.

“Make it happen,” she nodded coldly.

“My lady,” he said, his brow wrinkling.

“You are the senior Gunner I can see right now, and since this ship is now mine and I have guns needing crews, that makes you the Chief of my Gun Deck,” she explained evenly.

“One of the deck bosses might still be straggling in,” he protested, shaking his head.

“Then put them in charge of the other deck, as we have two,” she retorted icily, gripping the hilt of her sword so as not to give into temptation at all of this back talk.

“You are Chief Gunner until you die or I find someone better to replace you, and not another word,” she said furiously, turning on her heel she stalked back toward the bridge.

As Lady Akantha left the cargo hold, Lesner leaned down next to his fallen superior and placed a hand on his shoulder, taking strength one last time from the iconic old royalist.

“Legends like yours, they never just fade away. Someone has to kill them, but I’ll make you proud, Iron Fists,” he promised, straightening up. “The last of a dying breed they say. I say they just don’t make your kind back on Capria anymore,” his face hardened, “but out here we will. Out here, we’ll make ‘em all just like my old friend, Iron Fists. We’ll make so many of them this Sector — no, the Galaxy itself, will shake with the fury of our broadsides! The Gunners we’ll produce out here, my old friend… just think of it!”

Chief Lesner stood from his crouch, a fistful of cigars liberated from his predecessor’s pocket. “I really honestly preferred gum, and despised these fat old beasts,” he said wistfully, clamping his teeth into the end of a Cigar to tear it off, before he shoved the other end into the side of his mouth. “No matter what Parliament has to say on the matter, blast them for politicizing gum of all things, anyway,” he snarled, his eyes flashing with anger at the loss of his ship, his leader, and now at the fact he was going to have to set an example by filling his lungs with the byproduct of these terrible tasting smoke sticks. It was just one more crime to set at the feet of Capria’s elected tyranny.

“You heard the Lady,” barked the new Chief of the Armor Prince’s Gun Deck, “wounded gunnery staff gets to man the Main Guns, while the rest of you sorry lot need to lay your hands on some power armor. I don’t care if you were a Gunner, a grease monkey, or an environmental filter scrubber in your past life; you’re on ship’s security now!”

He did his best to roar, but it just wasn’t coming yet. He promised himself that it would. It would come with time. Bogart had shown what was needed to make hardened gunners out of men like this, and what you needed to be to ramrod the gundeck. Lesner had never failed the old man, and Murphy take him if he started now.

“I said move,” he shouted, when the shell-shocked and shaken crew in the cargo hold failed to take action as quickly as Bogart would have liked.

Lesner chomped on the cigar as a grin spread across his face at the sight of his men scurrying to their duties. “Put your game faces back on boys, ‘cause this party is nowhere near finished!”

Chapter 64: In the Ready Room

Jean Luc spun his chair in the Admiral’s Ready room and reached into his desk. He spent a moment feeling the old Terran wood the desk was made out of, the varnish sliding under his hand.

Then his fingers found the lever, and he cocked his mouth in a satisfied smile.

“Right where I left it,” he said under his breath.

The door hatch chimed, causing him to flicked a switch. “Blast,” he muttered. If it was anyone other than his new Flag Captain, he could have just sent him away and got on with his business; the real reason he had agreed to play Parliament’s lapdog in this little sideshow. Reuniting with the old crew was nice enough in a nostalgic way, but on its own merits it was nowhere near good enough reason to throw away a sizeable chunk of his hard-earned power base out on the rim.

Did Heppner suspect? Was that why he was coming to the ready room? The pirate lord knew it was best to get it over with one way or the other. Even as his one hand pressed the admit button, his other slid down his leg to grip a blaster pistol.

Jim Heppner marched in stiffly and drew himself up to attention in front of his desk. The Admiral’s Desk, Jean Luc thought darkly. They hand out stars to completely untrained scions of the house as if they were candy, but all they could give me were a comet and pennant, he thought bitterly.

He drew himself up short. Unclenching his hand from around the pistol grip, he leaned back in the chair — his chair — and waved airily with his free hand.

“Yes, Jim,” he acknowledged evenly. It was best to get this over with quickly, if it had to be done at all.

“I didn’t want to appear to argue with you in front of the men, Sir,” Heppner began stiffly.

“You seem willing to do so in here, so go on,” Jean Luc prompted lightly.

“It’s about the Armor Prince,” the middle-aged Captain said stiffly.

“That old saw? You’re still going on about that,” Jean Luc said in surprise, lifting his finger from the trigger of his weapon as he loosened his hand on its grip.

“I know you have your reasons, but it seems a simple matter to at least deny that ship to those Confederals,” Heppner argued, looking him in the eye and refusing to back down.

It was this very quality that had been the whole reason a much younger Jean Luc Montagne had come to appreciate this man. As it was, he had to suppress a flare of instinctive anger. Living life as pirate did not generally allow one the luxury of being questioned.

Jean Luc knew he was going to have to decide if the old ways from before his exile were best, or if he should gradually fall back on the habits that had kept him alive these past fifty years. Regardless, at that moment, he needed this man and answering his question, tiresome as it may be, was a small price to pay.

“I have denied it to them,” the eye patch-wearing Montagne said mildly, determined to act more like the younger version of himself, “it’s set to self destruct in,” he glanced at the chrono, “an hour and half.”

“Still,” said Heppner, “we could have added it to our growing fleet or pounded it with our broadside on the way out.”

“If the self-destruct mysteriously goes awry,” Jean Luc allowed, “I’m sure the Pirates of Omicron will be more than happy to add my old ship to their fleet. If my former associates can retake her afterward, we may yet see that ship returned to this little fleet of ours.”

“And the Royal Rage,” continued Heppner, his chin jutting out.

“That piece of junk,” Jean Luc asked in surprise. “They’re welcome to it! We stripped most of the useful parts off of it decades ago, to keep the other two up and running. They aren’t going anywhere on that hulk.”

Heppner looked unconvinced and Jean Luc sighed. It seemed he was going to need to let the man in on a slightly larger portion of his main plan than he had hoped.

“Forget the Armor Prince and that other junker,” he leaned forward in his chair, “even if they took both ships and the Omicron, impossible as that is, there’s no way they can derail our plans. By the time they’ve secured that battleship, it will have been shot to pieces inside and out, and if the Omicron had the ability to fully repair either of them, I wouldn’t have scrapped the Rage in the first place! No, they’re either dead or they’re stuck,” Jean Luc said with finality before glancing about the room appreciatively. “The Armor Prince in her prime never held a candle to the Lucky Clover. On the whole, the chance to finish off the last of the Confederation holdouts, versus the possibility of them surviving to run the board, is well worth the price.”

“The Clover and Prince are ships of the same class, however damaged the Prince may be,” Heppner disagreed. “The time taken to finish them off would have been measured in minutes, or a half hour at most.”

“And if the Vineyard had a full, loyal crew, or the Lucky Clover wasn’t missing one of her two main Shield Generators,” Jean Luc held up a single finger on his left hand, and a trio of fingers on his right, “three of her five Fusion Generators, and was still filled with mutinous crew needing to be neutralized, I probably would have done so,” he rebuked in a rising voice.

Both men took a few deep breaths.

“Look, Number One,” Jean Luc began with a sigh, mostly at himself for letting the situation escalate as it had. He was just too out of practice with bouncing ideas around, and keeping the subordinates mostly informed. “In my view, the risk of damage to this ship was too great a risk.”

Captain Heppner’s face wrinkled. “That’s what we’re here for, Sir: to take risks. None of us joined the SDF and accepted assignment out here because a pension was our number one priority,” he cried passionately.

“Extreme measures needed to be, and in fact were taken to restore the Vineyard and Lucky Clover to Caprian Service. That goes for you and the old crew as well as for myself,” the one-eyed pirate lord tried attempting a consoling demeanor. “They may have been pirates, but I’d known and fought alongside many of those men for years or decades at Parliament’s behest. Don’t think no bonds were formed in the midst of combat,” Jean Luc said pointedly, deliberately playing on the other man’s natural sympathies.

Heppner hesitated, “You did the right thing, Sir. You have to believe that.”

Jean Luc cleared his throat, hoping he wasn’t over doing it, “I couldn’t risk damage to this ship; not only is it the last of the old Dreadnaught class ships set up to coordinate fleets as a Flag Ship, but I’m afraid that even my old Number One was never privy to all of her secrets…things I could not risk being destroyed.”

“Secrets, Sir,” Heppner asked, looking intrigued and slightly skeptical, “surely it couldn’t have been anything too important. The Clover hadn’t had a serious upgrade for decades, not until Janeski put her back into working order.”

“The Clover was extensively refitted during the Royalist reinstallment,” Jean Luc explained with a cruel smile, “certain…components were known only to the Defense Minister and the Captain of the Ship,” he pointed a thumb at himself. “Sadly, the Defense Minister was unable to pass along those secrets to the new regime when Cornwallis leveled the Old Palace.”

“And you were sent way out here,” Heppner sucked in a deep breath.

“I was supposed to take my old ship — this ship — from the bone yard with me,” Jean Luc said direly, “it was all put to paper with a very firm Parliamentary Seal in place, guaranteeing its delivery. Alas, as with so many of its Elected promises, my promotion to Admiral along with my old ship mysteriously failed to materialize. The Royal Rage came in place of my old Lucky Larry, and you yourself only now delivered me a blasted Commodore’s Pennant. It seems it is no longer politic to leave me withering on the vine,” Jean Luc said dryly. “Parliament finds I am once again in a position critical to their long term survival, and old promises suddenly require vigorous lip service.”

“You can’t blame Parliament as an institution, Sir; the old Members-in-Exile had to stand a new election once victory was declared, and a rising wave of anti-Montagne sentiment was sweeping the planet. In many cases, the members who wrote your promise were impeached or even swept from power,” Heppner Said stiffly.

“I don’t blame the Institution, Jim,” Jean Luc lied without skipping a beat, “but even if I did, that old grudge is rapidly becoming irrelevant.”

“I fear you’re a better man than I, Sir,” Heppner said with a nod.

“Let us just pray that Parliament doesn’t become as irrelevant as that old grudge,” Jean Luc smiled.

“If there’s anything I can do to make things right, just give the word Commodore. You can rely on me,” said the ship’s Captain.

Jean Luc waved a hand. “Just keep the Morale Officer away from my nephew. I doubt that breed has changed since my last encounter with such animals, and I need the little blighter to survive — unharmed if possible — until he can be handed over to those bureaucrats at Central. They don’t even control the Sector yet, and already they issue orders and directives, as if they’re the old Confederation reborn,” he said disgustedly.

Heppner looked troubled. “By unharmed, I assume you mean no new damage,” said the Captain hesitantly.

“Quite,” Jean Luc agreed, quirking his lips at the pleasant little memory of putting the upstart in his place.

“You may have asked for the one thing I cannot give,” Heppner said heavily. “Morale Officers are nearly a province unto themselves. If it was a member of the loyal crew that would be a different matter, but the ‘False Admiral’ as the Commander is now calling him isn’t just a royalist; he’s a true blue Montagne Royal. One who very publicly seized power.”

“Parliament put me in power,” Jean Luc struck the desk with an extended finger, “relay my orders, Captain. The Morale Officer crosses the will of Parliament, as manifest through me at his direct and personal peril.”

“The orders of a Montagne, even a loyalist like you, are unlikely to sway him from what he believes is best,” Heppner warned. He was no doubt remembering the steps taken by the old Jean Luc when the then Captain Montagne had moved to protect his old crew during the reinstatement.

“I’ll not say it again, Captain,” Jean Luc said, turning his chair away, signaling that the interview was over.

Chapter 65: It’s Just Not Big Enough!

He was the very model of a recently upgraded Space Engineer.

“This will never work,” Spalding said shaking his head sadly.

“Exactly which of the various proposals on the table are you referring to, Mr. Spalding,” asked a top engineer from the Constructor.

Throwing his arms wide, the old man pointed out the viewport, “Too small, too small, far too small,” he complained. “How do you imagine you can fit anything inside this-this little mouse trap, masquerading as a full service space dock? Full service, you say? Ha!”

“Lieutenant Spalding, we’re not here to discuss the Orbital Space Dock, which I would be remiss if I didn’t point out has already been constructed, and self-evidently does currently fit something quite substantial inside it,” protested Construction Manager Glenda Baldwin. “To wit, and with your own eye, you can see docked within it is an Imperial Strike Cruiser — more than 450 meters long — and in fact, is the very ship that we are supposed to be formulating a plan to repair!”

“You call that a blooming space dock, Glenda,” the Chief Engineer scoffed, pointing at the holo-image rotating above the design table.

“Construction Manager, or Ms. Baldwin please, Mr. Spalding,” the Construction Manager said hotly. “And do try to stay focused on the repair plans we are supposed to be making, not the fully functional Space Dock we are going to be using to make those repairs.”

“Talk? Plans?” Spalding asked incredulously as he reached up to pull on his hair, only to remember his once handsome ‘do had been lost along with his limbs. He only remembered the missing hair when his untrustworthy new hands made contact with the balding chrome dome that Gambit Station’s medical staff (in the form of that dumb quack who had followed him from the Clover like some kind of vile plague) called an adequately repaired, and fully functional head.

“Yes, plans, Lieutenant. Please do try to stay focused on the task at hand,” retorted Glenda Baldwin, her face turning red.

“I’ve already drawn up the necessary plans for re-outfitting that Imperial abortion they call a top of the line warship with fully redundant systems, my young lass,” Spalding said dismissively. “No-no-no,” the aged engineer continued, “that’s the easy part; it’s this bloomin’ space dock that’s going to be the hold-up here.” He made no attempt to keep from sneering down at the image suspended above the design table.

“Are you space-crazed?” blurted Glenda. “Was it the gray hair, the photo with my 16 great grandchildren, or the Murphy-cursed radiation bath you took that convinced you I’m a ‘young lass,’ and that we need to ‘fix up’ a Space Dock which is clearly oversized by at least 20% the maximum requirements, you crazy old space coot!”

“Oversized,” he barked, “can you believe the cheek on this one, Gants? Oversized, my balding old chrome dome; and 20% too big?! Why, it’s more than 20% too small, says I!”

Gants coughed and hastily raised a hand to cover his mouth before clearing his throat. “We made sure to overbuild the design specifications by an additional 10% over the standard needed size. It is 20% larger than is needed for the job, Chief,” he insisted, meeting the Chief’s disbelieving eyes, “the yard is rated for ships up to 500 meters in length, without a stretch.”

“Well, there you hear it, deary,” declared Spalding triumphantly, as he rounded on the Construction Manager. “From the mouth of babes: 500 meters, meaning you could shoe horn in, at most, another 50 or 60 meters on a full-sized capital ship repair job!”

“So you’re agreeing with us. Finally!” she exclaimed, “now about those plans for the warship—”

“Agree with you,” the Chief Engineer asked in disbelief. “If I’m ever tempted to agree with you on this, it’s because of your great beauty, Glenda, not because your last statement has any bearing or basis in reality itself!”

“Why, I never,” snapped the Construction Manager, “did you all just hear what I did? Does the word ‘harassment’ have any meaning in your personal, insane lexicon? A space dock with a 560 meters capacity is too bleeping small for a 450 meter Medium Cruiser, my oversized rump!”

“It’s all right, lass,” he said with a grandfatherly smile, “the only time I’m feeling harassed is when I am forced to disagree with one such as yourself,” he explained condescendingly.

“Outrageous,” seethed the Construction Manager, rising out of her chair.

He leveled his finger at her. “Now sit down lass, because I’m only going to say this once,” he roared, meeting her hot and angry gaze with one of his own.

“You’ve been in charge of fixing that ship for the past three months, and you’ve yet to close the deal,” he waggled a finger at her when she went to open her mouth. “You, and this abortion of a space committee you have trying to run things around here, have failed. So, if you dislike my comments on your beauty instead of your natural skill as an engineer and all around general Yard Dog,” he graciously used the nickname ‘Yard Dog,’ commonly given to hard working ship yard and space dock workers around the galaxy, “then next time, don’t take apart a blasted warship and leave her in pieces for the better part of three bloomin’ months!”

“My plan would have had her fixed up three weeks ago. if I wasn’t thwarted at every turn by military second guessing,” Glenda Baldwin snarled in response. “Not to mention all my efforts being hamstrung by the need to build that fancy new medical facility which patched you up, just in time to return and plague us with your insipient insanity.”

“Well, I’m in charge now,” Spalding snapped.

Sweeping the table with the gaze of a man who had spit in the eye of the Demon himself and lived to tell the tale, he silently dared anyone else to contest this claim. “We’re going with my plan, and anyone who wants to argue, or get in my blasted way — be he a military moron or civilian supermodel — will soon find him or herself in the bloody brig, if I have to drag them there and build a ruddy cage around them with my own two hands!”

“And what’s your plan, you outdated, ornery old space engineer? Build a brand spanking new space dock so we can get started months from now and finish job in half the time I’ve estimated? You-you-you senile old space goat,” she sneered in response. Around the table, heads nodded in absolute (albeit silent) agreement.

Spalding purpled before taking a few deep breaths. “Why lass, I thought you’d never ask,” he said giving her a wink, deliberately aiming to incite her, “like any well-heeled lady who’s been through more than her fair share of trials and tribulation in this short life given to us, what our fine lass here on this fancy new design table needs, is…” He paused, drawing out the tension before bestowing on the assembled Engineering and Constructor officers and managers a beatific smile, “quite frankly, what she needs is a space girdle.”

“You’ve gone too far this time, Spalding,” snapped the owner of the Constructor, followed by a number of vocal sounds of agreement around the table, including from several of the engineering staff from the Confederation side of the team. “Insulting my staff with thinly-veiled smears, disgusting barbs and innuendo….” he trailed off, shaking his head in disbelief.

The Construction Manager, on the other hand, was slowly shaking her head as her eyes flicked back and forth, clearly performing silent calculations. “A flexible space dock like the one we have here is simply not large enough to put a girdle on a ship that large, you…” she muttered before realizing what she had just said. “Oh, no you don’t,” she started with alarm as her eyes widened.

Spalding beamed at her. “Smart lass,” he said quite happily, before turning to Gants, “I told you she was a right beaut’.”

“You need a full-sized, fixed state Space Dock; one purpose-built for a task of that magnitude at the very least,” she said severely, “which completely ignores the fact that I’ve never even heard of a ship larger than a destroyer having an armor girdle put on her!”

Around the table, the former protesters stopped defending her honor, and started gaping at the pair of them.

Spalding shrugged. “You’re coming at things from the civilian side, lass, so it’s not surprising you’ve never heard of anything larger having one placed. Why, I once saw a light cruiser undergo this very same procedure with my own two eyes. We’ll just scale the process up a might.” The old Engineer grinned. “Fear not, papa Spalding’ll make it right for that fine young lass stuck in our space hanger,” he assured her with a wink.

“A flexible dock simply can’t handle that kind of stress load,” she insisted, shaking her head fiercely, “not with duralloy struts and girders. You’d need to build them out of mono-Locsium, which is outside of our production capacity, at least in that kind of quantity.”

“A valid point,” Spalding nodded in agreement, “that’s why, in addition to expanding the dock to take ships over 600 meters, we’re going to replace all those pesky little struts and girders with new ones… made out of Duralloy II,” he grinned.

“Impossible,” insisted the Owner of the Constructor, “Duralloy II is a myth, plain and simple, and anyone who claims otherwise is nothing more than a conspiracy nut, who would have us believe the Imperials have suppressed all knowledge of this mythical substance, that is both cheaper and nearly as strong as mono-Locsium!”

“Why then, my good minority owner-on-board of our very own conscripted Constructor ship, let’s take a look at the specifications for the construction of that ‘mythical’ substance known as Duralloy II.” Spalding tapped away furiously on a nearby data pad, causing technical specifications to populate the main view screen of the room. “After all, those specifications were found in the encrypted computer files of a certain former Imperial Cruiser, and retrieved by System Analysts, personally assigned to the task by me.”

“Now, does this look like a mere mock decoy, designed to deceive computer hackers and conspiracy nuts like myself who just so happen to find themselves in possession of a top-of-the-line Imperial ship?” Spalding glared around the table, seeing eyes widening as they pored over the data streaming on the main viewer, causing him to smirk smugly at his fellows. “Or, is it in fact a true and real substance, which can be made twice as thick as a comparable strut constructed from Imperial mono-Locsium!”

“But according to these figures,” protested Baldwin in a considerably subdued tone, as she hammered away on her personal data pad, “processing it takes ten times as long as standard Duralloy.”

Spalding nodded knowingly. “Indeed, it does,” he agreed, impressed by Baldwin’s quick — not to mention accurate — calculations, “but like a fine wine,’tis worth the wait. The resulting substance is over 50% stronger than your standard Duralloy in every way, and suffers far less fatigue with prolonged use.”

The Constructor’s owner stared at the old engineer, and then sat back in his own chair with a plop, much to Spalding’s satisfaction.

“As for the various plans championed by the members of this bloated space committee,” the wild-eyed Spalding continued, “I’ve gone over each and every one of them while convalescing in sick bay these last two days, and incorporated those that weren’t pure space malarkey into my own figures and calculations.”

Then with a final wink of his eye at the fancy, grey haired lady who had done her best to bedevil him throughout the meeting, the Chief Engineer marched out of the conference room. The whine of the servos in his legs caused a scowl to break through his general feeling of satisfaction at a job well done.

She deserved that wink, he assured himself with a harrumph, or worse! The audacity… calling me an old space goat!

Chapter 66: On The Frontlines

The Lancer thrust had run into increasing difficulties, and now Wainwright, at the front of the 2nd Regiment (or at least all of its companies and detachments could be found) had managed to push his way to the front.

“These pirates fight like a disorganized rabble, even the ones in these scrapped battlesuits. The ones in armor are actually worse at working as a unit than the rest of them, Colonel,” barked Sergeant Kopenhagen.

“There’s too many of them,” he grumbled, unloading with the ion cannon he had decided to keep, since storming Main Engineering back on the Armor Prince.

“We’re slaughtering them three or four to one, Sir,” she said excitedly.

“Do the math, Sergeant,” Wainwright said sourly.

“What?” she shouted, going hand to hand with a pirate whose suit sported sharpened bone horns on its helmet and strings of teeth (possibly human) glued to his suit.

Taking aim with his normally crew-served weapon, Wainwright lined up on the pirate’s head and depressed the trigger.

A blue ball of ionic force shot from the end of his cannon and met the helmet of the Pirate’s suit, causing an electrical explosion. The pirate immediately began jerking and writhing before he fell to the floor, with smoke billowing out of a crack in his visor.

“I said, about one in ten of these pirates we’re facing comes in a battle suit,” he shouted back.

“So?” she demanded, aiming her rifle in support of another member of the squad and firing.

“So?! There must be close to a quarter of a million sentients on this station. Run the numbers,” he said grimly.

“You’re saying they could have as many as twenty five thousand of these jerks in power armor?” she scoffed in surprise, “that’s as many battlesuits as are in the entire Caprian Marine Corps!”

“We start out with somewhere around five thousand combined Lancers and Marines and we kill three or, for the sake of argument, let’s say four to one,” Wainwright grunted as he brought his ion cannon in line with another charging foe. “And that’s not counting losses against these unarmored fools that keep showing up to get their heads blown off.”

To emphasize his point, he depressed his weapon’s trigger, sending another pirate to the floor with a well-placed head shot.

“You’re saying using simple math we could kill as many as 20k of these scum of the spaceways, and they’d still have 5k in armor, and another hundred thousand softies?” She sounded outraged at this simple bit of arithmetic.

Wainwright had to hold his consternation at his subordinates’ use of a derogatory term like ‘softies’ when speaking about unarmored targets. He came to a four-way intersection and a fresh flood of armored pirates streamed from three of the four corridors. His cannon flared hot and heavy, the barrel turning red as he almost single-handedly turned the charge on the right side with a series of perfectly placed ion bolts.

The pirates wavered and were about to break entirely when the cannon’s power cell ran dry and popped out the side of his weapon, falling to the floor.

Wainwright stared at the pirates as he considered his next move, and his temporarily motionless foes returned his stare.

“ROS!” he screamed, activating his suit speakers and slapping the side of his weapon closed as if he had just replaced the power cell. He leveled the cannon at them and charged.

At this, the last of their will broke and the pirates turned en masse, nearly trampling those in the back in an effort to escape the terrible marines of which they’d just run afoul.

Seeing a downed pirate floundering about on the floor, Wainwright slowed. Pulling a vibro-knife, he released his ion cannon and fell on the pirate. A brief scuffle saw his boarding knife go up under the pirate’s chin, putting an end to his short-lived struggles.

Taking suit-filtered air in deep, ragged breaths, he fumbled through the pirate’s carry sack.

“That was a very brave, but incredibly stupid thing to do,” Sergeant Kopenhagen said disapprovingly.

“I was out of power cells,” he grunted, as his fingers found what he sought, “and this pirate rig uses a non-standard cell that all these pirates seem to carry.” He grinned triumphantly, producing three fresh cells, which he proudly displayed to the Buck Sergeant.

She muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like ‘stupid’.

“So why did Suffic and the Lady order us into the station without more than a moment’s notice if we’re just going to lose,” Kopenhagen asked hotly.

“Oh, that,” Wainwright grunted with displeasure, “a pirate is not a soldier, and he’s definitely not a Marine. He fights for himself, or in terror of his superiors; he doesn’t fight for a higher purpose like we do,” he said shortly.

“So….” she prompted, dragging out the word.

“So, if we shove our way in hard and fast, taking their control center and slaughtering them in job lots, maybe we can send them running home to mama so terrified of the big bad Lancers and Marine Jacks that they give up the fight and surrender before they realize they can just swamp us with numbers,” he explained sourly.

“I see one major flaw with that logic,” Kopenhagen sounded concerned.

“Yes,” sighed Wainwright, wishing they could avoid the entire subject.

“The pirates know we don’t take prisoners, so they have no cause to surrender,” she said with concern.

“And now you know why I had my objection to the plan at the outset,” Wainwright quipped.

“And now,” she demanded.

“We’re in too deep to back out now, Marine,” he laughed. “It’s time to Larry One this thing!”

“Larry Onward,” she replied, giving the Marine’s traditional battlefield cry before rushing an impossible force. However, her lack of enthusiasm carried through despite the rousing battle cry.

“Larry Onward, Marines,” he shouted over the main channel. “We’ll take Station Control before these overfed native Lancer boys get there!”

“Larry-Larry-Larry Onward, Colonel,” they shout-chanted back at him, over the general push.

“A thousand credits per man to the first squad to breach the pirate Command and Control center,” he shouted to raise their morale. After all, it was easy to motivate his boys and girls with promises it was unlikely he would ever have to fulfill.

Then he frowned as he realized it was the kind of thing Colonel Suffic would do, leading his troops on like this. Although, now that he thought about it, he grudgingly allowed that Suffic probably felt the same way.

With one final push where they ground a fortified pirate position to dust using plasma grenades and volley blaster fire, the Colonel could feel himself dragging.

“Send out flankers and push some blasted scouts ahead of this formation, Lieutenant Colonel Beardly,” he ordered the Second Regiment Commander over the Regiment Officer channel.

There was an extended silence.

“This is Major Harvey Cloggs, 1st Battalion, Second Regiment, Sir. The Lieutenant Colonel didn’t make it, Sir,” the Major reported briskly.

Wainwright pulled up his HUD and glanced at the Table of Organization and sure enough, the top slot in the Regiment was flashing red and black for KIA.

“Blast it, Beardly was a good woman,” he cursed. She had also been a stout royalist; one he had served with back when they had routine combat commands. Admittedly, he had been a Senior Captain and she just Junior Lieutenant, but she had been steady enough back then and more than steady now.

“Yes, Sir,” replied the Major.

“You’ve got the regiment now, Major Cloggs. Make her proud,” he ordered, shaking his head. If Beardly had been willing to place her faith in this man as her 1st Battalion commander, Wainwright was just going to have to follow suit.

Double blast it, Beardly was one of the few officers he had been able to get assigned to this Brigade, and only because she had been assigned to the same supply dump as himself when the orders came through for Brigade command.

The paper shufflers had resisted, but she was without assignment just like him, and he was the blasted new Commander of a Royal Expeditionary Brigade! There was no way they could refuse him bringing along an old comrade.

After Riggs’s mutiny, Gaspard’s assassination attempt and Major Cucini’s mysterious loss (another steady, if apolitical man Wainwright had served with in the past) he was starting to wonder if that had been the point. To make Wainwright (a royalist) the nominal Brigade Colonel and then abruptly take him out of the picture, placing Riggs (a parliamentarian) in command of the Brigade far away from sight of the Force.

Even his normal protective marine detachment, which was standard fare for a Colonel, had already been assigned and in place the moment he assumed command. Had Wainwright been fortunate, or unfortunate, when outdistancing his protective detail in what he could now admit was a foolish stunt of a maneuver, leading his men through the defensive shielding on grav sleds?

His blood ran cold at the thought of leading so many of his fellow inactive duty and retired non-com’s and officers. Those thoughts led to mutiny and treason, something an old Marine like himself despised more than just about anything else he could name. Deliberately, he pushed the thought out of his head. He did, however, make a note to keep Kopenhagen and her Marines assigned as his permanent protective detail, owing to her efficacy in the role, regardless of her abrasive (some might say insubordinate) personality.

Feeling much better, and yet still oddly upset somewhere deep inside himself, it was with a feeling of relief that he heard a Lancer Company clomping up on his position from behind.

Seeing Colonel Suffic with this advance lancer force, he welcomed the feeling of satisfaction that swept through him, driving out the treasonous thoughts which had befuddled his brain just moments earlier.

“Seems you and your men are slowing down, Suffic,” he gloated over the com-link. “I warned you to pace yourselves, and this is the result: the Marines are back in front where they belong.”

“Get specked, Wainwright,” the Lancer Colonel gritted over the comm.

“Is that any way to treat another Colonel and fellow C.O.,” Wainwright asked sternly, advancing on Suffic’s icon.

When he got close enough to see the other Officer, he grunted as if it were he, not Suffic, who had taken a blow.

“You’ve got a rent in your armor more than a foot wide, and you’re leaking vitals all over your torso plate, man,” he scolded Suffic. “Not to mention you’ve taken a shot clean through your visor!”

“Blighter came at me with a vibro-knife, I didn’t see it coming until it was too late,” Suffic grudged, staggering to a halt and leaning against the wall.

“Pop that visor and let me take a look at it,” Wainwright instructed sternly, “at the very least, you need a new one for a working HUD.”

“The HUD is pretty primitive in these old suits,” Suffic waved him away dismissively, but Wainwright would not be deterred.

“Get a hold of yourself, Colonel,” he ordered the other man harshly. “You do no one any good if you collapse on your feet. Now pop that visor!” he barked.

When Suffic reluctantly lifted it and the Marine Colonel could see inside, he slammed his fist into the wall.

“You’ve lost your eye, man!” Wainwright cried, grabbing the other man to offer support.

“It’s just a flesh wound,” Suffic declared, shaking him off.

“Not it’s not, your eye’s gone and you’re bleeding through a great bloody big gash in your torso armor as well!” Wainwright snarled.

“I’ve had worse. Worry about your men, and let me worry about mine,” Suffic growled in return, not giving an inch of ground.

“It’s not you I’m worried about, you fool,” Wainwright seethed, seeing the other man arch at his attempted sympathy, “just your chain of command, and that Lady of yours back there. What’ll happen to all of them when you drop dead on us? I doubt any of them are going to listen to me, and even if they did, the middle of combat is one Hades of time to be sorting things out!”

Suffic hesitated.

Sensing victory, Wainwright pushed forward, “You need to get those wounds seen to.”

“I can hop in a tank when this is over,” Suffic shook his head defiantly.

“Did these pirates have healing tanks back on the Prince, and even if they did, have any of your doctors survived?” Wainwright pushed, conveniently failing to mention that his Brigade came staffed with a full crew of doctors and combat medics.

“I can make it,” Suffic said flatly, “now back off,”

Wainwright decided it was time to change tact.

“We lost contact with the Armor Prince and your Lady when the Pirates broke our lines, and we have a number of serious cases we’ve been dragging with us,” Wainwright said instead.

“When was this,” cried Suffic.

“Don’t push this off on me; I warned you our lines were overextended,” Wainwright said gruffly, pointing an accusing finger. “Why don’t you take a Company of walking wounded, and convoy the more serious cases back to the Prince. You can get your wounds looked to and make sure Lady Akantha is still holding out.”

Suffic looked genuinely torn.

“We have to keep going, we’ve got drive a knife right through the heart of this station and break their will to fight, or we’re finished,” Suffic grudged, placing a new hand on the wall for support. “Done.”

“Trust me, I know the score,” Wainwright nodded grimly.

Nothing was said for several moments as they considered their respective courses of action.

“Go get yourself looked at, make sure the Prince is holding, and pick up whatever reinforcements may have trickled in since we were cut off,” Wainwright urged.

“We already got most of whatever was coming,” Suffic admitted, then sighed in defeat. “Alright, I’ll get the wounded back and pick up any reinforcements that might or might not be there, and then head back here.”

“And get yourself seen,” Wainwright added.

“And get myself looked at,” Suffic agreed wearily.

“Well, what are you waiting for, Colonel,” Wainwright growled. “I’ve got Marines dying out here because we’ve no place to stop and treat them. Get your rear into gear!”

Suffic glared at him for moment before passing orders — on a separate channel — to his Lancer Captains.

“I’m a-getting, I’m a-getting,” he grumbled, and after the orders had been confirmed, he turned and staggered back the way he had come.

“The man thinks he’s young enough to run around at the tip of the spear like some kind of hotshot platoon leader suddenly given command of the company,” Wainwright said to Sergeant Kopenhagen, shaking his head.

She stared at him in disbelief before looking around pointedly at their current position.

Wainwright felt his face redden. “At least I sent out scouts,” he protested.

“Uh-huh,” she replied, sounding unconvinced.

“You’re the leader of a protective detail, Sergeant,” he said irritably, “get busy worrying about protecting, and let me deal with the rest.”

“As you order, Colonel,” Kopenhagen acknowledged.

He turned away muttering to himself before switching his comm. Frequency. “Major Cloggs,” he called on a direct link to the Major.

“Yes, Sir,” Cloggs replied promptly.

He glared at Kopenhagen out of the corner of his eye. “Assign one of your best Captains to spearhead the next big push inward,” he ordered.

Not even knowing what he was saying, the infernal woman in charge of his protective detail glared at him, causing Wainwright to turn away.

“I’ve just he man for the job, Colonel,” the Major replied with such relief in his voice, that Wainwright wondered if someone had been speaking out of turn. He deliberately did not look at the Sergeant again this time.

Chapter 67: Trouble on the Armor Prince

“I keep getting an error in the environmental systems, My Lady,” said the Lancer woman at the controls.

“Is that so,” Akantha asked, cocking an imperious eyebrow.

“The error only appeared after she accidentally activated the controls, Mistress,” another Tracto woman explained, as she shot her fellow lancer a withering glance.

“The error is there now,” flared the woman at the environmental control panel.

“If it isn’t critical to the ship, then ignore it,” Akantha ordered irritably.

“It’s something to do with the sewage tanks,” the woman said, “there’s some kind of blockage. Somehow, I activated the emergency evacuation controls, but something is stuck in the tanks. It won’t eject.”

“The septic tank, Hecate… Really?” drawled Isis, her nominal lancer superior, due to her slightly better grasp on technology. “That is what has you hot and bothered?”

“Listen Isis,” snarled Hecate.

“Stop,” Akantha stood, forcing compliance with her physical presence. When the silence she sought was attained, she stepped up to the console for a look, but the numbers, dials and gauges made little sense to her.

“On the possibility it could be someone attempting to sneak into our citadel through the sewers, I want a team on the hull, and another to physically inspect the tanks. I don’t want to hear anything more about it until we receive their report,” Akantha said stiffly, upset at her continued inability to understand the functions of all these Starborn created consoles at a look. She really needed to adjust her focus from learning the language, as she had already become proficient in their tongue.

Jason had always handled those details so well, but with him gone, it looked like she would be forced to dive head-first into the sorts of boring details that her Protector had always seemed to enjoy.

She slapped her hands together, causing her impromptu little bridge crew to jump.

“How many of the crew has been put into battle suits,” she demanded, changing the subject.

“Four hundred working suits have been patched together, Mistress,” reported Isis.

“That still leaves too many crewmembers without the ability to fight back,” Akantha declared.

“We’re holding the pirates at the main gates of this ship — the loading gantries — with these reinforcements,” Isis said with a frown.

“Not good enough,” Akantha stated imperiously, having already considered her next course, “we need to instruct our men at the gates to let the next wave inside the perimeter. They are then to annihilate them, where supporting crew can retrieve their equipment. We can then use their suits to put more of our men into the fight.” Once again, she ignored the fact that other than the untrained crew in suits, most of her ‘men’ were actually women.

Traditionally in her culture, the woman would be called up to man the gates when the men sortie out en masse to crush the enemy. The semi-spiteful interaction between Hecate and Isis made her wonder if she had made an error by instinctively falling back on Tracto tradition in this situation.

She pushed that uncertainty to the side. The other women were both trained lancers, and she would treat them as such. If they could not learn to work together, she would break them; just as she would do to anyone else who attempted to stall her victory.

Chapter 68: Assignment: Tanks… the Septic Tanks

“Murphy weeps, but it reeks in here; I didn’t believe anything could smell worst than the tanks on the Clover,” exclaimed the environmental technician.

“Just thank your lucky stars you’re inside this tank, and not out there getting shot at with the rest of the crew,” his partner reminded him with a long-suffering sigh.

“You don’t know what it’s like, cleaning tanks like these day in and day out,” whined the enviro-tech.

“I don’t care,” exclaimed the assistant gunner, “I’m here to do a job and so are you.”

“If it’s not the tanks, it’s the filters; if it’s not the filters, it’s the pipes. Mold, mold, mold, and if it’s not space mold, it’s green creepers and space rats,” moaned the enviro-tech. “And let me tell you, they come the size of small dogs in some of those pipes!”

“What, the rats?” the gunner asked politely.

“What? No, the green creepers and—” the Tech gasped as he scrambled backward, “Sweet Murphy, we’ve got to get out of here!”

The assistant gunner grabbed him by the shoulder and forcibly stopped him, pulling out a hand stunner to emphasize his mood. “We’ve got a job to do, and we’re going to do it; green creepers or no green creepers. They can’t be that bad,” he said the ring of command entering his voice. This had gone on long enough; it was time to insert some control over this tech, even if he did know his job ten times better than any gunner that was ever born.

“That’s not a creeper; it’s a bomb! We need to get out of here, and call in the hazmat team,” shouted the Tech, still trying to back away.

“There may not be a hazmat team any more,” the assistant gunner said, with a slow-burning hatred laced throughout his voice, “I heard the Armory went Parliament.”

Pulling the enviro-tech forward with him, the assistant gunner shone a light on the large metallic object lodged sideways in the tank, where the welds holding it in place had broken loose.

“You’re right; it’s definitely a bomb,” he said dryly.

“I told you,” squealed the Tech.

The gunner stared at the flashing lights on the side of the bomb, which he realized with a sinking sensation was some kind of modified missile.

“This is Assistant Gunner Tobias Pierre, and we’ve got a problem… a big problem,” he reported over his com-link. “Someone’s rigged this ship to explode.”

Maintaining his grip on the squirming tech, he escorted the smaller man out of the tank. Someone higher up the chain of command than him was going to have to deal with this, before they were all blown to pieces.

Chapter 69: The Scramble

“How did we miss this,” Akantha snapped, turning slightly pale.

“We never bothered to sweep the ship with scanners for bomb emissions,” Hecate replied.

“What kind of person blows up their own citadel,” Isis boggled.

Akantha closed her eyes briefly and scowled. “The kind of person determined to deny this battleship to anyone strong enough to defeat him,” she glared around the room.

“Yes, Mistress,” the bridge crew said in response to her silent rebuke.

“We need to get it off this ship, and scan the rest of the vessel for others of its kind,” Akantha concluded.

“Yes, Mistress,” Isis said faintly.

“Well, what are we waiting for,” Akantha demanded.

“I don’t know how to defuse a bomb,” Isis said, glancing around the bridge.

“Neither do I, Mistress,” agreed Hecate, and the rest of the crew followed suit.

“I think anyone who knew how to defuse a bomb went with Suffic’s lancers,” Isis suggested.

Akantha slammed her fist into the side of the Captain’s Chair.

“Maybe one of the Gunners knows something useful,” she accused her bridge staff.

There was another silent pause as her crew accepted her latest chastisement. “Who should I contact, Hold Mistress,” Isis asked hesitantly.

“The new Chief Gunner is Lesner; I don’t remember his first name,” Akantha waved away the details. “Find him,” she ordered.

They turned to start the task, when the woman manning the communication console jerked in her chair.

“The Gate Guard reports they are picking up an unusually large amount of blaster fire at the edge of their sensor range. It seems the pirates are coming in force,” she reported.

Akantha grabbed the hilt of her sword for comfort.

“Pirates have poor discipline, worse than our people when we first got our hands on advanced weaponry,” Akantha said firmly. “They often begin firing before they come into contact with our Lancers. Call up extra militia forces from the crew for reinforcements.”

“My Lady,” exclaimed Lancer at communications jumping out of her chair.

Akantha suppressed a groan. What now? she wondered.

“It’s Colonel Suffic! He says he’s bringing back a convoy of wounded, and that all the firing was them tearing another wave of pirates to pieces,” she said excitedly.

“Stop my last order,” Akantha exclaimed excitedly. Suffic would know how to disarm that bomb, if anyone did!

“Which one, My Lady,” asked Isis looking perplexed.

Akantha reseated herself on the Captain’s Chair imperiously before continuing.

“The one for Chief Gunner Lesner,” she replied confidently. “Suffic will know how to deal with this bomb. Continue searching the ship for active transmissions that might indicate another bomb. We will bedevil our foes and crush the enemy yet! Wreck and ruin to the enemy,” she exclaimed.

The bridge crew gave a cheer.

Chapter 70: Suffic in a Bind

“I need you, Colonel,” Akantha’s voice came over his link.

“I’m yours, My Lady,” Suffic said straightening. A groan escaped his lips as the movement pulled on his barely patched together side. The synth-flesh and liberal application of quick heal were barely up to the task of holding his insides where they belonged, after the running battle to get the wounded back to the Armor Prince.

“Are you fit for duty, Hansel,” Akantha sounded concerned for his well-being.

“’Tis but a scratch, Lady Akantha,” he assured her, dismissing his pain and injuries as unimportant. She would not be calling to say she needed him unless it was urgent.

“You and all of your Men have fought with honor this day,” Akantha commended, then continued on speak in her usual bloodthirsty, glory-bound vein, praising their Lancers and then railing against the enemies and foes arrayed against them.

For a moment, everything whited out, and his ears started ringing.

“That is why I need you to go down and defuse the bomb in the sewage tank before it destroys the Ship,” she finished in that authoritative voice of hers. At times like this, she sounded even more like a Princess, or a bona fide Royal, than the Little Admiral Jason Montagne. Of course, she also had less care for those that got in her way…

Everything suddenly snapped back into focus. There was a bomb? And it was about to blow up the ship!?

“I’ll take care of it, My Lady,” he reassured her, using a voice he had learned as a Lieutenant in command of a fresh platoon of trainees: calm and soothing, yet at the same time conveying the absolute ironclad assurance that everything was under control.

Akantha sighed, and he could sense that tight, angry energy she so often carried around inside herself release ever so slightly.

“I can always rely on you, Hansel,” she said gratefully, sounding as close to happy as she ever did.

“How fare our forces inside the Omicron,” she asked, sounding eager instead of hard-pressed for the first time since his return.

“The enemy has more battlesuits than we had hoped, and we have been hard-pressed every step of the way into the station,” he reported, refusing to sugar-coat it.

“World of Men,” Akantha swore.

“I left Wainwright in Command of the drive, while I brought the wounded here for relief,” he continued.

“You left one of those Marines in command our Lancers,” she cried, sounding outraged.

“He seems a good enough man, if with a few rough edges,” he assured her, “besides, I left the Captains with strict instructions to press on, no matter if he gave them orders to retreat. They are only to pull back if Master Force Sergeant Louis Burgundy concurs with the order.”

“Force Sergeant Burgundy is an evil, little, rule-bound toad of a man,” Akantha muttered with distaste.

“That’s his job, Lady,” he rebuked her. No one liked a drill sergeant, and without separate training facilities, Sergeant Burgundy had been forced to hold down two hats: one as head Training Instructor, and the other as top sergeant for the Contingent. He was steady, if uninspired, which was why he was still a sergeant instead of one of Suffic’s captains.

There was an angry silence on the other end of the line.

“Hopefully he turns his beady gaze little gaze as closely upon this other Colonel as he has upon our native Warriors,” she said finally.

“I’m sure he will,” he soothed, pushing down his own worry at not being out there with his men.

“I mis-like this. I mis-like this extremely,” Akantha said sounding distressed. “It was Marines who broke the charge of our loyalist gunners and captured the Clover for that wretched Parliament; the very same Parliament which seeks to thwart our designs at every turn!”

“You said his own men were trying to kill him down in Engineering. Wainwright should be reliable,” he said heavily.

“Let us hope,” she said flatly.

“I will check on that bomb,” he said, realizing how much time had been wasted while there was a bomb still ticking away, “and perhaps My Lady might check to make sure the self-destruct system hasn’t been activated. I’d hate for the scuttling charges to go off after we disable the bomb.”

“I will do so at once,” Akantha agreed, before signing off.

Chapter 71: Suffic on The Rocks

The Lancer Colonel stared down at the so-called bomb with dismay.

“It’s an old anti-mutiny device,” he concluded with a sinking sensation.

“How do we disarm it, Colonel,” asked former Warrant Lesner. The new Chief Gunner had followed him down into environmental as soon as he’d spotted him. Suffic still could not believe that Curtis Bogart was dead.

“Parliament’s killing us off one by one, all of the old royalists,” he mumbled absentmindedly.

“Did you say something, Colonel,” Lesner asked, sounding concerned.

Realizing he had spoken his thoughts out loud, Hansel Suffic shook his head.

“Just talking to myself, Chief,” he replied shortly, more upset with himself than anything.

“I get it,” said Lesner.

Suffic looked at him and then slowly nodded. The other man certainly had his own fair share of ghosts.

“It’s a people killer, Chief,” he explained, glaring down at the device.

“And?” the other man pressed.

“It must be linked into the ship through the environmental systems,” Suffic mused aloud, “we knew they put them in some of these ships, just not where they went.”

“I can see you’re wounded, but we need to stay on task,” Lesner insisted, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Suffic shook it off angrily and when a Lancer in power armor gets angry, lesser men (like gunners) jumped out of the way.

“Sorry,” he said gruffly.

“It’s alright,” Lesner said this time keeping his distance.

Suffic grimaced. “It was intended to cause maximum human casualties, but by design is supposed to leave the vast majority of the ship’s electrical and mechanical systems unharmed,” he explained.

“Sweet, Crying Murphy,” Lesner said under his breath.

“It’s rather elegant, in its own terrible way; it was built to gut the ship of its crew, but leave the systems intact for later recovery,” he continued heavily.

“It’s a man killer, I hear you. Now let’s get it off our ship,” urged the new Chief Gunner.

“There’s only one way to move it,” Suffic said, for some reason feeling the urge to cringe. But he didn’t cringe because that’s not what a real man did when staring death in the face. Did Spalding cringe when he jumped in that reactor? he asked himself.

The only answer he came up with, was that the crazy engineer was probably too out of his gourd most of the time to have such a reaction.

“Once activated, it can’t be stopped,” Suffic said simply.

“You said it could be moved though, so let’s do that,” Lesner prompted with a sharp nod. “I’ll get a crew together, and we’ll move her out to a safe distance from the ship.”

Suffic shook his head slowly, the possibilities rapidly flitting through a mind he knew was exhausted with trauma and blood loss.

“Due to its nature, it’s designed to only allow someone to move it deeper into the ship for greater effect, if the area it was in sustained battle damage,” he said simply. “If you try moving it in an outward direction, it goes off,”

“Huh,” Lesner grunted, his face working nervously. “We’ll just get our crew outside the ship, let it go off and then storm right back inside. It’ll be a race, but any of the pirates that get inside between the time we exit, and the time it goes off, should be fried.”

Suffic blinked. He knew he really was blitzed, since he had never even considered that possibility. The only question was if that would be enough to give his boys stuck inside the Omicron a fighting chance. On the whole, he had to reluctantly decide that it did not. There simply was not enough time to fool around, hoping enough battlesuited pirates flooded the ship to tip the balance in their favor.

“That’s a good plan, Chief,” he agreed unhappily.

“Then why all the doom and gloom?” asked Lesner.

“Because I can’t let you go through with it, man,” Suffic explained, leveling his blaster rifle at Lesner.

“Why not,” Lesner asked, ignoring the rifle, “just leave it in here and let’s go.”

“That won’t solve the problem,” the Colonel said, thinking out loud.

“Yes it will,” exclaimed Lesner, looking concerned for the first time since Suffic pointed the blaster rifle at him.

“It saves the ship and still gives those on her the chance to escape,” the Lancer allowed, “but it doesn’t do much to pull out a win, and it does even less for our boys and girls stuck inside the Omicron fighting for their lives.”

“We’re doing everything we can, that’s enough! It has to be enough; there’s not anymore to give,” cried Lesner, and Suffic could see that the man was struggling with his own survivor’s guilt. He eased the tension off the trigger out of sympathy for the other man.

“I’ll carry it inside the Omicron,” declared Suffic, “the sensors shouldn’t detect the difference, with this ship hard docked.”

“You’re injured,” Lesner pointed out reasonably, “let me take it in and drop it off.”

“You wouldn’t know which way to go to get it far enough away for safe detonation,” the Colonel argued.

“One your Lancers then,” Lesner retorted. “And I’m not talking one of those under-educated Tracto boys; one of us can carry it in and drop it off.”

“You don’t understand; once the bomb is activated, you can only move it if you have the right codes,” Suffic insisted.

“I’m sure you have them, or we wouldn’t be here arguing about this,” snapped Lesner.

Suffic sighed, closing his eyes as he started swaying. “I was part of an illegal network that hacked the maintenance codes,” the Lancer Colonel explained. “We heard Parliament was putting them on all the ships with royalist crews.”

Lesner stared at him blankly.

“Is now the part when you tell me why you have the gun on me?” the Chief Gunner asked.

“We learned that if you booted up the maintenance cycle while the bomb was activated, there was a failsafe. As soon as the person moving the bomb let go of it, the blasted thing went off,” explained Suffic. “It didn’t matter how much time was left on the clock.”

“Put me in a suit and give me a guide,” Lesner suggested abruptly, “or if you don’t think I’d make it, I’ve got half a dozen men who’ve lost everything, and are younger and haler than the either of us. If it has to be done, we’ll do it. Never fear, Colonel; we won’t let you down.”

“The bombs had a list of approved maintenance personnel that was updated periodically. This thing was designed to go off if a person not on the approved list tries to tamper with it. There was a System’s Analyst, one of us,” he gave Lesner a meaningful look, “who infiltrated the Security Directorate, and you don’t want to know what he had to do to get in there. He uploaded the biometrics of a number of us stationed on the different royalist ships and critical ground based facilities of the day. I’m pretty sure Bogart was on that list, I was on it, but neither you nor anyone else on the Armor Prince, at least as far as I’m aware, are on that list.”

“It’s a suicide mission, you have to know that,” said Lesner quietly.

“My life for my Lancers would have been enough,” Suffic replied, his eyes burning, “but my life in exchange for my Lancers, as well as for the tens or hundreds of thousands dying along the Border Worlds because these pirates are wrecking the industry they need to survive? It’s more than I could hope for,” he said, meaning every word. “That ignores the fate of millions on Tracto, including my own wife and family, who will be eaten alive if the Bugs aren’t stopped.”

The Chief Gunner looked like he wanted to argue, but Suffic shook his head emphatically.

“That’s not even a question, Lesner,” the Lancer Colonel growled. “I don’t care if there is another who could take this bitter cup; I will quaff of it, and consider my life well spent.”

“If you go alone, you could be killed, and all of us caught in the blast radius,” Lesner warned, as if he could read the next thing on his mind.

“I will need help,” Colonel Suffic admitted reluctantly.

Lesner slapped his chest. “Me and my boys are in armor now, and I can gather enough volunteers, including myself, who are happy to escort you.”

“I need trained personnel; a small yet quick moving group of men I can rely on,” Suffic shook his head in negation.

“Who will take over when you’re gone? The Little Admiral is dead or lost, and you…” Lesner tried one last time. It was clear he did not expect to convince the Colonel, but it was a question they both knew needed to be asked.

Suffic felt troubled. “The Lady can hold the Contingent together for as long as she lives,” he said finally. Akantha was less than ideal as the direct Commander of the Lancers, but right now, she was the only choice. There might be, and probably were others among his officers who were better tacticians, but not one of them could command respect like Akantha could.

Lesner eyed him doubtfully, but held his tongue.

“Perhaps Wainwright can help if she gets in over her head, although I hate the thought of my boys getting rolled into the Marines,” he sighed.

“Then I can only see one problem: how are we going to get this thing out of here. More importantly, how are we going to carry it. Even in power armor that thing is too bulky, and if you let go of it for even a second,” Lesner made a sharp grinding sound mimicking that of a neck breaking.

“At my best, I couldn’t carry that,” Suffic said doubtfully.

“We’ll need a grav-cart,” Lesner concluded abruptly.

“Good thinking,” Suffic agreed, feeling grateful to the other man, as he could feel that his own mental facilities were not at their best. Careful to keep his hand on the blaster rifle, he slowly pulled it off target and slung it over his shoulder.

Chapter 72: Akantha in Command

The ship shook from the force of some blow.

“What in the World of Men is that,” demanded Akantha.

“We’re being fired on by the pirates,” reported a woman at the sensor consoles.

“They’re always firing at us, but they can’t get inside,” Akantha said shortly.

“No, I mean by pirate ships,” exclaimed the woman.

“Find me targets and contact the gun deck,” Akantha said fiercely. “Someone remind me later that I owe Chief Gunner Lesner the weight of his head in Trillium for having the idea, as well as the courage, to tell me we needed gunners stationed on the gun deck!”

“Incoming transmission,” relayed the woman at communications.

“Put it through,” said Akantha, clenching the hilt of her Bandersnatch until her knuckles turned white.

An image appeared on the screen. It was another man in a costume; no doubt he was trying to be intimidating.

“We have you now, Confederation, har har har,” he gloated, then did a double take. “Where’s the Admiral I spoke with last time, the one I’m going to kill?”

“If you are referring to my Protector Jason Montagne, he is not here,” Akantha said stiffly.

“No matter,” he continued, glaring through the screen at her, “you will die, Confederation, and your Confederation lackeys will die for daring to chase the League back to Omicron Five!”

“I’m reading a number of cutters and corvettes circling around our rear,” reported the sensor operator. “Men, but these controls are hard to use. I can’t be more specific, Mistress.”

“Who are you, little man,” Akantha asked, looking down her nose as she stood from her chair.

“It is I, Commodore Strider of the Broken Maiden, your nemesis returned from death to destroy you,” he declared theatrically.

“Cutters and Corvettes you say,” Akantha inquired of the sensor operator, deliberately looking unimpressed for the imager

“Yes My Lady, around a dozen of them,” she replied.

“Heave to and prepare to be boarded,” the bombastic pirate cried, “or the League Fleet comprised of Piranha Squadron, the Skull Rangers, the Blackhold Armada and the Deep Fleet Space Army, will deliver you unto your doom!”

“We are docked with the station, you imbecile,” Akantha said coldly, then turned to the lone individual at tactical, “instruct Gunnery to fire at these vessels at their leisure.”

“I mean drop your shields and throw down your personal weapons. Black Philip may run from you in terror, but not the League of—” he started, then a pair of turbo-lasers shot out from the Armor Prince.

“Avast,” he yelled over the open channel, “take evasive maneuvers!”

“I’m getting another transmission,” said the communication stander.

“Do you want me to break connection with the Station,” yelped the shuttle pilot at the Armor Prince’s helm controls.

“And place us within range of the station’s main weaponry so we can be destroyed?” Akantha asked scornfully.

Looking over at the communications technician, Akantha realized there was really was very little she could do, stuck in dock and riding a chair on the bridge. Even the Captain’s Chair. The Gunners would fire, and Tactical and Sensors would try to help them. She suddenly realized that being the Admiral did not feel exactly as she had imagined. How Jason managed to sit here, making it all look so effortless, was beyond her. Of course, he had a moving ship and a full bridge crew to respond to his every whim while she only had… She looked around at the scant crew she had assembled and scowled.

“Oh, put it through,” she said shortly. There really was nothing better to do with her time, other than sit here worrying about their new ship being destroyed.

“I don’t think it’s intended for us, Lady Akantha,” said the Comm. stander.

Akantha glared at her.

An image popped up on the main screen.

“Back away and keep your ships clear of ours, Monkey Boy,” said the image of a blacker-than-night person on the main screen, “we have itchy fingers and can’t stand the smell of your kind up close, not unless it’s wafting up from the bonfire!”

“The pirates are broadcasting their identities in the clear. I think we’re getting a transmission from the Deep Fleet Space Army,” reported the Comm. stander.

“I do believe Jason previously defeated both the Piranha’s and these Deep Fleet fools,” Akantha said stiffly, the use of her Protector’s name sending a stabbing spear through her heart.

Another image appeared on the main screen, but this time it was the giant, grey face of a Sundered Demon!

“The Primarch said he has no more words for you, Hold Mother,” the Demon rumbled, nodding his head stiffly. Akantha’s stomach clenched, even as her face froze into an icy mask.

Those black eyes stared into hers as if from the very pits of insanity, then the beast spoke again.

“No words,” it repeated, “only deeds.” So saying, the Sundered cut the connection.

“Target that last transmission,” Akantha said coldly.

“Yes, Mistress,” acknowledged the woman at tactical.

“Mistress, the pirates have started fighting among themselves,” exclaimed the Sensor Operator. “I have many small blips; they’re hard to get a lock on, but… yes! One Corvette just lost power, and two of the cutters are leaking air!”

“Stop my last order,” Akantha instructed, pulling her sword out of the deck and waving it at the main screen, “the Demons are on our side now!”

Whirling the sword over her head, she suddenly wished that fighting from the bridge was as much fun as fighting hand to hand in person.

Letting others wield her weapons on the enemy grated against her nature. How did Jason do it? she wondered. He could sit up here so calmly, when all she wanted to do was take her sword and rend her foes, cleaving them into little bits!

Chapter 73: Glue Will Fight

“Sending three parts in four of our Males to attack the amoral humans is a very flawed plan,” declared the Elder.

“Holding back the fourth, to guard the families, is a risk,” Glue agreed obtusely, causing the Elder to purple.

“But our females are very accurate shots, and I am satisfied they will more than make up the difference,” the Primarch continued blithely, ignoring the Elder’s outrage.

“Half of the Females is too many; better only the adventurous few, the ones who always volunteer for these assignments,” the Elder snorted, stamping his feet and waving his arms about.

“It is traditional for the mature females, all save the very old, the very young or the last in a family grouping with younglings, to rise in defense of the Home against outside forces,” Glue said implacably, refusing to be drawn into the argument the Elder was trying to frame.

“Defense,” snarled the Elder, “the very word! This is not defense; this is war. This is the very meaning of the word ‘offense,’ it is in no way defense.”

“If we fail, the differences will seem marginal,” Glue said flatly.

The Elder snorted with outrage.

A trio of females came over, placing their hands on the Elder’s legs and wrists.

“Come Puko. Come away, the Moot is over,” they urged, pulling him away. The Elder turned red eyes upon the females, took a deep breath and expelled it thunderously, closing his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, they were nearly their normal color.

“The time for speaking is done, and we need you now. We need you focused,” the eldest female said sternly, as soon as it was obvious that reason had returned to her mate.

“Misha, why are you carrying a weapon,” the Elder grumbled rebelliously, and Glue politely turned away to give the family the politeness of false privacy.

“I am not that old yet, Puko,” she said simply.

“I have lost six wives, twelve brothers, nine sons, and thirty four daughters; I could not bear to lose you as well, my Misha. I cannot lose any more of my family,” the Elder said, bending down sweep all four of the much smaller females into an all-encompassing embrace. Squealing at first, and then growling and slapping him with, to Glue’s ears, an outrage more mock than genuine, the Elder’s wives made clear their displeasure with this public treatment.

“Oh, pish,” said the eldest, Misha, from within Puko’s grasp, “our family does not have a seat at the Elders’ table, and great respect with the Society because we are the last to stand between the People and the danger outside.”

“You cannot fight, I forbid it! This family has sacrificed more than its share already,” growled Puko the Elder, releasing them to the floor to give them an intimidating glare.

“Yes, Puko,” sighed Misha, holding her weapon at the ready, pointed at the ceiling. Then she moved to stand behind him, clearly preparing to follow him into battle.

“I said you are to go home,” Puko grunted as he bared his teeth threateningly, giving his wives a push down the corridor.

“Of course, dear,” Misha agreed and the other wives nodded, assembling behind the eldest female. They were readying themselves as many similar fighting units spread out down the hall were doing; with the large, armored male placed in front to deal with the human power armor, and the smaller females with rifles ready to shoot around, beside, underneath and between legs of the male and guard the rear of the formation.

“I am the Leader of this family,” Puko stomped his feet in a quick little pattern and flared himself up, flexing his muscles and bulking out his torso.

“We are following this great leader like obedient wives, are we not,” Misha asked her fellow wives pointedly.

They nodded with great gravity, emphasizing how much respect and thought had gone into the gesture, and then shuffled around the Elder for a clearer line of sight for their weapons. Their antics would have been almost comical, if not for the deadly seriousness in their faces, and the experienced way they handled their blaster rifles and flash shotguns.

“I shall go home now,” Puko declared, and stomped around as if to do just that. The females just stared at him with patient, serious eyes.

The Elder turned to Glue with disgust.

“I might as well go die in your battle,” Puko grumbled. “At least then I might get some respect. By the Code, I get none at home, Glue!” He turned for a moment to glare at his wives. They smiled sweetly at him and one, more daring than the rest, popped her lips in a noisy version of flying kiss.

Glue very carefully kept his feelings from his face, instead nodding gravely in agreement.

The Elder picked up a large, thin section of hull metal shaped by the Sundered weapon makers into a shield. Appearing even more disgusted than before, he grabbed a long, broad-headed spear with many notches along its lightweight, composite shaft. His weapons ready, he stood beside the Primarch, shaking his head.

“Being a husband requires many sacrifices,” Glue commiserated, suppressing a smile.

“At least my enemies will respect me before I am done with them,” Puko, the Elder, snarled over his shoulder.

“We are fortunate to have such a big male for a mate, aren’t we, dames,” Misha asked, speaking to the other wives as if having a private conversation.

“Such strong arms and well-muscled legs,” agreed a second in a raised voice which carried through the corridor.

Glue watched out of the corner of his eye as Puko unconsciously flexed his muscles, before visibly catching himself and stiffening.

“I particularly admire those powerful hindquarters, the view back here… we are so blessed to have such a very ‘moral’ family leader,” the third said admiringly and then all four of them burst into arm-slapping chuckles. Their mirth echoed further back down the corridor, causing much tittering, snorting and appreciative stomping of feet from the battle force assembled behind the two leaders.

“Let us go,” Puko said to Glue, putting words to action by stomping down the corridor.

Glue shrugged and took several long strides to catch up with the Elder. They strode shoulder to shoulder in long, loping steps.

“The enemy will not wait for the perfect moment,” the Elder declared, “and your humans are stalled out three decks up from Station Command. It would appear the time for a rescue is upon us!” He spoke as if supporting the humans with quick action had been part of his plan all along, instead of dragging his feet under the guise of caution as he had done.

“The first to battle, this powerful family ‘leader’ of ours,” Misha said proudly to her fellow wives.

Puko quickened his pace, forcing Glue and the other males in their battle group to extend their strides, and the females accompanying them to break out into a dead run.

“Do not take more than one mate,” Puko rumbled, bumping his shoulder into Glue to emphasize his point. “Do not listen to them, no matter how they beg or plead. And they will beg,” he confided, leaning in conspiratorially.

Glue rolled his eyes. It was fortunate to finally find something on which they could reach agreement. Best not to throw it away, he decided.

“It is the natural way, the way of our people since before leaving Old Terra, up until today. Besides, you are such a good provider, a strong powerful male like you can support a large family,” Glue parroted, slapping his chest.

“By the Moral Code, they got to you also,” the Elder exclaimed disbelievingly.

“First they stroke your ego,” Glue agreed, doing a little stuttered foot-stomp of negation.

“Then they wile you with temptation, ‘think what two, or even three females can do at the same time,’” the Elder mimed in a higher-pitched voice, and then grunted derisively. “Years later, you awaken to find yourself surrounded by half a dozen of her sisters, cousins, and even a thin-lipped auntie with the voice of a banshee!”

“Base trickery and deception,” Glue sighed in remembrance.

For the first time, the two males shared a look of mutual understanding before Puko punched the Primarch in the shoulder with enough force to break his stride. Glue returned the favor by shouldering him with just enough force for it not to be considered a full-out shoulder charge, knocking the Elder against the wall.

Thumping each other on the arms and chest, and with much slapping of backs, the two Males chortled in agreement as they marched forward to re-shape their entire race’s destiny.

Chapter 74: In Line Abreast

The Colum of Sundered stretched across several decks, as it steadily marched deeper into the station.

Internal Security Cameras were spoofed, their displays set in a loop displaying normal human traffic instead of the heavily armed line of the People marching on Station Command. The deception was thanks, in no small part, to those like Glue who had been born in need of cybernetic enhancements.

Scouts in advance of the main force, whose normal job it was to clean corridors or haul garbage to the waste recyclers, sent status updates through normal station channels in small data packets hidden within routine, mundane communications.

If the Pirates had been organized enough to have one central, public distributed intelligence data network instead of the half dozen major public outlets that seemed to have sprung up almost organically, the Sundered would have struck with precision and subverted it entirely to their cause. Unfortunately, Glue had concluded that the risk of detection was just too great, trying to take over the six main systems and dozen minor DI’s simultaneously.

Conversely, without such a paranoid alignment including two independent automated networks, as well as a manual control system for each weapon, they could have subverted the Omicron’s ability to defend itself with its beam weaponry and shoot anyone they felt like out of cold space. They would never have needed to set foot within the Command Center.

As it was, they had been able to subvert several of the main data trunks with the intent of taking away the Omicron’s ability to fire-link its weapons on key sections of the station. Sections which the Sundered space fighters and corvettes intended to operate, in support of the Hold Mother. To their disturbance, they had discovered both independent networks in a sub-AI shut down, and everything already on local control.

Both networks were separate, and never used at the same time, so there was no way they could go down simultaneously. The protocols were solid, as they ought to be, being designed by the Sundered themselves. Had the Hold Mother and her Confederation Allies already penetrated network security, or was something else going on?

Finally, two decks down from Station Command, an area defended in paranoid detail with automated weapons and a ready staff of power-armored pirates, the column encountered a platoon-sized guard force moving toward them.

“We got closer than I expected,” Glue commented.

Puko harrumphed and popped his lips derisively, spittle flying in the direction of the approaching pirate security force.

“You overgrown gorillas are going the wrong way; the Confeds are pinned down three sections over, and a deck down. I’ll squirt you over the coord’s,” said a tall human of Imperial extraction.

A darker-skinned pirate with a large patch covering the breast plate area of his armor, sporting the Flag of the Deep Fleet Space Army, stared at them suspiciously.

“I didn’t hear nothing over the net about any of you fur ball’s sending a bunch of smelly fighters against the Confeds,” he said suspiciously in his thick accent.

Glue and Puko, still at the head of the column of their people, ignored the humans as they continued to stomp straight at them in ominous silence.

“I don’t see any sign of the Happy Dancers, the Strange Believers, or the Coalition Hunt Packs,” Puko signaled him over the short range wifi, using his implanted com-link.

Glue skinned his lips back, exposing his teeth.

“Must be waiting to see which side is going to win first,” he squirted back over the wireless.

“The Dancers are not strong fighters, so I expect them to hide first and only fight if cornered,” Puko grunted. “The Coalition is so fragmented, I wouldn’t be surprised to find them fighting for both sides, if the price is right, but the Believers have a Code similar to our own, and have associated with our people for nearly five centuries. The ones locally and throughout this sector have done nothing but prosper since we arrived; I expected more from them!”

“Would you have supported them if they declared they were marching to take over the station and needed your support?” Glue grunted.

Puko was silent, as Glue had clearly made his point.

Then the increasingly nervous human from the Deep Fleet leveled a massively oversized blaster plasma pistol at them

“Stop and turn around Monkey Boys, or we’ll fill you full of lead,” cried the dark-skinned Pirate.

“That’s a plasma weapon. Doesn’t he realize there is no metal slug, or similar substitute in his weapon?” Puko asked over the link, with disgust evident in his posture.

“The Deep Fleet Space Army recruits people from failing or technologically backward worlds, he probably doesn’t know any better,” Glue replied the same way.

Raising his hand, Glue wirelessly signaled the column to halt.

“We done tolerating your outrages,” Glue began, his verbal speech becoming broken as he switched to Confederation Standard. Communicating via his link and/or in his native tongue was easier for him. “This is one chance to repent your crimes and flee. Run far, run fast and never return this place,” Glue commanded the more reasonable of the pirates.

Puko raised his shield.

“Animals do not tell me what to do,” sneered the Deep Fleeter, pulling the trigger on his oversized pistol.

Puko attempted to interpose his shield between them and the plasma shot, but failed when the technologically ignorant Deep Fleet Pirate unloaded his pistol’s single, overpowered shot high and wide into the ceiling.

Not only did the pistol blow a hole in the ceiling the size of a Sundered’s head; it then exploded in the hand of the pirate who had fired it, taking with it everything up to his armored elbow in an explosion of blood, bone and metal.

“The Uplifts have turned on us,” cried the pirate of Imperial extraction, leveling his weapon and firing.

“Females,” Puko snarled, “aim and fire!”

“Males,” Glue ordered, “push!” The Primarch set his shoulders and quickly went to a walk, then a jog, and finally a thundering run, picking up momentum until he was storming down the hall with his sword raised over his head.

All around him, at leg and waist level, the occasional shot lanced out at the pirates as the females supported their charging males.

Crashing into the small force of pirates at full speed, the Primarch knocked over two before he himself was sent spinning to the floor.

The battle was joined.

Chapter 75: Down the Rabbit Hole

He was the very model of a recently upgraded Space Engineer.

“I still don’t understand why Baigon would gave you a flash shotgun when I specifically ordered nothing but stun weapons be released for this operation,” Gants growled in a low voice.

Spalding lifted an eyebrow, his former young protégé seemed significantly put out with this other armory rating, but the old Engineer had brow beaten Baigon into issuing him the weapon of his choice. Still, it was nice to see Gants growing into his role as head of the Armory.

“She wouldn’t give me a plasma weapon; not even so much as one grenade, if that’s what you’re worried about,” the old man protested, said pumping the action of the flash shotgun to ready the next charge. The whine of the shotgun’s capacitor winding up was music to his ornery old ears.

Gants looked like he was about to have a stroke.

“For taking down a glorified smoker’s hut,” the young man whispered angrily.

“Misappropriation of military equipment,” Spalding scowled in return.

“They’re just using what would otherwise be an empty room in an unfinished section of the Station, and possibly enough copper to make a still!” Gants glowered, staring at the lift door they were crouching behind with hot and angry eyes.

“Engaging in illegal activities, to the detriment of themselves and our work schedule,” Lieutenant Spalding retorted.

“Some rot gut, a deck of cards and an illegal cigar or three! They’re not hurting anyone but maybe themselves, and even that’s arguable with modern medical advances,” Gants fired back. He was clearly educated on this subject and when it came to Station Security, the previously uncertain and some might say inept head of the Armory was more than willing to hold his own with anyone, apparently even his former department head.

“They’re nothing but a bunch of hardcore slackers who should be drinking simple meads instead of rot gut, or better yet minding to their posts,” snarled the Chief Engineer, “and I aim to put a stop to the lot of ‘em before this infection spreads like a case of Vermulean crabs in mixed barracks!”

“It’s just some of the guys blowing off steam. We can take them into custody if they show up on duty drunk or fighting,” Gants argued, matching him glare for glare.

“A pair of those fools tried to throw me in the waste recycler,” roared the Chief Engineer, and with a pair of angry kicks from his oversized droid legs, he burst through the door leading directly into the little pressurized den of iniquity.

He barged into the smoke-filled, dimly lit room with holograms of naked women, or far off planetary vistas on the walls. Looking wildly for his quarry, Spalding saw a crude wet bar on the side, and a series of collapsible chairs and tables in the room where men and (in a few rare cases) women were drinking, smoking and playing cards.

He saw an engineering deckhand, wearing a head bag to avoid some of the noisome and billowing smoke in the air, wagering his tool-belt on one side of such a table, against a large stack of credits on the other. The sight so enraged the old Engineering Lieutenant that he pointed his shotgun at the ceiling, aiming directly above the head of the wayward rating.

“Take that, slackers,” he screamed, before discharging his weapon’s persistent beam. The nearly lightning bolt-sized electrical charge scorched a long divot, as he walked it across the ceiling before cutting the bolt of energy, causing a sonic shockwave to shoot from the end of his weapon, before the effect dissipated entirely. Tables rattled and cards were sent flying, as the ponderous beam of energy passed overhead.

“Droids,” screamed the civilian equivalent of a petty officer, who then dove beneath a table, cowering in terror.

Several of the braver civilian crew present, along with a larger number of the military personnel, grabbed spanners and auto-wrenches.

Spalding jacked the slide, ejecting a power-cell and smoothly inserting another into the flash shotgun.

“We’re under attack by Cyborgs,” shouted one of the ratings, as he ran through the hazy, smoke-filled room at the old Chief Engineer.

“This is a raid,” shouted the old Engineer, aiming at a patch of wall just behind the charging rating and cutting loose with another shot.

Lightning shot past the crewman’s ear, as well as past half a dozen other slackers before striking the wall in a wave of pure force that scored a three foot line up and down the duralloy surface. The sonic shockwave at the end of the blast literally picked up the crewman, who was by now only a few feet away, and threw him into the air. He landed back-first onto one of the collapsible gambling tables, which lived up to its name on impact, as it folded beneath the crewman’s weight.

“This is Station Security,” Gants’ voice pierced the din, using a microphone projector, “surrender yourselves to the Armory Department for inspection, and no one needs to get hurt.”

“Run, my little jack-rabbits. Run! Run for your lives,” raged Spalding as he jacked the slide on his flash shotgun, ejecting a smoking, exhausted power cell before slamming another one home.

He strode into the room on his metallic feet, every step causing a clang on the floor. Spalding watched with satisfaction as some of the slackers cowered under their tables, while others ran for the back of the room.

Then he spotted one of the two — the one without a conscience — running from him, using the tables for cover.

“Throw me in the waste recycler, will you,” Spalding roared, discharging his archaic weapon.

The wayward rating only just managed to dive behind the wet bar when the shotgun fired. The beam walked across the various bottles and glasses on, and behind the counter during its two second life. Even more satisfying than the looks of terror on the crew’s faces, was the sonic blast at the end which shattered every visible piece of glassware, which the electrical discharge had missed.

He kept jacking the slide and shooting up the wet bar full of rotgut, until he realized there were no more power cells loaded into his weapon.

“Defective piece of junk,” he snarled, tossing it to the floor and striding over to the counter as if he were just one more customer, and the man hiding behind it, the bartender.

“I’ll take one order of slacker, deep fried,” the wild-eyed Engineer said conversationally, and the yelp and moan of the man cowering just a few feet from him was music to his ears.

“My advice is to find an Armory boy, quick as you can. Admit to every crime they even think of charging you with, and throw yourself on the mercy of the Officer of the Watch,” Spalding suggested in a hard voice. “Because I guaran-blasted-tee, you don’t want me coming up over that counter, you murderous, slacking, idjit!”

The old half-borg had already started to lift his leg, ready to vault the bar. He was more than a little disappointed when the crewman threw himself over the bar in a single leap.

“Hop along, little rabbit,” he screamed with delight as the other man practically ran over to an Armory crewman. The slacker’s shoulders were hunched, as if expecting a blow, as he literally begged to be taken into custody.

“Gonna need to get some proper ventilation lines run into this place,” Spalding observed as he caught a whiff of stale air, the stench of which wrinkled his nose. Tracing potential air duct lines all the way from the ceiling over to behind the counter of the former wet bar, he observed a single, unbroken glass with two fingers of whiskey still inside it.

Glancing around to make sure no one was watching, the old Engineer leaned forward to pick it up. In one smooth, practiced motion, he slammed the entire shot of rotgut straight down his throat.

The old familiar, liquid fire ran down through his mouth and into his belly.

“A terrible habit,” he reprimanded himself with a belch. “We’ll have to make sure we destroy their still before we leave.”

Chapter 76: Remind me why…

“Remind me why I let you talk me into this again!” thundered Puko, grunting with the effort of using the shield in his right hand to hold one battlesuited human against the bulkhead while lunging forward with the spear in his other hand.

The pirate in the blood red armor wielding a diamond tipped chainsaw was knocked away from his eldest wife before he could swing his weapon.

“You didn’t let me talk you into anything! As I recall, I bested you in debate,” Glue raged as he swung the thick, top-heavy sword preferred by his generation. With no females to watch over, he could advance or retreat without fear. As a Pirate knocked his sword down and slammed him into the side of the corridor, he also realized he had no one to watch his back… Or to take the shot this pirate had opened himself up to.

With an unexpected, powerful flash that picked his foe up off his feet, sending the pirate to the floor, Glue was no longer pinned to the wall.

Jumping feet first on the pirate, he ignored the discomfort of his bare feet on hard and in some cases sharpened metal and drove his sword into the human’s neck.

“Watch yourself,” said Misha, Puko’s senior wife sternly from her position lying on the floor, before she rolled into a ball and somersaulted away. Jumping up and bouncing onto the wall, her feet purchased on its metal surface for a split second as she leapt forward, she fired at one of three new foes threatening to flank her husband.

“Yes,” he agreed, even though she was no longer paying any attention to him. Laying about him with all the strength of a Sundered male in the prime of his life, he returned to the heart of the battle.

“Die, Monkey Boy,” screamed a slant-eyed albino-faced human, with hooks where gauntlets should have been.

Glue grunted and refrained from speaking, since he was going to need all his breath for the battles ahead.

Blocking one hook and then the next required the full power of both hands on his sword. A Sundered in his prime might be able to stand toe to toe with power armor, but a human in a battlesuit had the advantage of raw, servo-assisted strength.

Striking out with his armor-less knee, he pounded the albino in the torso to little effect, except to imperil the human’s balance.

“The League will put a bounty on your kind for this betrayal,” screamed the human, smashing Glue in the face with his elbow and sinking a hook into the Primarch’s shoulder armor.

Using his free arm, Glue released a hand from the hilt of his sword. Pulling a vibro-knife from a sheath strapped to his waist belt, Glue brought it around abruptly, slamming the knife into the side armor of the human. The Primarch gave a mighty heave of pure effort, and drove it through the armor, and into the albino’s thoracic cavity.

The albino grunted and slammed his helmeted forehead into Glue’s face.

The albino head butted him repeatedly, and Glue could feel his broad, flat nose break under the force of the repeated impacts.

With a primal shriek, he pulled out the vibro-knife and jammed it into the pirate’s neck servo.

The Pirate’s punishing head motion ground to a halt and he jerked away, pulling his hook free, as well as the knife now lodged in his collar.

“The Deep Fleeters are right; the only thing you’re good for is—” the albino’s tirade was cut off abruptly when Puko’s spear drove into his side and through his heart, the force of the blow slamming the pirate into the side of the wall.

“That is why my generation prefers the spear,” the Elder snorted, bringing his shield up to ward off a human which was attempting to chop him down with repeated blows of a boarding axe. “You can put your whole body behind a blow, not just the power or your arms!”

The Elder pulled on his spear, but it failed to come free. He tried putting a foot on the dead albino to pull it loose, but the axe-wielder was ferociously raining down blows, the force of which were slowly driving down the shield. Soon, it would be too low to protect him.

Stepping forward, Glue launched a mighty two-handed power blow, swinging his sword like a human baseball bat right at the head of the axe wielder. The Human was too focused on chopping the Elder down like firewood, and failed to see the strike until it was too late.

The side of the pirate’s helmet stove in partially and the human dropped to the floor. Unconscious or dead, the Primarch didn’t care, and the power of his two hands jerked his sword free of the metal helmet.

“This is why the younger generations prefer the sword,” Glue explained dryly, raising the weapon in his hand and brandishing it, while the Elder still struggled to free his spear.

With the grace of a moment free from battle, the Elder placed a foot on the dead albino and used both hands to jerk the spear free.

“The spear takes skill to wield; you can’t just wave it around in the air like your little metal stick,” Puko grumbled.

Glue’s father and most of his uncles, save one, had felt the same irrational love for the spear. It must call to something deep within the older generation, because while Glue admired its length and elegance, he vastly preferred the sword he wielded, since it was much more maneuverable at close range.

“Waving around in the air, with no skill,” Glue scoffed angrily, “what is this blade, a toothpick?” He decided to let the matter drop, knowing a lost cause when he saw one. He needed to keep his wind. Glue knew that the Elder’s arm was going to get tired soon, carrying around that heavy shield. Glue’s arms were going to still be relatively fresh and besides, he liked the ability to carry a second weapon at need. Too quickly, he knew he would see if Puko was still as proud of his spear, when the humans kept coming and the Elder’s arms drooped with fatigue.

Chapter 77: Wainwright Under Siege

“They’ve still got us pinned down, but the weight of their attack has lessened,” Wainwright said into the general push.

“We must renew the advance immediately,” declared Captain Atticus.

Wainwright scowled within his helmet, the Lancer Captain had to be just about the most insanely gung-ho company commander the Colonel had ever had the displeasure of serving with. The other Lancer Captains weren’t nearly as bad, but every time Captain Atticus advocated a attack, all the others started clamoring in support as if they were obligated to enthusiastically charge the enemy, despite the fact they were certain to get slaughtered.

“What do you think, Captain Darius,” Wainwright sighed, disgusted at the games he was forced to play to keep his battered forces in line.

“We should mass our forces for a big push, but there is less than no point in running out one by one, the fastest to the front, like the heroes of old,” Darius said after a moment’s contemplation.

“An old man in a young man’s body,” countered one Captain. “Jumping at Shadows,” mocked another. “What is this waiting for the enemy to recover business? We should strike now,” demanded a third Lancer Captain on his command channel. Within moments, those Captains quickly fell to infighting among themselves.

As far as Alabaster Wainwright could tell, Captain Darius was from some rival native ethnic group on their home world, Lyco-something or other. If Atticus said it was night, Darius was just about the only Lancer Captain who seemed inclined to take a long, hard look before agreeing with everything that fool Atticus said. Meanwhile, Atticus and most of the other Captains could be counted on immediately rejecting anything Darius had to say without pause.

It was all very frustrating. However, the infighting had a single redeeming quality: it kept the various Captains from charging headlong into the enemy, like the savage, bloodthirsty barbarians they were proving to be. Such a charge would fritter away their remaining strength, and ultimately result in the deaths of everyone involved in a series of glorious, pointless battles.

How Suffic managed these people, Colonel Wainwright had no clue.

As he waited for the Captains to argue themselves dry, his communicator crackled on his private line and he could hear the sound of heavy breathing and some kind of wet popping sound.

“Whoever thinks this is a sweet time to hack into the Brigade Commander’s private channel, had better get off it right blasted now, and hope I never find his sorry self,” Wainwright said angrily.

There was a surprised hoot in response over the comm.. “Sundered come in force from your galactic south. Prepare,” said a strange, deep voice, one that pronounced his Confederation Standard very strangely.

“Larry Help you when I get my hands around—” the line suddenly went dead, and his built-in suit computer blared a warning. A flashing light indicated that someone had externally hacked into top level Brigade communications.

“A day late and two dollars short,” he snarled, and then the impact of what the prankster had just said penetrated.

“Where the red blazes is the galactic south as it relates to our position,” he barked over the Brigade’s tech channel.

A Marine tech sergeant instantly popped up on his HUD. “I don’t know, but I can find out,” the Sergeant said promptly. “Galactic south is directly below us, Colonel,” he reported after a moment’s pause. “Why do you ask, Colonel?”

Wainwright cut the channel immediately and switched to the general push. “Prepare for Sappers, someone’s coming up from underneath us,” the Marine Colonel barked.

“Are you sure? We’ve got nothing on short range scanners, Sir,” reported Sergeant Kopenhagen.

“Somebody just broke into our secure network, compromised our internal communication and said they, or someone else, is coming up under our feet,” he snapped. “So don’t stand around arguing with my orders; get near a wall and point your weapons at the floor!”

A section of the floor perilously near his position turned red around the edges, and then a ten foot circular section fell to the level beneath them with tremendous clang. The newcomers had just cut through two and a half feet of reinforced duralloy decking, and Wainwright barely had time to process this fact before a foot-long jet of super-cooled fire suppressant struck a man sized section of the super heated edge.

A hairy, black hand quickly grabbed the no longer super heated edge, and Wainwright stared for a moment his mind racing.

“Hold your fire,” he bellowed to the Marines around him.

“We’re under attack, are you crazy,” Kopenhagen demanded, taking aim with her blaster rifle.

“Anyone who fires without being fired upon will be executed for treason,” roared Wainwright. “I repeat: fire when fired upon only!”

“This is stupid,” muttered the Sergeant in charge of his protective detail.

They watched as a hairy, black creature as tall as a short human. It may have been short, but it was almost twice as thick as a human. In an incredible display of strength, it pulled itself up over the edge in the floor in a one handed arm curl; in its other hand was a flash shotgun. Melissa Kopenhagen grabbed Wainwright by the shoulder and unceremoniously hauled him away from the edge.

Landing on his posterior with a thump, his view of the weapon-wielding creature was obstructed by the Sergeants legs and body as she crouched over him with her weapon raised.

The creature stared at them for a moment. “Is this a critical position,” it asked impatiently in a soft, guttural voice.

The Marines around the hole, including their Colonel stared at the creature.

“Hurry,” bellowed a deep voice from down the hole. Wainwright could hear the sound of metal clanging against metal, and weapons firing as fast as they could cycle.

“Come,” the creature with the soft guttural voice said with an underhand scooping motion, clearly indicating the hole.

“What foul AI pit did that thing crawl out of, Sir,” Kopenhagen asked with distaste.

“I think that is one of our mysterious reinforcements,” Wainwright replied, trying to keep the horror he was feeling out of his voice.

“It might be better to throw in with the Pirates before even thinking of trotting down the primrose path with an AI Slave Creature,” Kopenhagen suggested, rearing back.

Seeing his chance, Wainwright scrambled out from underneath his overprotective guard.

“You’ll follow orders is what you’ll do. You’ll kiss that foul creature and say you’d like to do it again, if ordered too, Sergeant!” Wainwright yelled, sensing a genuine threat to his authority.

Then a low, angry sound that did not quite rise to the level of an outright growl, came from the men and women around him.

“What’s next, fighting side by side with droids,” Kopenhagen snarled.

The Colonel slapped a fresh power cell into his Ion Cannon, the deadly sound of its capacitor charging up to full power shooting through the rebellious silence.

“Suffic’s Lancers are man enough to follow me down this AI-Rabbit hole, and I daresay fight beside droids if I ordered them to. It’s just too bad my own Marines are an undisciplined band of gutless wonders too afraid of their own pantyhose to follow their Colonel into battle,” he glared, striding over to the hole and bending his knees.

“We just had a breakthrough into the level below us, Lancer Captains. Home in on my signal and prepare for combat alongside our furry friends,” he ordered, his voice rising to a shout over the shared Lancer Officer Command Channel before jumping down into the hole.

His ears echoed with the faint sounds of joyous shouting over the Lancer channel, as his drop down a deck seriously degraded the signal.

When he was not immediately shot down, and no one tried to restrain him, he figured he must have made the right call.

For a long moment, none of his Marines followed him down the hole and he stood there alone, surrounded by what looked like nothing more than a bunch of giant, vibroblade wielding, overgrown gorillas in non-powered metallic armor. Behind them were smaller gorillas, sans armor like the first one he had seen. But these smaller ones had deadly looking ranged weapons, which they clutched professionally.

A few more moments passed and Wainwright figured he had finally lost control of, if not the entire Brigade, at the very least his protective detail and the company they were positioned alongside.

Then a series of four thumps sounded behind him as four figures in marine issue battlesuits dropped down beside him. Another three dropped in close after that and scrambled to clear the hole. The rest began to follow them down in a flood of thumping metal boots striking the duralloy floor of the station.

“Pantyhose, is it,” Sergeant Melissa Kopenhagen demanded as she clomped to a position at Wainwright’s side.

“Secure the drop zone, but make sure not to upset our new friends while doing it,” he ordered, unable to resist a grin at the Sergeant’s consternation.

She was clearly unwilling to let the matter rest. “Gutless—”

“The pantyhose comment put you off your stride,” he interrupted her, “but I was wrong on the last part, and happily so,” he added, glad that his grin was hidden behind his face plate.

“If you weren’t an Officer…,” she glared.

“Oh but I am, Sergeant, and it’s an Officer’s duty to keep his soldiers moving, which I’m pleased to report that you are,” he remarked dryly, as he swung the barrel of his ion cannon around. “Now form it up!”

A large, powerful Uplift strode toward him, followed by a second. The second was surrounded by little child gorillas, which seemed to shadow the second massive Uplift. The large ones looked almost big enough to take on a man in power armor. Almost, he thought uneasily.

“Are you General of Confederation Lancers,” asked the first one, the one without the accompanying children.

Wainwright glanced back and forth between the two creatures, his mouth twisting. He forcefully ignored the feeling of disgust twisting his gut into knots.

Looking at the creature’s ear to avoid the stomach churning wrongness of its face, he sucked in a breath as soon as he spotted the flashing light of electronics implanted in the back of his head.

“I’m a Colonel,” he said shortly, not wanting to confuse the issue with facts or the rising sense that maybe he was on the wrong side. Better if the galaxy were ruled by pirates, rather than AI’s!

“We’ll have not cost/benefit ratios under my watch,” Wainwright snarled under his breath.

“What you say,” demanded the childless gorilla man.

“I’m the Force Commander here,” he growled, neatly sidestepping several inconvenient truths by plunging his dagger right into the heart of the issue.

“I am Primarch,” the creature retorted, giving its chest a quick double slap, causing its chest armor to rattle.

Wainwright could barely contain himself as he stared at the creature and its cybernetic head with disgust.

“Personal designation Glue; the Hold Mother will have told you of this Sundered,” the creature said with such confidence that Wainwright was beginning to suspect Suffic, at least, had been told about this… thing. He also knew why the Lancer Colonel had been so tight-lipped on the subject.

Suffic had to have known that the Marines would have never followed him into an alliance with an AI Slave Race if they had been given time to think about it. Withdrawal would have made so much more sense, were they not already stuck in so deep. It was clear that now, the only way out was forward.

“Hold Mother?” the Colonel inquired, repulsed that he was actually making small talk with this creature while his Marines were dying, but he needed some time to regain his mental bearings.

“The mate of Confederation Admiral, the Lady Akantha,” the creature, this Primarch Glue (whatever that meant) clarified.

“Uh-huh,” Wainwright said non-committally.

“The Sundered have pushed to Deck 2a, but automated defenses difficult to deal with,” the Primarch grunted, likely with displeasure.

“What kind of defenses,” the Colonel demanded, professional interest taking over at the thought of some hard intel on the target.

“Shock barriers, roving plasma turrets and hidden pop-out blaster mounts in walls and ceilings,” the Primarch explained in what Wainwright would swear was a sour voice.

“Moving my boys and girls down a level helps take off the immediate pressure,” Wainwright admitted, “but those pirates are going to be following us down this rabbit hole as soon as my last Lancers and Marines are down here.”

“Our male’s armor not as effective against defenses as your battlesuits, and most our Females carry no armor, only weapons,” the Primarch stated, slapping the wall with the hand not holding his absurdly top-heavy sword. “We can hold pirate humans and Battlesuits, while you deal defenses at Station Command.”

The Marine Colonel absorbed the fact that the smaller child-like gorilla people were actually females.

“Must be nice,” he muttered thinking how much nicer his life would be with a child-sized version of Melissa Kopenhagen running around. Then he took another look and realized there were a lot more of these small females than their more deadly looking male counter parts. On the other hand, one normal sized Marine Sergeant was better than three or four smaller versions, each determined to show her displeasure. No doubt there would be an even bigger chip on her shoulder because of the size disparity, he sourly.

Then he gave himself a shake. There was no point in humanizing the former Slave Races, they were what they had always been designed to be, which was most definitely not human.

“There’s a lot of the Blighters,” he warned the creature, “we’re down to somewhere around twenty five hundred effectives, and there must have been six or seven thousand in power armor and twice than unarmored surrounding our old position.” He fudged the numbers some by including the walking wounded which made up around half his current forces, but if the injured were unable to help walk this thing to victory, they were all finished anyway.

“We face a number equal to that already at our rear, what is a few more?” declared the other Large male, the one with the spear.

“If Coalition Hunt Packs are paid to fight by the Pirate Humans, Puko—” said the Primarch looking visibly upset.

“There are thirteen to fourteen thousand Sundered gathered here. More importantly, greater than three thousand of them are fully equipped males,” interrupted the spear-wielding Puko, twirling his weapon and then slamming the edge of his duralloy shield into the floor. “You chose the Moral Path over that of intelligence and safety, my young Primarch, now there is nothing to be done but walk! Walk it, I say!”

The other male then rammed the tip of his spear into the ceiling and roared. Within seconds, more of his people came loping down the hall, rallying to his cry.

“Give us some guides and we’ll have a go at these automated defenses,” Wainwright said as soon as the bellowing had lowered back down enough that normal conversation was possible. Maybe things were finally starting to look up, he allowed himself to think, feeling optimistic for the first time in several hours.

“Of course,” the Primarch said with a solemn nod of his head.

“And one more thing,” Wainwright said leveling a finger at the giant overgrown beast.

“I don’t care how furry or freakish you and the rest of your people are,” he said, lying through his teeth. “At least you’re biologicals with the same basic needs as humanity.” He was unsure if this was technically true, but it was the best fig leaf he could throw up on short notice. “But if I get so much as a hint, one blasted hint that you’ve gone and shacked up with a bunch of droids, me and my people are out of here.”

“We no agreement with metal tribes, so there no need to speak of retreat,” the Primarch said, his forehead wrinkling thunderously.

“Tribes?” demanded the Marine Colonel.

“The droid tribes, Colonel,” the larger, spear-wielder explained evenly. “As far as the Sundered are aware, there are no droids on the Omicron.”

Wainwright waved his hands in the air in exasperation. “Tribes, shmibes! It’s not a retreat if you’ve been betrayed; that’s called a tactical withdrawal in the face of superior forces!”

The Primarch shook his head and walked off.

“No droids, you hear,” Wainwright shouted after the Uplift.

He was still muttering to himself when the first of the guides — some of those smallish, female versions of the freakish race — arrived to show his men the way.

Chapter 78: Quagmired

“It’s no good, Colonel,” shouted a Lieutenant over the link channel.

“You can do it. You just have to hold it together, Marine,” Wainwright urged.

“It’s coming right for us—” a screeching of torn metal was followed by a rapidly cut off gurgling sound.

A red light flashed on the lower left hand side of his HUD, indicating a lost connection.

“Murphy’s Demon Monkey is in the mix for sure, this time,” Wainwright growled, the urge to throw a tantrum and order the Lancers in at charge nearly overpowering. He reminded himself that his Marines had the better training for breaking down defenses and reigned himself in.

A new light popped up on his screen.

“We’re getting cut up into Swiss cheese, Sir,” reported a stead older voice, looking at the ID tag on his HUD it was the Top Sergeant for the Company. A man Wainwright actually knew from prior service. As the Brigade Commander recalled, the man had starch.

Scrolling rapidly through the list, he saw the company was down to a pair of first deployment Junior Lieutenants, one of whom was a member of the walking wounded and the other a transfer from the 1st regiment prior to leaving Easy Haven.

The Colonel made a snap decision.

“You’re temporarily frocked to Senior Lieutenant, Top; I need you to temporarily take the Company. No more advancing, hold what you’ve got if you can, and if not pull back to a more defensible position. I’m going to try and take the pressure off by driving forward from another angle,” he explained, scrolling around the rough semi-circle that was his men’s siege positions around this fortress within a fortress that was Station Command.

“I can hold, but it’ll be tight,” the former Top Sergeant and new acting Company Captain acknowledged after a pause.

“You’ve got officers under you now, so delegate,” Wainwright snapped without compassion, “my advice is to make the wounded Lieutenant your XO. If you put him on the front line he’ll just get axed in his condition, and put the other one on the tip of the spear, since maybe he can inspire some steadiness.”

“Yeah right,” snorted the top sergeant, “I can handle my company without any advice from the peanut gallery.”

Wainwright huffed with outrage, “Consider yourself on report, just as soon as the battle is over, Acting Senior Lieutenant. Just make sure if you stay, you can hold onto those gains!” he snapped, cutting the connection. “Peanut Gallery, my hairy hind end!” he snorted.

A few minutes later, elements of the 4th regiment were just starting to make some solid gains despite the formidable fixed defenses and those Demon-inspired roving plasma turrets, when a whole slew of icons started turning red.

“What’s going on up there, Major Cameron,” he barked, switching to the regimental channel.

“This is Senior Captain LeVere, the Major and her entire headquarters unit just got foxed along with half my Company. They’re gone, Sir,” the Captain shouted and Wainwright could hear the thunder of rapidly cycling weaponry, a clear sign of a compromised helmet or visor.

“What is it this time, more turrets and men in power armor,” demanded the Brigade Commander. If so, the pirates were showing more intelligence and discipline than they had the entire time up to this point.

“Droids, Sir!” the Senior Captain replied, then shouted with agony and the Colonel could hear the sound of metal screeching against metal as things went hand to hand.

“Pull back, man,” cried the Colonel.

“They’re all over the place; the walls, the ceiling, we’re being cut off, Sir,” yelled the Captain.

“Captain,” Wainwright waited a few moments, “Captain,” he repeated with more force, but all he could hear was some grunting and heavy breathing. Clearly Senior Captain LeVere was too heavily engaged to have any more time for a mere Brigade Commander.

Wainwright’s mind raced.

“Captain Atticus,” he snapped over the Lancer Command Channel.

“What,” the Captain demanded shortly, “more orders to stay in the rear and guard our numbers?” the man all but sneered over the line.

Wainwright held onto his temper with both hands and throttled it into a compliant death.

“I have a company of Marines under assault by a new, deadly powerful force, so I need you and your men to get over there at the run and give those droids what-for,” he barked.

“You’re actually letting us come to grips with the enemy,” Captain Atticus blurted incredulously.

“At the charge, Lancer Captain, or I’ll give this assignment to someone else!” he bellowed.

“We won’t let you down,” Atticus assured him, sounding a completely different man than all the other times the Marine Colonel had heard him. “To battle,” the Captain roared over the Command Line before suddenly cutting it off.

Wainwright watched with agony as the blue dots representing his marines winked out one by one, until a surge of green dots representing Atticus and his Lancer Company showed up to reinforce their position.

The red dots representing Station Defense systems were quickly knocked out, but the new purple ones representing the droids still surged around and within the blue and green dots of his men.

With nothing to do but wait and pray his troops were up to the task, the Marine Colonel flicked open the link to the Primarch.

“I said no droids, and you assured me there weren’t any of them on the station,” he raged over the link, letting loose his fury and frustration with the situation.

There was a pause.

“The Sundered not aware of Droids within the Omicron,” Primarch Glue said eventually.

“Well they’re here now and thanks to your lack of warning they’re cutting my men to pieces!” thundered Wainwright, all his feelings of disgust and frustration with the ‘reinforcements’ rising to the fore, “was this all some kind of elaborate trap to lure us in, cut us off and then whittle us down to nothing!”

“That explain surprise defenses surrounding Core of Station,” the Primarch mused, then his voice flattened to an angry grunt. “Believe what you will; Sundered die in droves for Confederation, I have no time for whiny tantrums of children, the People need me lead!”

“A child,” roared Wainwright into the now-dead line. He tried for almost a minute to re-raise the gorilla man, but to no effect.

Meanwhile, the combined Lancer and Marine companies managed a running battle that eventually saw the droids withdraw. Unfortunately, not until after they had pushed his forces almost all the way back to their previous positions, before that last drive forward.

“Captain Darius,” he began, getting on the horn and linking up his communicator with the off-brand native Captain.

“Yes, Colonel Wainwright,” Darius replied stiffly.

“We have to keep those droids guessing while we continue our drive deeper into the station,” he said, shooting over a diagram of the station with a line showing where he wanted the native Captain to take his lancers. “I want you to take your company and the rest of your Lyco-whatevers around to this position.”

“We hear, and we obey,” acknowledged Darius.

“Wait for my signal, then let loose with all your fury, lad,” he urged the Lancer Captain.

“You can count on us,” replied the Tracto-an native.

Wainwright moved his men around with the timing and precision of a lifetime spent as a senior officer in the Caprian Marine Corps, but with the arrival of this new droid force in defense of the heavily fortified station command, his new gains were marginal. Worse, the droids were bleeding his people white.

Looking at the force levels of each company as displayed on his screen, he pounded his fist leg in frustration. If they could still penetrate the command center, a prospect now in serious doubt, he was unsure if he could do it while he had anything left worthy of calling even a Regiment, let alone a Brigade.

He was not sure what more he could do, other than urge his people to fight harder, like some sort of aged cheerleader. Strangely enough, that might actually work with those Tracto-an head-cases, who called themselves lancers.

“Dig deep men, we’re almost there,” he said over the general push, not letting the sense of despair he was feeling enter his voice. They’d come so far, so very far, and thanks to the help of their allies they were within striking distance of taking the station. Blast those droids right into Murphy’s Demon pit anyways

Now it was anyone’s guess.

Chapter 79: Up on the Armored Bridge

Akantha leapt to her feet, pumping her fist in the air as she saw another pirate Corvette explode on the main viewer. “Yes!”

A swarm of over a hundred miniature gunships engulfed the small fleet of Corvettes that had been threatening the rear of her ship, and they had made a fine account of themselves to this point.

“If only most of our weapons hadn’t been destroyed by the oathbreakers’ initial attack,” she declared furiously. She glared around the bridge, as if by sheer force of will she could order the universe as she desired, and turn damaged weapons back to functionality.

“We can detach from dock, roll the ship to present our undamaged broadside and then re-dock,” declared the decreasingly abrasive shuttle pilot.

“As if I would trust a sniveling man like you with such a precision maneuver,” Akantha sneered. “Now sit down and be silent,” she ordered, ignoring the fact that he was still sitting, in favor of firm rhetoric.

The main screen suddenly zoomed in.

“I think I’m getting a feel for these controls,” Isis said happily.

Forgetting the insulting little shuttle pilot, Akantha watched with eager fascination as a Sundered gunship squadron, in tight formation, sought to engage one of the Corvettes. The squadron had lost only three of their number to point defense fire, before they reached the ship. Within moments of the engagement, the shield of the pirate ship began spotting, and the gunships focused their attention on those openings.

The Deep Fleet corvette went into a flurry of evasive maneuvers, turning their ship in an increasingly rapid series of spinning maneuvers. Akantha wondered how many of the crew of that little warship would be killed in the maneuvers if their gravity plating so much as flickered.

The wildly maneuvering Corvette slammed into a cutter belonging to the Piranha Pirates. Shields flared, and the cutter was careened off course, crashing into a Sundered gunship before exploding. The still-spinning Deep Fleet Space Army Corvette lost power and began drifting away from the station.

A trio of Sundered Corvettes, were currently engaged in a running battle with the combined forces of the Black Hole Armada and Deep Fleet Space Army. The Piranha squadron cutters hand their hands full trying (and generally failing) to screen the more numerous small gunships away from the main force.

Another pirate ship on the main screen took damage, this time a lucky shot from her still docked battleship.

The Skull Rangers suddenly broke off, firing a combined broadside as they sped away, their bows pointed toward the hyperlimit.

“This is the Supreme Patrona,” exclaimed an extremely muscular individual with green tinted skin. “I didn’t sign on with the League to die; I joined up for protection!” The woman was wearing a helmet shaped like a skull, and had arm bones crossed in pink and green pairs painted all across her powerful chest. “I can sell my loot in the black colonies and hire as many pretty boys for the Skull Rangers as I please there, without risking damage to my ships!” she declared, before cutting the connection with a hammer fist to the arm of her chair.

“That one looked more like a man, than she did a woman,” Akantha remarked, partially intrigued by the sight of all those overly enhanced muscles, but mostly she was disgusted. The woman pirate was definitely unattractive and her chin had protruded terribly. Green skin and pink-colored bones, she thought with a shudder.

“Two of her ships appear structurally undamaged, but the one the transmission is coming from, is leaking oxygen from several rents in the hull,” Isis reported with great satisfaction.

As if a dam had been broken, the Black Hole Armada signaled its withdrawal as well. Swinging by, while still under the fire of Sundered craft, they attached bucking cables to one of the more heavily damaged Armada ships before also pointing their bows away from the Omicron and engaging their drives.

“We’re getting a transmission from the Space Army ships, Mistress,” reported the woman at Communications.

“Put it through,” Akantha ordered, having nothing better to do than stare at the screen and keep from biting her nails out of frustration at not being able to actually do anything.

“The Deep Fleet will never ask for terms, yah?” said an ebony-skinned pirate in camouflage patterned fatigues, a bandolier of power cells, frag grenades and a pair of machetes in sheaths across his back.

Akantha looked at him as if he was stupid. “I didn’t offer any,” she replied, careful to project disdain with both tone an body language.

“We will slaughter the Monkey Boys in droves. We will fight to the bitter end,” he declared. Behind him in the background, a pair of overgrown white-skinned bodyguards loomed threateningly, their jaws unnaturally square and protruding. Akantha wondered what failed lineage had produced these muscle-bound failures.

“At least you have the courage to fight for what you believe in,” Akantha said, unable to suppress a little eye roll and head toss.

The ebony man smiled, his eyes lighting up with an inner fire at these words

“We should join forces! With my battle skills and your deadly beautiful battleships we would be invincible,” he yelled, holding his hand up even with his nose and then squeezing it for emphasis.

She almost laughed with scorn, “Deadly beautiful?”

“As Supreme General of the Deep Fleet Space Army, I shall be as a husband to you, and together we shall produce as many children as we have war ships. Together, we shall conquer our very own world,” he proposed with fire in his voice. “All you need to do is turn your back on the Monkey King and his foul kind. Join us in eradicating them from the Sector, and together we shall have full bellies and feast upon all that our foes possess!”

Akantha stared at him as she would a bug splattered on the bottom of her foot. “You… are offering to be my next Protector?” she asked with obvious disdain.

The ebony man’s head twitched and he looked at her, as if something she had not followed his script before smiling, revealing teeth sharpened into razor sharp points.

“I shall protect you, my precious flower,” he said. Some emotion was behind his voice which she failed to recognize, but she knew she did not like in the least.

“So far, you are the only person who has made an offer to stand at my side,” she admitted. “However, I fear I must decline, but you have earned some small favor in my eyes,” not feeling sad or favorable in the least, but it was not politic to say so.

He scowled at her, anger clouding his face.

“I have a counter proposal. Foreswear your Bandit ways, beg for my mercy and submit yourself to my judgment, and I swear that at least six in ten of you and your men shall be given the chance to redeem themselves in honorable service as warriors. The remainder, the worst among you, shall work as war-slaves for a period not to exceed ten years, redeeming their lives through hard labor,” she assured him, standing and placing her hands on her hips, “However, I will warn you that I expect courtesy and discipline from those who serve me. It will be a hard and grueling experience for you, but I am willing to be lenient the first day or two until you are taught proper etiquette.”

“Who are you, a mere woman — a lover of beasts and animals — to demand a real man stand service to your needs?” the man cried in outrage. “You were created to service my needs, not the other way around. What next? Would you emasculate us, dressing my army in pink dresses and braiding flowers through our hair, treating me like I am some kind of ancient ken-doll!” he demanded, pulling an oversized plasma pistol from a holster in his hip and firing it at his main screen. He must have missed his image projector, because she could still see him just fine.

Akantha scowled. As a girl, she had braided her little hoplite doll’s hair with little flowers, but that was neither here, nor there. The man insulted her with his words, and he must die for them.

“My sworn warriors will not stop coming until I am avenged of these foul words which spew from your mouth like berries from a fruiting tree in harvest season, or excrement from a loose-bowelled field beast!” she said angrily. The Sundered would pay heed to her command to blot out this smear upon Humanity. Failure to do so would imperil every erg of good will they had earned.

“I am no woman to go into a fruiting season, or laborer to pick your berry fruits,” raged the Supreme General of the Deep Fleet Space Army.

“Open a channel to the Sundered; I will have this insult repaid with blood,” she declared, ignoring him.

The General pulled out a second plasma pistol from the other side of his belt. With spittle and froth flying from his mouth, he fired another shot at his main screen.

No sooner had he done so, than one of the two pale-skinned guards behind him — the ones with the impossibly square jaws — pulled out a wicked-looking dagger with long, jagged hooks built into the back side. Stepping forward, he shoved it into the camouflaged back of the Supreme General.

The General staggered out of his chair with the dagger sticking out of his back. He pointed his plasma weapon at the traitorous guard and pulled the trigger, but it only clicked harmlessly, having already been discharged. Throwing it to the ground with frustration, he pulled out one of his machetes.

“Kill the traitor,” he ordered his other square-jawed guard.

The second guard hesitated, then pulled out a wicked looking dagger of his own and then threw it with great force.

The Supreme General staggered back, the new dagger lodged sideways in his throat. Falling to his hands and knees, he crawled over to one of his officers sitting at a console and reached up to him for help.

The ebony-skinned watch stander gave his former leader a kick to the face and the leader fell to the floor. The force of the fall rammed the hilt of the dagger into the metal floor, in the process tearing out the rest of his throat.

The supreme general thrashed on the floor for several moments before the pickup refocused on the first of the two bodyguards, who was now sitting in the Supreme General’s chair. The second guard now stood behind him, as if he was the new Leader in need of guarding.

“I am the new Supreme General. The Deep Fleet will not fight anymore; we will run away,” he said meeting her eyes squarely.

“That is no longer an option; you have proven yourself the implacable enemies of my sworn warrior servants,” she said, referring to the Sundered Demons.

The new General shook his head and glared at the floor.

“We will surrender,” he said meeting her eyes. “I am willing to serve again as a slave, and ten years is not that long a time.”

“Bring me the rest of the Deep Fleet corvettes and you will be no slave, General,” she declared before she could think too deeply on the subject.

“We are still under attack,” he argued, squinting at her.

“Instruct the Sundered to cease firing on any Deep Fleet Space Army that stops firing and strikes its shields. They are to dock with the Armor Prince where they will be taken off my new ships and escorted to locked quarters,” she ordered, never looking away from this new General.

There was a tense pause as the square-jawed man considered her words. “As you command, Supreme Presidenta,” he finally agreed, turning to bark orders at his bridge crew in some strange offensive language she had never heard before. It sounded like hard mush to her ears and she never wanted to hear it spoken again, but they seemed to understand it.

“I am no Presidenta, my style is Hold Mistress,” she said instead.

“Yes,” he acknowledged, before cutting the transmission.

“The Sundered argued at first,” the Communications Lancer reported angrily, “but they will obey your commands, Mistress.”

“With the loss of their allies, the Piranha Squadron pirates are being torn apart by the Sundered,” Isis shouted from her new post at Sensors.

A new transmission popped up on the main screen without her permission and she glared at the woman at the communications console. The pirate on the screen started shouting immediately.

“Call off your dogs or I’ll ram this cutter right up the open tail pipes of your ship!” howled Captain Strider of the Piranha Squadron.

“Do your worst,” she invited in a cold and uncaring voice, “you will be dead, and we will remain secure within this bridge.”

“My Lady,” broke in Isis, “I’ve got a Medium Cruiser breaking free from the station and charging its weapons!”

“I’m also receiving a faint transmission from that ship, Hold Mistress,” shouted the Lancer at Communications.

“Fire on her and stop interrupting,” she snapped, ignoring the other women as she turned to continue speaking with the Piranha leader threatening to ram them.

She was interrupted by a woman at communications. “The transmission is on one of the Marine channels, they say they’re a mixed Company of Marines from the 4th Regiment and advanced Lancer Teams who blew up the shield generators. They’re inside the Medium Cruiser, but pinned down outside Main Engineering,” she shouted, “they are requesting reinforcements.”

“Inform them we can do nothing to help them, and that the Medium Cruiser they are on will be destroyed if it attacks us,” she replied coldly, once again turning to Captain Strider.

“You may run, you may keep fighting and losing as you are now, or you may even die ramming us, I do not care. After all,” Akantha twisted her lips mockingly, “did you not already declare yourself to be my nemesis?”

“There’s no need to kill me just for attacking you!” exclaimed Captain Strider.

“Oh, but there is,” Akantha disagreed.

“Call off your fighters,” he begged getting down on his knees, “and my cutters will go so far away from here you will never hear from us again, I swear.”

Akantha looked on uncaringly as his ship shook and rocked around the self-styled pirate commodore, knocking him off his knees and onto the floor.

“The Medium Cruiser is coming around; she’s locking us down with her targeting sensors and charging her weapons,” said the woman at Tactical in a rising voice.

“I-I-I surrender, just let us live,” said the Piranha Commodore.

“But I no longer desire your surrender,” Akantha said coolly, “I already have the Space Army. What need have I of space fish and their Commander who are twice a failure,” she asked icily.

“You caught us at our home port, we have our families on board. Show mercy,” he said as Sundered gunships swarmed around his beleaguered cutter. Soon after they had surrounded his vessel, a structural support column fell on his command chair. Commodore Strider barely escaped his chair and death because he was still on his knees begging.

“We’ll do anything,” he shouted.

“Anything,” she scowled.

“Yes-yes-anything!” he pleaded.

“You were going to ram us with your ship,” she said coldly, “If you ram that medium cruiser instead, I will allow all Piranha men, their families and ships to surrender without fear of execution.”

He stared at her in blank faced horror.

“I’ll be killed,” he exclaimed.

“You said you would do anything,” she shrugged then turned to the Com station, “cut the transmission.”

“Commodore Strider says to hold our fire, he’ll do it,” reported Comm. Officer after a moment’s pause.

On the main screen, the cutter turned toward the Medium Cruiser.

“I think not. I doubt the man has the stomach,” scoffed Akantha.

Moments later, space-suited figures jumped out the airlocks of the Broken Maiden, the Commodore’s Flag Ship.

“Or perhaps I was mistaken,” she admitted. “Instruct the Sundered gunships to shadow the Broken Maiden, but hold their fire,” she ordered, her mouth feeling foul just speaking the name of that ship.

The Sundered obeyed her orders after a few more shots, and then everyone on the bridge watched as the Broken Maiden slammed into the shields of the Medium Cruiser with enough force that most of its shattered remnants penetrated, slamming into the well-armored front of the other ship.

“Hardly the run up the tail pipes he promised, that Cruiser is still very much under power,” Akantha said sourly.

Around her, the women on the bridge broke into coughing laughter.

She raised an eyebrow at this reaction.

“Strider is a typical man, My Lady, always boasting and promising more than he can deliver,” Hecate explained with a smile.

Akantha rolled her eyes, but failed to suppress a smile of her own. “At least some of their weaponry will be off the line,” she sighed.

Lines of fire lanced out from the Medium Cruiser toward their battleship.

“Returning fire; shields down to 80% and dropping,” reported the Lancer at tactical, doing her best to coordinate both the shields, and the ship’s weaponry.

“Fighters are attacking now… oh, Men,” she cursed, “I meant shields were at 82% but now they’re at 73 — no, wait… 74%, and our weaponry—” stumbled the woman, sounding overloaded just trying to see everything that was happening.

“Take a moment to compose yourself,” Akantha commanded, doing her best to ignore the obvious lack of training her people were displaying.

The other woman paused to take a deep breath before continuing. “Our shields are draining and return fire is low; the Sundered gunships are doing damage to their shields in return, but point defense is picking a number of them off.”

For several long minutes, all Akantha could do was stare helplessly as their shields lowered and spotted, as the occasional shot rammed home into their main engines.

The Medium Cruiser ponderously started to turn, presenting her relatively unprotected sides and rear-facing engines to the Armor Prince. No sooner had the weapons of the Cruiser turned away from their Battleship, than the Cruiser suddenly went dead.

“Mistress! The mixed Company reports they have barricaded themselves inside the engine room and severed the power to the rest of the ship, but the crew is trying to root them out like digging mites,” shouted the woman at the comm.

“We are still repulsing boarders from the Omicron. There is nothing we can send them!” Akantha said, greatly upset by the continuing situation.

“I’m picking up a signal from Commodore Strider, he’s still alive,” said communications.

“That’s impossible,” Isis said doubtfully.

Akantha shook her head.

“I see setting my autopilot and then bailing off the ship paid off when disabling the Black Crisis,” he said sounding smug, this time however there was no visual.

“Why can’t I see you, Strider,” Akantha demanded.

“I’m currently floating in a space suit, but fear not; Strider is still here to help you,” he assured with his usual bombastic way.

“I don’t see how a man in a space suit can help me,” she said doubtfully.

“Me and my ships, we can take the Crisis for you… if you’ll just give the order we are no longer to dock with your battleship,” he declared boldly.

Akantha’s breath hitched and her gaze shot to the main screen, realizing there were several larger Sundered Corvettes out there, along with their many smaller gunships.

“No! But thank you for the generous offer, Mr. Strider; I will keep that in mind. I am sure we can take it from here,” she declared, turning to her comm.. section.

“Contact the Sundered Corvettes and see if they are able to render assistance by way of boarding crews. I don’t want to wave temptation in the face of a slippery little road bandit like that one,” she ordered, pounding the side of her chair with excitement.

They were still attempting to reach the Sundered for confirmation, when Colonel Suffic asked for her personally.

“What is it you need, Colonel, did something go wrong with removing the bomb,” she asked, feeling as if an ice pick was stabbing into her lungs and stealing her breath away.

“The anti-mutiny device is on the move. We should have it outside the Armor Prince directly,” Suffic responded, sounding tired. That was very much unlike Hansel Suffic.

“Excellent news,” she said with genuine pleasure

“Thank you, My Lady. I am happy you are pleased,” he said wryly, sounding much more like the Suffic she was used to.

“If there is nothing else…” she said trailing, desperate to finish the pirate ships and deal with the Sundered personally if they balked.

“I just wanted to say it has been my honor serving you, Lady Akantha,” Suffic replied, again sounding exhausted. Despite his obvious fatigue, she could hear genuine emotion in his voice.

Taken aback by his words, Akantha realized there was something she was missing. Suffic was not prone to outbursts of this nature, and in doing so, he had stirred thoughts and feelings within her… thoughts and feelings she had hoped to keep forever buried. Memories of her life before leaving Tracto, including the death of her best friend Leonora and the maiming of her bodyguard Persus, caused her voice to catch in her throat before she replied.

“One could not ask for a better warrior, or a truer leader,” she began after clearing her throat quietly. “You have shown my people, and you have shown me many things, both about ourselves and about this technology of yours. My first days among your people were especially trying, but you have always been a strong reed and a stout shoulder which I could rely upon.”

There was an extended silence. “My Lady is too kind,” said Suffic haltingly. “I have been honored to stand at your side.”

She paused for a moment before continuing. “You have been patient with me, perhaps too patient,” she admitted. “If I have asked too much of you lately, my apologies,” she paused stuffing down her emotions and then continued impatiently using briskness as a mask, “but as soon as that bomb is off the ship, I want you to get some rest and seek medical services. You have done enough.”

There was an uncharacteristic pause as she awaited his reply. “You are not going to start disobeying orders now, are you, Colonel?” she chided as lightly as she could.

“With regret, My Lady, that is one order which I cannot obey,” Suffic replied, forcing a stiff unyielding bar of iron threaded through his weariness.

His words sent a slight chill of foreboding up Akantha’s spine. “Why ever not,” she demanded just as stiffly.

“My Lady…” His voice was filled with restrained emotion. “Returning to military service, to serve you and the Admiral as the Lancer Commander, gave my life a sense of renewed purpose. A purpose I had abandoned and almost forgotten when I got on a Settlement Ship bound for the stars.”

Akantha’s blood ran cold. “Why are you speaking like this? If you are injured unto death, we can take you to a healing tank this instant — another can move the bomb,” she said hastily, a sensation of panic growing in the pit of her stomach.

“Again, I cannot,” Colonel Suffic sighed. “My Lady, if you would do me the honor, I would ask you to relay a message to my family.”

To her ears, the Colonel did not sound well; his breathing was elevated, but not quite to the point of gasping for each breath. “I’m coming down there to take charge of this bomb personally,” she declared, grabbing Bandersnatch as she stood from the Captain’s Chair. “You will await my arrival before taking further action!”

She turned toward the blast doors, only to see a pair of her female honor guard had moved to block her way. The few remaining male Lancers turned in her direction and quickly took a respectful knee, before exiting the bridge.

“What sort of treason is this!” she demanded, leveling her sword at her guards, “stand aside!”

“Do not take your anger out on one your Honor Guards,” Suffic said with force, “they are only obeying the last order of their Commanding Officer.”

“Rebellion against the Hold,” Akantha hissed, bringing her weapon into a high guard. Leonora and Persus had already sacrificed themselves for her; she would not allow Hansel Suffic to do the same!

“They are sworn to protect you, even from yourself if necessary,” Suffic stated with finality. “Now, I have need of the rest,” Suffic added, the last word almost a plea.

She barely restrained herself from cutting her guards down like firewood with Bandersnatch. “What need is so great, that you openly defy the will of your sworn Mistress in a time of war,” she demanded, her muscles trembling like never before, “now, of all times, when the maelstrom of battle swirls around us!?” There was the hint of a plea seeping into her voice.

“My Lady, we all do what we must do. Jason understood this, as I truly believe you do. This is something I must do. If you need to let these past few minutes cloud your memory of me, I understand; but do not blame your Guards,” he said, sounding for all the world like the father she had never known. “I am going to take this bomb deep within the foul heart of Omicron Station, where it will decimate the pirates who have our Lancers cut off and surrounded.”

“Send another in your place. I command it, Colonel! After everything I have lost this day, I cannot bear to lose you as well,” she said desperately, the words jerked straight from her heart, and very much against her will. Had she but two moments to regain her composure, she never would have said them.

“No one else can do what I am about to; I have already input the codes, which now links me to the bomb. If I attempted to leave…” he left the rest of the words unsaid. “You are stronger than you think, Lady Akantha. Remember that, when the days ahead get dark. Besides, you still have the new Gun Chief, Mr. Lesner. He seems a stout sort with fire in his belly, and I would ask you not be as hard on the Marine Colonel, as is your usual way. He seems a steady sort, if still loyal to his new King back home.”

“Hansel! I forbid… I command… You can’t…,” she floundered. The mighty Hold Mistress of Messene, a blooded warrior with many proven kills spanning several star systems and conflicts, broke down into sobs. As she slumped to the floor, the weight of all her losses bore down on her like a mountain of iron. Hands clenched into fists, she placed them over her eyes. “I have lost all but everything today,” she screamed at the ceiling. “How much more do I have left to give?!”

Grabbing her hair with both hands, she tore great locks from her scalp. She scarcely noticed the pain.

“My Lady, we are here,” said the remainder of her Guards, who came forward to place their hands on her shoulders.

For a moment she ignored them, tossing the hair from her hands onto the floor, before shaking off their hands. “Get your hands off me, traitors,” she commanded with a cruel, cutting harshness. “You were to be my Honor Guard, but all you have succeeded in guarding today was my life. From now on, you are only and ever to be my Life Guard!” The Lancers around her jerked as if struck before backing away with shamed and heavy faces.

“If you were sworn to me, instead of my Protector, I would have you flayed alive for defying me to my face in this manner,” she screamed hoarsely, turning her back to them, ashamed now that they had seen the depths of her grief, which only made her more enraged. Persus would never have disobeyed her so absolutely.

The thought of her fallen bodyguard made her want to hurt her Guards as much as she was hurting, so she continued her tirade, “I will look for true warriors among the demons and pirates we have fought today, perhaps they will be more obedient to the commands of their sworn Hold Mistress,” she hissed, her hair hanging around her face in wild locks. For the sake of Hansel Suffic and his coming sacrifice, she would consider trying to forgive them their betrayal, but by forcing her hand like this and ensuring the loss of one of the few people in the world she could fully and completely trust, she would never forget.

Grimly she pulled out the knife on her belt and slashed her cheek, declaring by the traditions of her people that she was in mourning over a great loss. First, for her Protector Jason Montagne, she cut deeply into the right cheek. Then, for the loss of Hansel Suffic, she did likewise to the left. None were proud enough to meet her gaze as she did this, instead choosing to look at the floor.

The medical science of the Starborn was great, and if by some miracle her Protector still lived, she would consider removing the signs of grief. Unfortunately, she no longer had any hope of that happening.

“If it is a war to the knife they want, then that is the war I shall give them,” she declared, throwing off her gauntlets and then ritually slashing each arm lightly. “They came in the dark of space, striking from behind in the middle of battle, stabbing with the knife of betrayal.”

“Oh, Mistress,” Hecate whispered in horror.

Akantha met her eyes boldly, unashamed of her chosen course. “For the sake of my Protector, I shall gather his mother into my arms first, before I act. But, mark my words— and mark them well: before I am done with them, these Pirates, as well as Capria’s Parliament and her King, shall stand answer for the actions of their minions this day. From Pirate King to Admiral Yagar of the Sector Guard and his puling little Rump Assembly, let them shake with fear at the coming of Akantha of Messene!”

“We in this room are the only ones to hear you… are you certain you wish to take this path, My Lady,” Isis asked in a small voice, “we could vow to never speak of this if ever again if you are only taken with grief.”

Akantha turned her icy gaze upon the girl. “My Protector is gone,” she said flatly. “He was kind and forgiving, but I am not so inclined. These fools will realize that when a Hold Mistress loses her Protector, it is not she who has lost her protection, but her enemies! Only the threat posed by the Sky Demons can possibly delay the storm that shall be my vengeance. Today we are at war, and it is a war to the knife!”

Chapter 80: Suffic’s Last Run L

Thank Murphy for varnish and interior wall paint, Suffic decided. There was no way he could have changed his armor into something more piratical, at least not while maintaining consciousness. That meant someone would have had to help stuff him into the new set of power armor. Under the circumstances, doing so would have endangered the entire objective of his mission.

A rating from the gunnery department, one arm in a sling and the opposing leg in a walking splint, applied thick coats of red and black pain in stripes. A few nuts, bolts and empty power cells had been welded to different parts of his armor and a thick coat of varnish applied to them. He had also had some varnish applied to his helmet.

Appraising himself in the mirror, he looked like a typical run of the mill, down on his luck pirate in power armor. The rent in the side of his armor, along with the damage to his visor, made it clear that the ‘pirate’ Suffic had salvaged the suit and subsequently ‘sexed it up’ to inspire fear, or at least to impress his fellow pirates. That it failed miserably, either to inspire fear or impress, was more than made up for by the desperate feeling it evoked.

The rest of his scratch team, mainly several volunteer Lancers from the Hold Mistress’s Honor Guard, were not so fortunate. He ordered them to remove their armor and replace it with a series of salvaged pirate suits. The new suits of his men were a mish mash of genuine piratical power armor.

On the whole, Suffic was more than satisfied with the appearance of his small strike team. Everyone knew this was probably a one-way mission, but they’d volunteered anyway.

Anything for our boys, he told himself sternly when his mind began to consider the possibility of survival. It was too late for that now, but his hind brain still occasionally scrambled for a way out.

He knew there was none, at least not for him. Possibly there was for the strike team, but even that was a long shot.

He was doing this for the Lady, for his family on Tracto, and for all the Lancers and survivors of the Lucky Clover. He was also doing this for the entire border of known space.

“We’re ready, Sir,” said the senior Lancer of Akantha’s Honor Guard.

“Let’s go then,” he ordered. If there was any way he could have performed this mission without taking from Akantha so many of her trusted guards, he would have. Unfortunately, there was no way. Everyone else was needed right where they were and the Lady was surrounded by additional regular service Lancers up there on the Bridge to round out her now under-strength protective detail.

As they set off down the hall, the only thing he had left to complain about was the simple indignity of riding out the remainder of this operation (and his life) on a grav-cart. Sitting beside the control terminal of one of the few anti-mutiny devices ever designed by the Caprian System Defense Forces, on a death ride into a Pirate Space Station was decidedly not how he had envisioned checking out, not even once.

Sometimes life is funnier than fiction, he mused.

Feeling like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and surrounded by men who he had personally trained, he finally felt content. Win or lose, these were some of the finest Lancers he had ever known the pleasure of serving alongside. He knew that there were still a great many important details to be decided, like the exact placement of the anti-mutiny device for maximum effect, but for a moment, just a moment, he could lean back against the device and rest.

A sudden lurch and the foul coppery taste of blood in his mouth brought him back to semi-consciousness. “Run! Save yourselves,” he muttered, waking from a dream where he was back in the Winter Palace with the soon-to-be Vekna Queen. They were under-strength after a number of the Palace Guard abandoned their post and were being assaulted by parliamentarian shock troops, “I’ll hold them in the Green Room.”

Of course, he would not succeed in holding them in the Green Room; the future Queen got on the Comm and sued for terms before he got the chance.

“Hold still, Sir, you’ve lost a lot of blood and cerebral fluid from that eye socket. You really should have been in a Tank hours ago,” said a Medic crouched perilously beside him. The Colonel observed with some detachment that she was a former Promethean, and thus one of the more technically proficient and educated Lancers in the force… no doubt why she got the job as a medic.

Hansel Suffic shook his head fuzzily. “It’s just a flesh would,” he disagreed, determined if necessary to prove that this was the case, even though he felt weaker and more fatigued than ever before. He sincerely hoped he would not be forced to prove he was still capable of fighting, since for the first time in his life, he doubted he could do so.

“Of course it is,” she soothed, and Suffic lay back with a dissatisfied grunt. He found he was less than eager to press the matter.

Then he jerked, levering his elbows underneath him. “We have to select the target before we leave the Armor Prince, we have to—” he started, only to be gently pressed back down beside the mutiny device.

“It’s all taken care of, Colonel Suffic,” she explained gently, and he felt her hands gently press him back down beside the bomb. “We contacted the Allies through the Bridge before we ever left the Armor Prince. Right now, we are deep within the Station; just lie back and trust us to carry the Fire from here,” the Promethean woman said kindly.

Suffic’s felt his face relax as he gripped his blaster rifle for the cold comfort only it could provide. “Seems you’ve thought of everything, but what if we’re attacked? I need to be ready to help,” he insisted, once again struggling to get upright.

“You already slept through two running firefights, but we’re in a lift now and there’s little chance of an ambush inside this metal cube,” she assured him once again, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He opened his mouth to protest, but she continued, “Hackers from the Sundered are in control of this section of the lift network, and are moving us there at top speed. We’ve got this, Sir,” she said evenly.

“Sounds like you don’t need a Colonel anymore,” he harrumphed weakly, and even he was surprised at how weak he felt. A clear, strange-tasting fluid dripped into his mouth, and he worked his tongue reflexively. It lacked any real flavor, and while more distasteful than not, he decided it was not as bad as blood.

“Oh, let me get that,” she said, wiping his face from just under the ragged hole that was his former eye down to his mouth.

He thought for a moment, then he looked at her, “I don’t want to know do I?”

She just smiled and said nothing.

“I didn’t think so,” he sighed, but despite everything, he was unable to let go the reins as easily as all that. “As soon as we get to our destination, you are to push me out the door and turn this lift around,” he said as sternly as he could manage, “no one other than myself need stay with the weapon. It would kill me if more of my Lancers died needlessly.”

The Medic shot a quick glance at the display he was still pressed against, thanks to a large, horseshoe shaped magnet. Her eyes narrowed, and her lip quivered slightly in response to what she observed. The energy seemed to drain from her face as her eyes met his. “Of course, Colonel, we’ll make it out of here for you,” she agreed, then lowered her eyes to the medical scanner. The metal case of the scanner held within her gauntleted hands crumpled ever so slightly

Glancing over for himself, Suffic saw that the display was flashing red. His eyes were too blurry to make out the exact numbers, but he knew what it had meant: those panels only flashed red right before an imminent explosion or overload.

On the Strike Team channel, the Tracto-ans started singing a death chant, something they only did when they expected death.

“I failed our boys trying to take Station Command, and now I’ve failed you as well,” he apologized, reaching over and gripping her free hand with his.

“Never, Colonel!” she exclaimed, visibly fighting down her fear, “you and the Admiral saved us. All my aunts and uncles, my cousins and nephews… all that is left of my family after the pirates, still live because you saved us! Never apologize to me, Sir!” she objected defiantly. “I knew the score when I signed up, so don’t you dare go feeling sorry for anyone here.”

“Alright,” he conceded. In the face of such emotion, even he could pretend to be all right with such turn of events. It would only be for a few minutes, anyway. He could do anything for a few minutes, even lie to one of his men. He listened as the Tracto-ans’ voices rose to a triumphant crescendo, and having nothing better to do, he flipped on the auto-translation device and actually listened to what they were singing.

“Standing tall before the end, defending the gates of our Fallen Friend.

“We the last warriors of Tract Two, offer our final blood price all for you.

“Our Lord, our Master, our Fallen Friend, one last prayer we sing before the end.

“Into your welcoming arms we call, do not forsake us as we fall.

“We are brave and strong and true, warriors all designed by you.

“Take us into the arms of MEN one last time before the end.

“This prayer we consign into to you, our lineage brave and strong and true.

“Massively Multi-Parallel Entropic Network, hear our call, we were yours before the Fall.

“M-E-N!” they cried raining their arms, “M-E-N,” they shouted again, pumping their fists into the air.

Well, that explains a lot, Suffic thought with no small alarm. He glanced at his shattered display, and without surprise he noted a lack of a comm. link back to the Armor Prince.

It was too bad that no one back in the Fleet would ever receive his report that the Tracto-ans were not just group genetically engineered primitive humans lost during the Great Fall, but that they were actually the forgotten followers of a long-dead AI.

“World of Men, receive us,” they cried.

“Upload!”

“M-E-N!”

“Upload!”

“M-E-N!”

“Upload!”

“M-E-N!”

The Anti-Mutiny Device pulsed, and Suffic had time for one last thought.

I hope we got close enough to our target, he prayed, remembering the faces of the loved ones he was about to leave behind, most notably his wife and two sons. He felt a tear trickle down his cheek, and he clenched his jaw defiantly as he braced himself for the end.

Then everything went white in an expanding sphere of energy. When the deadly light finally faded, there were eight suits of power armor surrounding the anti-mutiny device, filled with nothing but a fine, white powder.

Ever obedient to its final programming, the grav-cart zipped out into the corridor as soon as the lift’s doors finally cycled open, faithfully following its last directive.

Chapter 81: Station Command

“Thank the dark Gods of Cold Space we agreed to let those droids trade on the Omicron or these blasted Confederation Jacks would have broken inside here by now,” raged a man so muscular he was almost as thick as he was tall, fire opals lining his ears.

“The droids are not the issue, Council Leader Tiberius,” said a smaller man, one so short and rapier thin that you might think him to be an easy mark. “They will do anything if the cost/benefit ratio meets with their approval; what is important, is how a Confederation Battleship slipped through our defenses. Had it not done so, there wouldn’t even be any Confederation Jacks on the Omicron!” This smaller man also had fire opals lining his ears.

A tall, thin figure a hooded robe bearing vestments littered with black opals, stood gracefully. “We must not waste any more time on recriminations one against the other,” she said in a smooth, ethereal voice, “the answer is obvious. The same individual, who sabotaged our fire control computer networks, throwing us back on local control, also opened a hole in our defenses for the Confederation to exploit, and exploit it, they did.”

“Who is it, Dark Seer?” demanded Tiberius, clenching his fingers into powerful meaty fists. “Who has betrayed us?”

“Isn’t it obvious,” interjected a short, gnome-like creature with an angular jaw filled with far too many teeth, his ears also lined with black opals, “there is only one member of the Black Council of Omicron 5 not present. Even now, he speeds away with his Flag Ship and captured Confederation prize.”

The one known only as the Dark Seer inclined her head towards the gnome.

“The Delver of Cold Spaces sees with clear vision,” she said approvingly.

“Black Philip,” hissed the rapier thin man, his voice laced with rage.

“Space Gods condemn him to a life on the run, living in foulest ports in the known galaxy,” glared the Council Leader.

“I sense a nexus of events have been set into motion, that if not stopped or successfully diverted soon, will be our undoing. We must stand united through the darkness ahead,” insisted the Dark Seer, her voice urgent.

The Council Leader, sound skeptical demanded, “What must we do?”

“Mumbo-jumbo,” the rapier-thin council member scoffed, “the betrayal of the Uplifts was a blow we are only now recovering from, but that’s what you get when you succor the serpent within your bosom.”

“Serpents such as myself,” the gnome creature hissed, pulling a knife.

“I clearly referred to the former Slave Race that even now assaults our position,” the razor-thin man spat, unfurling a neural whip attached to his belt.

“Stand down you two, this is a time we cannot afford to be fighting among ourselves,” Tiberius, the Council Leader thundered, standing between the two feuding members.

When the others had reluctantly backed away from the edge of violence, the Council Leader resumed his position at the head of the tactical table.

“The combined Jacks and Uplifts struck with speed and surprise, but thanks to speedy action securing the forces of the Droid Tribe docked at the station for trade and repair,” he said, grudgingly inclining his head toward the Dark Seer. “The tide has turned, and they are now stalled out in front of our most formidable defenses: the protections surrounding this room.”

He swept the table with a glare, both for those members who had spoken and those that continued to remain silent and observe.

“It is now a battle of attrition, and so long as the rewards we offer are sweet enough, every Gun Thug, Whip Jockey, Pirate Reaver and Black Colonial Guard Unit onboard this station, armored or unarmored, will continue flocking to the fight,” he said with finality.

“An expensive proposition,” remarked a black-cowled figure at the side of the table, who had remained silent until now.

“We acknowledge the Consortium of Bankers and Pawn Brokers’ concerns, however we should keep in mind,” the Lead Council Member said with an evil grin, “that we only have to pay those that actually survive!”

“We’ve almost reached an agreement with The Coalition,” the gnome-like creature interjected, “as soon as parity of purpose is achieved, they shall descend on the Confederation within this station like the forces of a Rogue Star!”

“Beware,” intoned the completely coweled figure raising a finger and pointing at the tactical display, her normally light and ethereal voice acquiring a dark tone.

The station gave the very faintest of shudders, so faint that one could almost imagine it had not happened, except that immediately after it did, warning alarms chimed and lights flashed all around the room.

“Environmental is reading massive loss of life from the Icarus Spine to the Polar tip of the Station,” exclaimed one of the technicians lining the walls.

“That comprises just under a third of the station,” cursed the rapier thin Council Member.

“It looks like some kind of detonation originating in the lift system,” the Technician continued.

Tiberius pulled out a dagger and threw. The technician reeled back, clutching at the weapon lodged in his chest and looking at his leader in disbelief.

“Never interrupt a Council Member when he, she, or it is speaking,” he glared around the room. Killing the messenger of such bad news always helped relieve some tension, but most importantly, the others of their ilk needed to remember never to rise above themselves. If they did, soon they would get ideas, and then the Council would only have to kill even more of them than they already did.

“The Icarus Spine and the Pole contained the majority of our ‘human’ reinforcements, those ones we had yet to hire,” said the razor thin council member.

“A setback,” Tiberius allowed.

“That’s it, I’m out,” declared the gnome creature, pushing back from the chair and glaring at everyone around him.

“We must stand united, or we are all doomed,” growled the Lead Council Member, “we still heavily outnumber the Confeds. As long as the droids stay purchased, we can still win.”

Several other council members visibly wavered, obviously shocked at the tremendous shot just delivered to their powerbase. “I go, and the Hunt Packs go with me. We know when a fight becomes unwinnable, and it’s time to cut our losses,” the toothy gnome said heading for the door.

Several of the more shell-shocked humans followed him.

“Let them go,” Tiberius ordered with an irritated wave to the guards at the door when they eyed each other questioningly and looked to him for direction. Other than the gnome, the others were leaving because of the losses to their power bases, making them less than the potent allies they had been but a few moments before. Cutting them loose now just made it easier to kill them and consolidate whatever was left of their holdings later.

When he saw the Dark Seer levitate off the floor with a whine of anti-gravity repulsors, he took an unconscious step toward her. “Wait,”’ he said abruptly, seeing the superstitious fear in the eyes of many of his fellows, “your insight is still needed by this Black Council, Dark Seer,” he said.

“There must be Unity of Purpose, or Violent Dissolution,” declaimed the Dark Seer from within her all-encompassing cowl.

“We shall be unified,” he assured her hurriedly.

The Seer inclined her body in his direction and then nodded slowly. “I go now to achieve unity of purpose with the Droids, following this setback. They will be… concerned,” she said.

“Yes, keep the Droids on our side and the Council will double their reward, as well as reward you with a special fee,” he said with relief.

“Material wealth means little to me; all I seek is position within the Flow,” she dismissed with the faintest tilt of her upper body, and then resumed her stately progress out the door.

Several minutes later, when the droids renewed their attack with mechanical fearlessness, Tiberius breathed a sigh of relief. “The Dark Seer has come through for us once again,” he announced, meeting the smiles of relief and satisfaction all around the tactical display with one of his own.

“Wait,” said the rapier-thin Council Member, pointing to the table. Tiberius looked down. The droids were attacking with all their mechanical fury all right, but not in defense of Station Command!

“They aren’t holding the line, that’s a break-out formation; those droids are trying to escape!” he raged, slamming his fists down onto the table with all the power of a heavy gravity-worlder. Part of the display blacked out momentarily, before returning with less clarity. “The Seer has betrayed us, she has betrayed us all!”

Chapter 82: The Final Push

“Captain Darius, this is your chance to advance. Lancer Captain Atticus, Senior Captain LeVere, report,” snapped Wainwright to his Company Commanders on their closed channel.

“Morgan LeVere here, Colonel. I’m afraid we’re about to be overrun,” the Senior Captain said, sounding concerned.

“Such foes! Hydraulic fluid shall cover the deck from floor to ceiling before we’re done with them,” cried Atticus, sounding happier than a pig in a wallow.

The Brigade Colonel had found that when Captain Atticus sounded all fired up and happy, that he, Alabaster Wainwright, soon had good reason to feel the opposite.

“Atticus, LeVere, you are to perform a fighting withdrawal; rain some pain down on them, but pull back,” Wainwright ordered. “I don’t want the far edge of our line enveloped and rolled up by the droids, but I don’t want to lose the men of your companies either. Pull back Captains, and I’ll get you some support,”

LeVere acknowledged the order shortly and Atticus had just began to howl when he cut over to a private channel with just Captain Darius and the commander of the 4th Regiment.

“Captain Darius, you are to advance with vigor; this could be our chance! Major, I want you to pull two companies off your part of the line, they are to support Darius’ advance,” Wainwright said forcefully.

“Lieutenant Cross,” he continued, activating a link to the current commander of the disloyal 2nd Battalion 1st Regiment, the only element of the 1st regiment still a part of the Brigade.

“Here, Colonel Wainwright,” spat Lieutenant Cross.

“You are to pull your men off the line and swing around in support of Captain’s Atticus and LeVere,” he growled.

“I hear, and I obey,” acknowledged the senior remaining officer in the 2nd Battalion. No doubt he was angry at the way his Brigadier Colonel had been throwing his men into the front line every chance he got. Well, that was just too bad. If the men of the 2nd wanted his good favor, they should have thought twice before letting their Commanding Officer get fragged, then compounding their error by supporting Major Gaspard when he tried to kill their Brigade Commander as well. Now little more than a three quarter strength company remained, and while he would never have wanted this — even for a bunch of Parliamentary tools like them — the drive into the station had called for some tough decisions along the way, and he had made them.

He watched as the remnants of the disloyal 2nd pulled out of their former positions and wheeled around in support of Atticus and LeVere.

“Encountering minimal resistance, Sir,” reported Darius, his forces starting to push through the formidable defenses for the first time in what seemed like hours.

“Well done,” Wainwright exclaimed, but his joy proved to be short-lived.

“The cowards flee!” shouted the most irritating voice on the Officer’s Command Channel, his voice loud enough to make the Marine Colonel wince.

“Give me a regular report, Captain,” snapped Wainwright, cycling his HUD for a closer look at the man’s position.

LeVere broke into the link channel.

“They punched right through our lines and kept going, Sir,” the Marine reported, his breathing coming short, rapid and dare Wainwright say, bubbly.

“Are you injured, Senior Captain,” he asked with urgent concern. The last thing he needed was Captain Atticus assuming overall command and leaving a big, gaping hole in his lines as he chased headlong after the Droids.

The Senior Captain coughed.

“It’s either one big blunderous, stupid feint — and these droids haven’t been stupid so far, Sir — or it’s a break out,” he reported, ignoring the question about his physical condition.

“You don’t sound good, Captain,” Said Wainwright.

“I think Captain Atticus had better take command,” LeVere said faintly, and Wainwright could hear a muffled thump over the link.

“Captain Atticus, see to your brother captain and hold your men ready in case this is a faint. However, if these droids really have cut and run, I’m more than ready to let them go,” he said, projecting all of his command presence into his voice.

All that came in response over the link was a growl of frustration, but after awhile it became clear that no Lancers or Marines were moving out of position.

Thank Murphy for small favors, the Colonel thought, fighting the urge to get down on his knees and pray to the Saint right then and there. He did still have a battle to fight, after all.

Seeing the progress projected on his HUD, he got over the officer’s push. “I want as many companies funneled in behind Captain Darius and the 4th Regiment companies with him as possible. We’re going to drive straight to the heart of this pustulant corruption on the soul of humanity, then we’re going to do what our brother Lancers do best,” he paused for effect, “we’re going to lance it clean through!”

Chapter 83: The Straight Razor vs. The Boil

Wainwright drove his vibroblade into the stomach of an overgrown heavy worlder, sporting jewelry on his ears alone worth more than the Marine Colonel made in ten years.

In spite of the wound, the heavy worlder leaned forward, his eyes bulging and his metal-gloved hand bounced off the Colonel’s helmet with a loud clang. The other hand came around bearing a hidden vibro-knife, and the Marine Colonel only just had time to duck his head down and take the blade in the shoulder.

“Smoke you,” raged the Pirate Leader, his control room swarming with Lancers and Marines as his defenses were completely overrun. Wainwright knew his was the type to keep fighting and spitting defiance until the very end.

Which end rapidly approached when Wainwright came around with his free hand in a ringing slap to the ear, which temporarily stunned the heavy worlder. Grabbing the pirate by the head, the Marine Colonel gave into all the hate and rage he felt over the deaths of so many men and women under his command, and he squeezed until he was rewarded with a sickening crunch.

Dropping the pirate with the overly adorned, now crushed head, the Marine Colonel turned and swept the room for more enemy combatants. Seeing that the last of the enemy leaders and technicians were either in the process of being killed or subdued, he frowned.

The next part was going to hurt, and he had desperately hoped to avoid it for a while. Wincing in the expectation of future pain, his hand came around to grab the hilt to the vibro-knife still stuck in his shoulder but before he could reach it, Sergeant Kopenhagen reached over and jerked it out.

“Ow, that hurt, blast it all!” exclaimed Wainwright, turning around to glare at the Sergeant as white fire shot through his shoulder where the knife had been.

“It needed to come out, and you were taking too long psyching yourself up,” she said with a shrug.

“Space rot! I was doing no such thing,” he grumbled under his breath, but turned back to survey the former heart of pirate power here on Omicron Station.

“Don’t be such a big baby,” she chided, and he could all but hear the eye roll from six feet away with his back turned.

“Someone’s going to have to teach you some respect,” he said under his breath.

She must have heard him despite the attempt at a lowered voice, because the next thing she said was, “Is that the Colonel talking, or the man with the bruised ego,” she asked.

“Either one could do the job,” he growled.

“Oh really,” she asked evenly.

“You’re coming perilously close to the line of insubordination,” he said, even though she had probably crossed it a good while back.

“I didn’t realize I was talking with my Commanding Officer,” she said challengingly.

He glanced back at her in surprise and she met his look with raise eyebrows.

He gave himself a shake. “Back on task, Sergeant; there’s lives riding on those of us in here,” he said, turning away and striding over to the giant tactical table dominating the center of the room.

He gazed upon the scene of the battle as the now dead, defeated or fleeing pirate leaders must have viewed it.

“Sir,” reported the Lancer liaison he had sent over to help keep him updated on the actions of their Gorilla Allies.

“Yes, Lancer,” he said.

“The Primarch says to tell you that the Pirates have broken, Sir, they’re all on the run,” the Lancer reported joyously.

“Carry on, Lancer,” Wainwright said evenly.

“Yes, Sir!” said the other man.

It seemed they had won. Only now did he allow himself to actually believe it, and only now did he secretly admit to himself that he never thought they had a snowball’s chance of actually pulling it off. Damaging the Pirates — certainly. Crippling them… possibly. But to actually pull out a win?

Alabaster Wainwright looked into his HUD and scrolled through the casualty figures, his face like granite. If he were a lesser man, he would have broken down and wept at the destruction of his Brigade as a fighting force. Switching screens, he observed the losses among the Lancer Contingent that was currently his charge while Suffic was gone, and they were no less severe.

If every single one of the wounded he had with Colonel Hansel Suffic had survived to make it back to the Armor Prince, and all the casualties he had here with him now pulled through (which was unlikely without access to more healing tanks than he could possibly lay his hands on) then he would be lucky to field half the force he came into the system with. The suicidal Lancers would manage even less than that.

Factoring in projected losses among the wounded, as well as those known to be dead, he estimated that if they rolled both Lancers and Marines together into one amalgamated force (another situation very unlikely to occur) that he would have a combined unit strength of more or less half the Brigade he had entered the system with.

“Perhaps a regiment and a half of our own survived,” he whispered, and that was with an optimistic casualty survival rate among the wounded marines of the four original units he entered the battle with. If this was victory, he hated to think what defeat would look like. From 4400 Marines, he was now down to somewhere between 1200-1500 survivors. Even that number was out of reach until the wounded were back in formation. That might take a month or two. That estimate did not factor in the ones who had joined with Riggs and his traitors. The Lancers, maybe 600 or 700… he was not yet entirely sure, as his network wasn’t fully linked into theirs.

Currently, he had fewer than a thousand effectives from both forces, counting the walking wounded. That the pirates had lost more, even many thousands and thousands more, was no comfort at all.

I wonder how many of our supposed ‘Allies’ were lost, he wondered, before shaking it off. Thankfully, that particular subject was out of his purview.

“We have some mopping up to do, people,” he said loudly, speaking to the people in the Command Center and every lancer and marine with a working helmet linked in over the general push, “but first we need to get back in contact with the Armor Prince. We’ve got wounded in need of treatment, so if you see any medics or doctors among the pirates, don’t kill them. At the very least they might know where we can get our hands on a few more healing tanks. In this instance, patience with the scum of the spaceways saves lives; the lives of our brothers and sisters in arms, so hold yourselves in check.”

A harsh laughter with a mean edge to it came back to him but he felt certain that everyone, even Lancers like Captain Atticus would follow the directive.

“Get me a com-link, people. And keep a weather eye on our recently defeated pirate foes. Just because they ran away once doesn’t mean they’re all the way licked. We may be called on again shortly to stove in some heads and show the rest of them the error of their ways for daring to pop back up,” he said grimly and then clapped his hands together, wincing at the pain in his shoulder as he did so.

All around him, Lancers and Marines scrambled to make his orders reality.

I should retire after this deployment, he decided wearily. Leading Marines into battle was worse than he remembered.

Then again, it was always worse than he remembered.

Chapter 84: Picking up the Pieces

“Here are the casualty figures you asked for, Lady Akantha,” Hecate said stiffly. Akantha ignored her, except to snatch the handheld data reader from her hands.

Scrolling quickly through the list of those lost in battle, she came down to the survivors. It was a shorter list than the first. Seeing the figure down at the bottom listing total survivors and broken down into wounded and those still able to fight, she closed her eyes.

They were too few, even with the marines they were too few, and the marines were not to be relied upon, she decided with a snap judgment. Jason might have welcomed them with open arms, but look where that had gotten him. She was inclined to be much more careful. The marines needed to be recognized for their achievements, but in a way that did not undermine what she needed to do going forward.

A solution presented itself to her, one she did not care for, but she knew it was important to make the best of a bad situation.

Once again, she looked down at the total figures, both in Lancers and those crewmembers who had survived the betrayal and loss of the Lucky Clover.

They were so few, so very, very, terribly few for what she needed to accomplish. It would take a miracle to even attempt what needed to be done, but for the sake of the survivors, for honor’s sake, and for the sake of those here who were dead, she at least had to try.

A miracle… seemingly of its own volition, her hand crept up to the pouch around her neck. The command crystal had already been taken out — her Protector’s forethought staving off disaster once already. Still inside the pouch was a data chip. In his last words to her, Jason had pressed the pouch containing the Admiral’s Key and this very chip into her hand and told her. He had told her, if ever she needed the makings of a miracle to read the instructions and follow them.

With less than a thousand Lancers and a similar number of crew — the majority of them survivors off the Gunnery Deck — she needed that miracle. She also needed ships and crews. The first she had, as there were ships a plenty to be had, even after the majority of them were taken by pirates fleeing this station like ticks from a dead animal. True, most of them were heavily damaged, and those that were not, were in poor condition.

The smaller ships might be repaired here at the Omicron; it was simply a matter of manpower, but the larger ones were impossible to refurbish without more advanced facilities.

With her mind made up, she decided that when she left, she would take with her any of the smaller ships that were in a good enough condition, as well as any of the big ones that could survive a Jump through Hyper Space. At the very least, if Capria or the Rump came out to observe its handiwork, they would not succeed in taking those out from under her like they had Jason’s Constructor back on Tracto. As for them stealing her new Station, she was less certain. She simply didn’t have the manpower to hold onto everything directly.

She was less than certain that Wainwright could hold the Station from future pirate attack. She was even less certain that he would be willing. There were threats from pirates unaware of the change in ownership coming here to make port, as well as those who had returned for vengeance. Keeping it out of the hands of his King or the Assembly, she figured was an impossible task to set him.

The Sundered might come in very useful there, that thought bore definite serious contemplation. The problem was, she wanted, and needed, to take with her those who had proven themselves loyal to both herself, and Jason through good times and bad. She would not risk a rotten apple in the barrel, spoiling the lot yet again.

It might take a miracle to recover the from this costly battle and come back just as strong, or even stronger than before… but she had been promised one. It was time to see what her Protector had kept from her, and only revealed the existence of near the end. Perhaps, she wondered, he sensed betrayal and was determined to see to her well-being first and foremost?

It was a nice thought, but she had little time for such pleasant fantasies. For now, she would sleep dreaming of revenge and wake pursing vengeance.

Grimly, and afraid to get her hopes up, she decided it was time and she inserted the data chip which had hung between her breasts for the past several days.

The reader she used gave a sharp, metallic beep before a single file popped up on her screen. It had a heading for the file which read.

-Wizard—

When she brought it up on the screen, there was a password prompt.

Enter Password to Continue:_________

Hint: What is the name of the Wizard?

Akantha stared at the screen for a long moment, deeply concerned. If this was meant to be some sort of a secret combination, then her Protector had used one so easy to discern that it bordered on the outrageously foolish. The Hold Mistress activated the reader’s keyboard function as she scowled at her former Protector’s stupidity.

She leaned forward and typed in 8 letters:

S P A L D I N G

The Reader gave a high-pitched beep and the screen suddenly turned from blue to entirely black, except for single new file up in the top right corner of the screen marked:

-Communications Protocol—

After several seconds, two short lines of text and a series of letters and numbers representing stellar coordinates, which even she could recognize, appeared in the middle of the screen:

-The Admiral’s Gambit-

-Coordinates for Gambit Station are as follows-

-AO-476-94-881

“Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Hold Mistress,” Akantha whispered under her breath.

Epilogue: Trouble in the Yards

He was the very model of a recently upgra— hey! Be careful with that; even Duralloy II has its limits!

“Just a little more tension on the cables,” Spalding ordered over the appropriate communication channel.

“You’re putting too much torque on those ribs,” Glenda Baldwin warned.

“They’re flexible ribs,” he stressed the two words for emphasis, “besides, we’re only taking them to 90-95% of tolerance,”

“Going up to within five percent of an estimated maximum tolerance for this mythical new substance, is madness on a first attempt,” she huffed over the com-link. “Mark my words: something’s going to give.”

“That’s why I made sure we have extra bucking cables and spare ribs on standby, just in case of such an unlikely—” his sanctimonious speech was interrupted when one of the new Duralloy II ribs snapped in two on his view screen. Rapidly he switched frequencies. “Release the tension, and replace that rib,” he yelled angrily, “we’re going to have to start over.”

“You simply can’t bring everything up to maximum tolerance like that,” she scolded him over the link.

“Blasted woman, I left a good ten percent off the max load for this try,” he scowled. Any engineer ought to know that if you if you want to make an omelet, you have to break a few eggs. You needed to let a man mull over events for a while before trying to dig into his head through his ears like a Tiberian sand mite. “These types of jobs never come off as smooth as they go up on the board,” he chided.

“Don’t you, ‘blasted woman’ me and try to change the subject! I said five percent, and I meant five percent: it’s too little slack,” she corrected severely. “You, of all people, should have known better.”

“Oh, so you think you know better than an Engineer with over six decades of experience under his tool-belt, do you,” he sneered in response.

“It’s not the size of the tool, but how you use it, you old coot,” she sniffed in reply.

Spalding suppressed a guffaw. “So you think you’ve got the right tool for this particular job, missy,” he chuckled.

“It’s Ms. Baldwin, Mr. Spalding and although I wouldn’t expect a manner-less mechanic like yourself to remember a little thing that,” she snorted with derision. “But yes, I could handle a simple tension job like this — in my sleep.”

“Then why don’t you try your hand at it, milady Baldwin,” he said in deceptively mild voice. So she wanted to call him a simple minded mechanic did she? Well, he decided, let’s see how well she did when harping and complaining about the way he ran things was no longer an option.

“Just like a man to go hard charging into the china house, breaking things left and right because he has too much pride to slow down or ask for direction—” she continued angrily before grinding to a halt. “What did you say,” she demanded, sounding surprised.

“I said, go ahead and take over, if you think you’re woman enough for the job,” he scoffed just to get under her skin. “It’s time to put up or shut up, girl. No more of this Monday morning smash-ball quarterbacking!”

“All you military types know how to use is your specialty hardware,” she snapped at him, and then started barking orders over the link. “Take that away and you’re lost, like little boys in the big bad forest, when it comes time for a general building job,” she growled at him after issuing her first set of instructions over the link. “Your type can’t see the trees from the woods.”

For his part, Spalding knew they had enough ribs to survive a few mistakes. Besides, the lass had some definite talent, or else why would he enjoy twitting her as much as he did? “Oh, aye,” he said agreeably as a pair of bucking cables promptly snapped. “That’s me to a treat: a veritable bull among the delicate porcelain. You most certainly have the full measure of me, milady Baldwin.” Several more bucking cables snapped and the entire frame of the Space Dock swayed slightly before settling down and Spalding suppressed a grin.

Baldwin growled. “The refinery needs to work on its quality control,” Glenda said stiffly, “your mythical substance may be stronger than regular duralloy, but clearly there are a few kinks that still need working out.”

“Of course, let’s blame the refinery your Space Committee decided to build on the cheap,” Spalding agreed scornfully.

“You are just about the most infuriating man I’ve ever had the displeasure of working with, Mr. Spalding,” she snapped.

Spalding was just glad his space helmet hid his growing grin. A lady never liked to see a man laughing at her, after all. So thinking, he flipped off his link and chuckled to himself.

Despite the setbacks, he knew they would get this job done… one way or another.

The End

A Sneak Peak at Book Four: Admiral’s Trial

Chapter 1: In the Brig

There was a loud, snapping sound and I awoke with a gasp, with a sharp, bitter smell in my nostrils. It filled my nose and bit all the way down into my chest, like some kind of ravenous knife. The next thing I knew, my lungs had seized up just like the time my mom had sprayed me all over with some expensive cologne every time we went to a mandatory royal function.

I was too young to realize what was wrong at the time. 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 leaning 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 simply body isn’t able.

“My name is Commander Justin P. Suddian,” he said, my eyes blinked enough to temporarily un-blur 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 lungs able to take in a fractionally larger amount of air than when I first woke up. I blinked and everything went blurry again. I could tell this was because my eyes were poorly lubricated from being asleep for so long, and not because I was about to pass out, or anything of that nature.

There was a sudden motion in my field of vision, and a shock of pain exploded in the thigh of my left leg.

“And I’d like to have a little chat,” said the man, and I felt an abrupt increase in the pressure on my leg and then a feeling like fire and lighting all mixed rolled up and missed into one 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. This had the fringe benefit of letting me rapidly blink clear whatever filmy by product of too much sleep had blurred my vision. Looking up at a pair of stone-faced and presumably parliamentarian officers from my hospital bed wasn’t necessarily an improvement I quickly decided. Perhaps I had been better off not being able to see clearly?

The thrill of fear and dread that shot through my gut and clenched my bowels up tight was awful, but it was nothing compared to the sudden, severe pain that shot through my mouth and throat when I tried to swallow.

Then the one with Commander’s patched on his shoulder smiled, and I was certain I’d been better off before.

“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 harsh and raspy, seemed unusually faint 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 pain in my throat… almost like someone had cleaned it with sandpaper.

The Commander just smiled at him 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 want 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 asked. 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 said and then left it at that. 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 what was the point of giving the man ideas.

“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.’ I jerked instinctively before realizing that my hands and legs were tied to the bed.

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.

“Your Uncle has given strict orders that you are not to be touched,” he said.

“That doesn’t sound too bad,” 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 reached for something on his belt. I heard the sound of a clip being unlatched.

Something dropped to the floor and there was another click, followed by a faint, crackling thrum, as something was activated.

“Normally, I would prefer to save this for later on in our… discussion, but just so we’re clear,” he paused ominously, and then continued in a darker, vastly more malignant tone of voice, “I don’t take orders from a Montagne, any Montagne, and certainly not as it relates to the pampering and treatment of other treacherous, bloody-handed, rebel Montagne scum.”

“Okay, that doesn’t sound too good. Maybe we got off on the wrong foot,” I said quickly as the Commander slowly cocked his hand back, “you started off calling me Mr. Vekna how about we go back to—”

The Commander’s hand snapped forward, causing a cracking sound, and pain flooded my body. I’m sad to say that it was the worst pain I had ever experienced. It was worse than being shot in the neck by my uncle, a little factoid that I remembered only as my whole body clenched and something in my neck felt like it tore open. It was worse than being stomped on by Oleander and then plasma grenaded while boiling hot, dripping Bug ichor burned the hair off my head. It was even worse than losing my hand on Tracto, during my introduction to Akantha’s family. In short: it was the worst sensation I’d felt in my entire life

Sad to say, I didn’t make the goal of a half hour. In less than five minutes, I was screaming like a little girl.

“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. He sounded entirely too clinical for my taste.

Then the angry, vindictive satisfaction I’d been expecting leaked through.

“But it is the last resort when other, more humane routes like chemical interrogation have run their course or proven completely ineffective,” said Commander Suddian.

When I my body had stopped seizing, and I was no longer making little high-pitched squealing sounds that tore my throat even more raw than before, I squeezed my eyes closed and took a pair of deep breaths in a desperate, obviously futile attempt to regain some shred of my composure.

“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, 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 false Little Admiral just came perilously close to telling me how to do my job, wouldn’t you say,” asked the Commander.

“Very perilous, Sir,” agreed his assistant, this Mr. Eden.

The commander made a ho-humming sound.

“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.

“Yes, Sir,” said Mr. Eden.

“Proceed with the injections, John Henry,” he said.

The assistant sighed and stood over me with a pair of giant syringes.

“We have IV locks in both your arms and legs, as well as the good side of your neck,” the Commander said conversationally, “but that would be a pretty painless method of injection. Besides, if the solution is administered directly into the muscles, its effects last that much longer. Muscling the solution is much more effective on so many levels than using an IV.”

Mr. Eden jabbed me in the side of each butt cheek, and I grimaced.

“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 said with satisfaction.

“If you say so,” I said with a nonchalance I simply wasn’t experiencing right at the moment. Then I could feel something, but I wasn’t entirely sure what it was.

My tongue felt dry and cottony, worse than before and Mr. Eden helpfully poured another dollop down my throat.

“Let’s start with a series of questions to establish a baseline,” the Commander said.

“The sooner we can get this over with, the better,” I agreed. What I didn’t say, was the sooner I could start plotting my revenge. Whatever else this drug did, it seemed to have clarified my thinking slightly. Jean Luc had to die for what he’d done. I figured everyone who helped him did also, but I would reluctantly withhold judgment. Although, what I was going to be able to do from the royal retreat (or even worse, with my head detached from my body) I wasn’t sure.

“Whatever happened to my crew and my…” I was going to say lancers, but figured that might upset him, “wife,” I finished lamely.

“Other than a few we are keeping in the brig for the purpose of clarity, your wife and all your partisans among the crew are dead,” 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 perhaps only fear at this declaration, but instead I felt calm in a slightly detached sort of way. Commander Justin P. Suddian needs to die as well, the thought suddenly popped into my head, like a revelation from Saint Murphy himself. That’s when I knew the drug was getting to me.

“You 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 ping from a handheld unit possessed by the assistant, the irrefutable Mr. Eden.

“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 said, 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 scream of frustration and stood over me with clenched fists.

I smiled at his sheepishly. What could I say… that I’d 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 asked, 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, “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 go on my rapidly growing list. Assuming I was around to make him pay, of course… something still very much in doubt.

The hand reader gave off a harsh strident voice.

“Lie,” reported Mr. Eden in a rising voice.

“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 felt like I was a stooge the way the Imperial Rear Admiral had played me and the lie detector said so but now the Interrogator was getting the wrong idea!

“No!” I said and the hand held beeped again.

“Lie,” beeped 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 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, that’s really not necessary,” I assured him, my raspy voice turning into a hoarse nothingness as my cry of pain eclipsed my damaged vocal cords ability to keep up. This pair of injections hurt much more than the last ones!

“The dosage keeps increasing and getting more painful with each injection, until we get what we want,” the Commander said smugly. “For the last time, when did you start working for or with Janeski?!”

I carefully considered my answer, to make sure I told the truth.

“Never,” I said judiciously. “I never worked for the man. He would order me onto the bridge, and off-ship for photo ops and such, but just routine stuff Parliament assigned as part of my duties; nothing to do with anything you seem to be implying.”

“Truth,” pinged Eden.

“What do you know about a group called the Sisters of 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.

“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 King James 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.

I must have contemplated 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, gesturing to my lung-spasming self 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.

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 as I spoke.

Ping – and Mr. Eden dryly related 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 outside 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 handheld device dinged, but Suddian overrode John Henry, waving him to silence.

I cast about desperately for something I could give him, and then my mind latched onto Mr. Spalding. He had supported me from the first, 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 battlesuit 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 all it 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.

“Even after enough truth drugs to drop an elephant, still he not only lies to us, but he flaunts the ability to defeat the system?” the Commander mused with disbelief.

My blood ran cold. Even I had heard of the powers invested in a Morale Officer. I realized I was stuck in a nightmare: my own, private, worst nightmare. My mouth was paralyzed with sheer horror at the implications of what the man was saying.

“Yes, Sir,” Mr. Eden said 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 belief that if I could just get far enough away, I would be okay.

“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 set of 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.

His assistant pulled out 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 yelled.

The bed then lifted up with just enough clearance so that my head didn’t hit the ceiling, and then abruptly flipped pulling a complete one eighty until I was hanging face down to the floor, with the mattress weighting me down.

“Remove the obstruction,” said the Morale Officer, and his assistant moved to comply. 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 hung from my neck, leaving the rest of my body uncovered.

Just that little string tied around my neck caused me more pain than being flipped around and hung upside down.

Then the bed slowly rotated until it was like I was standing up, except I was hanging from my arms with the weight of my whole body on my shoulders. The strain this put on my neck was almost unbearable, and before I knew it, my breaths came in quick short, gasps as sweat broke out on my forehead.

“Who are your partisans among the crew, my false Little Admiral,” the Morale Officer whispered into my ear.

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 you 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, 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. 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.

Something gave in my mouth, 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’s 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, followed by the ominous tone of a flat-lined heart monitor.

“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, and then everything went black, but I was surprisingly calm about the whole affair. 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.

Jason, Akantha and Papa Spalding’s adventure continues in Book Four: Admiral’s Trial

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