Chapter One: Let’s See What She’s Got!

“Let’s see what she’s got!” Spalding yelled, slamming his hand on the button.

The sound of Elder Tech Jump engines’ oscillations were like those of a revving internal combustion engine. The thrum filled the bridge of the newly rechristened Lucky Clover, and to say the tension was palpable would fall well short of doing the scene justice.

“Here she goes,” Spalding declared as the vibration continued to build and the hyper field began to form outside the ship.

“Uh…sir,” Brence asked, sweat breaking out on his forehead as the far-from-usual event unfolded around them.

The ship’s revving noises sputtered, resumed even louder than before, sputtered again, and continued to increase in intensity and frequency with each passing second.

“There she is!” the old Engineer chortled, pumping his fist in the air as the hyper field flashed.

“Sweet Murphy!” cried Brence. Modern jump engines simply didn’t make noises or flashes prior to a jump—not unless something was about to explode and everyone was destined to die. It either worked like flipping a light switch or the ship was torn apart. There was no in between.

The revving and sputtering suddenly hit a snag, and the oscillations quickly began to diminish in intensity and frequency.

“No…no!” Spalding shouted with sudden outrage.

Sounding as though the fuel lines had been kinked, the oscillations spluttered lower and slower until they seemingly vanished altogether—and with them, the hyper field flickered like a mouse-eaten piece of Holy Cheese.

“Blast it. She’s drawing too much power…the energy banks can’t keep up! This is at least a two week fix.” Screaming like he’d just been stabbed, Spalding pounded the side of his chair and kicked the metal console on the bridge hard enough to dent metal just as the hyper field vanished completely.

“Uh Sir?” Brence said eyes wide. Standing up, red-faced and breathing hard like a madman it took the Commander a full minute before he regained his rationality.

“Chief Engineer?” Brence prompted again.

“Don’t worry, Brence, she’ll be made right—and in time for the party too. It’s not her design that’s the problem,” Spalding’s voice rasped as he stoutly defended his ship, “it’s got to be the heavy draw from those newfangled Elder tech jump drives. Yep, that’s the problem. But don’t you worry none—old Spalding can compensate for it. I think…” he paused before his jaw clenched, “it’ll take more than a piece of the most advanced technology this ever produced in this galaxy before being left behind by a long-dead race whose technological achievements are currently beyond mere human understanding to stop—”

“Uh…” Brence winced at precisely the same time as Shepherd’s stuttering from Navigation interrupted the two of them.

“T-T-T-T-he scre-en is n-ow sho-wing a one-tw-w-welf-th charge!” he badly stuttered.

“What?!” Spalding cried, jumping out of his seat and running over to the nav-console.

“He-here,” Shepherd pointed at his screen.

Spalding’s eyes rapidly flowed over the AI Program/Elder Tech interface.

“Gravitational constant of the universe…the hyperspace resistance quotient has increased. Increased power storage needed for…?” for a moment he looked dumbfounded before he slamming his hand down on the Nav-plot table. “That that’s impossible!” he shouted, causing several navigation trainees to jump and immediately break away.

“Bad news, sir?” Brence asked, surreptitiously sliding his body between the Chief Engineer and the rest of the crew.

“Ahhh!” the old man cried, grabbing his head.

Brence bent over and his surprise saw that the interface did indeed list all the things the old engineer had just been raving about.

“I wasn’t aware there was a ‘hyperspace resistance quotient’ that the hyper techs and navigators had to factor in,” Brence said with surprise.

“There isn’t!” Spalding threw his hands in the air.

“An error in the interface perhaps?” Brence said with increased worry. If they were working with a buggy interface and with untested technology then the odds of survival had just gone down significantly…

“That’s not the problem,” the Commander swore, linking his tablet to the interface before spinning it so that Brence could see, “not even the half!”

The screen said 22.458 days and was even now slowly counting down.

“A self-destruct!” Brence blurted, immediately backing away from the data slate.

“What?” Spalding stared at him, bewildered before slapping the slate on the edge of the nav-plot for emphasis. “No, you bloomin’ idjit! That’s not a self-destruct countdown. That’s how long the hyper engines estimates it’ll take us to charge up for the jump at our current level of power! Gah!” he tossed his slate down on the nav-plot, “22 days! Can you believe it? Why, the war could be lost by then.”

“Uh…just to be clear. The part that bothers you isn’t the fact that the engines are running calculations regarding the gravitational constant of the universe and other factors—such as ‘hyperspace resistance’—none of which are even used with the height of modern technology…but rather the fact it’s going to take 22 days to re-try?” he asked cautiously.

“Why of course! There’s no point in arriving after the war’s already over, my boy,” Spalding bestowed a withering look on the other man. He waved his hands in the air wildly, “Didn’t you see? Eleven more segments to charge and each one a potential landmine…I mean it’s not like we can just install another generator anytime we…like. Well…I suppose we could, but by the time we did most of those 22 days would already be over,” the Commander said, pausing in contemplation before obviously throwing out the idea as a bad game.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Sir. But why don’t we just feed it more power and cut down those 22 days?” Brence asked perplexed. The solution seemed simple, therefore there must be something complex that he was missing.

“What are you blathering about man? I just told you by the time we installed more generators it’d already be—” Spalding demanded wryly.

“No. I mean why do we need to install more generators on the Clover, Sir? We’re in a great big yard here and there are lots of generators. Why can’t we just hook up the Elder engines to more generators until we get the time down to something more reasonable than three weeks?” he asked, honestly stumped. “I mean it’s not like the hyper field is confined to one ship. We could just hook up lines to the engines from inside the field. Or maybe even from outside the field? Would the lines just be severed when it jumped or should we manually cut them in the last minutes before jump? Of course, I’ve never seen jump engines like these before so I could just be way off-base—”

“Brence, you’re a genius!” Spalding declared happily.

“I am?” he asked with surprise, totally expecting that he would have been educated in just how wrong he was right now, not complimented instead.

“O’ course, the power generated by the smaller ships would be a drop in the bucket…and even our bigger ships are limping along on limited fusion generators right now. But I’m sure that if we put our heads together we can figure something out!” he said happily.

“Uh…good,” Brence said, wondering if he’d just shot himself in the foot and feeling compelled to add, “I mean, unless you think maybe we ought to go back over that interface program with a fine-toothed comb first? I don’t know…maybe we should make sure we aren’t about to jump into the middle of a sun or a black hole or overcharge the jump engines and explode?”

“My boy, you cycle back and forth between hot and cold faster than anyone I know,” Spalding rolled his eyes.

“I cycle back and forth faster?” he repeated with outrage.

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Spalding hastened to console him, “there are worse things a man could be saddled with. Why, I was saddled with a heart grown in the same vat as that of a natural born coward, and see how I turned out—”

Right at that moment the stress and uncertainty of the last two days came crashing down hitting the younger engineer all at once. “Bah!” Brence shouted in exasperation.

Chapter Two: The Mysterious Man

It had taken the better part of two weeks of careful planning, followed by two entire days of floating out in the middle of cold space watching his oxygen tanks and power cells dwindle down to nearly nothing. But he had finally done it, and his quarry was now in sight.

“Come to papa,” he muttered as the bulky, oversized, but—most importantly—slow and lumbering freighter made a turn. Due to being so close to the station, yard and manufacturing factory and refinery, it came to nearly a stop before reorienting itself and plotting a new course for the edge of the system and the hyper limit.

Thumbing his thrusters to active, he shot toward the freighter.

One eye on his nearly spent power cells and the other on the rapidly approaching freighter, his screen flashed. Just as suddenly as his grav-board had activated, it went dead again.

While onboard the freighter, the ship’s officers and captain were surprised by the small blip that had appeared on the nav-screen. It disappeared almost as quickly as it had arrived.

Following protocol, they ran a full sweep before logging it as a false return and starting their engines. They had manufactured goods to deliver to Tracto and needed to keep to their delivery schedule.

The man in the suit flashed a grim smile as the freighter slowly began to accelerate. It was coming to him exactly as planned. This time, with only a nudge of the board’s controls he was able to match course and speed and land on the oversized freight hauler.

Step one of his plan had succeeded. Now all he had to do was find an access port and get inside the ship before it reached the hyper limit and jumped—well, somewhat before that as his oxygen bottles were almost bingo air inside them. But he was certain he could do it. After all, he’d had a vision that told him exactly what he needed to do in order to escape this star system.

For half a moment, he had the urge to commandeer the freighter as soon as he got inside. He could ram a few of the shuttles in the vitally important industry of this star system out of revenge, or he could simply wait until it reached the hyper limit and then jump to a set of coordinates of his choosing.

At that thought, a splitting headache nearly crippled him with its all-encompassing agony. He shook his head from side to side like a punch-drunk fighter before deciding that it was probably best to just follow the vision and do what he had to first.

After all, his visions were never wrong…unfortunately.

He clenched his fists, knowing that the time for revenge would come later.

“Lo there did I see my father. Lo there did I see my mother. Lo there did I see my sisters and my brothers. Lo there did I see the line of my people, back to the beginning, in the halls of…” muttering to himself all the while he reached an airlock and using his slate easily hacked the pitiful security on this freighter and entered the ship. He needed to find a secure place to ride out the trip to Tracto.

Only if he was discovered could he do what he really wanted and take over the ship.

“It’s a pirate’s life for me,” he muttered as he found the small crawlspace predicted in his dreams and pulled himself inside.

Now all that was left to do was wait—well, wait and hope he was actually discovered so that he could kill everyone on board and prove these infernal visions less than infallible.

Still humming to himself, he closed his eyes and stretched out his body as the weight of normal gravity pulled on his bones. It had been a long time since he’d felt normal gees. Actually, if one was being perfectly precise, he had never felt them.

Chuckling to himself, he fell asleep and immediately started dreaming about the next phase of his plan. His final goal was still a bit of a mystery but, honestly, he liked it that way. Although he vaguely got the sense that the ‘him’ of the past would have been too much of a control freak to enjoy it. In a way he was glad for the change…in a way.

Chapter Three: Running Home to Wolf-9

They emerged from hyperspace with a lurch that was somehow worse that the last.

“Point Emergence,” reported one of the bridge crew. “Looks like we’ve transferred to the system we were aiming for without breaking anything this time. We’re in Easy Haven. Thank the gods.”

“Belay that nonsense,” snapped Captain Hammer over her shoulder before returning to face the helm. “Keep to your duty, Helmsman.”

“Main engine is lit and our baffling is now extended beyond transfer area,” reported Helmsman DuPont.

“Point Resistance?” demanded the ship’s First Officer.

“Engines at 25% of maximum,” said the Helmsman. “The ship is still locked.”

“Shields at a steady 65% and re-modulated for a sump break,” reported a tactical trainee sitting with Lieutenant Longbottom for cross-training.

“I’m amazed we survived the transfer,” declared Navigator Brightenbauc as he stood from his chair. “The inertia on this sump alone is going to be the worst this ship’s ever seen. I warned you this was a very bad idea trying to tow another warship through hyperspace in our condition. Although, as any fool knows, it’s impossible to actually tow anything through hyperspace. Despite the slipshod nomenclature we’re required to use on this ship, the only way to ‘bring’ anything else with you is to extend the shield relays around another ship and even then it’s near criminal the amount of times—”

“When I or the Admiral want your opinions, we’ll ask for them, Navigator,” Leonora Hammer said shortly. “In the meantime, confine yourself to your duty and stay on task—or, now that we are at Easy Haven and your services are no longer required in the short term, security will escort you down to the brig!” she waved toward the blast doors where a pair of Marines and another pair of Armsmen were stationed to either side of it instead of the previous Lancer quad.

Yes, there had been a few changes on this ship since the ‘latest’ Tracto-an mutiny. Hopefully both my wife and my Lancers had gotten the message.

“You can’t do that!” exclaimed Lieutenant Brightenbauc. “You’re this close to finding yourself under a mandatory 72 hour psych hold now that this fleet has reached friendly port, Mr. Brightenbauc,” Captain Hammer said, showing her thumb and forefinger which had approximately one inch between them for emphasis. “This close!”

Yes, it was a new day. But in this case I could only hope that those changes were about to include a change in navigation. No longer holding both the mantles of Captain and Admiral of this ship, I couldn’t just fire Brightenbauc without stepping all over my Flag Captain’s toes.

Not that this would have stopped me if I had a replacement that I trusted waiting in the bullpen for his chance at glory, but the sad fact was that I didn’t. That said, if he stepped on a grenade of his own making I felt entirely justified in taking great pleasure while I sat back and gloated while he self-destructed. What can I say? The man just rubbed me the wrong way. Letting him mouth off while he dug his own grave was the extent of what I was willing to do.

“On what grounds?” Brightenbauc flared angrily, entirely unaware and uncaring of what his Admiral thought of his actions, “that you’ve gone native started turning on your own in favor of a bunch of rustic rub—”

“You do not want to complete that sentence Mister! One more word—just one more and that’s it,” snapped the Captain and then in the face of Brightenbauc’s silent intransigence finally blew her gasket, “you know what? I’m done. Security, escort the Ship’s Navigator down to Medical for mandatory counseling.”

“Fine!” Brightenbauc said, shooting the receiver piped into my chair a disgusted look before marching over to his security detail and presenting his wrists as if in preparation for handcuffs. “You can take me away. I know you’re just doing your duty in the face of—”

Whatever words he had been about to say were interrupted by the blast doors sliding shut.

“Now that we’re finally done with the melodrama, if someone could get me those sump resistance numbers?!” she said, biting out the last three words.

The backup assistant navigator floundered, looking discombobulated at his superior being frog-marched off the bridge. She was starting to panic now that she was the woman on the spot.

“Main Engine at 40%. Both secondaries lit,” interrupted the Helmsman.

“Shield strength now at 49%. We’re starting to feel the drain,” reported Longbottom, obviously deciding to take back over reporting from the Tactical trainee in the suddenly tense bridge.

“Consult with Engineering and proceed at your own discretion, Helm,” Captain Hammer said, looking aggravated enough to kill something. “You’ve got the most experience with the Dreadnaught class and, with Navigation down for the moment, you’ve got the best feel for this ship.”

“Will do. Engineering, send me over the hull and cable figures,” said DuPont with an acknowledging nod as his hands danced over the helm controls, “increasing all engines to 75% of maximum.”

“Wait. No! The sump resistance combined with our battle damage and the ship strapped to our hull—” exclaimed the assistant Navigator. But DuPont had already keyed in the increase.

There was a loud bang which reverberated throughout the ship, followed by a terrible scraping noise.

I winced as the ship broke free of the inertial sump.

“We just lost the tow,” Adrienne Blythe reported with censure.

“Both ships are free of the sump, Captain,” reported DuPont.

“I thought I told you to be careful, Mister!” Leonora Hammer sounded like a woman at the end of her tether.

I closed my eyes and shook my head. The scene brought back memories of the early days when we’d been riding along the ragged edge of not just our equipment, but our competence.

“Both ships are free, Captain,” DuPont repeated still moving the ship from his console, “moving now to reacquire bucking cable lock.”

“Shields have stabilized now that we’re out of the sump,” cut in Longbottom.

“Bridge, carry on with recovery operations,” Captain Hammer said after a moment. “Helmsman, I’ll see you in my office after the situation has stabilized and we are on course for the Wolf-9 Starbase.”

“Of course, Sir,” replied DuPont. Maybe he could have sounded a little bit more subservient than he did, but on the whole if I had to take a side I’d have to go with him—we were finally back in Easy Haven. Both ships were safe and, yes, maybe we could have had a gentler exit if it wasn’t for the histrionics of her Confederation former sleeper officer, Navigator Brightenbauc, but it hadn’t and so here we were.

Of course, as I had to remind myself several times every day, I wasn’t the ship’s captain. I was merely the person that told the ship’s captain where to go and who to fight.

“This whole ‘trying to be a professional’ business is for the dogs,” I muttered.

“Sir?” Hammer asked’ her head turning toward my pick-up.

I frowned. I’d turned the gain on the master control volume down far enough that she shouldn’t have heard me when I was speaking at that low a decibel. Now I had to wonder if she’d had one of her techs hack the controls.

“Nothing, Captain. Carry on,” I said, working to keep my frown from turning into a scowl. I rechecked the pickup sensitivity levels but they still showed at where I’d set them previously. I didn’t like the fact that something was off with the controls, and I doubly didn’t like the fact that because I’d been overheard I now appeared to have reinforced the Captain’s position vis-à-vis DuPont by essentially taking a neutral position in support of the captain.

Was someone playing games and trying to force my hand, or was I becoming overly paranoid post-defeat at the hands of the criminal rear admiral Arnold Janeski?

For now, I was going to go with paranoid. But at the same time I was going to have Lisa Steiner’s contact in the computer department take a look under the hood of my command console. The last thing I needed was a problem cropping up at the worst possible moment—say, during the heat of battle.

“Will do, Admiral,” acknowledged Captain Hammer.

“Sirs, I’m reading multiple hyper footprints all around us…as well as a large number of new contacts in close proximity to the star base,” Sensors said with a smile.

“Thanks, Tech,” I said forcing a smile.

That the fleet was behind us was good news. That there were significant reinforcements here to greet our battered survivors…technically that was a good thing as well. But, having just come back from a crushing defeat, now that we were back at a safe location we could expect the finger pointing to resume in force.

It looked like I was going to have my hands full for the next several days at minimum.

Ironically, this was my best case scenario of all the potential outcomes that myself and the command staff had gamed out.

Now it was just time to grit my teeth and bear it.

Janeski was behind us and had an overwhelming force. There was little time for internal divisions.

Not that that little factoid was going to stop anyone with his, her, or its axe to grind.

Time to gird the proverbial loins.

Chapter Four: Let the Finger Pointing Ensue!

“Captain Hammer,” I stepped into the lift, seeing my Flag Captain inside it along with an aide wearing the uniform of a confederation petty officer. From her age she was probably still in her early twenties. It was probably safe enough to talk in front of her so long as the captain and I didn’t stray into any top level issues.

“Vice Admiral,” Leonora Hammer shot a sideways glance at the aide and then inclined her head, “fancy meeting you here.”

“As we’re both scheduled for the same conference inside the star base, the chances of our meeting up before the meeting are not as low as they might appear,” I said smoothly.

“So you didn’t just happen to arrive on the same lift as I did?” she asked.

“It was totally unplanned, I assure you,” I replied promptly. “However, now that we’re both here…”

“If there’s anything I’d like to tell you before the meeting, now’s the time, huh?” she said with a sigh.

“Just in case there is anything that was, oh let’s say, ‘left out of the reports or recently occurred’,” I said with a winning smile to try and take the sting out of it. Yes, I was checking up on her homework but, despite the discomfort doing so caused, that was my job. Moreover, I didn’t need to be blindsided in this upcoming meeting.

I was already tense enough to burn an ulcer all the way through my abdominal wall. This meeting could literally make or break the fleet and, thus, the entire defense of this Sector. I still didn’t know exactly what I was going to say, except that we should stay the course, but the last thing I needed was a self-inflicted wound.

“Honestly, everything is in the report including our best time repair schedule,” she said with a grimace.

I couldn’t help but freeze temporarily. I didn’t like how long the repairs were going to take but there was literally nothing I could do about that—I knew because I’d already tried.

“Except…well, there is one thing that we haven’t gone over yet,” she said with no small measure of reluctance.

“Yes?” I asked sharply, feeling like a hunter scenting new game.

“Oh it’s nothing mission critical, but…” she trailed off.

“Humor me. What is it?” I demanded, unwilling to let her off that easy.

“It’s Lieutenant Brightenbauc,” she sighed.

“Ah,” I said, my ardor for fresh news instantly cooling.

“Word from the doctor is that he’s been diagnosed with a case of cold sleep psychosis that was exacerbated by combat fatigue. According to the good doctor, the stress of prolonged combat exacerbated his condition and took it from manageable to…well, his current condition as of the last time you saw him on the bridge,” Captain Hammer said, treading where other’s might not have dared considering how little I cared for the man. “The doctor has prescribed medication and says that with medication to control the symptoms, and mandatory counseling to deal with and assess the root causes, he should be able to return to duty within a week. He also says that after repeated brain scans the neural regeneration treatment to deal with prolonged cryo-freeze is unlikely to be necessary. Unless we see more signs of difficulty, it’s probably not a problem with structural damage of the synapses inside his head causing a personality shift.”

“So in other words he’s not like this because of brain damage. He was just born this way,” I grunted, not adding exactly how he was born, although several words quickly and easily came to mind—none of them flattering.

“He’s been pushed over the edge due to time-shock exacerbated by combat stress. I assure you that according to his fitness reports the man is usually not this way,” she said.

“And what way would you describe it—I mean him—currently?” I asked lifting a brow.

Captain Hammer frowned at me. “Also Admiral, about the need to completely replace the port side shield generator,” she said finally, deliberately ignoring and side stepping my question.

Not that I blamed her…much.

“Like I said before: the yard here is working to manufacture the critical components we’re going to need. Although you’re free to follow up with them on your own time, that’s the last word I had. We’re at the mercy of the yard dogs, I’m afraid,” I splayed my hands.

“I’m well aware of that, however we don’t just need the components. I guess our internal engineering team is going to have to rebuild the gross physical structures and housing as well. Not to mention replacing the main power lines in and out, putting a further strain on engineering. That’s why I’d like to…”

Getting into the nuts and bolts, we continued to discuss the flagship until the lift’s chime dinged indicating we had arrived at our destination.

Stepping into the conference room, I could immediately feel the temperature metaphorically drop. But because of my background and training which had made me somewhat used to hostile crowds, I was well-prepared for this reaction ever since we’d fled from Admiral Janeski with our heads in our hands. I forced a pleasant expression, kept my back straight, and refused to allow a hitch to enter my step.

In short, I appeared just like what I’d trained to be: a Prince and Admiral fully in control himself and unshaken—although not unaffected—by the catastrophic events taking place outside this star system.

“I’d like to thank everyone for gathering here,” I said, stepping up behind the chair with my name plate on the table in front of it, pausing to relay my message and then pulling out the chair sat down and pulled the chair forward until I was a comfortable distance from the edge of the table.

Reaching for a glass, I carefully poured water into it before looking up at the remainder of the table’s occupants questioningly.

Just as I’d calculated, the silence was soon replaced by a challenge.

“So that’s all you have to say for yourself after a debacle that destroyed a full three quarters of your fleet while you were in command? ‘Thanks for gathering’!?” a man with the uniform of an SDF Admiral demanded angrily.

“Half,” I said, picking up the glass and looking at it for a moment before taking a sip. “Ah, that hits the spot,” I said to no one in particular.

“I beg your pardon,” growled the Admiral.

Looking up and glancing at his name plate, I saw that his name was Full Admiral Triam Vextriam of the Praxis SDF.

“I was only saying, Admiral Vextriam,” I paused to shoot a hard look at him, “that we lost half our fleet against the closet Imperial Reclamationists—not three fourths. But then perhaps you have not yet had the benefit of a full briefing on the original strength of Sector 25’s defensive fleet, or on the battle we just fought?”

Admiral Vextriam flushed. “I am fully apprised of the trap you led your forces into and the attendant losses. Nor do I appreciate the lack of courtesy implied by referring to me by an improper rank. I, young man, am a Full Admiral in the Praxis SDF!”

“So it was mere hyperbole and not an arithmetic failure as I had surmised. Although that still doesn’t answer the question of just where exactly you received your ‘full briefing,’ as that is the reason you all are gathered here,” I nodded knowingly before putting down my water with a click as it hit the table. “And as far as courtesy…Admiral,” I said deliberately emphasizing the fact that I was not referring to him as ‘Full Admiral’, “you must first give it in order to get it.”

“I don’t think that a man who has just lost 3/4ths of the warships entrusted to him—half of them captured or destroyed outright—without doing any appreciable damage to the enemy deserves the respect of being called an Admiral,” glared Admiral Vextriam.

“That’s entirely your prerogative, old man,” I said simply.

Full Admiral Triam Vextriam stood up stiffly, “If that’s how our representatives are to be treated the Praxis Contingent is prepared to withdraw.”

“No, that’s just how you are to be treated,” I said dryly, “and you and your contingent are free to withdraw. I am sure that you will make good use of the month you’ll have before your home world is invaded by the Reclamation Fleet. Ta-ta!” I finished with a false smile.

“You have no shame, Sir!” declared the Full Admiral, as if this was supposed to mean anything to me.

“I am unfamiliar with your record, Admiral,” I said firmly. “Did I walk into a trap laid out by the enemy and fail to best them at their own game? Yes. Was it a trap laid with false electronic information intercepts and spurred into by unbridled subordinates who demanded an immediate attack? Yes. Do I regret it to my very bones? Undoubtedly I will remember the men and women I failed to my dying day. That said. it is one loss in a string of battles I’ve been fighting ever since the empire withdrew. I’ve fought Pirates. I’ve fought Bug invasion fleets. I’ve fought Droid invasion fleets. And, yes, the one I lost against the Imperials. Frankly, despite being maligned in the media, I’ve fought battles both inside and outside of this Sector and in the defense of this Sector, the Spine and Humanity as a whole. But again, as I said earlier, I am unfamiliar with your record. Please chastise me with the record of battles you’ve fought to defend our people and this Sector. If I have done you a wrong then I encourage you to please tell me how you’ve fought for the Spine. If it weren’t for me you wouldn’t even be aware of this threat.”

“Impudence…arrogance—compounded by rank incompetence,” howled the Full Admiral, his face turning redder and redder. “Are we to stand here and allow you to insult us?! No!”

“Again, you are free to go and fight the Imperials at a time and place of their choosing—meaning that battle will take place at your home world. When the Imperials have amassed what they think is overwhelming combat power and are confident—as they currently are, evidenced by the battle at New Pacifica—and can stand off with their Command Carrier and bombard your most powerful fixed defenses from outside of their range,” I said with finality, “so sure. Leave. Let’s all see how that works for you—let us see how that works for all of you,” I added, sweeping the rest of the officers at this table with my cold gaze.

“Hear hear,” said Captain Eastwood of the Messene’s Shield. I was grateful for the show of support from within my own ranks, but sadly I was going to need more than just my own loyal supporters if we were going to pull this off—and that was looking less and less likely by the minute.

“You realize that without our support, the defense of this star system is doomed. You are doomed,” observed a Rear Admiral in an SDF uniform—a man I was unfamiliar with. Beside him sat a Commodore in the New Sector Guard uniform. I was mildly surprised that they had more units to send, but I’d take them if I could. In the meantime I had to answer the other SDF Admiral, “I doubt the man in charge of that rogue Imperial Fleet will just let you go after the way you mangled his task force in the battle prior to this.”

“I do realize your contributions to this defense are necessary,” I said agreeably. “Do you also realize that if Easy Haven falls, the rest of the Sector will be knocked over like dominoes? As the Wolf-9 fortifications and Easy Haven stands so stands this Sector. As Easy Haven falls, so falls this Sector. The way I see it you need me even more than I need you.”

“How do you figure that?” asked the Rear Admiral, sounding amused. Taking a glance at his name plate I saw that he was Grantor Nuttal from a world I didn’t recognize. It must really not be one of the Core Worlds, and yet the men and women around him allowed him to speak. I wondered what qualities he had that granted him that measure of deference.

“I am a man rejected by his home world and, some would even say, the majority of this very Sector. They even call me a tyrant. But you’ll notice that majority of my assets are mobile. I fight out of a desire for justice and idealism. But other than my wife’s lands on a primitive world, the only thing the Imperials can hit are Easy Haven and a few immobile space stations. Would I miss the Trillium resources? Undoubtedly. Would I stew and regret the loss of several major space stations? No question. But again I could theoretically evacuate those stations as well as the small population on my wife’s lands. So, yes, I’d take a hit and the entire time I was rebuilding out in an isolated, uninhabited star system I’d have plenty of time to plot out my revenge. Meanwhile, they couldn’t find me but the location of all your worlds are well known to them. Within a few months, jack boots would be trodding your soil and marching through your capitols. I can always take another stab at revenge later, if I had to. You guys? Evacuating your worlds is a joke; you simply don’t have the carrying capacity. So if you leave, I’ll leave too,” I shrugged. “I’m not going ask my people to die for another man’s war—a war those very other men refuse to fight. So, by all means, leave if that’s your intent. But if you’re going to stay then remember this is Confederation property—this is my turf and, if you’ll stay, it’s on my terms.”

“A bold statement. But despite Admiral Vextriam’s perhaps poorly-chosen words, the question remains a legitimate one: why should we throw good money after bad? You lost against the Reclaimers once already—and badly, at that. Why should we count on you to do any better a second time?” asked Rear Admiral Nuttal.

“A third time, don’t you mean?” I flashed a false smile. “As I count it, I won the first battle and currently my win loss ratio is 1 to 1.”

“You only won when you struck from surprise in an ambush situation,” snorted Grantor Nuttal.

“The exact same could be said for my opponent in the battle I lost, yes? Proving what? That if either of us can attack with surprise on our side, we’ll probably win. Well, this time we won’t walk in fat, dumb and happy straight into an enemy ambush. We’ll let them come to us. No surprise, no ambush except what we have in this star system. Both sides will know exactly what is going on, their massive fleet against our admittedly smaller fleet and formidable fixed defenses. And this time, with your help, we’ll break their teeth on Wolf-9. Or, of course,” I shrugged, “we can always just give up and go home. Frankly if we do that I’m liking my odds and future a lot more than I’m liking yours, as you have to go through a regime change when they conquer your worlds just like they have every planet and star system in three other Sectors. But hey, if you’re with us here at Easy Haven and you’re determined to fight to the finish then we’re prepared to go all in with you and show those Imperials a fight like they’ll never forget.”

“And what if we like everything about this plan of yours except for the man in charge of implementing it?” asked Rear Admiral Grantor Nuttal, his face hard and unyielding.

“You can go home and pound sand for all I care. It’s my way or the highway,” I said flatly, “this is my star system, boys and girls—my rodeo—and this late in the game I figure I’m all you’ve got left.”

Nuttal slowly shook his head, “I’m not sure if I agree with that last statement of yours.”

“There’s the door,” I said pointing to the conference room entrance, “feel free to show yourself out if that’s really how you feel.”

“I don’t agree,” Rear Admiral Grantor Nuttal repeated with force, “but at the same time, though I hate to say it, you’re probably still our best shot.”

I shrugged while the room erupted around me. “Whatever gets you through the night,” I flippantly returned.

The Rear Admiral stood up and tapped the first two knuckles of his left hand against the table. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be, Admiral Montagne,” he warned.

I glared at him. “I disagree. This is exactly as hard as it needs to be—or maybe I’m even being a bit too soft and wishy-washy with the lot of you,” I said flatly. I was serious. Color me a coward, but I was ready to pull out and fight another time if I had to. There might have been someone who’d done more for this Sector since the Imperials performed their magic trick with the stellar ComStat network and pulled out, but I didn’t know him. So while I’d hate to lose the Wolf-9 yards, star base, and potentially Commodore LeGodat who would scream bloody murder and maybe even decide to pull out and fight to the bitter end at Easy Haven, I couldn’t stomach another blunder like our last battle. Either we did this right or we pulled back, reconsolidated, and looked for another chance to even the score.

I refused to let another committee run or committee influenced operation happen on my watch. Even more, I refused to allow thousands of good men and women to follow me to their death.

I closed my eyes tightly before opening them. The iron had entered my spine, and it felt like it was there to stay. I’d long since come to terms with people following the flawed me and then dying because I wasn’t good enough, or fast enough, or even competent enough. I didn’t like it but I could do so because this was an at will organization where every sentient had the right to be asked the question ‘who was the greater fool: the fool or the fool who followed him?’ by a skeptical critic. But even more importantly than their right to self-determination, I was able to sleep at night because when I stood up and looked around I literally couldn’t see anyone else who was willing to standing up for the helpless people of the Spineward Sectors and place their ships, crews and fleets between them and danger.

The SDF’s were great but ultimately limited to protecting their narrow scope of self-interest—and weeping great big alligator tears in front of the media cameras to drive up ratings unless their own personal worlds were at risk. As for the Sector Guard, in my somewhat informed opinion, they were just about as likely to oppress the innocent as they were to go up against guilty.

If you didn’t mind fifty-fifty odds then, as far as I was concerned, you might as well join the MSP—at least we didn’t deliberately target the innocent.

“The Star Nation of Praxis will not sit still for this!” Full Admiral Triam Vextriam finally burst like a dam too long under pressure.

“Please enhance your calm, Full Admiral,” Grantor Nuttal tried to smooth the troubled waters, but the Full Admiral was having none of it.

“I will not be silent,” thundered Triam Vextriam, “and we will not be lectured to—least of all not by a young man who knows more about criminal behavior than he does about how to run a fleet or fight battles!”

I set my jaw. For a moment I almost sympathized with my Tracto-an mutineers. Knowing that this was the inevitable result of ‘civilized’ behavior where no one was allowed to settle their differences by mutual agreement within a challenge circle, thus allowing every fool to wax long and stridently about things he literally knew nothing about. It stuck in my craw.

“If by ‘criminal’ you mean you mean a potential violation of finance laws by personally funding the defense of this Sector through a series of loans taken out against my wife’s great personal wealth—when as you well know the various worlds of the Spine, including Praxis, for whatever reason, refused their legal obligation to pay the very taxes that support the Confederation Fleet—then I commend your auditors for their due diligence. At the same time I am left aghast at the hypocritical stance taken by the Praxis Government. Which is why at this point I must reluctantly direct your attention to sub-section three hundred and thirty two of the same statute—” I said with a straight face.

The Full Admiral’s face had by now turned purple. “I don’t care how you fund that abortion of a pirate fleet you’ve raised!” he cut me off. “The last thing I’m interested in is how you’re spending your ill-gotten gains! The sad and sorry fact of this matter is—”

I jumped to my feet, “Pirate Fleet?!”

“You’ve been lambasted across the Sector by the media. Oh yes,” Full Admiral Vextriam gloated, “we on Praxis know full well the tally of the Tyrant’s foul misdeeds. We were willing to stomach the foul taste of working with you at the direct urging of the Sector Government and in the face of a full-blown invasion. But no longer! We will not sit silently by while the Tyrant of Cold Space, a Montagne from a family just as cruel and brutal on their home world as he ever was in the space lanes, tramples over our rights and privileges, happily slaughtering the very good men and women who were the true heroes who defended this sector. I wonder what Admiral Silverback and the countless officers and crew that died would say regarding your rank incompetence, Vice Admiral!” he said, leveling a murderous glare my direction.

This was the moment when I would have shot him if he’d been a Tracto-an, or an enemy like Jean Luc. I could all but see myself pointing my pointer finger at him, pulling back my thumb, and shooting him with the miniature one shot blaster pistol implanted in my hand. I could see it but, of course, I did nothing of the sort. After all I was ‘civilized’ and when a man slandered and libeled you, in a ‘civilized’ society while you could say whatever you wanted in return ultimately instead of settling things with swords you just had to grin and bear it.

I drummed my fingers on the edge of the table in a rapid, repeated beat. Maybe after all this time fighting on the ragged edge of these Sectors, I wasn’t as civilized as I would like to assume anymore.

“I’m not going to bandy words with a man who wasn’t there when Governor Isaak threw me in jail on trumped up charges and then slandered me in front of the media when I was constrained from defending myself. All for the sole crime of daring to fight off the very pirates he accused me of being. A governor who wasn’t there when the pirates, bugs, droids or…” I sneered, “closet Imperials reared their ugly heads when they tried to conquer us!”

“Why you little basta—“ roared the Full Admiral.

“No you, Sir!” I shouted, “you don’t have a clue what’s been done to protect this Sector and clearly you couldn’t care less. ‘Little’, ‘Young’ and ‘Boy’? I’ve been fighting both fleet and ship actions for the past three and a half years—which is way more combat experience, I’d wager, than most of the captains in this room—yet still you continually try to mock or demean me. Why is that? I lost one battle. One. And so what?! I’m the only one in this entire Sector who has actually beaten these Reclaimer Imperials at their own game. But just because you cannot bear the thought of the losses from that one last battle, you want to pull out—under the pretext that I’m an incompetent, young, little, boyish, lying Tyrant from a bad family who is terrorizing the space lanes? Pick a narrative and stick with it, Full Admiral! Either I’m an incompetent or a serious tyrannical threat. Either way, I’ve had enough of your blather. Man up or get lost in Murphy’s demonic realm for all I care. I don’t have time set aside for imbeciles on this meeting’s schedule!”

“What are you going to do, punk?” he demanded, his jaw jutting out. “A little bit of heat and you don’t have the stomach to stay in the kitchen? You might as well quit now.”

“You can’t speak out both sides of your mouth on my deck, old man,” I retorted fiercely. “Maybe that kind of double speak flies back on Praxis but it doesn’t work here.”

“I move that we immediately vote to select a new leader to lead us in this upcoming battle and nominate myself,” Full Admiral Triam Vextriam said, turning away from me and appealing to the rest of the officers assembled here. “With your support and that of your various ships and Marine contingents, we can clap the Tyrant in irons, send him back for the trial he so richly deserves, and still keeping the ships and defenses he has assembled here for use against the—”

“Guards!” I shouted, leveling a finger at the Full Admiral from Praxis as Wainwright’s Marines came marching into the room. “Clap that man in irons and escort him to the brig.”

“On what charge?” yelled a Praxis Captain sitting next to Vextriam while the Full Admiral just crossed his arms over his chest and looked down his nose at me. He presented the very picture of a man certain of his righteousness and position as he hammed it up for the rest of the Captains, Commodores and Admirals in the room.

“You go too far, Montagne!” snapped a man in a Caprian SDF pattern uniform, who’d been sitting quietly in his corner of the room while the argument had raged back and forth up to this point. Looking over, I could see that he was the captain of the People’s Initiative, an old style dreadnaught class Battleship from my home world—make that former home world. “You can’t just arrest a man from another government and organization who disagrees with you any time you feel like, even if you are the pirate we know you well to be!”

“The charge is insubordination, mutiny, inciting mutiny and attempted planetary piracy,” I spoke over the top of the growing clamor.

“You don’t have the authority,” shouted the Praxis Captain, pounding his fist on the table while the Praxis guards standing behind each member of the Praxis contingent leveled their weapons at my Marines.

“Even if the Sector Governor hadn’t placed me in command of the joint sector defense force, I could still invoke my authority as a Confederation Admiral and formally take command of the defense of this Sector. That’s two lines of authority for you, Captain,” I said folding my arms across my chest and glaring right back at the Praxis contingent.

“We do not recognize your authority,” sneered the Captain, “the authority of a murderer and pirate! What a joke!”

“You’ve lost, Montagne,” sneered Admiral Vextriam, “give up the ghost and knuckle under like a good little boy and maybe I’ll put in the good word for you at your trial. If, that is, you can truly and honestly convince me that you’re willing to put aside your self-perceived grievances and fight wholeheartedly in the defense of this Sector, I might even be willing to let you fight in the upcoming battle. However—”

-Bang-

That was the sound of an old-style, chemically-powered hand weapon discharging, sending blood and brain matter out the side of the Full Admiral’s head. For a short second, he stood there looking stunned and surprised before collapsing to the deck.

“Murderer!” screamed the Praxis Captain, leveling his finger at me.

“Admiral Montagne was right in that your Full Admiral was both insubordinate and attempting to incite a mutiny,” said Rear Admiral Nuttal, pivoting to point the still-smoking barrel of his chemical hand cannon at the Praxis officer. “But he didn’t kill him—I did. Stand down before you join him in the annals of history as his dead accomplice—one who started a gun fight in the Sector Defense Council meeting.”

“You?” the Praxis Captain accused incredulously, lifting a hand to temporarily stall the Praxis contingent guards as realization dawned on his features. “You killed him!”

“There’s only one punishment for the crime of mutiny in cold space—and that’s death,” Grantor Nuttal said evenly.

The Praxis captain opened his mouth.

“Stand down, Captain,” a man with the hashtags of a Praxis Commodore on his shoulder boards said, standing up and placing a hand on his shoulder.

“But Sir!” protested the Captain.

“The Full Admiral had orders from our home world to secure command of this fleet if at all possible, and I had orders to lead our contingent if he failed. He’s obviously not going to be commanding anything from now on,” said the Commodore.

“I don’t believe…” started the Captain trailing off as the Commodore handed the Captain a sheaf of hard copy. “Ahh!” he cried crumpling the paper in his hands.

“As I said to my subordinate,” the Commodore continued, eyeing me coolly, “my orders are to follow your orders to the best of my abilities and assist in the defense of this Sector with all of my power, Sir,” he finished meeting and holding my gaze before sitting back down.

I blinked in surprise, but since I was somewhat used to operating in violent situations, violent boardroom situations, I nodded as smoothly as I was able and then turned to look at the rest of the room.

“Well it seems that the Praxis objections have been dealt with and they are determined to stick it out with us, despite the vigorous objections of their previous commander. Are there any other objections or are we finally ready to get down to the nuts and bolts of turning this star system into a death trap that will, at the very least, take those dastardly Reclamationists down with us?” I asked coolly.

An SDF Vice Admiral who had been quiet up to this point looked at me coldly. “I don’t think I like the way you do business, Admiral Montagne,” she said.

“Welcome to the party,” snorted the Captain of the People’s Initiative, “we’ve been complaining about ‘those people’ for decades now—it’s part of why we overthrew their regime back in the day and replaced them with a more rational family line. You ought to watch out for his wife as well, she’s just as crazy as the line she married into.”

“When I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it, Captain,” the SDF Vice Admiral said dryly and turned back to me. “Admiral I’m still waiting for an answer.”

“I wasn’t aware there was a question in there, Vice Admiral of the SDF,” I said, locking eyes with her, not bothering to take the time to check her name. I could always find out later if it became important.

“Then let me be blunt: can we now expect to be shot in the back of the head if we verbally disagree with you or your policies…Sir?” she asked harshly.

“Vigorously, and without any military courtesy or respect, disagree with me?” I clarified contemplatively and then looked at her sharply. “In that case then you can expect to be asked if you want to leave, be told to leave, and if you repeatedly fail and flagrantly continue to disagree before going on to propose mutiny and attempt to oust me from command, I’ll have my guards lock you up in the nearest brig until we can find the time to put you on trial or send you back home. Depending on the circumstances, you’ll probably be tried by your own people,” I paused waiting a beat before adding, “Of course, what the rest of you choose to do to one another and to anyone who continues to grandstand and resist arrest after the guards have arrived…well, I won’t hold myself responsible for the entirely legal actions taken by any of you, my lawful subordinates, against any of the rest of you who are in a state of rebellion against lawful authority. Mutiny in cold space is still mutiny after all.”

Her nostrils flared and a large number of men and women around the table frowned, but the tension within the room eased after I pointed out that the most I’d done was try to arrest the man. It was one of them—a man they could verify I had no connection with—who had done the deed of putting down the Praxis Full Admiral.

“Now then, my proposal is to picket the surrounding star systems with small two and three ship pickets. Two squadrons of Destroyers are to find and shadow the Reclamation Fleet if possible, and finally here is my plan for the comprehensive defense of this star system,” I said, pulling up the files on the holo-projector and displaying them for everyone in the room. “As you can see, we’re going to turn Wolf-9 into a fortress. Next we’ll need to start integrating your individual contingents into the main fleet. I’m thinking several taskforces as shown here..” I said, decisively attempting to move this meeting beyond the question of fleet command and straight into the nuts and bolts of using this star system to defend the entire Sector.

Not that I thought killing the opposition was going to suddenly turn everyone into fervent believers in me—quite the opposite. However, doing my best to ignore the blood spatter on the wall, I figured it was better to try to win them with ideas rather than rhetoric.

I would deal with any further challenges later. For now, all I could do was play the hand I’d been dealt.

Chapter Five: A meeting of the minds

The last of the SDF officers in the conference room filed out and the door swished shut. The only people left in the room were myself and the Commodore nominally in command of Wolf-9 and the Easy Haven contingent.

He cleared his throat, snapping me out of my reverie.

“Yes?” I asked with a sigh.

“Your Star System?” LeGodat asked flatly.

I looked at his quizzically. “And here I thought I was going to have to field comments on all the blood splattered against the wall of your conference room,” I drolled.

“It’s good that you recognize that this isn’t your conference room, but there isn’t that much blood considering the weapon,” Commodore LeGodat said clinically and then stared at me. “But let’s get back to this ‘your star system’ business.”

“Well that’s a relief,” I shook my head, “and here I thought we had something serious to actually talk about like, say, how one of my supposed to be subordinate officers was just murdered in front of the rest of my supposed subordinate officers.”

“Yeah, it sounds like you have a problem,” said LeGodat.

“Your concern is overwhelming,” I mocked.

“Alright, a big problem,” he said.

“Geez, you’re not helping here,” I rolled my eyes toward the wall.

“Let’s just be clear here: this star system belongs to the Confederation. It’s not the private property of one Jason Montagne, honorary Confederation Admiral,” LeGodat said seriously.

“What bug crawled up your pipe and died?” I rounded on the Commodore. “I mean seriously. Is it because the Full Admiral was shot in here? Because if so, I didn’t shoot him or order him to be shot. There are much better targets to vent your ire on if that’s the case. And as far as system ownership is concerned,” I said when he started looking irritated, “let me be clear: Wolf-9 is your bailiwick. The last thing I need is yet another charge of planetary piracy. I’m just here to help bail you out of this mess and, after that’s over, I’ll be back to Tracto.”

“Bail me out? You were the one that all but invited them to come straight here,” LeGodat said with outrage.

“They would have come here eventually!” I shot back sharply. “Besides, I wasn’t the one who designated Easy Haven the hub of Sector Defense and a rallying point for all of the various SDF’s in the Sector who can actually see past their noses and realized we need to pull together before we all hang separately.”

“That’s rich,” snorted LeGodat, “blame me for the Governor’s plans.”

“If the shoe fits, better you than me. By the time I got involved it was all a done deal anyway, it was either walk or take charge,” I said dismissively, “and as for lusting after control of this star system, you couldn’t be more wrong. I was just making clear that this is a Confederation outfit and I was the top Confederation officer in the region. There was no way I’m letting them try to take this place over. No way, no how,” I said, a grim look flitting across my face as I recalled all the losses we’d taken so far thanks to fractious infighting amongst us and our nominal ‘allies.’

“I’m glad that that’s clear, so just make sure to keep it that way,” said LeGodat, probably referring to the star system’s ownership. “As for making things clear and telling our friends and allies you’d walk if they didn’t knuckle under, I’m surprised that only one man had been shot. I’m even more surprised that no one else vowed to leave the defense effort. But then, that’s another conversation entirely.” “You’re right that it’s another conversation,” I said flatly, “and don’t count your chickens before they’ve come home to roost. I wouldn’t tell me that I was about to take my ships and split faster than a banana in ice-cream either, not after Rear Admiral Nuttal shot him down in front of everyone. So don’t be surprised if we start bleeding the faint of heart.”

Colin LeGodat gritted his teeth. “Another reason a kinder, gentler approach might have been better—at least at the start,” he retorted.

“Look on the bright side. There’s no way they can message back home, thanks to the Imperials nuking-slash-hiding-slash-whatever they did so that we can’t use the ComStat network anymore, before whatever’s already in the pipeline gets here. By the time the couriers can turn around and get here we’ll probably have already dealt with the Reclamation Fleet and the point will be moot,” I advised him. “And as far as the kinder, gentler approach, while I’m not going to duck out on my responsibility for the way I got my head handed to me by Janeski, I’m also not going to allow the sort of influences that pushed me into taking us into that system in the first place to crop up again. I’m done with pimples like Silverback who only know how to shout loudly, ignore orders, and then run away from his flagship when the going gets tough to influence my decision-making going into the future.”

“This is a divided coalition command and, whatever you think about Silverback and men and women like him, there are certain realities that you have to deal with when you’re in command of multiple small, previously independent formations,” Commodore LeGodat pointed out. “Oh, and for the record I’d have to be driven out before I’d leave my post here in Easy Haven, orders from the MSP or no orders. It’d take an act of the Grand Assembly to move me out of here before then.”

“Yeah, I figured about as much. That’s part of why I hoped they wouldn’t walk. I mean, in addition to the fact that I want a rematch with Imperial Rear Admiral Arnold Janeski like you wouldn’t believe,” I added.

“Well then just so long as we’re clear,” LeGodat said, sitting back with some slight measure of satisfaction. “Hey, do you want to go down to the bar for a fizz water?”

“The Chief Engineer of my ship has outlawed anything but light ales and Gorgon Iced Mead. I’m not sure what he’d think about me going around his restrictions just because I’m currently off ship,” I said with a straight face.

“Did you or did you not hear me offer fizz water—or is he outlawing juice and water as well?” LeGodat said dryly. “Because if so my people would probably be interested in just how he’s been able to produce enough ale to continually replace the water ration for an entire Battleship complement. That’s’ some industrial grade production going on in there if so.”

I snorted unable to hold it in any longer as I laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, “I think I could use that drink. A fizz water sounds right just about now.”

“Youth before beauty,” he said, gesturing toward the door.

“Everyone’s a comedian,” I rolled my eyes as I headed out the door.

Chapter Six: Discord behind closed doors

Glue motioned for the other Sundered to enter the mess hall. It was the only room in his Corvette big enough to support the five Sundered ship masters—four of them, including himself, full-sized males who took up too much room for comfort in a human built ship. The fifth was unusually, at least among Sundered who walked the war path, a smaller female. And while she didn’t really count as oversized, when it came to overfilling a room the others more than made up for it with their incredible bulk.

Thus the mess hall.

“What can this Glue do for you?” he asked without preamble once they were seated, refreshments were served, and the doors were shut.

The generally younger males glanced at him and then looked away until all eyes ultimately rested upon the sole female in the room. She was happily standing on her chair, leaning over the table and digging around in the fruit bowl.

Pausing, fruit in hand, she finally realized the rest of the room was looking at her. She blinked and then, taking her fruit back with her, she plopped down on her chair and started peeling it.

One of the males cleared his throat.

Finally looking fed up with all the prompting looks, she scowled at the rest of the room and took vicious a bite of her banana—peel and all.

“What? Since I’m the sole female in the room, of course it has to be me who tells the Primarch you all want to run away?” she munched on her fruit angrily. “I’m ambivalent about the whole idea myself, so you can just male the code up and do what all you males seem to think you do best all the time anyways and take charge. I’m just here because I’m a shipmaster; this is a shipmaster’s meeting and I’ll be deep fried in batter and butter oil if the Roving Banana is going to left out of the decision making process while you boys grunt, howl at, and thump on each other,” she finished, baring her teeth humorlessly.

There was a bewildered silence in the room as the other shipmasters tried to process her outburst.

Although he knew that he should feel like glaring at everyone to establish dominance, Glue was too busy fighting the smile that threatened to break out.

Another shipmaster—the only other male in the room around the same age as Glue—snorted while covering his mouth. “Don’t worry, she’s just here for the ‘!GOSsip!’,” he faked an explosive cough with that last word and then fell to a chuckle.

“Hey now, the only overt sexism allowed inside this compartment will be decidedly male-directed thank you very much! And for your information I did come here to get all the good gossip; the Maker alone knows I don’t get any of the really good dirt back onboard the Banana. Something about being the HFIC really kills the information flow,” the female shipmaster of the Roving Banana said, lifting her left leg with its cybernetic claw in a threatening gesture. To emphasize her feelings on the subject, she brought it down with a squeal of tortured metal as it scraped the edge of the table that was totally at odds with the half smirk on her face.

“The Roving Banana…really?” Glue couldn’t help but shake his head in disapproval while at the same time the other older male spoke up at the same time.

“What’s HFIC stand for?” he asked.

“Head Female in Charge,” she deadpanned before turning to Glue without missing a beat, “and as for the Roving Banana, it makes a lot more sense than a ship named the Sword of Omens! I mean bananas actually exist in nature, but a sword made out of omens—what would that even look like? And while we’re on the subject, are you a prophet now? And do you need to be inside some special place within your ship or can visions come any time? I’m pretty interested in the next thousand digit winning number for the Grand Galactic Power Ball. I could really use that money to help upgrade my ship.”

Glue opened his mouth right before another male slammed his hand on the table and growled. “This is no joke and we didn’t come here to pass the time with laughs about bananas and false prophecies. I am Sempa of the Red Fire and I, Sempa, am no coward nor do I plan to run away from battle. The battle is over, this is not a combat situation, and so there is no cowardice in leaving. We’ve done our part. We should go home,” he snapped, baring his teeth.

“Yes, we know who you are, Sempa of the Red Fire. We are, after all, battle brothers who have fought together already. No one is questioning your bravery,” Glue grunted, leaning back in his chair and placing his hands over his belly complacently.

Sempa slammed the table again with frustration.

“I think what Sempa is trying to be after saying,” the other older male said in broken verbiage with a sigh, “is we are knowing you have a personal debt to the Little Admiral Montagne. No one wants to make light of a debt that gave us all a place to stand but…” he trailed off.

“What Mountain Sands of the Forthright Steel Pike is too discreet to say this but I, Jakaak of the Sand Scourge, have no trouble in making it clear, is that Little Montagne almost got everyone killed during last battle. Blood flowed like rivers down the hulls sides of this fleet. We have fought two battles, one winning and one losing. Any with eyes can see the Little Montagne is destined to lose the last and final battle. Before all falls into ruin we must return to Tracto. It is time we went home and prepared our people for another migration,” he said placing both hands on the table and leaning his face forward.

“Jakaak of the Sand Scourge is right in this,” Sempa of the Red Fire hooted and slammed the table yet again. “The code says we must keep our word and stand beside battle brothers during a fight—if these humans can even be counted as battle brothers,” he snorted. “But once the formation is broken and the fight is lost, each male must look to himself. There is no shame in looking to yourself first. A dead male is no use to anyone, least of all himself,” he finished, quoting the code.

“A broken formation?” Glue placed his elbow on the table and leaned forward. “I see no broken fleet in this star system. Has this Glue lost his eyes or is he the only one who can see?”

“If it is not broken now it will be soon. Why should we die for the humans?” Jakaak demanded.

“Yes, Glue,” Mountain Sands, the other older male sighed, “why should we die for the humans when any with eyes can see that their fate is all but after being sealed? Maybe it’s a technical code violation and, then after again, maybe it isn’t. But our duty is to our people—not the humans.”

Glue slapped the table and shook his head. “Do you all agree with this?” he asked, a low rumble starting in his chest.

Heads nodded around the table some reluctant and others fiercely.

The Shipmaster of the Roving Banana stood up from—then hopped up and stood on—her chair to bring herself up to eye level with the rest of the males. She paused to take another bite of unpeeled banana. “I’m willing to die this human war,” she crunched, “but only if it’s going to get us somewhere. You can all be ‘battle brothers’ this, ‘honor and moral code’ that, but Sheba’s here to fight for her family. Tell her why Sheba shouldn’t just take her Roving Banana out of Wolf and rove right on back to Tracto,” she said seriously.

“All of you are wrong and shortsighted…except maybe the Sheba,” Glue said seriously.

“Maybe I’m just nice,” Sheba grinned. raking the ends of the table with her cybernetic claw before thumping back down in her chair to finish off her banana.

“We can win,” Glue thumped, “there are many reinforcements waiting here upon our arrival. I have seen Wolf-9 defense plans and they are solid. This is not just a humans only war. There are Droids and Sundered, even the hunt pack from Omicron station is after being here. Listen to these words; how many losing battles have I led our people in? How many Sundered people are not here but Glue still is? Even if you can’t trust the humans or their Little Admiral, then trust in your duty and in Glue’s battle sense. This Sundered would not fight if he did not know in his gut—”

“Sempa’s crew should place their trust in your fat gut? No! It is not to be done! We have gone beyond duty into and obsession, Glue and it is an obsession I DO NOT SHARE,” Sempa of the Red Fire bellowed. “It was their kind that attacked us on the Trail after our fathers refused the Alliance’s call for world burning counter-attacks—attacks that were not even proportional to the Humans attacks, so the response called for was deemed weak. It is their humankind that in this very Sector eat us, slowly roasting females and younglings over an open pit for their tender meat, every chance they can get. To surrender is to risk being eaten alive! I have no use for Humans, I have no use for Droids, I have seen the Hunt Packs on the Omicron and they can go to Hades—and I certainly have no use for the Little Montagne who almost got us killed!” he howled, his eyes increasingly tinged with red.

Sempa slowly sat back breathing rapidly on the edge of running amok as he struggled to control himself.

“It’s good…It is good there is a female here or I would not hold myself back,” he panted.

“Don’t hold back on my account,” Sheba sniffed, scooting her chair back as if to make room.

“You’re not helping,” Mountain Sands gave her a withering look.

The only female in the room just turned up her nose, and there was a long pause as everyone waited for Sempa to calm himself.

“So you tell us to trust your battle sense. You say that you’re this great survivor person amongst the Sundered race and the Little Admiral plan is good,” Sheba said into the silence.

“It will be, or this Glue will not stay,” Glue nodded shortly.

“So they have confidence in you and have taken you into their battle councils then?” she asked.

Glue scratched behind his ear. “Little Admiral have,” he agreed.

“The Captain and Admirals conference?” Mountain Sands asked searchingly.

“Not that. No invitation,” Glue shook his head, “Battleships and Admirals only. Sundereds only have Corvettes.”

“I knew it. He lies!” snarled Sempa. “They don’t even trust us to be in the same room as them! How can they share their battle plans with us?”

“Confederation private council. M-S-P and Tracto allies only, no…SDF. Right now still in the building phase, but this Glue is helping to make that plan,” Glue rumbled slowly and then turned toward Sempa. “And call me a dealer in falsehoods again and I will break your head open to see what went wrong inside it!”

“You’d try,” Sempa, leaned forward and beat his chest in a threat display.

“Even if it’s true, which I doubt, the first ones to be sacrificed when things go bad are always the uplifts,” Jakaak said suspiciously, leaning forward and thrust his shoulders out in support of Sempa. “This battle is going bad even if our hoo-mons win.”

“Like Sundered sacrificed in last battle. In Elysium, Capria and Omicron too?” Glue growled back.

“All the Corvettes were sent away during the last battle. They couldn’t very well just tell us to stay,” Sempa flared.

Glue blatted and then popped his mouth in disgust. “Maybe Sundered are sacrificed maybe not, battle master makes sacrifices sometimes, even this I, Glue, have sacrificed before. But secret Little Admiral conspiracy to sacrifice Sundered after having how many chances to already be doing it? No. This Primarch must be blind because he simply cannot see it.”

Frowns were seen around the table.

“Look, we are after having just returned from one tough battle. It is not unusual to have after battle jitters and even code loving people like us can disagree harshly,” Glue said passionately, “but my duty is here, and I believe your duty is here also. But even if this Primarch is a great fool and you all leave, this Glue will take his Sword of Omens and smite the Imperial humans from top to bottom. This Glue would fight even if it was hopeless battle, even though it isn’t, not for Little Admiral and Confederation Fleet after Sector reinforcements get here. No. Glue will fight because he sees something: a need in his people that most have not even realized yet. So humans are terrible this and all humans are bad that. But in Glue’s eyes it was exactly these ‘Imperial’ humans that decompressed unarmed Sundered refugee ships. Maybe even the exact same human individuals that attack Sundered Migration before are coming at us here today, tomorrow or next week whenever they will get here. This Glue may be blind because he can’t see and too stupid to listen even though he has ears to hear but he will stay and fight.”

He paused to wipe away a tear at the corner of his eye as old, painful memories flooded his mind.

“This Glue can still hear the screams of the younglings over his coms as family transport ship decompressed from the inside out. Glue’s head will not allow him to hate sentient creatures—even humans—that are not even there during the attack or have ordered it done in their names. But in his heart Glue can never forgive the foul, sub-sentient, monster Imperials that lead that attack. If there is even this smallest chance he can get one of them who killed his family, while never straying and always following his duty to protect his Sundered people. Then he cannot leave,” he said clenching his fists and shuddering, then he waved his hand in the air at them and stood up, “but maybe this is just crazy old Glue’s revenge plot. You are free to follow your conscience in this matter. If you cannot fight in this human on human war that has no place for Sundered then go…go home. But to crazy Glue’s mind these Imperial humans already at war with us, they are the ones that kill us, and so as long as there is even a small chance for victory he just can’t let the ones who kill his family go. You say Confederation and Sector humans are using Sundered? I say Glue is using them.”

With what dignity he could still muster Glue turned, unbarred the door, and trod heavily back to his room.

He needed to be alone.

Maybe some would leave but, for all their bluster and fury, they were still Sundered. It was not easy for his people to run from a fight. Especially once they were reminded that not all humans were the same, but the Imperials they faced were everything they hated the most. How could they run in the face of that?

They just needed time to calm down and decompress. He was sure of it. Well…mostly sure. As he’d already mentioned, maybe he was too focused on revenge to see the bigger picture.

Though he doubted it.

Chapter Seven: The Oleander Perspective

Nerium O. Shrub walked down the concourse neither quickly nor slowly, but at a steady, ground-eating pace that would get him where he needed to go without attracting the sort of attention from station security that it was best avoided entirely.

He knew he was close to his destination when he started to see the sort of cheap seedy advertisement that you couldn’t find on the military or higher value rent shop districts.

He snorted, looking once again at the ad which ironically contained a contact code buried down at the bottom.

Pushing aside the bead curtain he walked into Madam Syburna’s House of Fortune and Palm Reading.

“Good, you’re here early,” said Madam Syburna, dressed as usual with her dress and beads fortune-telling outfit.

“Of course I’m early. I got an urgent ‘meet’ alert on the same day scheduled for a routine drop. Is there a problem with the package? I need to get in the fleet,” he eyed Syburna and wondered what her angle was.

“There’s no problem with the package. Your new ID codes, papers and background checks all sailed through without any flags at all, thanks to my connection in the personnel department. Who knew what a man was willing to overlook in exchange for a fist full of untraceable hard currency and an illegal bootlegged copy of the entire Captain Moonlight Chronicles?” she said with an eye roll. “No, you’re here for another reason.”

“I remember him, and Captain Moonlight was banned for a reason. Even though he spent just about every episode hunting down some rogue droid or grav-carts gone bad and shooting up no small number of them with his blaster and plasma torch, ironically it was still far too humanizing of a key part of the machine plague to ever be allowed to go mainstream,” Oleander said. “All of which is neither here nor there. If there’s no problem with the package then why am I here?”

“There’s been a recent shift in personnel transfers so we’re going to slip you into the main fleet via a late arriving border patrol Corvette. Two Corvettes, one Destroyer, one mine sweeper arrived as reinforcements designated to the main fleet not two hours ago,” she said.

“Good. Good, this is all good,” he said, giving the woman a hard look, “but none of it explains why I am here. I could have just as easily received the info along with the package at the dead drop. What’s going on? Why the change?” he asked, his hand slowly sliding down to the concealed blade at his belt. Something didn’t smell right and he was starting to get an itch—the same sort of itch which had kept him alive when far too many other agents hadn’t.

“Two issues. One is this is a limited time opportunity. It would make the transfer timeline to the Border Alliance Corvette a lot tighter and problematic as there might be a system-wide shut down of all traffic. But…” she trailed off.

“What is it?” he asked, his left eye narrowing.

“I have the access codes to get you in and the security profile and patrol routes for Sabrina Montagne Zosime. We only got our hands on them by chance and they’ll expire after today with no reasonable chance to re-acquire them. In, out, and there’s even a waste recycler on your route out where you could get rid of the evidence. There’s no way the hit could be traced back to you. Your call, Agent,” Madam Syburna said with a grimace of distaste.

“You mean where I could dispose of the body—which by the way is still small enough to be hidden under my coat—after I kill her?” he gave her a hard look. “Syburna, you know I find child assignation distasteful. I’ll only carry out hits on children and babies if it can end a line permanently; in this case her mother is more like a dog than a human being. Eight children, three boys and five girls in one pregnancy, via natural birth! What kind of psychotic woman do you have to be to do that, I ask? In this case, in my opinion, the potential for loss far outweighs any gain we might make. There are four more girls right behind her and, for all we know, if we start knocking them off in ones and twos like dominoes she’ll just go and pop another half dozen in response. That is exactly the opposite of what we want. There need to be fewer Montagnes in this world, not more of them.”

“Like I said, your call,” Madam Syburna said with brief flash of relief.

“So what’s the second—which I presume is the real—reason you called me? I know you can’t stomach killing children and you already knew my position on the subject,” he said, his hand on the hilt of the blade. In this business one had to always be ready to execute a clean double-cross. Today’s trusted contact is tomorrow’s flipped double agent.

“I got a hit on an old expired contact code. Except this is the kind of contact code that doesn’t expire until the person in possession of it is dead, if you know what I mean,” she said.

“Which sounds more and more like it’s none of my business,” Oleander said flatly. “If the code’s been compromised then I shouldn’t even be on the same side of the station as you and the House of Fortune.”

“There’s no way this code was broken. It requires an exact genetic match along with highly specific information—information that only the recipient would know, Mr. Shrub,” she demurred.

“Now I’m certain that I shouldn’t be here. You could have just compromised everything. I’m out,” he said starting for the door.

“He’ll be here any—” she started.

The bead door was swished aside and a man in a sweaty, old, merchant crew jumpsuit, wearing a head bag and cap, stepped into the room. His eyes swept from one side to the other, taking in every person and object under the lowered cap.

“I’m looking for Madam Syburna,” the man said coldly, not removing his cap or showing his face.

“You’re up next, stranger,” Oleander said, picking up the ‘go’ bag with his package and transfer information on his way to the door, “I’ve already had my fortune read. She’s good.”

“Not so fast,” the stranger said, pulling out a blaster pistol and sweeping off the self-sealing head bag and cap in one smooth movement. The blaster wasn’t pointed at anyone but the threat was clear: try to leave right now and he’d burn you. “Look, I’ve got nothing to do with whatever…” Oleander trailed off as he took in the flat nose and other facial features of the man standing before him.

“Good to see you again, Agent. ‘In the flesh’ again, as it were,” the man chuckled and then motioned toward the two of them with the blaster. “I need a set of rush ID’s—the best you can fabricate—and passage on the next independent freighter headed out of this star system. I’ll take it from there.”

“I don’t know who you think I am, but,” Oleander said with an easy smile plastered on his face, “you’ve got the wrong man. I’m just—” he took a step toward the door—and the man standing in it.

“One more step and you get a blaster bolt through the eye, Oleander,” said the brown-skinned man in the dirty merchant crew outfit. “If you think I’m going to let a man as handy with a knife as you are walk past me on your way out the door so that you can stick a blade in my back you’ve got another think coming.” He then rattled off a high-level contact code, “Bolton-White-Lexic-Dark-Zero-Alpha-Nine-Nine-Tango. Passphrase: Bitter & Cold.”

“You! No, that’s impossible,” Oleander said, his eyes narrowing. “The eye, for one thing, is entirely natural while the previous one was an implant. You aren’t who you say you are.”

“I haven’t said who I am, but I’d like to think that this is the least Parliament owes me after all the bag work I’ve done for them over the years,” he said with a grin. He then shifted his face toward Madam Syburna without taking his eyes off of Oleander, “You can run the genetic verifier if you want. But, like I said, I’m not here to stay. I’ve been out of touch for a while and as soon as you get me out of this system I’ll take it from there.”

“I don’t think—” started Madam Syburna.

“Now,” he said, holding out the arm with the hand not holding the blaster, “and I’ll know if you try to do anything funny with the scanner. So don’t. I think neither of us would like the time it would take for us all to hear your screams after you did.”

Syburna swallowed. her gaze shifting over to Oleander. After a moment he nodded.

Picking up a scanner from a hidden compartment, Syburna came over and took a blood sample. After several minutes it chimed.

“It’s…it’s verified,” she reported.

“See? It really is me,” smirked the man.

“Judas,” spat Oleander.

“Ah, not the most imaginative name Parliament could have bestowed upon me. But since I wasn’t given any say,” he splayed his hands.

“You’re dead, unless you’re trying to claim that your son didn’t do a proper job of it. I thought ‘there could only be one’ and all that?” he mocked.

A flash of rage crossed the other man’s face before disappearing almost as quickly as it had appeared. It was followed by a wince as if in pain before he smiled, once again appearing a man in total control of himself and everything around him.

Oleander didn’t trust anything about him. Which wasn’t much of a change from the way he’d treated the man this guy, Agent Judas supposedly, was claiming to be.

“Death has proved rather more…illuminating than I had expected—and certainly far less permanent,” he replied, waggling his blaster, “now about those ID’s.”

“I’ll get started on them now,” said Madam Syburna jumping up and heading over to a console.

“Slowly,” the probably-fake Agent Judas said, sounding amused and Syburna slowed down in response.

“What’s your endgame in all this? What could you possibly hope to gain coming here,” demanded Oleander, his hand still surreptitiously on his knife, “even if you are who you claim to be. I just don’t see it.”

“I too would have preferred to avoid you all. But due to my reduced circumstances, here I am—and here you are. Needs must when the devil drives, as they say,” the still-probably-fake Agent Judas joked. “As far as I’m concerned, the sooner I can get back to raiding the space-ways the sooner I can rebuild and then get what’s most important in this life,” said the likely-imposter Agent Judas.

“Even if you make it out of this system, you’re just one man,” scoffed Oleander, turning his body and pulling out his knife while the other man was distracted.

Agent Judas smiled, turning to look at Syburna as she worked on his papers.

Seeing his chance Oleander took his knife in a throwing grip.

“There is one thing I would like to clarify,” Judas said lightly, leaning toward Syburna.

“What’s that?” Oleander asked, playing along. As soon as he’d incapacitated the man, he’d suck him dry of whatever information he had—along with how he’d just manage to compromise this meeting house.

“Just to be perfectly clear,” said Agent Judas and then when Oleander started to throw, with a twitch of his hand he shot Oleander in the leg, throwing off the Agent’s aim and sending him crashing to the floor. Turning, the Agent walked over in on fast movement and stomped on Oleander’s dominant hand, “I don’t have a son!”

“Ah!” cried Oleander, going for his backup blade only to have his other hand stomped on as well.

“I don’t have a son,” repeated Judas, his foot still on Oleander’s hand as he pointed the blaster weapon at his head and looked over at Madam Syburna, “but I do need some papers.”

“Blast you,” swore Oleander, not daring to move while the blaster was on him.

“Do you know what the most important thing in this life is?” Judas asked, grinding his foot into Agent Oleander’s hand.

“Do I care?”

“Why, of course the most important thing is revenge,” said the other man his eyes taking on a wild and crazy look. “Do you still believe I’m not who I haven’t said I am?” he asked as he gave Oleander’s hand another hard stomp.

Oleander activated the poison-coated blade in the toe of his boot in one last desperate gamble as he kicked out at the other man—but he missed.

“Montagne!” he roared with pain and rage right before everything went dark.

“Why am I still alive?” Oleander asked upon waking with pain shooting through his head, hands, leg and ribs.

“He’s gone,” muttered Madam Syburna, “he took the ID’s and the ready cash and then just left.”

“Did he say why?” asked Oleander.

“I don’t know why we’re alive, but if you hurry you can still take a hit of basic heal and then get to your shuttle on time,” she advised. “He looked through your bag but didn’t take anything so far as I can see; you still have everything you need to complete the mission.”

“Basic heal?” he scoffed. “I’ll take a hit of combat heal and then track down that blighter and get to the bottom of this shakedown.”

“Your call; you’re the field agent,” she said with a shrug, “but before he left, he mentioned that if we try to cause him trouble he’ll release the entire operational details of Operations Budget Balancer and Rounding Error. I’m not familiar with the full details of those operations, but from the way he made it sound our superiors definitely wouldn’t appreciate it if that information became public.”

“No they wouldn’t….son of a Montagne!” he swore, sheathing his knives.

“Then I’m afraid he’s long gone…unless you want to call his bluff and try to sick the local SDF or Border Alliance on him,” she said with a shrug.

“We’ll pass this up the chain, but we have to let this go,” he said.

“Frankly, I liked him better when he was dead,” opined Madam Syburna.

“So did I,” said Oleander.

“Catch,” she said, tossing a vial of combat heal at him.

Catching the vial in mid-air, he deftly injected himself in the thigh. “Bloody Judas!” he swore.

Chapter Eight: Kong Pao’s Sector 23 Reinforcements

“Yes, my name is Kong Pao and I’m here on behalf of a number of powerful Sector 23 worlds,” he said into the screen’s pick-up. “We’re here in a show of support and to offer a trade deal.”

“A trade deal?” questioned the Confederation Officer on the other end of the holo-screen.

“Yes,” Kong Pao flashed a smiled, “assuming the trade delegation can safely enter into negotiations then myself and our escort squadrons—minus a Destroyer or three—will be free to assist you in the great defensive effort which we’ve heard so much about.”

“And just what would you be interested in trading?” asked the officer.

“Whatever we have for whatever you system is capable of producing, of course. This is a still-developing star system and, despite the recent troubles, we’ve any number of worlds with a large manufacturing base. We’re looking for an open-ended trade deal,” he said with a half bow.

“That tells me nothing,” the other man shook his head.

“Trillium, along with any other raw materials and any manufactured goods worth transporting,” Kong Pao explained. “I can see just from routine sensor scans that you have a growing mining operation and a small but developing manufacturing base of your own.”

“Ah…trillium,” said the Officer with a sigh, “of course. It all makes sense now. However, I’m afraid that I don’t have the authority to make a deal of this magnitude—especially since its involving trillium. Enough to refuel your ships in the name of routine trade, I could swing, but nothing on this scale. I’m sorry.”

“Trillium makes the world go round,” Kong Pao shrugged, “I don’t expect miracles. But if you would be so kind as to direct me to the individual or individuals in this star system capable of making such deals, I would greatly appreciate it.”

“Well…” mused the officer.

“Come now,” Kong Pao said expressionlessly, “I refuse to believe that there is literally no one within this entire star system who has the power to negotiate with our delegation. We’re not just offering bilateral trade between this world and the Mutual Defense League—the better part of two Sectors of the Spine. Also note that I said this would apply to your world and not the rest of your Sector…not unless that’s the way you want it. But we’re talking about making available the better part of two squadrons of Destroyers, two of Cruisers and three Battleships in immediate military aid. Not to mention eight fully-loaded merchant ships eager to trade the goods in their holds for trillium, whatever the eventual agreement between our delegation and your leaders looks like.”

“I don’t have the authority. However,” the Officer said pursing his lips and hesitating, “that said, I’m sure there are any number of people in Tracto System that will be eager for the goods inside those freighters. Even with the new Border Alliance traffic, we don’t get as much trade as we could use honestly.”

“I’d appreciate anything you could do to help,” Kong Pao said, cupping his hands at the holo-pick up.

“Since you’re looking for trillium, I’d start with the Belters. Their contract allows them to keep a percentage of everything they mine, including Trillium, for their own uses and they have the right to sell on anything they can’t use. After that you’ll probably want to contact Port Messene down on the planet. They have a regent that can make a provisional deal that will definitely need to be signed by the Hold Mistress, and maybe the Admiral too, before it’ll stick. But I think that’s your best bet. Not,” he added hastily, “that there aren’t others in the star system including Factors, local Representatives and Ambassadors from other worlds on the Border that won’t be interested in your cargoes.”

“I’m glad we could be so frank with one another,” said Kong Pao, “if you could give me those contact codes, I’ll transfer them to the head of the trade portion of our delegation.”

“Not a problem,” the Officer agreed with a smile.

A few days later and entire trade delegation was on its way down to the surface of the planet for a formal dinner and greeting so that they could get together to discuss details with the local representatives. Kong Pao and the rest of the escort group—minus delegates, a large luxury liner, and a trio of Destroyers to keep an eye on things—were taking on supplies and readying their ships for the next leg of the journey.

It was time to find out just how real this supposed threat to the Spineward Sectors really was.

They were going to Easy Haven. Along with them were coming several late-arriving reinforcements for the main fleet from the worlds of the Border Alliance, including two Corvettes, a Destroyer and a mine sweeper.

Chapter Nine: Playtime

“Who’s a good little Tyrant? Yes! Who is it? Who?!” I chortled, nuzzling my face into his armpit before placing my mouth on his belly, making a seal with my mouth and making loud farting noises against his soft abdomen.

The giggles and wild arm-waving only encouraged me to even greater displays of false flatulence. These sounds were closely followed by even louder squeals of baby laughter.

“There we go!” I laughed, placing him face-down on my arm and making like he was a spaceship as we buzzed up and down—and partially under—the little table in the room before buzzing back out from under it. “There’s the next generation of little Montagnes, with his father’s sense of justice and his mother’s desire for battle combined with a uniquely Tracto-an sense of self-entitlement. The galaxy won’t know what to do with you,” I chortled, holding one of the future little Rulers of Cold Space up in both hands so I could see him as I contemplated putting him up on my shoulders for a ride—and then wondering if he was old enough for it.

“Hey!” Akantha protested from the sidelines where she was holding one of the baby girls and watching me play.

“Destined to terrorize the space lanes, this one,” I said with mock seriousness as I scooped him up and carefully placed him on my shoulders. “A Montagne who doesn’t believe, deep down inside him somewhere, that he’s somehow guilty or owes the universe but instead that the galaxy owes him?” I demanded with mock disbelief. “When they cross you, my little son—as you just know they will—they’ll find out that they bit off way more than—”

Akantha handed over the one she was holding and jumped over to snatch him off my shoulders.

“Hey,” I protested half angrily, “I hadn’t even got to the part where I swore to come in and beat them up for him yet!”

“He is too small, Jason,” she scolded me ruthlessly, “his back isn’t developed enough to sit up there unsupported like that. You weren’t even using your hand to support him.”

“So I’ll use a hand,” I said, eyeing her and then reaching over to take him back, “just give him back.”

“No,” Akantha warned, holding up and out of reach, “you clearly don’t know what you’re doing. I won’t have him with a back injury before he’s even old enough to walk. You can play shoulder rides when he is older and not before.”

“Don’t I get a say in this?” I tapped my foot on the floor, “I’m his father, after all. And besides, he wasn’t hurt. But even if he was, I’ve got some of the best doctors and medical facilities in the Sector onboard this starship. I’m sure we could fix anything that went wrong.”

“And that’s why I won’t let you,” Akantha snapped, “talking about fixing him after you break him doesn’t inspire me to hand him back over. Besides, it’s time for you to play with the next one.”

I glared at her, but as she was taller and her arms were longer than mine—not to mention that playing tug of war with a little baby was just about the worst idea I’d ever heard of—I had to give in.

“Fine, you can keep him. For now,” I cautioned her, already eyeing the next baby girl and thinking about how I was going to use my hand to support her back. There would be more shoulder rides in the—

“And don’t even think about it, Jason. There’ll be no more shoulder rides until they are older—much older,” Akantha said putting her foot down.

“Really,” I drawled. I’d like to see her try and stop me.

“If you keep it up, I will tell your mom,” she warned.

Blast. Outwardly I didn’t flinch, but on the inside? Calling in the mom card was like using a turbo-laser for a light laser job: an entire order of magnitude bigger than the job called for.

“Be careful; two can play the mom card,” I warned inwardly resigned to no more shoulder rides for the foreseeable future. At least not where anyone could see it, that is, I thought slyly.

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said.

“Oh yeah?” I quirked an eyebrow and then shamelessly lied to throw her off the future scent. “Since that’s the case, what’s your opinion on the upcoming battle. We’re not exactly holding an undefeated track record against Janeski and his closet Imperials.”

“That’s not what you were thinking about. You hardly ever worry about work when you’re here, and when you do you get a particular look on your face,” she said, and I quickly hid my surprise as she scrunched up her face in a mock imitation of me which I didn’t find realistic at all. “But while you’ve both won and lost against this enemy, each time you personally have survived to tell the tale. This time I doubt you will be taken by surprise. This will be more of a siege operation than a battle on open field, and Easy Haven is your fortress. This time they have to come to you.”

“He’s a professional while most of what I know is either from textbooks or learned on the job. I’m probably overmatched,” I observed clinically.

“If you keep thinking that way, you certainly will be,” Akantha said frostily.

“Hey, I’m just stating facts and telling it like it is,” I protested, trying to get the baby in my lap to use her legs to stand—with both my hands under her arm pits for support, of course.

“If you concede from the beginning that the enemy is smarter and has more men, then unless you are leading a team of heroes who don’t require leadership to win the field, you have already lost,” Akantha said coldly. “Get your head back in the battle and stop living your past defeats. A warrior carries on through victory and defeat but learns from both; only a coward can’t let the past go and eventually he or she will be consumed. Too much strong drink, lack of confidence, and self-defeat are soon to follow.”

“Hey, the strongest thing I’m drinking is fizz water over at the Wolf-9 station bar. I think it’s a little soon to tell me I’ve fallen into the depths of despair, turned my back on the gods, and am about to fall on my own sword out of fear!” I retorted. “I’m here. I’m ready to fight. I just don’t know if I’ll be able to win!”

Akantha slowly clapped. “Welcome to the reality of every warrior. Only an idiot or a fool is convinced that he will win every time. Uncertainty is in everyone’s heart, but when you stop believing in yourself it doesn’t matter how long it takes. Eventually you will fall,” she opined.

“Well excuse me for living,” I muttered while I scowled angrily. She didn’t understand. Oh sure, she thought she did but…

She let me stew in my own internal juices as I imagined every possible way the upcoming battle could go, and in only a few of them did I see a path to victory. In most of them things turned for the worse and went decidedly wrong.

She was…okay maybe there was something to what she was saying, but what I needed now were ideas. Something to hang my hat on other than more of the nearly obsolete light warships that kept arriving daily—no small number of which were in need of a refit and repair in Wolf-9’s already over-taxed yards. What I needed was a winning strategy. And right now, I didn’t have one.

All I had was ‘dig in, wait until he arrived, and then do my darnedest to sink my teeth into his fleet’s throat and not let go until I was dead.’ And hopefully by that time the MSP and our Sector Allies would have done enough damage to give the rest of the Sector a fighting chance at survival.

Where was the Rim Fleet, where was the old Confederation? I kept telling everyone who would listen that I was part of the Confederation, here to save them but at the end of the day I was just the older version of a kid with an honorary commission that no one had expected to amount to a hill of beans.

In short, I was tired. I was tired of holding the line out here all alone. The Empire was at war down on the Gorgon Front, but the Confederation wasn’t. Where were they? Where were they!

“Why are you here, Akantha?” I asked with a sigh at all those unanswerable questions.

“I am here to spend time with you and the little ones,” she said. cocking her head at me.

“No I mean why are you here with me, right now, instead of back home safe on Tracto with the kids? I get that you don’t run from a fight, but this is a little bit more than that isn’t it,” I said.

Akantha put the baby on one hip and her hand on the other. “Our fates are entwined. I know you think I haven’t been a good Sword Bearer—or ‘wife’ as you think of it—and there is some truth to that. But ignoring the fact that they would probably come to Tracto sooner or later?”

“Yes,” I snorted, “let’s ignore that part.

“Okay,” she smiled, “so, ignoring that someone probably moved those Sky Demon Bugs over to our world so that they would strip everything I cherish down to the bedrock, and that even if it wasn’t Admiral Janeski and his Imperials he’s certain to want the same thing Jean Luc Montagne did, the mineral resources in our skies—the trillium-”

“That was never proven,” I said quickly, “that the Bugs were moved or planted there.”

“I am not a fool, Jason. I don’t need proof to see a hand in that design. So,” she, said giving herself a shake, “despite that they have to come to my world eventually—and that I am probably better off with helping you here, even if the little ones are not—there is another big reason that I’m not there instead of here by your side like I am.”

“And that is?”

“I gave my word,” she said simply, “until you reclaim it or I give it back. I have sworn to cleave to your side. And besides,” she smirked, “you know how little I like to miss a fight.”

“You are a battle junky,” I snickered.

“Satisfied that you have divined my true purpose yet?” she said with a ghost of a smile on her lips.

“Never. You’re a woman so the answer to that can only be ‘never’,” I vowed fervently.

“You just don’t know when to quit while you’re ahead do you, Montagne,” Akantha glared at me.

I smirked, “Nope!”

“Any other probing questions during our limited daily family time?” she asked grumpily.

I paused and then shot her a glance. “So tell me, how are the new guards working out?” I asked lightly.

“You are seeking death today!” she cried, handing her baby off to a nursemaid and then pouncing on me.

“Hey, watch out for the baby!” I cried as she grabbed me and we started to roll around on the floor.

Chapter Ten: The Imperial Side!

“What’s the status of the fleet, Flag Captain?” Janeski demanded, striding into the captain’s office unannounced.

“No sudden changes, Supreme Admiral,” Goddard said, jumping to his feet.

“Keep your seat, Captain,” Janeski waved him down.

“To what do I owe the honor?” Captain Goddard asked cautiously. “Or is this just a routine status check?”

Arnold Janeski snorted, his nostrils flaring as he stomped over and dropped himself down in one of the chairs in front of the desk.

“You can have my seat if you need,” the Flag Captain said starting to stand up and step to the side of his chair.

“Stow it, Jeremiah,” Admiral Janeski said shortly.

Captain Goddard sunk back down in his chair. “What’s on your mind, Sir,” he asked, putting his hands together on top of the desk.

“There is still no sign that the locals are getting squeamish,” the Supreme Admiral grunted, “our shadow forces show that they’re repairing what they can as more and more ships from all over the Sector are gathering at Easy Haven.

“And this is a problem somehow? Or are you worried about the decision to allow the enemy to consolidate in a fixed position with the kind of fortifications that Wolf-9 has?” guessed Goddard.

“Flaming atoms, no! Gathering them together so we can crush them all in one go will cut months off our time table. I’m not worried about them consolidating as much of the old, outdated military junk they’re still using out here as they possibly can before we hammer them,” the Supreme Admiral denied immediately. “Not even if the fortifications were still as strong as they were the day the Confederation decided to ‘consolidate’ the military budget in order to pay their universal health care deficit back in their Core Sectors.”

“Then…” Goddard trailed off leadingly.

“The strategy is a sound one: allow them to gather together. Any military officer worth their salt would jump at the chance, as they appear to be doing here. Only…” Janeski trailed off and then slammed a hand down on the table, “only the man nominally at the top of the consolidation effort on their side is as squirrely as a Magellan Willow Dog.”

“And by that, you mean…” nodded Goddard.

“Of course it’s that yellow-bellied, green for guts, Governor—a man who will drop everything and run from combat at the drop of a hat! With the boy prince at the top of their organization, anything is possible! For all I know, by the time they finally start getting near their projected largest size he’ll suddenly get cold and flee Easy Haven, disappearing like fart in the air scrubbers out of pure unmitigated fear. I don’t have time to spend the next six months chasing that coward down.”

Goddard cocked his head and swallowed. “I know you don’t think too highly of him. But I’ll remind you that it was his forces—with him present—that tore apart Task Force 3, Admiral Wessex’s old command,” he pointed out.

“Damn that man!” swore Janeski. “Commanding a one-man supply dump on the south pole of a heavy gravity world without a breathable atmosphere is too good for him. Why, if his family wasn’t such strong supporters of the Reclamation Initiative I would have had him spaced over that debacle the day after receiving his report. That battle wasn’t the pimple showing his talents—that was cowardice in the face of the enemy by Wessex, who showed his complete and utter lack of competence.”

“Still…they fought against a superior foe and took losses,” Goddard said playing demon’s advocate. “It was our side that pulled out, not his—Wessex or no Wessex.”

“He’s like a thug in a bar. Turn out the lights and he’ll start desperately laying about, clubbing anyone he can reach in the back of the head, but shine the light on and he scurries away like a cockroach. First with the ambush and then when he used those old style jammer buoys,” Janeski said curtly. “He doesn’t have the stomach to face me unless he feels he has some kind of edge.”

“You know him better than me,” Goddard said.

Janeski leaned back and then released a pent-up breath. “You know what really bothers me? And it’s not the pimple or even that coward Wessex. It’s sitting here waiting for the support units to arrive. I want this fleet to be as fully repaired, rearmed and resupplied as completely as possible outside of returning to our shipyards before we move. Because you can rest assured, Captain, that when we go in we will go in hard and put the finish on this Sector once and forever. We’ll just do it after getting the reinforcements.”

“The Spineward Sectors Province has a nice ring to it, Sir,” mused the Flag Captain.

“Long live the Empire, Captain,” the High Admiral, said quirking his brow.

Chapter Eleven: Repairs and concerns

“Well, the moot council seems to have supported your decision to stay with their massive reinforcements—even though they haven’t had a chance to speak with you or read a report,” said Leesa, his new mate, stretching her arms to their max as she sprawled over top of Glue’s. She contentedly dug her bony back into his large belly as she squirmed around contentedly.

“Does Glue make a good full-body pillow?” he asked with a laugh rumbling deep inside his belly.

She punched her elbow into his side. “Don’t secretly laugh at me, you overgrown excuse for a Sundered male,” she warned him, “besides, I like it up here. It’s nice and soft.”

“Ouch,” Glue wince, “maybe this Sundered male needs to go down to the mats more often and get some exercise?”

“And get all sweaty and stinky rolling around with all those other big sweaty males in what you all like to pretend is combat training?” she asked rolling over and giving him a hug. “I think I’d like to see it,” she whispered in his ear.

He reached his arms up to grab her back when she rolled off him with a laugh and, landing with her feet on the floor, she quickly flounced away.

“Time to get up, big boy,” she joked, grabbing her work harness and putting it on. With a grunt, she reached up and grabbed his much bigger and much heavier one.

“Let me help,” said Glue, reaching down and taking it from her.

“I like it when you help,” she said, going around back to help him adjust his harness before giving him a tap on the back just above his rear, “just not too much. A female has to have something to do while her male is off saving the universe.” Glue laughed. “Just remember not to get too full of yourself,” she warned.

“No chance of that with you around,” Glue shook his head.

“You got lucky with me,” she told him seriously, “just like you got lucky with the other Shipmasters staying and the Moot Council deciding to send more gunboats and landing forces.”

“That’s not luck, it’s skill,” Glue declared with all the force and majesty of a Primarch in his prime. “Besides,” he added less pompously, “it’s not like the Moot is having much choice. We fight here or we run away again and leave everything we can’t transport behind.”

“Or maybe they just have us delay things here while they pack up more stuff,” Leesa told him.

Glue paused. “Probably you are right,” he muttered eventually.

“I’m always right when we’re at home—and you’d better remember it buddy bear! Primarch or no Primarch, I’m the female here and don’t you forget it,” she said, pointing a finger at him and then wagging it.

“Am not a bear,” Glue said, drawing himself up.

“Don’t pout or it’ll affect your shoulder line,” she warned him as she headed for the door, “I don’t want any other females on this ship getting even so much as a whiff of any ideas. You need to be a perfectly happy, healthy and, most of all, confident male when you are walking out of this door. And it’s just an expression I heard on the holo-; don’t take it to heart, it just means you’re nice and fluffy.”

“Fluffy?” he huffed with outrage, but straightened out his shoulder line and stomped out the door. Even though there were still a few rough edges, it was nice to be taken care of again after so long alone.

Chapter Twelve: The Delaying Force

“Get me Commodore Kling,” I said, stomping into the flag bridge and leaning over Lieutenant Steiner’s console.

She blinked, “All right.”

I stood there waiting while she made the connection.

“You want to take it here or at your throne?” she asked turning to glance at me.

“Here’s fine,” I said leaning over her shoulder.

A moment later the Commodore blinked into life on her screen. “Admiral Montagne,” the Commodore said, no doubt busy observing me leaning over the shoulder of the Comm. Officer and somewhat surprised, “is there a problem or something I can help you with?”

“Yes,” I said curtly, “it’s been over a week now and the Imperials haven’t hit us yet. Something is off, but since they’re willing to give us the time for whatever reason I’m going to grab onto it with both hands. But just because they haven’t come yet doesn’t mean we need to stand around with our hands in our pockets doing nothing.”

“I can see that,” Kling said, leaning forward.

“Since the ComStat network is still down—and even if it miraculously came back up, I still wouldn’t trust it at this point—I want you and the boys of the Corvette flotilla to head out there and give us advance warning,” I explained.

“Just to clarify, what would be our operational orders, Sir?” Kling asked, leaning back.

“I’ve already got a picket one star system within a Cruiser’s jump range of Easy Haven. What I want from you is to, following back along our route only, extend that by two more star systems if possible. And more importantly, I want the Corvettes to operate in squadrons on a hunter killer mission,” I said.

“Hunter Killer?” asked Kling.

“I believe you’ve seen the same number of strange sensor ghosts that I have. Anything you can do to reduce those numbers and ensure that our picket ships are actually in a position to run their report back home when the time comes would be deeply appreciated,” I replied.

“That’s normally a job for Destroyers,” Kling pointed out neutrally, “not Corvettes.”

“So take some with you,” I shrugged, “I’ll cut orders for two squadrons worth of singleton Destroyers that haven’t yet been merged into any squadrons to be attached to your command.”

“And I get the fun task of working them up? Oh joy,” deadpanned Kling.

“The life of a man with a pennant or a flag is fraught with humiliation and hard work. You should have read the fine print. Go get ’em, tiger,” I ordered.

“I never should have taken the promotion,” Kling sighed and then grinned. “We’ll do you proud, Sir.”

“Montagne out,” I nodded, and a second later Steiner cut the channel.

“Is there anything else, Admiral?” she asked.

“That will be all, Lieutenant.”

“Happy to be of assistance,” she replied, turning back to her duties.

“D’Argent,” I said, capturing the attention of the head of my security detail as motion toward the blast doors. This was more of a hit-and-run operation than anything else. I had to hurry or I was going to be late for another meeting.

Falling in around me, my new armsmen escorted me off the flag bridge.

I grimaced. Sometimes being the Admiral wasn’t as fun as it was supposed to be—especially when you had security agents surrounding you 24/7. But as a Montagne, and now Confederation Admiral and reputed Tyrant of Cold Space, you either learned to roll with the punches or you went crazy and eventually started slaughtering your enemies—and anyone who happened to be standing around them at the time you caught up with them—in job lots.

Sadly, I knew what that meant for me: I was stuck with a protective detail for the foreseeable future. Personally—and history proved that I didn’t just say it because it sounded good—I actually allowed assassination attempts on a semi-regular basis in exchange for increased freedom. But this wasn’t just about me anymore.

I didn’t have to like the trade-off, though.

“Alright, boys, the Admiral needs us. We’ve got the ‘go’ signal to head out there and find those blighters who’ve been giving us sensors ghosts for the last four days and do something permanent about it,” said Commodore Kling.

“Who let the dogs out? Who?!” exclaimed-slash-barked a Corvette captain from one of the Sector’s minor worlds.

“A modicum of decorum, Captain. If you please,” Bob Kling said curtly.

“Awww,” protested the Captain before falling mercifully silent.

“In other news, we’ll also be extending the picket around this star system by as much as two Cruiser jumps,” he held up his hands at the loud sounds of protests, “but only on the line our people followed getting here.”

“That’s a job for Destroyers,” protested one of his captains. “Send out the tin cans. If we’re stuck out there on routine patrol duty with nowhere to go but dink insides of our Corvettes our crews are going to go stir crazy.”

“I think it’s safe to say that the Imperials aren’t going to give us the time for your people to slowly go space crazy. But if by some miracle they do, I’ll be sure to rotate our ships and crews on a regular basis,” Commodore Kling said dryly. “Now, in other news, no doubt divining your very complaints with his crystal orb the Admiral, in his wisdom, is kicking loose two squadrons worth of Destroyers. Now that’s the good news. The bad news is they’re all singletons not yet used to working in squadron formation. So it’ll be our job to help speed that along.”

There was a groan in the room, but this time no one complained too loudly.

“Alright, let’s get to work. To start with I want Bravo and Delta squadrons to start a sweep right here in Easy Haven. Next Alpha and Ghetto,” he paused to shake his head. If ships from three League of Brown Power worlds hadn’t insisted on it, he would have refused. But apparently they believed that any time they were grouped together and forced to fight under the command of non-League commanders, they were being forced into a ghetto situation and he’d had no choice to but give in. When he’d tried pointing out that, being Caprian, he was as brown-skinned as the next man. But being of an ancient mixed Pacific islander extract, they’d told him to check his privilege and then started referring to their squadron as Ghetto Squadron in all their official internal external messages—this despite the fact that originally they’d been designated as the F, or Foxtrot squadron.

In the end, he’d had to give them the privileged status they’d so vigorously demanded and have the former previous G Squadron switch letters with them at the price of letting the former G Squadron pick their own name. It was either that or see things possibly degenerate into violence as the previous G squadron was just about ready to rename themselves the Gangster Squadron and embark on a series of supply raids, computer code attacks, and out-and-out bar fights with Ghetto after the Ghettos stole their designator.

It was all a major headache.

“Anyways, A and G I want to…” he said, shaking off his reminiscing in favor of rapid fire spitting out of orders until each and every squadron and ship in the flotilla under his command had their marching orders. It was time to go out and start taking names.

Chapter Thirteen: Reporting Home

“The Senator has just sent a coded message, Admiral.”

“Of course he has. Thanks to an incompetent quartermaster and supply department, we’re behind schedule,” grunted Janeski. “I’ll take it in the hood room,” he replied, referring to one of the most insulated and top secret rooms on the Command Carrier. “Please route any further message traffic from the Senator directly to the hood, Commander,” he instructed.

“Will do, Sir,” said the head communication officer on Janeski’s flag staff.

The following is a computer transcript of a multi-day conversation that took place over the ComStat network, using priority override codes installed into the network by the Imperial ministry of intelligence

“Just what the blazes are you playing at out there, Admiral!” thundered Senator Cornwallis after Janeski sat down and received the message inside the high density hood, a device guaranteed to keep all messages played on it secret from all known current technology. The high density hood was also why this room was called the hood room.

“I’m letting all the fish that are inclined to fight gather together. They need to be at full strength and allowed to gather into one small barrel, and then we close the lid on it and have a grand old fish fry, Senator,” Janeski replied.

“You had better get this right, Janeski,” retorted Cornwallis, “there’s starting to be rumblings in the Senate about all the chaos in the Spine—chaos that I planned and implemented so that we could expand the Empire for the first time in twenty years and I could take my rightful place as one of the Three Triumvirs! This needs to go off like clockwork before the Triumvirate is distracted from its losing war on the Gorgon Front and decides to take action.”

“The Conquest of the Spineward Sectors proceeds apace, Senator. Despite a few early setbacks we are back on schedule; you’ll definitely have that feather in your cap for the next ten year election exactly as planned, Sir,” said the Admiral Janeski.

“Good. Make sure of it, Admiral and you’ll find yourself elevated to a powerful position in the Senate,” said Cornwallis. “just remember that I dislike it greatly when I hear the word delay.”

“Everything’s going according to plan, Sir” soothed Janeski, “that said, potentially elevating you to the Triumvirate might be the least of our accomplishments. I think even the Emperor’s throne might not be aiming too high, my lord. There may be a MAN Fragment in play. Retrieving it would be even more important than consolidating the free Sectors of the Spine into a region capable of petitioning for Imperial Province status. I have dispatched strong forces—one squadron of Cruisers and another of Destroyers, and have attached a Marine brigade armed with the new Predator armor—to secure this piece necessary for the resurrection of our god. If it really exists, which according to the intercepted internal communications of House Raubach it in fact does, then I can assure you and the entire Reclamation Initiative that we will find it and bring it home.”

Cornwallis’ eyes turn hot. “If it exists, find it and bring it to me. We have had false alarms on this front before, Admiral,” he glowered, “but if your information is accurate this time…then you are right: this would be the greatest possible achievement. Such a service won’t be forgotten—as long as we are the ones who can claim the credit. Do not allow it to fall into Raubach or local hands. Do you hear me, my old Flag Captain?”

“Understood, Senator. Over and out,” said Janeski with a smile, and then the hood retracted and the smile on his face cracked and shattered. “Find me the head of the supply department! We’ve wasted too much time sitting out here refueling and rearming due to the quartermaster’s incompetence!” he barked over his communicator as soon as he stepped outside the hood room and regained access to the ship network with his handheld. “Prepare the fleet—we’re leaving this star system. Tell Nav to set the course for Easy Haven. It’s time to end this.”

Chapter Fourteen: Reinforced at Wolf-9

“So where are we at?” I asked, sitting down in the command meeting inside my flagship. It was a private internal MSP command team and important, here by invitation only, allies inside this conference room. I was sick and tired of this endless series of meetings and handholding, but so far no one—including Rear Admiral Nuttal or the Praxis SDF contingent—had picked up their chips and taken their warships home. One more meeting wasn’t going to kill me, especially so long as it managed to keep all my top people on the same page.

“Well reinforcements have started to slow down,” said Tactical Officer Hart, “but on the whole I’d have to say we’re doing quite good. We’ve certainly received more reinforcements from the individual worlds of the Sector than I for one expected.”

“Their backs are against the wall and the Sector Government has gotten out and pushed. But looking at these numbers, they still don’t seem like nearly enough,” I said flatly, “we need to do more. Either we get more ships here or we build more fixed defenses and hidden surprises for our Imperial friends. Come on, people—work with me here.”

“All nine ships that you left here at Wolf-9 after the battle against Task Force 3 have been repaired and released from the yard,” reported Eastwood, now Captain of Messene’s Shield, “I don’t know how we can surprise the enemy with them, but we’re back in action and ready to take another swing at the Reclamation Fleet.”

“In the same general vein we recently received two former Battleships…I think they’re calling them Jumble class Carriers? Anyway, they were apparently too damaged to be put back into service as Battleships so the Yard stripped off a bunch of their armor and stuffed them full of gunboats. I see they have a carrying capacity of one hundred ninety eight and one hundred and fifty three boats, respectively, and they’re packed full. So in addition to whatever the stripped down ‘Carriers’ can dish out, we’re looking at a total three hundred and fifty one boats that we can add to the defense of this star system. Please note that not only are the Carriers operating with fewer fusion generators than the original Battleship class they’re based on, but they also can launch only twenty boats in an initial release and a sustained pace of 8-10 a minute after that.”

“Whose bright idea was it to turn those two wrecks into Carriers?” snorted Eastwood. “I’m sure we had better things to do with our time, manpower, resources and so on.”

“Since no one in their right mind would do such a thing, who do you think it was that converted them?” I couldn’t suppress a snicker as I asked the question.

“Commander Spalding strikes again,” grunted the Captain, leaning back in the chair shaking his head.

“He actually has that kind of authority?” asked a slightly bewildered Lieutenant Hart.

“The Chief Engineer is a force unto himself,” I advised the Tactical Officer.

“What does that even mean?” Hart whispered to his seat mate.

“He’s on the recycling committee and he’s repaired most of this fleet. Even the Lancer Division thinks twice now before crossing him, and he has the Admiral’s full confidence,” said the Chief Gunner in a low voice.

“This fleet?” Hart asked with surprise, gesturing outside this room to the ships gathered here in Easy Haven for clarification.

“The MSP, you dink—our fleet,” Lesner exclaimed in an attempt at a hushed voice.

Captain Hammer cleared her throat.

“Sorry,” Lieutenant Hart said, shame-faced.

“Alright, people, I know this is hard,” I said, standing up and leaving my chair to stand in front of the holo-screen in one end of the room. “We’re short of both mud and straw, but I’m still asking how to make more bricks. Let’s take a look at the star system.”

I brought up an image of the star system centered on Easy Haven.

“Our plan right now is to contest the inner and outer system from inside the hyper limit, before falling back on the defenses built up around the star base and its yard. Wolf-9 will be a tough nut to crack make, no doubt about that, but as long as they have that Command Carrier they can out-range anything we have with that main cannon of theirs. As of right now, we don’t have a response for it. Not only does it have the best range of anything on the field, but it’s more powerful than even a top-spec turbo-laser by an order of magnitude at least. Part of why we’re here is to find the answer to this particular riddle. I need all of your help and ideas if we’re going to neutralize that cannon,” I said seriously, my eyes sweeping the table to show how serious I was about this.

“Looking at these numbers, I’m not sure what you expect us to do,” Wave Grinder, our current Chief Engineer said. And simply by the fact that he was the one saying it I had to stop myself from grinding my teeth. Teeth re-enameling wasn’t free don’t you know? “Current armor types and shielding technology simply can’t deal with this kind of super weapon—not in the quantities we have available, Admiral. I mean, sure, give me six months and I could build you some sort of single-use barrier that could block one or more shots from that thing, but there’s just no way with our currently available warships. Even Battleships can’t be upgraded to withstand that thing in the time available. I wager it’d punch right through most Battleships in one shot…maybe two for Rage, but only maybe,” he stressed, “and that’s only because of its new, experimental heavy armor. That said, after all the punishment we’ve taken over here in two running battles…” he shook his head, “if I were a betting man I wouldn’t place any money on it.”

“As eloquent as ever,” I scoffed at the chief engineer. His ‘can’t do’ attitude was once again on full display, shining brightly for everyone to see, “however, despite your well-articulated reasons why we ‘can’t’ stop them, what I asked for was what we could do.”

“I’m not sure we can do anything about that main cannon. Not without taking out that ship and, frankly, we don’t have enough Battleships to throw at her,” Wave-Grinder said sticking out his jaw. “My advice: find something other than an engineering solution to this problem.”

There was a rumble around the table, but no one stood up to cry foul and tell the Chief Engineer how wrong he was. Well, no one but me.

I looked down my nose at the ‘can’t do’ engineer and shook my head. I would have stood up for emphasis, but as I was already standing in front of the holo-screen that wasn’t possible.

Clicking a button, I activated a preloaded file. “As you can see, I’ve been gaming out a way for our Lancers and Marines to get onboard that Command Carrier and neutralize that cannon. They will also take over the enemy’s Command Carrier, if possible, but only as a secondary objective. Their primary objective would obviously be to neutralize that main cannon. After that the rest of our fleet can be brought to bear, get in close, and neutralize the target,” I said, meeting Wave Grinder’s eyes and lifting a brow.

The Chief Engineer did not disappoint.

“With all the point defense I’m seeing here,” Wave Grinder waved at the holo-screen behind me, “and keeping in mind the Carrier’s massive fighter compliment, I don’t see how we’re going to be able to get enough boarders on her to neutralize that cannon, let alone take the ship. Our current shuttles just don’t have the specs for it. Now, maybe if you gave me six months to a year, I could design and build a better shuttle for you,” he finished in a mock regretful tone.

He was one smug little blighter that needed to be take down a peg, or even—

My train of thought was interrupted by a series of whistles and beeps.

“The United Sentient Assembly is in possession of a number of the new Penetrator 3.5 class landers,” hooted Chairman Bottletop IIV. “It combines a slow, stealthy approach with a final sprint mode capable of peak speeds which are difficult for biological entities with your structural ratings to survive. We have multiple extra landers after the recent series of boarding actions, although we lack the patch or upgrade that could increase survivability. They could be made available to your fleet, Admiral Montagne.”

I looked over at the spindle shaped arms, legs and main body of the droid Chairman. “Is there any way we can reduce the sprint speed or otherwise increase the survivability of my people onboard those landers, Chairman?” I asked the droid.

Bottletop turned to the droid beside him and the two of them exchanged a series of beeps, blats and boops. “I will let my current temporary military attaché explain,” said the Chairman, taking a step back, “this is Tactician-without-a-flank-to-turn.”

“I am Tactician-without-a-flank-to-turn,” the other droid introduced himself redundantly, bobbing its head up and down and speaking with a voice that wasn’t nearly as natural sounding as the chairman’s. He, she, or it sounded more like an old style primitive voice synthesizer—the kind that deliberately un-humanized any robots it had been installed into—than anything designed in this millennium. “Although we lack the technology, this design was originally based off the lander utilized by one of your own personnel during the Battle for Elysium. While the Sentient Assembly does not itself currently possess the method, having analyzed recordings of the speeds your personnel have attained with similar designs, we believe you possess the ability to retrofit any landers utilized by your biological sentients.”

“We possess the tech?” Wave Grinder asked with surprise.

“Yes,” bobbed the Tactician Droid.

“Can you show us an image of the lander you based your design off of?” I asked.

“Certainly,” agreed the droid, inserting a chip into the holo-projector.

Moments later, an image of the lander used by Commander Spalding during the Battle for Elysium appeared on the screen as it took off like a rocket.

I sighed. This wasn’t the best time for Spalding to be absent. Maybe I’d made a mistake keeping him at the Yard, helping to pump out vital reinforcements, instead of keeping him here with the Fleet?

“Do we even possess the design for this lander in our data banks?” I asked a bit helplessly as I turned to look at my staff and warship captains.

“What is this? I’ve never even seen it before,” Wave Grinder looked perplexed.

“Commander Spalding retrofitted an old lander and used it to land an attack force on one Battleship immediately prior to delivering a bomb to the hull of a second during the Sector 23 Campaign,” I explained.

We looked around helplessly at one another and started to search the records.

“I believe that Persus reported Wizard Spalding had sealed his suit and was wearing a breathing device before he filled the shuttle with a sort of green goo—which could turn from a liquid to solid in a matter of moments and back again—so that they could survive the voyage to make their attack,” Akantha said speaking up for the first time during this meeting.

“Green goo?” Wave-Grinder rolled his eyes.

“You happen to have a better term for it, Chief Engineer?” I snapped.

“There’s no need to let tempers flare,” Hammer said, placing a hand on Wave Grinder’s arm before he could reply and then looking over at me. “We’ll figure out whatever this is, Sir. You have my word on it. If it’s possible, we’ll do it.”

I pursed my lips but let it go. This is the last time I allow Commander Spalding to take it easy back in the yard when we need him out here with us in the thick of it, I thought belligerently, silently ignoring the fact that I was the person who’d left him behind despite his strident protests to the contrary.

“Alright we’ll table the discussion over the Penetrator 3.5 while we research potential survivability both with and without whatever work around the Chief Engineer discovered while building his own lander,” I said, pausing to take a breath.

“Right,” said Hammer, “that aside, we have still received substantial reinforcements.”

“My people are after having contributed 36 gunboats and operators which are being onboard the Jumble Carriers,” Glue said, popping his lips for emphasis. “Also there are many males eager to fight the Empire, and many brought sisters and wives with them for the battle.”

“They brought their…wives?” Hammer asked, her eyebrows climbing. “The last thing we need are non-combatants flooding into a soon to be war-zone, Mr. Glue.”

The large Sundered chortled, his laughter a booming, bitonal, ‘hoo-hoo-hu’ sound.

“Sundered not like human females standing and screaming—or running away in fear after having an attack. Is what we call ‘cultural difference’ this time, Captain,” he explained, pausing to perform a rapid one-two-three fist beating on his chest. “In our people, only children non-combatants. Our females fight with their males and the males will be more careful fighters because of it. In this time there are one hundred twenty seven males eager for battle, and three is to one. For total of 350 battle ready Sundered people ready to fight Empire forces.”

“Your math’s a little fuzzy, and I resent your characterization of the female civilian population,” Leonora said stiffly.

“Many sorry!” Glue boomed vigorously. “Can only know your people from holo-vid entertainment. Only chance Sundered have of observing humans up close before coming to Omicron and Tracto is when taken to barbeque pits for party food!”

“Party food?” Hammer looked clueless, and her First Officer leaned over to whisper something in her ear. She looked shocked and outraged, “That’s disgusting!” she declared, “and it’s a violation of the sentient acts charter. How can—”

Glue slapped his hand on the table, interrupting her with a broad smile. “Whole Sundered people ready to fight at need. Maybe humans same way, not like on holo-vid, yes? Today 350 uplift volunteers ready to fight and die against Imperials. If human female population not eager to run and scream and hide like on vids, but eager to fight same way Sundered females eager to fight, then we Sundered people vow to stand side by side in battle formation with human female militia and their husbands! Male or female, human or Sundered, today we are one population united against oppressors,” he said, waving his arms grandly.

Leonora Hammer looked as if she’d just take a big bite out of a sandwich filled with rotten eggs. She was completely at a loss how to respond to Glue’s stated desire to learn he was wrong and fight beside the outraged, and just about completely ‘non-existent,’ female militia forces who were eager to fight and die against the Reclamationers instead of staying home where it was safe like on the holo-vid and in the main in real life as well. There were exceptions, but…

“If any of the Valkyrie military units from Valhalla 3.9 or New Freya’s World happen to reach us in time for the battle, we’ll be sure to slot them in beside your forces, Primarch,” I said, nodding and smoothly diverting the conversation before a major cultural misunderstanding could take place. “Now, despite heroic addition of the Sundered reinforcements,” I gave a nod over to Primarch Glue, who leaned back looking well satisfied, “are there any other problems when it comes to our Lancer-slash-Marine forces?”

Glue shook his head while Wainwright cleared his throat.

“Yes, General?” I asked.

“The Carriers didn’t just come with the Sundered. They also came with several thousand of what can only be termed,” he grimaced, “lower class Tracto-ans.”

“Problem?” I prompted.

“Not as such. Oh, sure, there is some discrimination from the current Lancer force against the lower born ‘farmers’ who were only able to practice with weapons one to two days a week and in the evenings. In general they seem to have had a poorer diet than the Tracto-ans we’ve been getting up until now, but it’s nothing we can’t handle,” said the General.

“Messene, Argos, and our allies have encouraged as many warriors to join the MSP as we can afford to without weakening our home polities,” Akantha interjected. “Right now we need to focus on rebuilding our strength, so the only recruits that are available right now come from less skilled and uneducated masses.”

“Being unskilled is not the problem,” Wainwright said turning to Akantha, “in many ways it’s easier. Rather it’s the large number of cripples—several hundred at least—men with one arm or a missing leg who have joined up in exchange for free medical care.”

“What’s the problem?” I asked quirking a brow, “I mean other than retraining time. Just give them a mechanical prosthetic until after this battle is over and we can re-grow them a new flesh and bone replacement for their missing appendage. I mean, I assume they were all fitted with prosthetics before they were shipped out here.”

“They all came with a working replacement for whatever was missing,” Wainwright sighed. “The problem is most of them either want to fight for free, other than room and board, or donate their regular wages to you personally and only take a share of the ‘battle field spoils’ for themselves. I’ve tried to explain to them that technically this is either illegal, fighting for free, or borderline illegal both as it regards donating their wages and plundering the enemy. But getting it through their thick skulls is a real challenge,” he said sourly, “As a Marine I’ve had lots of reasons to reject recruits. But in this case I’m stumped. Here I’ve got a bunch of what are essentially hardened planetary militia veterans who are able to meet the physical standards, have no problems fighting, and after retraining are generally able to take orders. Yet because they view getting back a missing arm or leg or eye as a miraculous event, they’re threatening to disqualify themselves from the Fleet because they refuse to be paid. Normally the Equal Employment and Fair Wages Laws aren’t even something I have to consider as a Marine, but…” he trailed off, shaking his head.

I rubbed my jaw, feeling surprised although I knew that in retrospect I should have expected some kind of problems like this to crop up.

“I think—” I started.

“I will speak with them,” Akantha cut in, assuring the Marine General, “I’m sure that after I explain the situation to them that they will not cause you any further troubles.”

“I’d appreciate that,” General Wainwright said with relief, “however, I really have to emphasize that they really cannot work for free. I mean, personally I couldn’t care less what a Marine does with his money after he’s paid. But as their commanding officer, I have responsibilities—and no desire to go to jail because of some cultural tick.”

“I said I will handle it. You can rest assured,” Akantha reiterated.

“Good,” said Wainwright leaning back.

“Good,” I echoed him, “now if there aren’t any other problems, moving on…”

Wainwright coughed, leaning forward again.

“Yes, General?” I asked, suppressing the urge to sigh.

“Two thousand reinforcements are all well and good, even if they are decidedly green,” said the Marine General. “However, I would be remiss in my duties if I didn’t point out that when it comes to power armor we are decidedly behind anything the Imperials choose to throw at us. My Marines and I are using suits at least a generation out of date back on Capria. The rest of our forces are using a hodgepodge of fifty year old Caprian battle suits or power armor picked up anywhere from Omicron to Elysium. First we need to standardize, if only to save our armorers from having a conniption fit and nervous breakdown. And second, nothing we have can stand up toe to toe with what we already know the Imperial has—to say nothing of anything they’ve hidden up their sleeves, Sir.”

“I see,” I pursed my lips. Then, reaching for my data slate and pulling up the manifests of the various freighters that had accompanied the Carriers and Sundered reinforcements, I smiled, “I had been saving this for later in the meeting, but I think I can reveal it now since we’re currently on the issue anyway.”

“Yes?” asked Wainwright. I handed him the slate, at which he took a look and whistled.

“Anyone care to share with the rest of the class?” asked Lieutenant-Commander Wave Grinder.

“New battlesuits,” I said with a broad smile, “the Commander comes through again. Or, in this case, Yard Manager Baldwin who has turned his design from a one-off reality into a mass production model.”

“Excellent!” exclaimed General Wainwright, sounding like a teen who just found an illegal turbo-charger for his hover car. “We have 2200 units of the new Devastator armor.”

“We’ve got several freighters stocked full of the new armor,” I said with a grin.

“Are these really as effective as they would appear from the General’s reaction?” Wave Grinder asked with surprise.

“This is the first mass production run of new battlesuits made with the new Duralloy II,” I explained.

“My only complaint is that we don’t have more,” interjected Wainwright before looking back down at the slate, “this is excellent.”

“They’re still having issues because of the high strength and relative rigidity of the new metal. They can make flat sheets, but bending the stuff almost has to be done by hand for many of the smaller pieces. Anyway, most of smaller pieces had to custom-built and fitted by a man with a lathe and grinder. At some point they’ll have a production line for each of the smaller pieces, but for now we’re still at something of a bottleneck.”

“I see that they’re still using the old power assist system using basic duralloy for most of the fine pieces,” mused Wainwright.

“They’ve increased the power so as to be able to handle the increased weight of extra metal. But, yes, the internal structures are still mostly duralloy one,” I agreed.

“Can’t wait to get my hands on the Devastator 2.0 version once they’ve got the entire thing built out of Duralloy II, but I’ll gladly take what I can get,” said the General.

“Right,” I said then pointed to the slate, “and in addition to the Devastator, we have a number of Duralloy II shields that our current suits are rated to be able to carry.”

“Great. We have new suits,” said Wave Grinder, “which, if we can board, might help us. We still need to find a way to get them onto that Command Carrier.”

“Not just ‘might’,” retorted Wainwright, “you haven’t seen these suits in action. I’d put one of them up against a squad of traditional Caprian armor in tight quarters. Spread out on an open battlefield and it might be different, but so long as the corridors are wide and tall enough to move then these things are a terror.”

“It still remains to be seen how effective they’ll be against Imperial armor, but yes: these things are monsters,” I said, remembering my battle against Nikomedes and Co. with the alpha version of this armor personally designed for me by Spalding. “Alright, I think we’ve gone over as much as we can usefully cover for the moment. So I’ll just go over our current force and fixed defenses deployment and then we’ll break. Just make sure those of you assigned to the Penetrator 3.5 Lander project inform me immediately if there is any word on the ‘green goo’ situation. Now, moving on: the Metal Titan arrived with Jumble Carriers but is still in need of some work…”

Chapter Fifteen: A Private Meeting

I was happily bouncing a baby on my right knee while tapping away on a data slate set off to my left.

“That should work,” I muttered, tapping my electronic approval of the plan. Next was—

The door to our personal quarters swooshed open. I looked up to see my beloved wife come storming in like a whirlwind. With a sigh, I set aside the slate.

“Great to see you. How was your day?” I asked.

While I was distracted, the baby managed to grab a hold of the data slate and shove it in her mouth.

“You mean other than that long and boring meeting in the morning?” Akantha asked and, sitting down beside me, she deftly pulled the data slate out of mouth eager to chew and gum it for all she was worth. “You can’t let the babies just put anything they like into their mouths, Jason,” she scolded.

“How soon before they start eating solids?” I asked. “I seem to have heard something about a food trial recently?”

“Don’t you even think about it,” she warned me, “you can’t be feeding them anything before they’re ready. You need to wait until they’re old enough.”

“What’s with the false accusations?” I demanded irritably.

“Says the man giving them shoulder rides before their backs are strong enough and secretly feeding them when you think no one is looking!” she exclaimed.

“What are you talking about? The most I gave them was some water and a little juice. I mean, they looked like they were starving and they sure liked the iced tea,” I said.

“I told you that iced tea is bad for their kidneys, you idiot!” she hit me with a pillow. “Don’t do it again.”

“And they call me the Tyrant,” I said plaintively.

“Irritating man,” Akantha spat, snatching the baby off my leg and then holding her close. The baby giggled.

“Traitor,” I glowered at the baby.

The baby laughed again, grabbing onto her mother’s hair and pulling.

“Ow,” Akantha grimaced, breaking into dialect as she detached the baby’s hands from her hair and scolded her in Tracto-an language.

She switched the baby to the leg nearest me as she turned her head away from the baby and started straightening her mussed hair.

Surreptitiously, I picked up the data slate and slipped it over to the baby girl, helping her get a good grip and then move it into her mouth—where she immediately and happily started chewing on it.

Done with her hair, Akantha turned back.

“Jason!” she cried, slipping the baby’s hands off the slate. “Feeding her anything,” she scolded, tossing the slate onto the bed where it bounced to a stop well out of range of both dad and baby. “You know that slate is dirty. You can’t just shove anything you like into their mouths,” Akantha repeated, switching the baby to the side furthest from me so I couldn’t reach her and then she gestured over the Tracto-an maid. “Here, it’s time for her nap.”

“But she’s still full of energy and ready to play,” I protested, whereupon Akantha switched back into dialect and ignored me as she handed the baby over to the nanny. Forlornly I watched as baby and nanny disappeared out of the room. “I wasn’t done playing,” I said glumly.

“You’re done,” she informed me without an ounce of give and then switched the subject, “I went over to see the new Devastator suits,” she said excitedly.

“Oh joy,” I grumped, still determined to let her know how I wasn’t pleased with her high handed baby stealing tactics. The evening was one of the few times when I was free to play with the babies. Well, I decided there were still five of the little ones onboard the ship; I’d just sneak out and grab one later. Then we’d head down to the mess hall and grab come juice and maybe a little bit of pudding or jiggle-o. Just try and stop me from playing with my own kids, I gloated as I silently planned my next mom-avoiding excursion. Feeding them anything was it? Well I’d show her. Safely, of course. But I’d still show her. I’d been watching baby development and training videos, as well as talking with my mom, after all.

It was time to take a stand!

“I’ve seen you in your suit, but actually being in one myself is a totally different experience. The fine control suffers compared to the old suits, but the power!” she chattered happily about the new power armor battle suits the way some women would about a new set of clothes they’d picked up on sale at the mall.

I heaved a small, hidden sigh. I was in here playing with the baby, and now here we were back to the tools of death and warfare. It’s not that I didn’t appreciate such tools or thought that my wife…well, it would just be nice if she wasn’t always the first one intent on diving into a battle and getting herself killed.

“I really like the new holo-vision built into the visor. The night-vision capability is much better than with the old suits, as is the interface. Being able to switch it into Tracto-an with just a simple command, and having an automatic translation feature pop up on the visor is also a big improvement,” she continued.

“That’s great,” I said, doing my best to chime in at all the right places. Dang it, we had been chewing the data slate. Now that was fun. This…well, it would be fun if I had been the one in the armor knocking everyone else around—or, better yet, going head-to-head with another Devastator suit.

Before I knew it, I was starting to get pumped up as I visualized shooting another Devastator suit with my built-in ion cannon and then stepping on its head.

“And did you know about the built-in combat heal and anti-pain and anti-sleep injections? With this sort of armor we can fight them until we bleed out if necessary!” she exclaimed.

“Um…bleed out? I think we should definitely avoid something like that,” I said, trying to put a break on this sort of excessive enthusiasm—especially since I had every intention of keeping her tucked away safe and snug on the flagship.

“We’ll win this war. For the prize!” she shouted, pumping her fist and I knew there wasn’t any point in further attempts at reason.

Resigned, I sat back and listened as she started to tell me about her day practicing with the Devastator armor and working as the temporary leader of a Tracto-an company during the war games with the Marines.

She’d taken over command of the company from its usual Captain? Why, of course she had. How else was she going to learn how to command in the field if she didn’t do the same practices as everyone else?

I heaved another long-suffering sigh.

Chapter Sixteen: New Arrivals Admiral

My console buzzed for my attention.

I hit the silence button. If it was really important then they’d get back to me. Right now I was focused on rearranging our defensive deployment for what had to be the fifth or sixth time, and it needed my full focus if I was to make maximum use of the new ships.

It buzzed again, so I knew it must be important.

“Son of Murphy,” I cursed, closing the file I was working on and removing the image of the star system with icons representing all of our ships with a slash of my hand.

“This is the Admiral,” I said brusquely, silently adding that this had better be good. I wasn’t in the mood right now. Realizing just how outnumbered we were, even if the Imperials ‘only’ had what we knew they’d still had at the end of the last battle, had soured my stomach for lunch and turned my mood foul.

“Reinforcements, Sir,” said the Comm. Officer on duty, and it was not Lieutenant Steiner. “You asked to be notified anytime anything bigger than a Cruiser or squadron of ships came in system.”

“We’re sure they’re ours?” I asked, thinking that I wouldn’t have been bothered by this if it had been Steiner on the other end.

“Oh yeah,” said the Comm. Officer.

I frowned at the lack of formality in that answer. “Are you sure the Captain can’t pass along my regards for me?” I wondered aloud.

“You’re going to want to take this one, Admiral,” he replied, and I could all but hear the grin in his voice.

“Okay, what have we got, Coms?” I asked, putting aside all thoughts of neurotically continuing to try and grind away at the problem until I found some kind of perfect disposition of current forces—which, since we were facing a much larger force, was impossible. This was probably better for me anyways.

Probably.

“We’ve got a mixed group, Sir. One squadron from the Border Alliance and Four squadrons from Sector 23. Well, 23 and 24. They claim to be from the Mutual Defense League, Admiral,” said the Comm. Officer.

“Hot dog!” I said jerking in my chair. “And here I thought we’d been all but forgotten by our friends in the MDL. What kind of force breakdown do we have?” I asked, thinking that even though they’d remembered us we were probably looking at a mixed force of Corvettes and Destroyers in those squadrons. Maybe there were a few Cruisers if we were lucky but I wasn’t counting on it.

I’d been disappointed too many times by those opportunists in 23 and 24, mainly by the fact that after they’d shown their true colors and I’d countered by out opportunist-ing them on the battlefield that they’d been such poor losers about the whole thing. I mean, I was fine with ‘one for all and all for one’ as a philosophy to live by, but when you threw that by the wayside I was just as fine with saying ‘all for me’ instead. But they’d still been mad that I’d snagged more enemy Battleships than they had. Honestly, if they had just put me in command in the first place…

“Well, Sir, from the sensor scans it looks like they have three Battleships, four Heavy Cruisers, six Light Cruisers, twelve Heavy Destroyers and four bulk freighters. And that’s in addition to the two Corvettes, one Destroyer, one mine sweeper from the Border Alliance worlds that arrived late in Tracto and decided to link up with the MDL for the trip up here to Easy Haven,” reported the Comm. Officer.

“Well, well, well,” I leaned back in my chair the breath whooshing out of me in surprise, “I may have misjudged our friends down the Spine and given them too little credit.”

“Also there’s a Kong Pao requesting to speak with you once they’re deeper in-system and the transmission lag is reduced, Admiral.”

“Signal me and then put him through as soon as he’s ready, Coms,” I ordered.

“Will do, Sir.”

Three Battleships and two squadrons of Cruisers? Now this was going to be interesting.

It almost made up for the fact that our recent reinforcements coming out of Gambit hadn’t included Commander Spalding or the Furious Phoenix.

“Admiral Montagne, it’s good to see you again,” Kong Pao said cupping his hands and bowing toward my screen.

“Sector Judge,” I said with a smile, “although it’s good to see you again. I have to say that I’m surprised—very surprised. Although happily so, if I have to admit it.”

“I am glad if anything I am able to do can help in the chaotic and uncertain situation,” he replied with a smile.

“Three Battleships and two squadrons of Cruisers?” I quirked a brow. “If that’s the sort of help you can offer I have to say that that’s the sort of help we could use more of. I just wish everyone was as willing to put their skin in the game as you and your people.”

“The Mutual Defense League, including my own world Harmony, has sent this expeditionary force. I am, if anything, a mere facilitator,” Kong Pao said modestly.

“Considering your people were all but calling me and the entire MSP traitors to humanity the last time we were in your two Sectors of space, I think that there’s a bit more to this story than you being a mere facilitator. But,” I lifted a hand, “I’m willing to let that pass.”

“Thank you, Admiral,” said Judge Kong.

“So what can I do for you, as it should be pretty obvious what you can do for me? Or dare I hope that the MDL has come out of the goodness of its heart and is here in the spirit of reciprocity after the good work the MSP and Tracto-an Defense force has done for the MDL?” I asked, cocking my head pointedly.

“With regret,” the Sector Judge said with a moue of displeasure, “my people, the MDL, and this Expeditionary Force do not entirely come without strings attached. Not that we are not here to help, we are, except…” he trailed off.

“I see,” I straightened in my chair and leaned back, “what can the MSP and Sector 25 do for our neighbors in 23 and 24?” I asked neutrally.

“Nothing so large that you’ll find it burdensome enough to turn us away, I hope,” said Kong Pao.

“Now I’m starting to get nervous,” I drawled.

“Don’t be,” he said waving a hand, “in truth, our main interest here is not in this war. Oh, certainly, as observers we can assess a potential threat to our systems and hopefully avert it before it comes to us. But the main reason the Mutual Defense League was so willing to send its forces here to assist—in addition to you being, I hope, a friend and former ally—is the carrying trade.”

“The carrying trade?” I blinked, letting the rest of the mealy-mouthed utterings float past.

“Friendship and past debts as important as they are,” Kong Pao looked mildly distressed, “it means little when we still have planets in a state of massive depression and people literally starving in the streets because we haven’t the trillium to send in the fleets of merchant freighters necessary to alleviate the problem and jump start our economies.”

“Ah,” I said, seeing it now. They wanted our trillium. Maybe for their relief fleets but certainly for trade and their merchant ships to say nothing of their SDF’s, “Although I’m inclined to say yes…what if I said no?”

Kong Pao sighed. “I have been appointed as Second Ambassador by my people and the MDL because our economies are in a tailspin. I am afraid that if you cannot approve a long-term trade treaty then we won’t be able to afford for our warships to do anything except defend themselves and observe your war. I am truly sorry,” he sighed.

“I see,” I said, and I did. They had a need, we had a different need, and since they were in a pinch and they knew we were fighting for our lives they were putting the squeeze on us.

“Don’t mistake our good intentions for mere attempting to profit from another’s difficulties. Although we would of course want to work out the exact details between the members of our trade delegation and whoever you appoint to yours, we are willing to pay for the trillium based on current market prices—so long as we can get a guaranteed amount. Either fixed or as a percentage of your production, although ideally it would be some kind of combination between the two,” said Judge Kong.

“I am not a trade specialist and Tracto is not my sole possession to do with as I wish,” I said flatly. “Besides, if we lose this war you will lose access to our markets anyway.”

“Which is why, for a mere promise and whatever we can purchase at market value right now, we are willing to stake the survival of our expedition on your success,” said the Judge.

“’Survival’ is more like it right now, but I don’t want to lose those Battleships you brought with you. I’ll pass along your request along with my recommendation to my wife. But she’s her own woman, so I make no promises,” I said.

“All we desire is a chance to save our economies and inject enough trillium to get things moving again until our own native trillium mines are back up to fully operational. And, as I said, we are willing to pay a rate based on market price,” Judge Kong vowed.

“Like I said: I’ll pass it on. But whether your ships stay or go, your deal will be with Akantha,” I said.

“That should not be a problem. I shall eagerly await the chance to speak with her,” said Kong Pao, “thank you for the chance to speak with you again, my friend. At least I hope that I can still call you that.”

“You’re free to call me whatever you want and we’ll speak again soon,” I said cutting the transmission. For three Battleships he could call me the Tyrant of Cold Space every time he addressed me for all I cared. But strong-arming us for trillium? Even though, in truth, we could use the market and trade in 23 and 24 I still didn’t like it. A price based on current market price? What did that mean anyway? That they were going to pay fifty percent of market value? That they were anticipating a skyrocketing trade in trillium and they wanted to hedge the market?

While I was going to advise Akantha to sign the deal, I was glad that I wasn’t going to be signing on it. Because, unless it was a very good deal, I was also going to advise her to break it as soon as it was convenient if the terms were too onerous.

Negotiating with me while there was a gun to my head—even if it wasn’t your gun—wasn’t what I considered the basis for a long lasting deal.

Unless of course the terms really where just that good. Then, whatever…we could live with it.

But after the way they’d lied when they offered me fleet command, used my ships to help save their worlds, and then all but run us out of town while shouting ‘Man not Machine’ and calling us droid lovers after we seized a generous share of the post battle prizes? We’d worked hard for everything we’d earned and we’d played it straight with them. They hadn’t had the courtesy to do the same.

So, whatever happened with the MDL, I honestly didn’t mind. They used us, so we could feel free to use them in turn. I wasn’t going to lose any sleep if we had to ‘renegotiate’ the trade deal later.

Meanwhile, I had a war to win—or else all of this became moot.

Chapter Seventeen: Oleander Changes Ships!

“Thank you for arranging this so quickly,” said Nerium O. Shrub.

“A simple crew transfer during a time of war, and when the ship you came off of had a full complement and just about every other ship in the MSP and Border Alliance fleet has been damaged and taken crew losses? Don’t joke with me,” scoffed Oleander’s contact.

“Well, I appreciate it all the same,” said Agent Oleander.

“Still, Nerium O. Shrub? The home office couldn’t have given you a better cover name,” sneered the man in personnel.

“Ours is not to reason why,” Oleander said flatly, “so where will I be going after this?”

“You’ll be transferring aboard to the Messene’s Shield. I can’t get you on the flagship directly from a Border Alliance warship, so don’t even bother asking. But once you been on board a Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet warships for a period of time, you can regularize and then—assuming you can get your supervising officer to approve the move—we can transfer you over to the flagship,” explained the personnel officer.

“We might not have that kind of time,” Oleander grunted.

“Why, because your target has been destroyed before you could reach him/it or her?” mocked the petty officer. “Don’t try to kid a kidder, old son.”

“Even so, the sooner I can accomplish my mission the better a lot of people will be able to sleep at night. I think that’s worth quite a bit,” said Oleander. “Now do you have a list of people I can count on for support, or should I consider myself on my own from this point on?”

“There’s a growing undercurrent of concern within the fleet. No one wants a pro-Machinist to be their commanding officer, but the older hands worship the ground their ‘Little Admiral’ walks upon. So right now discontent is mainly limited to a small subset among the newer crewmembers. That said, we do have a few people sympathetic to the idea of removing the Admiral—or at least the Droids even though most of them still want to keep the fleet intact, so I can give you a few names but tread lightly with them or they’ll flip,” said the petty officer.

“They want to have their cake and eat it too?” Oleander scoffed. “Don’t they realize that without him there is no fleet?”

“It’s something we can work with, at least until they get themselves in so deep there’s no way out or turning back,” the petty officer said with a shrug. “Personally, I wouldn’t give it two weeks before everything fell apart once the Little Admiral’s gone. But then, in the beginning I wouldn’t have given it two hours and that’s with him still alive, so what do I know?”

“I hear you,” Oleander sighed, “they’re like cockroaches. First they simply refuse to die and then, even if and when do manage to squish one, another immediately rises up to take his place.”

“Just make sure if you survive to make it back to Capria that you that send my files onward to the home office. I want my hazard pay ratified before I get home, not six months after,” grunted the petty officer. He then lifted his fist, “Down with the Monarchy.”

“Free elections for all,” Oleander replied, lifting his own hand for a fist bump before confirming the transfer orders were loaded into his plate and moving on.

Chapter Eighteen: The Arms Dealer from Sector 24

My console chimed. “We’ve got some more arrivals, Admiral,” Steiner said over the built-in speaker.

“Not our long belated Imperial brethren, I would presume from the lack of concern in your voice, Lieutenant,” I said dryly.

There was a pause. “Sorry Admiral,” her voice came a beat later.

“Not a problem, Lisa,” I said easily, “just keep it in mind for next time and send me their data.”

“Yes, Sir,” said the Lieutenant and moments later there was a buzz as the sensor files on the new contacts appeared on my screen.

“Interesting,” I muttered opening the scans. Another couple squadrons of smaller ships, while not game-changers in and of themselves, would never be turned away. Running the numbers I came up one Cruiser, two Destroyers, six Corvettes and a handful of Cutters. All in all, twelve new warships to add to the cause, along with an equal number of freighters of all shapes and sizes. While I could have wished that Cruiser was a Battleship and those Destroyers were Cruisers, beggars can’t be choosers.

Then I frowned.

“I don’t recognize those transponder codes,” I said, keying back open the line to Steiner using my priority override.

“Pardon me, Sir…ah, yes, I see it,” Steiner said after a split second of confusion. “Looks like they’re squawking Sector 24 IFF codes—old IFF codes,” she added.

“How old are we talking about?” I couldn’t help but tense up as I uttered the question.

“Um,” there was the sound of a keyboard tapping in the background, “from back before the Imperial Withdrawal by at least a year, Sir.”

“Get with Ambassador Kong and see if the MDL has any of those ships on record,” I ordered.

“On it,” Lieutenant said tersely.

“Blazes,” I swore, thinking about those strange ships and wondering what business anyone from those Sectors outside of the MDL contingent that was already here had in this Sector and more importantly the upcoming battle.

“The tactical department of the MDL flagship says that those transponder codes are ones suspected, but not confirmed, of being hacked and used either by pirates or members of the local black market back in 24,” Steiner said after her concerned face suddenly popped up on my screen.

“Just the local black market, or would you say possibly Imperial Reclamation agents as well,” I asked rhetorically.

“You want me to notify the rest of the fleet that potential hostiles are in system?” Steiner asked crisply.

“I think that would be—” I started, but was cut off by a beep.

“One second…I’m receiving a transmission from the new arrivals…” she stopped and looked up at me with surprise. “I’m receiving a number of open and encrypted files, Sir. MSP encryption, Admiral! It’s the codes we gave to Captains Archibald and McKnight.”

“What in the blue blazes…have we just been hacked?” I asked, wondering if the Imperials had somehow got their hands on our people along the border of Sector 24 and cracked our codes.

“And Sir!” Steiner exclaimed.

“What is it now, Lieutenant,” I demanded as she looked at me wide-eyed. To help calm my nerves, I reached for a pot of tea.

“I’ve got a priority message from your cousin Bethany at the top of the message queue, Sir,” she said. “I also have a vid-file message one from McKnight using our standard encryption.”

My hand, which had been about to pour and freshen up my cup, froze in midair

“My cousin,” I asked careful and deliberately. Tremblay and Cottonmouth had been dumped in Sector 24 on Capital—hopefully to never be seen or heard from again.

That I was hearing from one of them now—and right before the advent of a major battle—made me suddenly feel certain that, in choosing not to kill the two slippery snakes while I’d had the chance, I’d made a very big mistake.

“They say that mercy is for the weak, but maybe they just mean it’s for the stupid and soft hearted,” I growled.

“Sir?” Steiner looked at me with concern.

“Put her message up on the screen,” I snapped.

“Your cousin or Captain McKnight?” Steiner asked with confusion over my request.

That was a legitimate question, I realized. I closed my eyes to stop from saying something in the heat of the moment that I’d later regret.

“A good question. Why don’t we start with the Captain’s and then go on to my sweet cousin’s try against our interests,” I said grimly.

“Here it is, Sir,” she said in a subdued voice and moments later the wayward leader of my special forces/information gathering operation in Sector 24 appeared on my screen.

“Admiral Montagne,” Lieutenant Commander McKnight appeared on the screen and nodded deferentially, “attached to this message you will find a comprehensive inventory of the sentient and material assets within the small fleet which conveyed the message itself. In accordance with your prior approval of my necessarily vague ComStat transmitted proposal, additional transfers of sentient and material assets are noted in a separate file.”

I found myself nodding slowly, remembering the cryptic request which Middleton’s protégé had sent over the ComStat network shortly before we lost access to it. It had been heavily-encrypted and verbally coded, which had made a perfect translation problematic to say the least, but the gist of the proposal had been to conduct a side mission which would tie up several of her people for an indeterminate period of time.

I generally hate signing blank checks, but the choice had been between doing that or passing up on an opportunity which McKnight’s prior message had made clear was unlikely to present itself again.

I found myself scanning the inventory, which largely confirmed what my own sensors had already discerned, but I found myself smiling at seeing over a thousand new power suits—albeit old ones, but which had apparently been maintained to a high standard—listed on that inventory.

My eyebrows rose what felt like several inches after seeing that, packed aboard several of those freighters, was a robust—if also aged—fixed defense network which was nearly half as powerful as the one which stood sentinel over Easy Haven.

“As you can see, we were able to secure a significant amount of military hardware in exchange for our…cooperation with a black market arms dealer named Lynch,” McKnight continued, making no attempt to hide her disdain at having done so. “But, more importantly than that,” she pressed on, “I am proud to report that, fully twelve months ahead of the schedule outlined in my initial proposal made prior to our disembarkation, we now have control over an information-gathering network which stretches from one end of the Spineward Sectors to the other.”

“Impressive…” I whistled softly, silently congratulating myself on having correctly identified a diamond in the rough and putting her in a position where she had done nothing short of stellar work in pursuit of a daunting task. Then my mind snagged on a particular phrase and my eyes narrowed. “What do you mean ‘we have control over’ this network?” I asked tautly, suspecting I wasn’t going to like what came next as I took a sip of tea.

“As to the transfer of resources alluded to in my previous communication,” McKnight continued hesitantly, “the sentient resource transfers will go toward assisting Mr. Lynch in carrying out an intelligence operation which will take us to the Empire of Man and, with any luck, help take some of the pressure off the Spineward Sectors in the process. The sentient resource transfers will include Lieutenant Spalding and most of his fellow conscripts, a handful of key technicians, several Lancers…and myself.”

And, just like that, the other shoe dropped like an anvil crashing on my toes and I found myself spraying tea through seemingly every orifice in my face—much of which covered the very screen where I watched the message.

“Captain Archibald of the Gamer Gate has assumed direct operational control over our Sector 24 operation and his confirmation is attached to this message. He’s a capable officer and will do better with the intelligence network than I could have. From where I’m sitting, this is a good deal for the MSP. Thank you for authorizing this mission, Admiral Montagne,” the blond with the short, perfectly composed haircut said with an insufferable nod, “we’ll do you proud, Sir. McKnight out.”

I slammed my hand down on the table.

“Blast her. Blast that woman!” I howled.

“A problem, Admiral?” asked Steiner, popping back up on my screen uninvited but I was too busy to notice that or pay attention to her at that exact moment.

“A good deal? She thinks she made a good Murphy-be-cursed-deal! Does she think I’m an imbecile? The whole idea of a covert operation is to be…covert! A hidden blade that can be called to hand later on, not some infernal throwing knife that everyone can see as soon as it gets bored with its mission and then conveniently gets picked up for use by the competition in exchange for a one-time use of two squadrons of warships,” I bellowed like a stuck pig. “Does she honestly think I want over a thousand power armor suits older than the ones we’re using now, an old orbital defensive network given to us instead of scrapped, and an information network that’s already been compromised from top to bottom by my dear sweet cousin?! Yes I asked for her to set up an information network. No! I did not ask her to buy it from someone else at the cost of my covert unit.”

There was silence in the room as I sat there taking big deep breaths and Steiner was too scared to speak in the face of my anger. Not that I was minding her.

“Ye-space gods! Middleton might have been a loose cannon, randomly firing wherever or at whatever he pleased, but at least he died fighting for the MSP and the Spine. He didn’t go haring off into another entire region of the known galaxy to cause me and the MSP no end of future headaches!” I cried. In retrospect, compared to his protégé, Middleton was a saint.

McKnight thought she was going to use this ‘Lynch’ to penetrate the Empire and ‘take pressure off the Spineward Sectors’ by doing his dirty work? Just who did she think she was fooling? Who exactly was going to come out on top: a rogue military officer entirely too concerned with her hairdo, or an arms dealer with decades of experience playing people and governments against each other? And who was in charge of this whole Sector 24 operation, anyway? Me, that’s who!

Clearly, she and the entire covert unit had other priorities than receiving orders and direction from one Admiral Jason Montagne.

Despite all of that, I still had to take a breath, sit back and ask myself on simple question: had they helped? To be fair, they had sent more weight of metal to Wolf-9 and Easy Haven than they themselves could have ever provided. The fixed defensive platforms alone would bolster our defenses far more than I could have hoped, and that said nothing of the dozen warships which would lend their fire to our cause.

It was a bitter pill to swallow but, okay, yes…they’d helped.

The problem was that, for all I knew, this woman was about to embroil me in yet another steaming hot pile of trouble as soon as she got to the Empire. Given her track record—and the fact that my own dear, sweet cousin seemed to be in this up to her eyeballs—even if McKnight didn’t step wrong, she was going to end up pushed right smack into the mud. Knowing my luck, it would then smear all over the rest of us. Saint Murphy and his demonic monkey wrenches!

“Play me Bethany’s message,” I said, coldly turning to Steiner.

“Yes, Admiral,” she said in a subdued voice.

Vid File Starts

“Dear Cousin Jason,” Bethany smirked at the camera—looking far more pleased with herself than she had the last time I’d seen her. “If you’re seeing this message then I must regret to inform you that I’ve traded up,” she stared at the camera, one corner of her mouth lifting up. “Oh, who am I kidding?” she gloated freely. “I don’t regret it one little bit. I’m a woman moving up in the world thanks to our soon-to-be-mutual benefactor. If you’re seeing this message—as of course you are—then it looks like our reinforcements have reached you in time…pity that. After the way you treated me the last time we parted company, I don’t particularly think you deserve our best efforts at helping reaching you in time but,” she smoothed the vest built into the front of her dress, “I don’t call the shots over here.”

I felt my hand clamp tightly around the teacup and forced myself to relax. The last thing I needed was more tea everywhere.

“If everything has gone according to plan then you will have received a significant amount of military aid in the form of supplies, warships, and system defenses—the smaller, transportable kind anyway,” she said, her mouth making a small moue as she paused to pick up a tea cup and take a sip. “Anyway, none of this would have been possible if not for that woman, McKnight. In exchange for the loyalty of the men and women of your covert unit, as well as future unnamed favors, you are now the proud owner of desperately needed immediate aid and a far-reaching information network—either of which greatly exceed the value of your little intelligence-gathering mission,” she tisked. “Really, Jason this was the best you could do? It looks like someone needs to go back for a few remedial lessons. Still, I suppose you’re more of a ‘through the front door’ person; intrigue and operating in the shadows has always left you looking befuddled.”

My hands gripped the tea cup in my hand so hard that the handle broke off and I had to set it all down on the table before it fell and made a mess.

“Anyhow, McKnight and her people are ours now—so forget about them in the meantime and do try to focus on your little ‘war.’ Enjoy your little sandbox disputes, and remember: we’ll be watching ,” she said, pausing and hesitating before adding, “on a more personal note…for the sake of our mutual home world. I hope you win. Although I hope you won’t hold it against me if I admit that my greatest hope would be to see the both of you go down together in mutual annihilation. But if you do survive try to remember that we’ll be coming back to collect at some point. Ta-ta!”

With a wave of her hand, the screen suddenly froze and the transmission came to an abrupt stop before resuming.

“Oh, by the way, I wanted to tell you that Tremblay’s helped immensely. It would have been so much harder to get where I am without him. Bye bye, Flat Nose—and please remember that everything I have now is thanks to you! See you sooner than you think—assuming you survive and all that. TTFN.”

She cut the transmission abruptly this time.

I stared at the screen coldly. It seemed these new reinforcements didn’t come without strings attached—strings pulled by this ‘Lynch,’ who Bethany had somehow attached herself to. It was enough to make a man sick to the stomach.

First, backstabbers like the Sector Guard. Then, faint-hearted politicos like the local SDF’s followed by fair weather friends like the MDL. And now arms dealers who allied themselves with the very worst elements of my family. What was next: pirates and drug dealers to fill out the ranks? And to think that I’d originally thought adding droids and genetic uplifts to my fleet would be the worst that things could get. But at least when it came to the non-humans, they seemed to be able to listen to orders and fight in formation for the common good.

“Letting her go was a mistake,” I said flatly. Still it was a mistake I was going to be able to profit from in the short term. We’d just have to see how things played out in the long game.

As for these ‘unnamed favors’ that she claimed I now ‘owed’ her in the future. Well, we’d just have to see if she—or, rather, this Lynch—had the leverage to collect them in the future.

I didn’t mind being grateful for honest assistance rendered in a time of need. But don’t try to put me over a barrel and then expect to enjoy the results later.

I turned to Steiner. “Inform the engineers and Commodore LeGodat’s staff regarding the new war materials so that they can be best placed for system defense,” I said with a chill in my voice.

“Will do,” she acknowledged quietly.

I took a critical glance at the fixed defenses listed on the inventory, noting they were essentially automated defense platforms that seemed to be nothing more than a launcher with a sensor and a pair of missiles. Semi-stealthed, non-mobile control platforms, and a number of remote-controlled gunboats.

“I’m sure Glue, or LeGodat, or one of our engineers will be able to do more with this mess than me,” I said, turning away indifferently.

Curse her. I hoped she contracted a strain of medication-resistant leprosy and her face rotted off.

“Uh, sir, I have some news that might cheer you up,” Steiner said.

“I hope it’s better than the rest of this hot mess that’s landed in my lap,” I quipped.

“Captain Jackson of the Metal Titan reports his ship should be out of the repair slip by tomorrow. They finished fixing up the last of the damage they didn’t get to over at Gambit. He reports there are still a few minor structural issues but for the most part the Titan is back up and ready for action,” she said.

“Well…at least that’s something,” I grumbled. still mentally focused on McKnight, cotton mouth my dear Bethany Tilday Vekna, and this Lynch who’d swept them all into the palm of his hand. “Tell Quentin Jackson ‘good work’ from me and then, if you would, please gather up all the inventory files on that military equipment we received from the arms dealer.”

“On it, Admiral,” she replied.

“Thank you.”

Since I now had bunch of old, expired. and revamped military equipment instead of a special forces unit, I was determined to use it to the maximum and get every bang I could for my buck. I stubbornly insisted in the recesses of my own mind that I wouldn’t have made the trade, but I rationalized that now that I was stuck with it, it had better as the Demon Murphy was my witness be worth it.

Chapter Nineteen: As ready as we can be

“Your Highness, Rear Admiral Nuttal, SDF, is at the door,” advised D’Argent via wireless signal.

“Send him in, Sean,” I instructed my sworn armsman. And let me tell you, for a man that didn’t want to be king, having such a thing as sworn armsmen was a weighty burden—and one I would have gladly done without. That is if I had thought I, and those I loved, could have continued to survive—let alone thrive—without the sort of professional assistance that D’Argent and his team provided.

“Thank you for seeing me, Vice Admiral,” Nuttal said, coming into the room, stepping up to my table and coming to an at attention posture.

“You’re the one who asked for the meeting, not me,” I shrugged. “Please have a seat,” I gestured to the chair in front of my work desk.

“I don’t mind if I do,” Rear Admiral Nuttal nodded before sitting down.

“So, Grantor, what can I do for you?” I asked, cutting to the chase.

“I was hoping for a chance to take a look at our defenses, Sir,” Nuttal said with a serious nod.

“I believe our defensive stance has been made available to all flag officers of Rear Admiral’s rank and above, as well as to every Flag Captain and Commodore with a squadron level command,” I said with a shrug. “And you can knock off with all of the ‘Sir’s. There’s little need for a man like you to mouth meaningless platitudes—that is unless you’re attempting to somehow take me off my guard?” I finished with an uplifted brow.

“A man like myself?” Grantor Nuttal sighed.

“People seemed to listen to you in the last meeting…barring one glaring exception,” I riposted. “Either way, I think we can drop the honorifics…for now.”

“Shoot a man at a conference meeting and everything changes,” Grantor said wryly.

“I’ve shot a few men in my day,” I said easily. “And, yes, it does tend to impact on any attempts to fly under the radar. So tell me, Grantor: why are you here? I assume it’s not to pull out your pistol and do to me what you did to my would-be replacement?”

“No. I’m afraid your reputation for close combat precedes you and, even if it didn’t,” he said, lifting a hand and then gesturing to the pair of armsmen inside the room, “I’m afraid that your personal guard is far too professional and effective for a man of my humble talents. I’m more of a ship driver or formation commander anyway,” he finished self-effacingly.

“Ouch,” I said, “thus implying that there are others with higher talents than yours within this fleet that might be a threat,” I said.

Nuttal stiffened. “It was not my intention to imply any such thing. I’m here today because I represent a group of officers who are concerned with the current state of our defenses and need some handholding,” he said, shaking his head.

“Oh really?” I leaned back in my chair.

Rear Admiral Nuttal sighed. “In many ways, the time we’ve had to rebuild our strength has worked to our advantage. This system is much stronger than it was when you brought back that shattered wreck of a fleet with you,” he explained.

“Shattered wreck?” I said softly.

“Half the fleet captured or destroyed outright, and of the survivors half turning back to go home? You came back with a little more than a fourth of the original strength you left this star system with. If that isn’t shattered then I don’t know what is. But let’s not quibble over terminology,” he continued evenly.

“Then what would you like to quibble about?” I shot back.

Nuttal waited a beat. “Look, I am not your enemy. I am here to warn you about the faint of heart and your political rivals within this fleet. And I am only your adversary in this situation in as much as it takes for you to recognize this threat and take steps to counter it. We must have a unified command. With the Sector Governor behind you, the support of the Commodore who controls this star base, and your cachet as a Confederation flag officer, right now you’re it. If it were anyone else at the top, this farce of a fleet would fall apart and collapse under its own weight. May the gods help us all.”

“Not quite a ringing endorsement,” I steepled my fingers.

“If you wanted one of those, you should have won the last battle,” the Rear Admiral said seriously, “as it is, you’ll just have to be satisfied with what you can get—in this case, my full support in keeping this fleet together and ready to face the enemy.”

“And after all the good works this fleet has done for this Sector, too,” I said with a sigh. “Well, I suppose I’m as much to blame as anyone.”

“I’m glad that we can move past this and onto the reason for my visit today,” said Grantor.

“You know…you’re right,” I said ignoring him, “I did lose that battle, and people wouldn’t be human if they didn’t find that worrying. They should wonder if there wasn’t someone who could do a better job.”

The Rear Admiral sat back in his chair and eyed me.

“Of course, that’s only half of it,” I said carelessly. I looked off to the side, “The other half, of course, is that I was too worried with saving innocent lives that what little effort I spent outside of that was given over to worrying about what everyone thought about me instead of taking steps to tell them what they should be thinking.”

The Rear Admiral’s breath hissed out. “I’ll be honest with you: that sounds worrisome. Especially considering I’ve studied a little bit on your background, family history, and the resulting planetary history. It doesn’t make for lighthearted reading, let me tell you,” said the Rear Admiral.

“You know, in the beginning I was so concerned with being the fall guy for events outside of my control I was just happy to be alive. After that, I was so sure that if I just ran around saving lives, saving worlds, and then eventually saving Sectors of space that it would all turn out in the wash. But, as you have so aptly reminded me, I have the family history to know better. I mean to believe in such lighthearted drivel and in tales where the hero gets his parade, wins the girl, and then rides off happily into the sunset,” I said contemplatively. “Real life doesn’t work that way. You have to think that I’m pretty stupid.”

“Not the term I would use,” Nuttal said, his entire body gone still, “I’d say ‘fiendishly clever,’ given what information I’ve been able to scrounge up on you since you actual took command of the Lucky Clover. ‘Demonically lucky’ too, but that’s another matter entirely.”

“I don’t always seem to win the day,” I pointed out, “when it comes to luck I seem to be hit and miss.”

“Yet here you still are. That’s part of why I used the particular qualifier that I did,” said Grantor.

“Well I think that’s enough nonsense. I’m pretty much over my little pity party,” I said with a winning smile, “so you can rest assured that I don’t plan on changing how we go about doing things. I’ll still be the same man I was yesterday and the days before that. Nothing will change except that I think it’s high time to actually establish a PR department. I’m tired of letting others spin my fighting pirates as establishing myself as the Tyrant of Cold Space, saving a planet and people from Bugs as making myself a threat to the Sector at large, and helping stop a Droid invasion cold as me somehow becoming a pro-machine Droid lover.”

“Okaaay,” said Nuttal. “Sorry, I do seem to drone on and on. You were saying something about faint-hearted officers?” I motioned for him to carry on.

“Right…there’s growing concern within the fleet. As such, I think we can best address this with a personal address from you explaining the situation to the fleet at large and then possibly a formal briefing with key selected officers,” he said, starting to go into his entire reason for coming here today.

I’d wait, listen to his plan and see if he was here to help—or only thought he was here to help—or if this was yet another try against my interests.

Fleet command was a lonely business.

Chapter Twenty: Imperials move into position

The Commodore sat through yet another blindingly boring duty watch on the bridge. When it had just been a single Destroyer picket in this star system they had been able to come and go as they pleased without the locals being one wit wiser. As of a week ago the locals started to get serious with a roving patrol or both mixed and unmixed Corvettes and a Destroyer or just Corvettes. But with their aged tech and myopic sensor arrays, all the Imperials had to do was batten down the hatches, go to minimal power usage, and wait for them to fly on past. They never even got so much as a hint of their presence no matter how hard the yokels tried.

“Commodore Bruneswitch,” said the Comm. Officer.

“Yet another transmission from the yokels asking us to alternately surrender or come over for tea?” he sighed. “Log it as usual coms.”

“No, Sir,” the Officer gulped, “it’s not the locals, Sir.”

Bruneswitch straightened in his chair.

“It’s a coded message from the Destroyer Rat Pack. The fleet is moving, Sir, and the Pack would like permission to extend their docking tube and send over a hard copy of the orders,” he reported.

“Good news,” Bruneswitch smiled, “offer to have nav help guide them over for docking.”

The Comm. Officer nodded and then paled.

“Problem?” asked Bruneswitch.

“The Rat Pack says there’s no need for nav; if you look out the window you can see them off our starboard bow. They are once again requesting permission to extend their docking tube,” reported the Comm. Officer.

Bruneswitch purpled. “How in the name of Man did they get within docking tube range without our Sensor section hearing so much as a peep out of them?” he raged. “Get me Tactical. Get me Sensors. I want the entire department rousted out of their beds and ready to debrief in the conference room in ten minutes!”

“Yes, Commodore,” said the Officer, “um, Commodore, what about the Rat Pack? They’re still waiting for an answer.”

Bruneswitch pounded on the arm of his chair.

“Give those blighters permission and then cut the channel,” he snarled, “letting them sneak up into docking range—we’re going to be the laughingstock of the fleet for next two years!”

“So how did the courier run out to old Bruneswitch go?” asked Commodore Serge.

“They’ve got a significant gap in their starboard side sensor coverage. They do a pretty good job of covering for it with random rolls, but if you know about that and have the factory root kit codes for the BF-385 sensor you can manually flash the sensor on an ultraviolet frequency and temporarily send them into a ‘random’ reboot cycle. Knowing that, we managed to get within docking range,” smirked the Rat Pack Captain.

“Good job, Keath,” Commodore Serge said with a tight smile, “they’re not going to live that one down anytime soon.”

“Wasn’t really fair since we know there’s no way the locals would have the ability to remotely mess with their sensors, but all’s fair in love and war, yes?” said the Captain.

Serge’s eyes turned flinty.

“Bruneswitch was present for Wessex’s debacle and walked into that ambush right alongside him. Fair? Tell that to the men and women we lost to the yokels. I don’t care if he’s battle damaged,” Commodore Serge grunted.

“What about Bruneswitch’s request to help with taking down the picket?” asked Keath.

“We got all the information we need from his computers?” Serge asked.

“All the logs since our people entered the star system,” reported the Captain of the Rat Pack.

“Then he can sit and watch. Our squadron’s ready to go. While he and his team got their asses handed to them by the locals ours served with distinction using panther attacks to help taking down Prometheus. We don’t need his help and frankly I don’t want it,” the Commodore said decisively, “Operation Pacification may have hit a few road bumps thanks to the locals, but no thanks to Bruneswitch. I may be out of line speaking about a fellow Commodore this way but I honestly don’t care. The Grand Reclamation will go onward.”

“To the Reclamation, Sir,” agreed Keath, “and, as always, to the First Galactic Empire.”

“To the Empire. Long may she reign,” agreed Commodore Serge, “get your ship into position, Captain. We have a few yokels to round up.”

“With pleasure!” said the Captain.

Chapter Twenty-one: Slashing Attacks

Like a deathly plague, unseen and unheard, the Imperial Destroyers moved into position shadowing both the picket and the roving patrol.

That last one was a little tricky but, being the seasoned professionals that they were, they managed it.

Then, at a predetermined time, they moved in to attack.

“Shields up,” screamed the Tactical Officer seconds before their enemy opened fire, “we’ve just been pinged!!!!”

The shield officer was slow, but the helmsman who’d been starting to drift off after a long boring shift of nothing to do jerked awake, slamming the Corvette into an uncontrolled corkscrew burn.

The Corvette rocked, taking a long glancing burn up her starboard side.

“Engine two is misfiring!” cried the Helmsman fighting the bucking Corvette.

“Shields coming up,” said the shield officer, sounding like she was about to have a heart attack.

“Somebody spin up the hyper drive,” roared the XO.

The door to the bridge opened and a coffee-stained Captain staggered onto the bridge.

“What the blazes?! A man steps for a cup of coffee and the engines—” he cut off at the sight of the bridge in chaos.

The Comm. Officer threw the red alert klaxon.

“Red Alert. Red Alert. This is the bridge we are under attack by unidentified flying—” the next words were drowned out by the screeching of metal.

“Hit! We’ve just been hit on the port side,” shouted Tactical.

“Port engines are down! Grav-plate system is compromised,” reported Damage Control.

“Starboard engine continuing to run hot and out of control,” cried the Helmsman, fighting his console to steer the star ship, “unable to maintain—”

“Pernicious Burn just blew up! I say again code Omega, Omega-Omega-Omega code Omega, the Pernicious Burn is gone,” shouted Sensors.

“Tell gunnery to unload with everything they’ve got,” snapped the Captain grabbing hold of his command chair with a death grip and physically dragged himself into his seat through sheer strength as the gravity systems continued to fluctuate, “and somebody get control of our grav-plates soon, preferably before we all turn into smears on the wall!”

“Juscar just took a major hit. Power is fluctuating!” reported Sensors.

“Move to cover,” snapped the Captain.

“Sir I’m not sure if—” began the XO.

“I don’t care about your surety, Executive Officer!” roared the Captain. “We will not leave a fellow ship and crew behind.”

“The Juscar is turning. It looks like she’s attempting to ram the enemy, Sir!” interrupted Tactical.

“Somebody get me Captain Franks on the line. NOW!” bellowed the Captain.

The bridge of the Juscar flickered to life, its paunchy and roughly fifty pounds overweight First Lieutenant Franks appeared in a scene of pure chaos.

“Franks, abort!” snapped the Captain.

Franks lifted his right fist, a wild, maniacal look appearing in his eyes.

“Sir the Juscar just started releasing escape pods,” reported Sensors.

“Franks!” shouted the Captain.

“For Sector 25! Our squadron mates! And the Border Allia—” right at that moment, Captain Franks brought his right fist down onto the arm of his console and the screen abruptly went black and dead.

“The Juscar just blew up. It looks like a fusion core overload, Sir,” reported the Engineering Watch Stander at damage control.

“Sweet Murphy Franks,” the Captain said briefly covering his eyebrows with a hand. “Enemy Destroyers maneuvered to avoid the blast! We’ve got a window,” exclaimed Tactical.

“We can’t let their sacrifice go to waste,” said the XO.

“Get us out of here, Helm,” the Captain ordered.

“I’m already on it,” snapped the Helmsman still fighting his console as the Corvette pointed its nose away from the hyper limit and burned for all its single, overheating, difficult to control, remaining engine was worth. “Blast,” cursed the Captain bringing a fist down on the arm of his command chair. “Blast,” he repeated, as behind them the wreckage of their two sister ships and the star system’s permanent Destroyer picket continued to expand.

Of the four ships patrolling this mess of a dead star system they’d been heavily damaged, ambushed by the very enemy they were supposed to be looking for and everyone else was already dead.

If they survived, this was not going to look good on a resume.

“Damn it, Franks,” he cursed again, squeezing his eyes shut.

Chapter Twenty-two: Survivors arrive

“Admiral, we’ve just got another hyper foot print on the edge of the system, Sir. Wait one…that’s now multiple hyper footprints, Sir,” reported Steiner.

“Pull up the sensor feed now, Coms,” I said, feeling that hint of a sudden thrill, no longer absent after being in this star system for so long without the enemy showing up, at the thought that this might just be the one.

Then the tactical picture of the whole easy haven system came back up and I could see that as of now it was only half a dozen sensor contacts of an estimated Corvette-to-Destroyer size.

If it was the Imperials, either it was an advanced guard or else it wasn’t much of an invasion force.

Many long, tension-filled minutes passed until we finally receive a friend-or-foe response from the warships.

“Tactical reports that it looks like Commodore Kling and his group, Sir,” Lisa Steiner reported with relief.

“Let me know the instant he makes contact,” I instructed leaning back in my chair and allowing the breath to whoosh out of me. The Commodore was back earlier than expected, but at least for now that was all we had to deal with.

Still, a part of me wished that the Imperials would just hurry up and get on with it. All this waiting for them to attack was worse than an actual attack. Well, minus the body count it was worse, I silently, amended. So even if it was wearing my nerves down waiting here for something that never happened, I was willing to sit here and ride it out.

“Another day, another dollar in the hot seat,” I muttered, turning back to the never ending electronic paperwork. For half a moment, I wondered if they’d ever run out of room and fill up all the buffers in the database with the never-ending reports and then smacked myself in the head. I’m sure if that happened they’d just add more data storage devices. The paperwork must go on!

My console chimed, breaking me out of my pleasant mental rambling instead of doing anything that actually resembled working.

“Admiral, you wanted me to contact you if anything happened,” said the Lieutenant as soon as I activated the channel.

“Yes, thank you, Lisa,” I said with a sigh, “what is it?”

“It’s a priority message from the Commodore. There’s been an attack,” she reported.

“Put him through,” I ordered.

Commodore Kling appeared on my holo-screen and the recorded message began to play. “I’m sorry be the one to report this, Admiral. You don’t know how sorry,” he paused to clench his eyes shut tightly, “but it appears the Imperials are on the move,” he said, opening his eyes, “they hit the picket two systems out and only the space gods know how many other picket systems they’ve hit. We stumbled across a Corvette on our way out down the chain, it was engine-down on the edge of the star system by the time we reached them and that ship was the only survivor from the entire picket and roving patrol force. I immediately sent out a recall order for our other pickets and turned the remainder of my roving patrol force back to Easy Haven to report. I think this is it, Sir. I’ll speak with you more in person when we get in closer and the light-speed lag on in-system communications is reduced. Kling Out.”

The breath whooshed out of me. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” I said cutting the transmission and powering down my entire console. I needed time to think without interruptions. We were about to make one final roll of the dice and I needed to get my head back in the game.

Saint Murphy, I should have known better than to wish for relief from the tedium of endless meetings, reports and handholding.

It was time to finish this and put an end to part two—or was it three, counting the ambush?—of this little war I was having with the Imperials.

It was time.

Firing back up my console I opened a channel to the Lieutenant.

“Message to the fleet. Set to Condition Two throughout the fleet. The enemy could be here at any time,” I instructed.

“Aye aye, Sir,” she replied faintly.

That was done. Now, where are you, Rear Admiral Janeski? I wondered, pulling up a star chart of all the nearest star systems and what direction will you be coming from.

Chapter Twenty-three: The Third Battle for Easy Haven

Not three hours after the intrepid Commodore had come running back with his message, the Second Battle for Sector 25 started with a bang.

“Admiral, you need to get up here on the bridge. Now,” said Lieutenant Lisa Steiner as soon I’d activated the blinking com-light.

“On the way,” I replied, grabbing my jacket and hurrying out the door.

“What have we got?” I asked the moment I stepped on the bridge, but seconds later the image on the main-screen said it all.

The main enemy fleet was here—or, if they weren’t here yet, they would soon be.

“We’ve got over a hundred unique contacts on the fleet’s tactical plot and the numbers keep growing by the minute, Sir,” reported Lieutenant Hart, his voice stiff with tension.

“It looks like this one is for all the marbles, people,” I said, striding over and then taking a seat on the bridge Throne. Tapping on the arms of the Throne, I brought up all of my private screens and with the tap of a button set them to my pre-set personal settings.

“Do you want to set the fleet to Condition One?” Captain Hammer asked.

“We’ve still got a few hours before that becomes necessary, at least for those ships nearest the Starbase. I think we’ll leave the exact readiness Condition up to the various captains of each individual warship,” I said after a moment’s contemplation.

“Aye aye, Sir,” said the Captain on the other end of the holo-screen.

“Carry on, Leonora,” I said, turning back to the screen.

Like the tendrils of a deadly, poisonous jellyfish the lighter sized warships of the enemy fleet moved past the hyper limit and burned-in system at sustained speeds that frankly left our own Destroyer captains envious.

The Imperials were obviously keeping the best tech for themselves if this mix of retrofitted and older Imperial model warships could do this. Or maybe it was more a factor of the junk technology that was floating around in use in the Spine than anything else. I mean, the MSP had the technology to build some really fast and powerful warships—if we ever had enough time to stop repairing battle damage to start laying down hulls. Well that and the trained personnel. This whole ‘building up a military organization from whole cloth’ was, in reality, more a masochist’s dream than anything else. And while I disdained both extremes, I’d much rather be a sadist…well, okay who was I trying to kid here? Jason Montagne had been born to a life of suffering.

All I could do was accept my fate and make darned blasted well sure that my children learned that they didn’t have to take guff off anyone. I might have to accept punishment from the galaxy for the horrors of my ancestors, but if I had to tear the entire Spine apart and put it back together again I would personally balance the scales. It would be interesting to see the damage my sons—and, yes, daughters too—would cause if I had anything to say about it. This despite my wife’s instance that they were hers alone, it would be interesting to see the damage those little blokes would do. I tried to imagine what eight or even just four little monsters with Akantha’s desire for battle and my own talent for getting myself into dangerous and even impossible situations could do to the galaxy at large and shuddered.

“Well, at least their dad will always have their back,” I grunted, turning back to watch the slow creep of the Imperial forces as they began their full-fledged invasion of Easy Haven.

The moment a squadron of hodgepodge Destroyers from Sector 25 that had been on patrol around the edges of the hyper limit brushed up against an advance squadron of Imperial Reclamation warships, the third battle for Easy Haven could be said to have officially begun.

“Dispatch our lighter warships, but keep them paired up in groups of two squadrons each,” I instructed, “whatever Janeski hopes to accomplish by sending out his lighter forces in advance I mean to stymie it.”

“Yes, Sir,” said Steiner activating her coms.

“And send out Code Orion. I want any and all of our hidden forces around the Starbase complex to go to silent running if they haven’t already. I don’t know how good they are, but Lynch’s streak missiles and hidden gunboats need to be a complete surprise to have maximum impact,” I said.

Of course, Orion didn’t just send the streak missiles, automated gunboats and orbital turrets into silent running mode. That might be what the other members of my mandatory command councils thought, but I knew better than to put all my eggs in one basket.

Even as we spoke, a large force of Lancers, Marines and planetary security forces were gearing up for the fight of their life.

This little side operation was going to be my knife in the dark, and it was going to entirely be an MSP, Droid and, where necessary, a Border Alliance operation—which BA forces were currently decked out in those archaic power armor suits of Lynch’s. Although, for their part, I planned to put those land army guys under a communications blackout and give them the mushroom treatment.

Now I just had to pray those retrofitted Penetrator Landers lived up to their reputation.

Just thinking about how much was riding on those landers, I felt a cold sweat break out and drench my back. Despite all the brainstorming, I still only had one method for dealing with the Imperial’s supersized flagship.

It had to work. There was no backup plan. I was flying solo and it was down to me, the Droids and the heroic men and women of the MSP and Sector 25 Amalgamated Defense Fleet, there were just too many grand fleets to the point that it got confusing and besides the last ‘grand fleet’ I led got its head handed to it. That was going to have to be enough.

Just like last time, there were no mysterious allies, Easter Bunny or Commander Spalding to pull my chestnuts out of the fire. But that was alright because this time I was ready for whatever Rear Admiral Arnold Janeski had to throw at me.

I was staking my life on that fact—my life and everyone currently in the 25th Amalgamated Sector Defense Fleet.

Chapter Twenty-four: Stuck in Gambit

“We just can’t do it, Sir!” shouted Brence.

“Wrong!” roared Spalding, getting up in the younger man’s face and shoving a finger under his nose.

“It’s suicide, Commander. Even if it somehow powered up the alien jump drives’ the resulting shockwave would propagate to our position before we could jump and kill us all,” cried Brence.

“Propagate smopagate,” Spalding sneered, “it’ll do no such thing. What do you take me for’ a fool? The worst that’ll happen is the Elder tech jump engines get slagged,” he scoffed.

“Listen to him, Chief Engineer,” Parkiney urged from the sidelines, “we’ve run the numbers six different times. Even if it works, it just won’t work.”

“You too, Parkiney?” Spalding barked. “I’d thought better of you, man.”

“I can’t ask anyone to do this,” Brence crossed his arms over his chest.

“I’ll do it myself, then!” Spalding turned, heading for the bridge exit.

“No, Commander!” Brence said, trying to stop him by getting in his way and blocking him.

“It’s just another day or two before the engines are fully charged, Sir,” Parkiney urged in a soothing voice, but the old engineer wasn’t some horse or cat to be taken in by a calming voice and a hit of alfalfa or cat nip. “Why risk death or…or even these jump engines when it’ll just fix itself in time anyway?”

“You’re wrong, the both of you. We should have jumped three days ago according to the calculations the jump engines gave us! That thing,” he thrust a finger out to point at the alien jump engines, “is just sucking us dry of power so that it can repair itself, and I for one have had enough of it. It’s time to put that piece of alien junk back on our schedule,” he said, thrusting Brence aside. He knew what he knew, which was that something hanky was going on and it was time to take a torch to the problem and fix it but good.

“You yourself know better than anyone that our translation program isn’t one hundred percent; this could all just be a translation problem,” urged the younger engineer, “and for all we know, the battle for Wolf-9 could be all but over by now. Jumping in early just because—”

“Early?! We’re already late, boy!” bellowed the Chief Engineer. “Late by a good two weeks and now three days more. Time to jumpstart this alien piece of junk!”

“But, sir, what about the Construction Manager?” Bostwell asked, standing up from his position behind the com-console and hurrying over. “What would she say. I don’t’ think she’d—”

“Traitors and mutineers, the entire lot of you,” Spalding snarled at the three man team trying to block him from doing what needed to be done. “Engineering is not for the faint of heart. And don’t mention that woman in my presence again,” he bellowed, rounding on Bostwell with the tip of one of his fingers popping over as he aimed the built-in mini-plasma torch right at the other man’s eye. “Taking her side in this, are ye? I knew there was a rat aboard feeding my movements to her. But it’s time to learn that a house divided against itself will surely fall. You’re either with me or against me on this. There’s only one master and commander onboard a warship—and right now that’s me: Captain Terrance P. Spalding. So follow me or get out of the way!”

“Manager Baldwin just—” tried Bostwell.

“That woman is dead to me. Dead, you hear?! She’s a seductive shrew, a pipe-wielding hypocrite armed with an auto-wrench and determined to disassemble the Clover even if it kills her. From the word ‘jump’ she’s been trying to shut down the 2.0 rebuild project and now, when we’re ready to actually jump and I need her the most, she says she’s going to send over a Lancer team to sit on me and to tie my hands until this Elder tech monstrosity decides it can’t jump again for the third time in a row? And then what? Wait for the fourth and fifth and sixth time until we just plain give up? No. Not just no, but Hades no! The Lucky Clover jumps today and she joins the Admiral at Easy Haven or we all go down in flames! I’m going to set off an antimatter pellet and super-charge those engines right here today, and if that doesn’t work for you then put on a space suit and walk the plank. Any man that doesn’t have what it takes to make it in this man’s navy is free get on a shuttle and jump ship with the rest of the cowards who can’t hack it in the MSP!”

While the three men exchanged fearful looks, Spalding opened the blast doors and headed out of the bridge behind the four of them a man lurched to his feet from his station at the Navigation console. One man, at least, was ready to get off.

“Sit down,” Spalding whirled and pointed his plasma torch at the other man before thumbing it active, “my offer goes for everyone but you, Shepherd. I still need at least one man at Nav if we’re going to make this jump, and so help me if I have to chase you down…after everything I’ve done for you, you’ll think that head wound your still suffering from was light after I get done with you.”

“Wha-at!” exclaimed Shepherd.

“Any other man and I might give him a pass, but you owe me, and since you’re so determined to go see what lies beyond the great beyond on the other side anyway…” Spalding shrugged, marching back into the room to shove the Navigator back into his seat. Buckling him in tightly and securely, he then tapped out a code on the other man’s console, “There, you’re locked in good and tight now. You won’t be getting cold feet and going anywhere before I get back.”

“Let me-e go,” shouted Shepherd, pulling and struggling with a set of seat restraints that were no longer willing to be unlocked. “Some-one get me a-a kni-ife!”

“Those seat sensors sense a broken restraint and the grav-plates on this entire floor are set high enough that everyone in here will be hugging the floor with no way to get up again until I come back,” warned Spalding.

It was a silent bridge that watched him jump into the lift.

“Now all I’ve got to do is find an antimatter pumped laser and fire it at that piece of elder junk,” Spalding said with satisfaction. Fortunately, he’d been thinking he might have to do something like this for a few days now. Ever since the last jump cycle failed, really, which was why he was headed down to Cargo Bay 19.

“Anti-matter explosion. Anti-matter explosion,” he mimed disgustedly, “I said clear as day: I was setting off a pellet, not an antimatter generator. The only thing that’ll propagate is my laser beam! Well…unless the hit causes the jump engines to explode,” he muttered contemplatively before dismissing it, “I’m sure the aliens built in any number of safeguards,” he said before concluding that was entirely unlikely. It was more likely they set in some kind of anti-theft system than that they’d rig it to explode when it received a massive jolt of energy. He’d run the numbers and, unless he was wrong, the crown of each engine was set up to receive high energy bursts to power it up.

Too bad he only had one laser, and thus could only fire it at one of the jump pillars. That was more likely to unbalance things than the non-existent antimatter explosion wave propagation they were all worried about.

On second thought…if he overloaded one generator but not the others, maybe there would be an explosion after all.

Well, it was too late now—he was committed.

“Just as soon as I can get that thing out of the shuttle bay and pointed at those pylons we’ll be ready to rock and roll,” Spalding said with certainty.

Chapter Twenty-five: The Second Battle for Sector 25

“What’s the final tally on the enemy Fleet?” I asked after we’d had time to settle down. Well, no new Reclamation warships had popped up outside the hyper limit for the better part of an hour so it was a relative value of settled, “I’d like the class by class breakdown if you please.”

“Here’s the final tally as of this moment, Admiral,” Lieutenant Hart said crisply and then shot the numbers over to my screen.

1 Command Carrier

24 Battleships

65 Cruisers

156 Destroyers

40 Freighters

8 Mine Sweepers

10 Troop Transports

Total Imperial Warships: 246

Total Imperial Support Ships: 58

Total Imperial Fleet Ships: 304

I swore a string of rather undignified and colorful curses—several of which, surprisingly, rebuked my own lineage.

“Please note that we don’t yet have a good estimate on the Command Carrier’s fighter complement let along a hard count,” Hart cautioned, “for all we know, they could have fully restocked and replaced any fighter losses. It has been almost three weeks full since the last battle.”

“I’d hoped that somehow we’d done more damage to them in the last battle,” I growled.

“We’ve got a slight edge on them in warship hulls, Sir,” Lieutenant Hart said confidently.

“Are you a fool? They outnumber us in every ship class they bothered to bring to the fight, and they also outnumber us in total hulls to boot! Somehow I don’t think that all those Corvettes, minesweepers and merchant conversions are going to carry the day for us,” I barked, pulling up the information on our current fleet level and thrust a finger at it.

20 Battleships

2 Jumble Carriers (350 gunboats)

50 Cruisers

90 Destroyers

70 Corvettes

25 Cutters

Total Warships: 257

3 Minesweepers

20 Armed Merchant Conversions

10 Freighters

Total 25th Amalgamated Warships: 290

The enemy had more Battleships, more Cruisers, more Destroyers, and more ships in total than we did—which didn’t even bother to mention their Command Carrier. I’d probably need at least two squadrons of Battleships to deal with that ship alone if I was going trying to deal with her conventionally. That ship could probably eat up and spit out a single squadron like it was grazing through a light breakfast.

“Four more Battleships, fifteen more Cruisers, sixty six Destroyers, and they have both the tech and propulsion advantage!” I grunted sourly, silently grudging that LeGodat’s defenses and that arms dealer of Bethany’s little surprises were going to be worth their weight in gold.

Because the way I looked at it wasn’t 246 against 257. It was 247 against 162. That was nearly a two to one advantage when you threw in the tech edge, and perhaps even worse than that. Although I wasn’t certain when you counted everything on both sides larger than a Corvette. Sure, we had all the hulls at the lower levels. But somehow I was willing to bet that those Imperial strike fighters of his were going to more than make up the difference between our gunboats and light warships.

Once again, we were in it tough. The defenses were going to have to hold, which they wouldn’t if that Command Carrier got to within attack range of Wolf-9. As long as we had the Starbase and all of its beefed-up fixed defenses to fall back on, we had a chance but the moment those defenses were broken it was all over but the crying.

“You still have Operations Orion and Storm Cloud in reserve, Admiral,” Lieutenant Hart reminded me a little awkwardly. “I have to say I like our odds.”

I took a small, cleansing breath. “Of course you’re right, Lieutenant,” I said, able to take my cues when prompted, “we’re going to tear the Rear Admiral and his fleet apart one ship at a time. Let there be no doubt of that. It’s just going to be bloodier than I’d hoped, that’s all.”

Hart’s smile froze, and I could tell from the reaction around the bridge that I’d just failed to assure a large number of people regarding our certain victory. I could tell because they seemed unsettled or even outright dismayed as they repeated the words ‘bloodier than he’d hoped.’

I flashed a patented royal smile on my face as I leaned back in my chair. “And, by that, I mean only if they somehow manage to counter both Orion and Storm Cloud,” I added, lying my keester off as I attempted to reassure a bridge crew shaken by our last bloody faceoff with the Imperial Reclamation Fleet.

“I’m sure that won’t happen, Sir,” Captain Hammer smoothly interjected herself into the conversation, resulting in a brief flash of gratitude on the face of the Tactical Officer as he turned away.

Since it was just as timely a save for me as it was the Lieutenant, I was willing to roll with it.

“Your confidence is good to note, Captain,” I said agreeably.

“However, operations aside I was hoping to get your take on Commodore Kling’s recent movements,” she said, attempting to draw the crews of both the battle and flag bridges back to the skirmishing taking place even now in the outer regions of the star system.

“Let’s take a look shall we?” I said more than ready to re-immerse myself in the battle.

Chapter Twenty-six: Head to Head on the outskirts

Commodores Kling versus Serge

“I’ve got two squadrons of enemy Destroyers headed this way, Sir,” reported Kling’s Tactical Officer.

“Good, keep us moving toward point gamma, Helm,” Kling ordered, looking at the two squadrons of Corvettes and one of outdated Destroyers that was all he’d managed to scrape together since he came running back into this system like a house on fire.

He looked up at the screen and saw that a fourth squadron, one consisting of Corvettes, was on an intercept course and hurrying to join his force.

“Coms, find out which squadron that is and warn them off. I don’t want to scare away the Imperials before we hit Gamma,” he instructed.

“Oncoming squadron you are warned off. I say again: you are warned off by order of the Commodore. Let us deal with these Imperials,” transmitted the com-tech.

“Sir, it’s G-Squadron. They are refusing the wave off. Their squadron commander insists that they are going to join with our task force for strength in numbers,” relayed the tech.

“Tell them that—” Kling started in a rising voice and then cut himself short, “get them on the line.”

“This is Major Anwopti of the League warship, Machete. What are your instructions, oh great commander?” asked the Major as soon as he got on the line.

“Look, Major, I need you to pull back so I can mouse trap these Imperials. I’m afraid if you keep moving to join us you’ll scare them off,” said Kling.

“No, great commander,” exclaimed the Major, “you will not leave us out here to die. We are joining your taskforce or else the League will pull out of the alliance!”

“Look, I hate to say this but you’re more liable to get us all killed if you keep coming in as you are than if you ‘pull out’ now. So while I have to urge the Brown Power League to stay with the fleet, if removing yourself from the alliance is what it takes then I’m afraid—” he started.

“Check your privilege, mon!” shouted the Major. “It’s your kind that encouraged the AI’s to decimate our population because of a supposed fifty percent crime rate among our adult male population. It’s people like you who manipulated the Cost-Benefit ratio into putting our people in giant, planetary ghetto cities, while it’s them monkey boys that pulled the trigger! It’s all because of your inherent discrimination against a certain skin tone and racial type that ‘you people’ felt free to kill and slaughter us—”

“Hey now, I’m just as brown as the next man—and ‘my people’ didn’t commit genocide. We took massive casualties from the AI’s, over 90%, before being forced to flee from known space in order to be free from their wretched gas chambers. And for your information, everyone was in ghettoes back then and we didn’t participate in any genocide either—we experienced it firsthand! Frankly, we weren’t even in the same Sector of space as you and your ancestors so I don’t know who you are referring to as ‘you people’ when talking out other humans confining your ancestors, but it’s clearly not me and mine. So you can take your myth and theories of persecution and shove them up your—” Kling said angrily and then stopped himself short before continuing much more professionally. “Anyway, as far as your demands for more ‘extra’ privileges, I’m afraid I’ve bent over as far backwards as I care to for your group. You’re just going to have to follow military orders and wave off.”

“Extra privileges? We’re the ones who suffered at the hands of the monkey-boys. Not you! Check your privilege, mon! Check your privilege! We had a fifty percent death rate and they ate us like potato chips,” the Major said, pounding a fist on the arm of his chair, “and after all that you’re still trying to claim a heritage that isn’t yours. You call that color brown? Why, that’s clearly mocha, mon,” the Brown Power League Major shook his head in fierce disappointment. “Anyone with eyes can tell the difference, and even despite the way you people treated us so long ago we’re still willing to fight with you against the Imperials now. All you have to do is let us bring in our squadron against the Imperials and—”

“First, no matter how you look, at it 50% is lower than 90%. Second, that was centuries ago so not even the grandchildren on either side—yours or mine—are still alive,” he paused. “You know what? This conversation is over,” Kling said harshly, “divert your course or face mutiny charges. I wash my hands of this—and you.”

“This is discrimination, pure and simple!” shouted the Major. “Is it because of them non-human monkey-boys? It is, isn’t it?! You think we’ve haven’t noticed the way you cozied up them big, walking fur rugs. Don’t try and deny it, mon. We know. And just because we fry up a few apes now and again, you think you can push us around? When we were in the under the AI’s, it was them Uplifts that pulled the trigger that killed our ancestors, stacking them up like they were meat for the freezers, mon. The Deep Fleet Space Army is right in this. If we want to be free, we have to fight. We have to eat! So fried, roasted, or barbequed, we’ll feed on them the same way they did on us—and there’s nothing a bunch of monkey-lovers and bigots sitting in their ‘rich’ star systems looking down on us like interstellar lords like ‘you people’ can do to—”

“That’s enough,” said Kling, cutting the channel. He took a large number of big deep breaths before turning back to Sensors, “Did they turn away or are they still coming in?” he demanded harshly.

“They’re still on an intercept course with the task force, Sir,” said the Sensor Petty Officer.

“Blast it all,” Kling swore. That tore it. “I have no more patience. Tell legal to draw up formal mutiny charges, tack on an admission of sentient rights violations to include the potential killing and certain eating of sentients—as well as the conspiracy to kill and eat said sentients—with another conspiracy charge for consorting with a known terrorist organization, the Deep Fleet Space Army. Put you in a ghetto? I’ll put you in front of a firing squad is what I’ll do!”

“Do you want us to continue with the operation, Sir,” asked his XO.

Kling gritted his teeth. “If we pull back now it’ll look suspicious. We carry on as planned,” he turned to the helm, “max out our engines and try to keep as much distance as we can between us and the Brown Power League Corvettes. Maybe we can still salvage this thing. I just hope the Sundered weren’t paying attention when they started talking about their menu preferences. That’s the last thing we need right now. Internal disputes breaking out in the middle of a battle…what a bunch of nonsense.”

“Will do, Sir,” said the Helmsman.

“Good,” Kling said with a sharp nod. If he could get those Destroyers over to point gamma then they had a chance. Otherwise…he didn’t want to think about otherwise because at best it’d be a bloody massacre for both sides. And at worst…

He had to pull this off.

“I’ve intercepted a high volume of traffic between that mixed enemy force and the new squadron of Corvettes, but it’s an encryption we haven’t seen before so we can’t crack it in time to do any good, Commodore,” reported the Comm. Officer.

“Thank you, Coms,” Commodore Serge nodded to show he understood, “steady as she goes, Helm,” he ordered.

“We’re not going to pull back, Sir?” asked his XO.

“Pull back? Man no,” Serge said with a bloodthirsty expression, “we can handle it by ourselves even with three squadrons of Corvettes instead of just the two and one of Destroyers like we’d originally planned. But just in case, send a message over to Bruneswitch and tell him to cut loose a squadron of reinforcements. The Supreme Admiral said to cut them down to size and this looks like a properly big enough bite sized gulp.”

“You know it’s got to be a trap,” advised the XO.

“That’s what makes it so much fun—and it’s also why we’re calling in Bruneswitch,” Serge said with a confident nod. “Don’t worry, XO we can handle anything they throw at us,” he paused, “but just in case, have Rat Pack move off on a parallel course so that we can increase our pinpoint sensor coverage. No point in letting anything sneak up on us that could have been avoided.”

“Aye, Sir,” said the XO.

Kling sat there glowering at the main-screen as the Imperials steadily gained on them. “Fifty percent,” he grumbled, “with those kind of numbers they were probably a heritage. My direct ancestors weren’t designated a heritage population, my ancestors—”

“Sir?” asked the XO.

Kling startled. “Sorry, my mind wandered for a moment,” he apologized.

“Yes, Sir,” said the XO.

“Back on task,” he said, leaning forward with intense eyes. Some people just couldn’t seem move on. Generations later and they were still stuck on something bad that happened to someone else a long time ago. He couldn’t afford to be one of those people, not with two squadrons of top of the line Imperial Destroyers closing in on him.

“The Imperials are coming in, and other than that one Destroyer off to the side they’re looking decidedly fat, dumb and happy,” said his XO.

“Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched,” grunted Kling, “they probably think they’re the hunters in this situation…and they might be right!”

“Only time will tell, but I’d place my money on us, Sir,” the ship’s Executive Officer said stoutly.

“I commend your patriotism…if not your intelligence,” Kling said with the faintest smirk.

“Oh, I happen to know the commanding officer in charge of this operation. I’ve seen the plan. I think we’ll be fine,” the XO winked slyly.

“The inside track and using your connections for personal gain is it? For shame, Lieutenant Commander,” Kling said.

“Don’t worry. I know a guy,” said the XO.

“Think you could hook me up with an introduction?” Kling deadpanned.

Around them, the bridge which had been increasingly tense suddenly broke out in scattered quickly muffled laughter.

“Sir,” the Tactical Officer’s voice cut through the commotion like a hot knife through butter, “we are ten seconds away from the go-no-go point.”

“Thank you, Tactical,” he took one last look at the plot before making his final decision but in reality he was already decided, he nodded, “Operation Chop Shop is a go.”

“Commodore, the locals just changed course five degrees down bubble and increased their speed,” reported Lieutenant Tudor.

“Running like the stray dogs they are,” the XO shook his head.

“What’s the status on that third squadron of Corvettes?” Serge demanded.

“Still five minutes out if they keep to their current course and speed,” replied Navigation shaking his head in disgust, “could be a bit longer if they keep making course changes and adjusting their speed up and down roughly 3-4% ever five minutes or so like they have been.”

“They’re actually playing with the helm like that?” Serge asked with surprise. “That kind of micro-management is harder on the engines than running them a little too hot for extended periods of time.”

“Either the helmsman over there is a few screws loose or the Captain’s a real micro-manager, Sir,” the Navigator rolled his eyes.

“Militia,” Serge rolled his eyes.

“Shall we keep after them then?” asked the XO.

Serge looked back at the plot with a faint smile on his face.

“If the micromanaging locals are five minutes out, it looks like Bruneswitch is only eight. I think we can handle this by ourselves but even if I’m wrong,” he shrugged, “we have reinforcements on the way. We pull the trigger. Spread out the formation slightly just in case of mines.”

“Spread out formation in case of mines and continue the pursuit, aye,” said the XO

“Steady as she goes, Helm,” instructed Serge.

“Alright. Wait for it…wait for it…now!” shouted Kling. “Execute Chop Shop now-now-now!”

“Executing Chop Shop and bringing all weapon systems online,” echoed Tactical.

“Flipping the ship and going to full reverse burn,” reported the Helmsman.

“Shields at maximum!” exclaimed the Shield Operator, her voice high and excited.

“All ships in Task Force Kling are mimicking the flagship,” reported Navigation.

“Task Force Kling?” the Commodore asked in consternation.

“Well we had to call it something,” grinned the XO.

“The Imperials have just entered the kill box,” reported Navigation.

“Missile separation! Foxtrot has just lit off their drives and are bringing up shields,” A sensor tech cried, pumping her fist in the air.

“Belay that, Sensors,” barked the XO.

Kling shook his head. Far too many of the sensor operators that started their training on the Lucky Clover and transferred over to the rest of the fleet came with bad habits that needed to be broken, and he wasn’t the only officer to notice. Jumping out of their seats in the middle of combat, shouting out ‘interesting’ sensor contacts at random intervals, and given to excessive cheering. At times they resembled cheerleaders more than trained fleet personnel.

“I know tensions are high but let’s keep it together people,” Kling growled. He just hoped he got everything under control within the Corvette flotilla before a naval inspection office was up and running and inspectors started to randomly show up with their clip boards or a transfer officer from a professional SDF came onboard. The last thing he needed to deal with was crew readiness ratings before he had time to get everything ship shape. Things were so much easier when all he’d had to deal with had been the Tracto SDF squadron. Ever since he’d transferred into the MSP main fleet it had been chaos and destruction every step of the way.

Not that he’d have it any other way, of course.

“Imperial Destroyers are bringing their broadsides to bear and attempting to exit the kill box!” cried Tactical.

“As soon as we range on those Reclamation Destroyers tell gunnery to fire as she bears!” Kling ordered.

“Fire as she bears. I say again: fire as she bears!” Tactical spoke urgently into his mic. “You are free to engage.”

As soon as the missiles and smaller counter-missiles strapped to their hulls have been shot off, the Corvettes of Foxtrot Squadron shot toward the Imperials as fast as their engines could manage.

“Bag me some ground turkeys and let’s show these Imperials how we do things in New Little Italy!” shouted the ship’s Captain, who hailed from the capital city New Little Italy on his home world.

“Old Corsica!” cried the bridge crew.

“Time to show those League of Brown Power cannibals just what the real G Squadron stands for—and it’s not Ghetto. It stands for Holy Gangsters of Righteousness. Fire the Tommy Gun 37.3 and let’s show its infinitely superior power to the League’s Machete Light Laser when used in a righteous cause,” commanded the Captain.

Moments later the Tommy Gun rapid fire light laser attack system showed its worth as it fired light laser bolt after laser bolt at half the strength—but five times the cycle rate—of the standard light laser systems found in the Spine.

“Tear down the temple walls and let’s throw these heathens out!” the Captain cried, picking up the cross hanging from his necklace and giving it a quick kiss before dropping it again. “Just like the Corleone Family Legions of Old New Jersey, we’ll show these ‘Imperials’ what happens when they try to take what is ours. Let’s prove once and for all that there’s only one true Empire destined to rule all mankind—and that is the ancient Holy Empire of La Casa Nostra! May Saint Soprano and the Italian Stallion guide our aim as we engage in this consecrated drive-by. Fire! Fire! Fire!” he roared.

“YO, ADRIAN!” cried the Tactical Officer, giving the traditional victory cry of New Corsica right before the bridge crew broke out into cheers as their much smaller ships lunged toward the Imperial Destroyers.

“Gunnery reports that point defense is saturated, Commodore,” reported Tactical mere seconds before the swarm of Desert Eagle class missiles and their smaller counterparts, the Berretta 9.0 counter-missiles slammed were due to slam into their shields.

“Helm,” barked the Commodore, “emergency power and forty five degree up bubble course change—execute now!”

Not bothering to acknowledge receipt of the order, the Helmswoman currently in the hot seat grabbed the controls and immediately swung the Imperial Destroyer upwards while simultaneously pushing the throttle up to full emergency power.

Seconds later a pair of missiles slammed into their shields rocking the ship but ultimately leaving her unharmed however her counter parts, the other Destroyers in her squadron were a split second slower in changing course and they were not so lucky.

More than thirty missiles and eighty counter-missiles, along with a series of laser bursts from every local ship that could range on them, slammed repeatedly into the shields of the Imperial Destroyers in Commodore Serge’s two squadrons.

“Rat Pack reports engine damage from a counter-missile that snuck through her shields and Man’s Shadow’s shields are down and she lost her spinally-mounted medium laser cannon when a missile punched through her hull and took out the auxiliary bridge along with the entire port side crew quarters. Acid Burn reports—”

“That’s enough; I can see it myself,” Serge raised his hands to cut off the litany of damage as he looked down at the suddenly flashing yellow and orange icon that represented the damaged ships of his command, “the other Destroyers weren’t as fast as us and they took more damage, but we’ve weathered the storm. As soon as we’re sure we’re clear of any remaining missiles that might still lock back on, we’ll swing back around and finish these locals,” he said harshly.

The enemy had been tricky this time, just like he’d expected, but other than some minor damage they’d just shot their wad without accomplishing anything. By waiting until the missiles wandered out of the area or self-detonated, he gave his Destroyers time to effect emergency repairs and rebuild their shields before moving in for the kill.

Yes, they had a few tricks, but it wasn’t enough to stop him.

“When we come back around, we’ll engage as a formation but as soon as the enemy breaks we’ll split into hunter killer pairs and take them down,” Serge ordered.

“Panther attack protocol?” asked the XO to clarify.

“Yes,” the Commodore said grimly. If you were going to engage in battle, ships and people were going to get hurt—but the locals were destined to hurt more. The damage stung, but now that they’d just used their trump card he had them right where he wanted them.

“Yeah!” shouted Kling, pumping his arm as Destroyer after Imperial Destroyer rocked and reeled from the sudden surprise blow from Foxtrot. He hadn’t managed to bag any of the enemy Destroyers outright like he’d secretly hoped, but taking down their shields and winging two of them in the engines was more than good enough.

The ball was officially in the Imperial Commander’s court now, but either way if he sacrificed his speed advantage and stuck around like he hoped or took off and abandoned his two engine-damaged Destroyers to Kling’s Task Force—giving them a couple of relatively easy kills—he was satisfied he had the enemy commander right where he wanted him. “What’s the Imperials’ new course and speed?” he demanded staring intently at the screen. He needed to maintain the initiative for as long as possible.

“The Imperials are coming about in a slow, arcing turn. It looks like they want to avoid our stray missiles and recharge their shields before coming back around for another pass,” reported Tactical.

Kling narrowed his eyes. The enemy was still moving away, but with the clear intention of coming back when he was ready.

“Let’s see if we can’t hurry things along,” he said.

“Sir?” asked the XO.

“Tell Foxtrot to remote detonate all their remaining missiles and counter-missiles. If they haven’t hit by now, they’re not going to. Pass the order to all ships: I want those wounded Destroyers. Pursuit by squadrons. We’ll link up before the Imperials can arc back around, and either they abandon their wounded and we hit them where it hurts or they have to face us before their shields are fully recharged,” he ordered and then leaned back in his chair.

“Transmitting orders now,” reported the com-tech.

“Ball’s back to you,” muttered Kling.

“They’re trying to force a re-engagement,” remarked Serge’s XO.

“Then, by all means, let’s give them what they seem to want,” he replied, one eye narrowing slightly and then the corner of one side of his mouth turned up, “but with a twist.”

“Sir? You’re not worried about playing into their hands,” asked the XO.

The Commodore sat there, his pointer finger smoothing and twisting over the second joint of his left thumb as he ran the numbers in his head. He finally gave a decisive nod.

“Order a squadron reorganization: I want our engine-damaged Destroyers over in Beta Squadron,” he said.

“Sir?” prompted the XO.

“While our warships are moving back and forth as we reorganize to face the enemy’s attack, I want Alpha squadron to drop four of our Nervous Nellies amongst all the confusion. Full stealth and set to go off upon proximity to the enemy,” said Commodore Serge, “we’ll also have Beta squadron dump their waste thirty second later, right before the Nellies are set to go off, just to make sure the locals are looking the wrong way at exactly the right moment. It’s not that it’s likely that they’ll see them given their current sensor technology but there’s really no point in taking chances. Sloppy in, sloppy out, and before you know it you’re the fleet’s next Bruneswitch. No, we’ll do this by the numbers—just like we were on the Gorgon Front.”

“We only have twelve Nellies, Sir,” the XO pointed out, “technically, we’re supposed to reserve them for later use unless instructed otherwise by high command.”

“Noted. Now begin the squadron transfers and get ready to dump the Nervous Nellies,” he ordered.

The XO smiled. “I think I’m going to like this,” he said.

“Are the Imperials still coming about?” Kling asked perfunctorily. He could see the screen just as well as the next man or woman and it looked like things had settled down but he’d just been on the coms dealing with an irate Foxtrot Squadron who were angry at Gangster Squadron for ‘sneaking up behind their backs.’ This even though Gangster wasn’t even trying to hide their attempt to link up with the Task Force in violation of official orders to the contrary and could use the update.

Keeping the Corsicans from doing a ‘drive-by’ and kicking off a holy war, while the Major in command of the Brown Power Corvettes was on open com’s threatening to cut off heads with a machete if his people were once again oppressed, discriminated against and left out to die at Imperial hands unsupported and alone had been a headache he could have done without to say the least but now, finally, things seemed to have been smoothed out, settled down, and all the ruffled feathers unruffled. Meaning it was time to get back to the business of making sure that his soon to be linked up squadrons were as ready to face the Imperial threat as they could be.

“G Squadron is still two minutes behind the main group and even though F Squadron is in front of them now they’re still just getting going. G should pass F in about thirty seconds with F rejoining the main Task Force group a minute and a half after G,” reported Navigation.

“Let’s just pray they don’t start shooting at each other before they get a chance to tangle with the enemy,” Kling groaned.

“Meanwhile the Imperials have been moving to link up with another Imperial Destroyer squadron which should arrive at their position sometime after G links up with us but before F. Given their current speed they can either make a high speed pass and keep going, turn around to rejoin the battle, or start slowing soon and then meet up with everyone several minutes later. Either way they’ll be here and gone for a while or they won’t arrive at all before we get the chance to hit their main force,” explained Tactical.

“Alright, that was confusing but I think I got it,” Kling nodded. “Either they can make a high speed pass and then come back or else they’ll join the party at a later date. Got it.”

He forcibly ignored the way a certain female Sensor tech was squirming in her seat and tapping away forcefully at her console. He would be satisfied just so long as they stopped jumping around. There was a reason they had the chain of command, and unless it was a genuine split-second life or death emergency it was better to—

“Sir!” started the sensor tech, raising her hand.

“Not now, tech,” interrupted the Petty Officer in charge of the Sensor section. “Sir there’s something odd…the Imperials have just vented their waste systems, or at least half of them in one of the two squadrons have.”

“But Sir there’s something else on my screen!” exclaimed the tech. “Or…there was for a moment but now it’s gone. It was like a glitch but—”

“Not now, tech!” shouted the Petty Officer rounding on her.

“I want all eyes focused on those enemy Destroyers, people. Sensors, get control of your section before I have to,” Kling said forcefully. He didn’t have time for—

The main screen suddenly hazed, one moment showing a white, snow-filled screen and the next the close proximity warning alarms sounded automatically as the entire screen began to populate with thousands of sensor contacts all in close proximity to the flagship.

“What the blazes?!” Kling cried with alarm.

“Have we just been hacked?” demanded Tactical. “There’s no way over a thousand fighter, Corvette, and Destroyer-sized contacts just appear inside our firing arc, Sensors!”

“Contact the other ships on an isolated encrypted channel have them send us their sensor feed,” barked the Commodore.

“I can’t reach the other ships, Sir. There’s too much white noise. It starts to make a connection and then it’s almost as if someone or something zeros in on my channel and starts putting out too much noise, I can’t get a hard link,” reported Coms.

“A stealth ship maybe?” demanded Kling.

“I’m still thinking it could have been a hack,” said Tactical, “if they’re in our systems then—”

“That wouldn’t explain the fluctuating signal strengths on my com-channels,” retorted Coms.

“Uh, I’m seeing what looks like the shadow of a planet on my screen—but it doesn’t have anything like the gravity presence a real planet would. It’s obviously fake. But sir, as of this moment I’m officially flying blind I can’t tell our own ships from all these ghosts!” cried the Helm.

The hubbub on the ship grew as the entire bridge crew began to realize they were flying blind.

“Quiet, people,” snapped Kling and the noise level instantly lowered. “If we’re hacked and we don’t know it then we’re already dead. So that for us that means it must be something external. Find it. Shut it down and kill it!”

“My sensor glitches! It must be them. I told you it was important, but nobody would listen,” the former Clover sensor tech said angrily.

The Sensor Petty Officer’s forehead started to turn red, and Kling met his eyes with a questioning look.

“It’s not a good one, but it’s the best idea we’ve so far,” the Petty Officer said flatly, glaring sideways at the sensor tech before looking back at the Commodore.

“Increase speed and change course to port by fifteen degrees,” Kling commanded, clenching his fist.

“We risk hitting our own ships if we do that, sir,” pointed out the Helmsman nervously.

“Just do it; I’m more worried about being hit by the Imperials than running into one of our own ships,” Commodore Kling barked.

“Aye-aye, Sir,” said the Helmsman and began moving the ship.

“Sir, the sensor ghosts and interference is starting to clear!” the Sensor Petty Officer said excitedly.

“Alright then the next thing to do is…” Kling said urgently.

Chapter Twenty-seven: Paying it back

Commodores Kling versus Serge

Moments after the Nervous Nellies flooded the enemies’ sensors with static and false contacts, the enemy formation fell into confusion. Ships started jerking this way and that as if to avoid collisions. Two of the enemy Corvettes even had a near collision as they both jerked the wrong way at the same time and brushed up against one another’s shields.

“One good turn deserves another—two can play at the jammer game,” Serge said with satisfaction.

“They’re deaf, blind and stupid. You have them right where you want them, sir,” the flagship’s XO said with obvious satisfaction. “After the way their main force acted around during the last battle, as if they were going around clubbing our ships in the dark it was time to turn the tables.”

“They need to learn that anything a provincial can do the Empire can do more and better,” Serge said dismissively and then now that he was certain the enemy had fallen into confusion turned to his Comm. Officer, “message to the task group: all ships are to fall back by squadrons and engage the enemy with alacrity before they outrun the Nellies. It’s time to hit them where they live, people. Don’t disappoint me. It’s time for some payback.”

“Yee-haw!” howled the Helmsman, flipping the ship and burning back towards locals at high speed.

“…reestablish contact with the rest of our forces, get them clear of this sensor jamming and if possible take out their jammers,” Kling said urgently.

“Sir! I’ve got a hard lock on the enemy Destroyers—and, sir, they’re coming this way,” shouted the Sensor Officer. “They’re almost within weapons range.”

“Coms: punch signal through to any ships still in the haze and tell them they’re about to get clobbered if they don’t move now!” shouted Kling.

“I’m trying!” cried the com-tech.

“Sir, it’s too late for that. We need to coordinate with Ghetto and Foxtrot while we still have the chance to salvage something from this mess. It’s our only play, Sir,” his XO said urgently.

“Blast,” swore Kling, giving the XO a nod, “do it. Do it now!”

“The enemy just fired a ranging shot!” exclaimed Tactical.

“Shields down to 85% on the port side,” reported Shields.

“For what we are about to receive, may the Saints of cold space make us grateful,” Kling said bitterly. And he’d been so sure he had the enemy right where he wanted them, too.

Chapter Twenty-eight: The Hammer of Man

Commodores Kling versus Serge

“Hit their Destroyers in the first pass. I want their heavies taken out before they have a chance to respond,” barked Commodore Serge, issuing orders to the task group.

Like the Hammer of Man, the enemy entered the firing arcs of his two squadrons and where paid them back with interest for the damage they’d inflicted during the first engagement.

“Pound them with everything we’ve got—including the point defense lasers and chain guns,” Serge instructed as an enemy Destroyer reeled, vented atmosphere from damage to her midline flank, and started rolling like crazy as if that would somehow save her from her fate.

There was a flash as a second enemy Destroyer lost core containment and exploded violently. For a moment even the Nellies were disrupted by the force of the blast due to their extreme proximity to the enemy warships.

“We’ve got them right where we want them,” Serge clenched his fist and then gave his chair an open hand slap as one of the two approaching enemy Corvette squadrons wavered and started to turn away before, almost reluctantly turning back to join the battle, “HA!”

“The cowards,” his XO said with disdain.

“Ignore the Corvettes about to join the battle and take us in close. It’s time to gut them,” Serge ordered leaning forward in his chair.

“Murphy’s twisted demon son! Either you get your squadron into this fight and join the task force you’ve raging about for the past half hour or I’ll personally advise the Tyrant of Cold Space himself to orbitally bombard your entire home world,” Kling roared into the open mic built into his command chair. “Do you understand me you twisted son of persecuted horse droppings?! Blighter, I will personally press the button that ends your entire cannibalistic league—ONE PLANET AT A TIME!”

“Ghetto just turned back on course to the fight,” reported Tactical, his eyes wider than a doorjamb.

“Good,” Kling pounded the arm of his chair five or six times to give vent his emotions. “I have no use for cowards. Absolutely no use. Point us at those Imperials, link up with whoever’s available, and take us into knife range—we need to get in close, Helm,” he snapped.

His Executive Officer sidled over and looked at him with concern. “You’d really bombard his home world?” the other man asked in a low intense voice.

Kling clenched his teeth together. “I wouldn’t advise the Admiral to, no. That was a lie. In fact, after I’ve calmed down I’d probably advise against it but—but!--if he gave the order to do it anyway, I’d sure as blazes push that button. Better me than someone who’d be twisted up about it later on,” Kling said gnashing his teeth. “Call it a personal flaw, but I have no use for sentient eating, cannibalistic cry-bullies who admire the Deep Fleet, run like cowards at the first stiff breeze to come their way, and think I’m nothing more than some over-privileged mocha latté who’s not Brown enough to join their ‘special oppressed league’,” he declared furiously. “And if this is who the League sends to represent and defend their way of life, they’re nothing more than a thinly disguised pirate haven and I have no further use for their entire way of life.”

“I see,” his XO said eyeing him worriedly.

“And probably that’s a good reason why Capria put me in the reserves and I’m not the man in charge of this fleet,” Kling said, falling back into his chair with a slump before grunting as yet another one of his task force’s Destroyers suddenly ejected its fusion core and went dead in space. “It’s time to deal with these Imperials,” he glared at the screen as Foxtrot Squadron came streaking in for a slashing high speed pass while Ghetto still lingered behind it.

“What do you want to do, Sir?” asked the XO.

“Prepare to deploy jammers,” snapped Kling, “two can play at this game.”

“Tell Beta to pull back and defend themselves,” ordered Commodore Serge as the first of the enemy task force’s reinforcement squadrons—the one with the missiles it had launched form ambush—arrived at the party. The newcomers were clearly intent on targeting his more heavily damaged beta squadron while it was distracted with finishing off the provincial Destroyers.

“Beta is starting to pull back but the enemy Corvettes just increased their speed, making a high speed pass to their rear and…missile separation!” cried Tactical. “They must have kept two missiles on each of the Corvettes in reserve because they’ve just fired them at the sterns of beta squadron.”

Serge’s eyes widened with surprise before once again resuming the implacable look of battle-tested, twenty year graduate if the Imperial academy.

“So they’ve got a little more fight left in them than we expected. As soon as Bruneswitch gets here we’ll quickly settle their hash,” the Commodore grunted before issuing another series of orders aimed at keeping the enemy in front of him pinned down until their last two Destroyers were done.

“Second enemy Corvette squadron reinforcements has just entered light laser range,” reported Sensors.

“They seem like they’re intent on a glancing attack run,” reported Tactical.

“Bruneswitch reports that he is lining up for an attack run on the stray squadrons,” said Coms.

“No, instruct him to hit their main force. We’ll shatter their core and then hunt down the remainder,” countermanded Serge.

Despite their best attempts at evasive maneuvers, the Destroyers of Beta squadron included some of his most heavily damaged ships and they just weren’t as fleet of foot as the rest of his Destroyers at present. So when the enemy missiles entered final attack range, there were a series of explosions that rocked three of his six warships.

“Beta reports two more ships are engines down and one is engines gone with serious structural damage,” reported Damage Control.

“Tell Bruneswitch to—” Serge started when suddenly the screen went fuzzy. They could still see the enemy but everything was distorted, “What in the name of Man are the provincials up to now?”

“Tell everyone to scatter and disengage now! I say again: disengage now!” barked Kling.

“Message sent, but I’m still waiting for confirmation from several of the ships still near the Imperials jamming field. It’ll just take a tick, Sir” the com-tech reported.

“Activate the jammers—don’t wait for confirmation from the other ships, Coms,” instructed Kling.

The com-tech opened his mouth, looked conflicted, and then immediately mashed his hand down on a button on his screen.

“Jammer-jammers activated, Commodore,” reported the tech.

“Evasive maneuvers now. Get us out of here, Helm,” ordered Kling. It felt like a saw was cutting into his rib bones to leave the battered remains of his Destroyers behind with little chance of breaking free on their own. But if he was going to salvage something from this debacle he had to do it. The remaining Destroyer commanders were just going to have to fight their ships and stake their lives on the fickle whims of fate. Maybe one of them would actually make it out.

“Going to full burn and heading for rendezvous point zeta as soon as we’ve broken contact,” said the Helmsman absently as he focused on his screens.

“How many do you think will make it out?” asked his XO.

“Not nearly enough,” Kling said bitterly. Losing an entire squadron—and his most powerful one, at that—was a body blow but he had to focus on the bigger picture. He was the man on the spot in the outer system and the direct commander of most of the lighter units. So his first ambush had failed and the enemy turned the tables on him. He would learn from it and move on. The important thing wasn’t to wallow in his failures, but to make the Imperials bleed for every kilometer they advanced further into Easy Haven. He couldn’t do that fighting on the wrong end of a losing battle to the death just now, “We have to fall back and regroup. After that, if we can get a few more reinforcements, maybe we can turn things around out here.”

“That’s a big ‘maybe,’ Sir,” said his XO.

“Until the Admiral and the heavy hitters decide to up the ante and get personally involved, that’s all we’ve got. Our job is to slow them down and make them bleed and that’s exactly what I intend to do,” Kling said grimly as his flagship continued to flee from the battle as fast as her engines could carry her.

“Sir, the last of the enemy Destroyers has been neutralized,” reported Tactical.

“Good work, team,” Serge nodded with satisfaction, “Tactical, switch targets to their jammers and take them out if you can.”

“On it, Commodore.”

“Listen up,” he informed the bridge, “we just took serious damage to three of our ships and minor damage to three more, but not one of ours was lost while we destroyed an entire squadron of provincial Destroyers. Not a bad trade and not a bad day’s work, if I do say so myself—though the day is not yet over. So no one had better be thinking of resting on their laurels; I’m planning to put a commendation in everyone’s files and kicking it up the chain of command to the Admiral himself as soon as I get the chance to write them.”

“Thank you, Sir,” said the XO.

“Sir, Commodore Bruneswitch has just entered com-range inside the new jammer field,” reported the Comm. Officer, “he reports that in all the confusion, that cowardly Corvette squadron must have lost their bearings because he ran into them going out just as he was coming in. He reports that he destroyed two of their Corvettes and damaged two more before they fled the field.”

Serge drummed his fingers along the side of his chair. “Good,” he grunted.

“Sir, do you still want us to break into panther teams and pursue the enemy?” his XO asked urgently.

Serge paused for a moment and then nodded. “Have our heavily-damaged ships take our engine-down Destroyer under tow and head for the hyper limit to effect what repairs they can and await new orders. The rest of our ships are to pursue and engage the enemy,” he instructed.

“Aye-aye, Sir!” said the other officer.

The Provincials were on the run falling back in retreat. Now was the time to keep the pressure up and keep them responding to the Reclamation Fleet’s tempo. It would make the task of whittling them down to size both faster and easier this way and, frankly, if this was the best the locals had to offer then taking this system was going to be easier than he had expected.

Chapter Twenty-nine: Falling Back

“Admiral, our light forces are doing their best but they’re being forced to fall back into the inner system,” Captain Hammer said frankly.

“I’m aware of the plot, Leonora,” I nodded, looking at the main screen where singletons, pairs, and even squadrons our Destroyers, Corvettes and Cutters proved that one on one they were no match for the enemy. Sure, the Reclamation Fleet was taking losses, but so were we—and it was a lot more one-sided than I’d hoped.

Kling was tied down in an increasingly sprawling dogfight along one of the main tendrils of the Reclamation advance. Although he was getting the worst of it, at least he was slowing them down and causing damage as he fell back, gathered up a small group of reinforcements and hitting them before falling back again.

Everywhere else, though, we were getting hammered, destroyed or were in full-blown retreat.

“Issue a general recall to the inner system,” I finally ordered, “we might as well acknowledge reality. Other than Kling, who’s actually performing a fighting retreat, the Imperials are advancing without too much trouble everywhere else. Not only do they have the qualitative edge, they’ve got the numbers on us. It’s time to consolidate and fall back on the defenses.”

“Are you planning to sortie the heavies?” she asked worriedly.

“I’ll decide that when the time comes,” I said.

“If they get that Command Carrier within range of the star base nothing else will matter—not the fortifications, the defense turrets, or our hidden surprises. They can just stand back and reduce everything to rubble outside our range,” she warned.

“I’m well aware of the Command Carrier’s range advantage, Captain,” I severely.

“Sorry. I’m just a bit tense,” Leonora said releasing a puff of air as she sat back.

“And I’m sure the results of the last battle weigh heavily on your mind,” I said.

“Frankly, right now you’re one for two. I know you can win just as much as I know you can lose, not just from the record but from actual experience. We’ve been in combat together, so I know you’re not a complete moron when it comes to maneuvers but, yes, I am worried. It’s the fact that you haven’t ever even attended a military academy that’s more worrying right now than anything else,” she said with a level look. “All you have is on-the-job training and whatever you’ve picked up from books. I have no idea how deep your knowledge base is, and the idea that you might miss something that would be obvious to a first year Ensign is what gets me.”

“It’s a little late to change horses midstream right now though isn’t it. Although, of course, you’re always free to try,” I laughed, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms deceptively while one hand crept into the sleeve of my other arm where my holdout blaster pistol was located.

“After the number of mutinies and near mutinies you’ve survived? I’m concerned, not suicidal; if I wanted out I’d have gotten off this ship before now and accepted the offer to return to the rest of the Confederation. I wouldn’t try to take the flagship by force,” she said seriously.

“I’m glad you feel that way,” I said, releasing my hold on the pistol. Maybe I was getting paranoid and losing my edge. I should have been able to read the mood from the beginning instead of immediately jumping to self-protective conclusions. Not, that is to say, that I shouldn’t have done exactly as I’d done and prepared to defend myself, but that it should have been a fall-back plan not an open question.

“Well I’m not. It’s nerve-wracking. I’ve been in combat before and experienced fleet maneuvers, but this is the second time facing a fleet battle this large. The first time doesn’t count as it happened so suddenly and then never ended until we jumped. Right now, I’m trying to think of anything you might have missed that I failed to advise you about,” she said.

“Stop second-guessing me—and more importantly stop second-guessing yourself,” I said sternly. “It may not look like it but I’ve got everything under control still. Take a break, take a walk, and get a cup of tea or water. Come back here when you’re ready. We’ve still got a few more hours to go before the Flagship gets involved unless something changes suddenly.”

Leonora Hammer shook her head wryly.

“Giving me the same advice I’d give any nerve-wracked looking ensign,” she said, getting up. “I think I’ll take that walk now then.”

“Take your time. The Imperials aren’t going anywhere,” I said.

My Flag Captain barked a harsh laugh and then walked away. “I think I’ll tour my crew on the battle bridge before coming back up here,” she tossed over her shoulder.

“Good,” I nodded as she left and my orders to the light units were passed along.

I watched as everything not currently in the Imperials line of defense stopped moving to the front lines. Even our currently engaged warships started to fall back on Wolf-9 and the fortifications set up here.

Our Corvettes and Destroyers had been more of a tripwire than anything else. They’d also given us a chance to blood our forces early and delay for time while getting a sense for just how prevalent the Imperial tech was amongst the enemy’s lighter units. Well, they were clearly outfighting our local Spineward tech just like they had in our last stand-up fight. There was no hope of nullifying their lighter units and gaining an advantage there, quite the opposite.

That meant it was time to get creative.

Fortunately, when I had time to prepare, and the entire production facilities of Wolf-9—as well as with the gifts of a suspicious arms dealer available—creativity was my new middle name.

The only thing that remained was for the Imperials to get close enough that I could see just how badly I could rattle them.

With twenty Battleships against their twenty four—to say nothing of the Command Carrier—I was going to have to be inventive. We’d just have to see how it turned out in the wash.

Chapter Thirty: Moving the Main Force

“Pass the order. It’s time to move the main fleet into the inner system,” instructed Janeski. The Sector Defense Fleet’s lighter units were the sort of garbage he’d come to expect out in the hinterlands that were Spineward Sectors, and they only seemed to have one semi-competent officer in the outer system. There were no surprises there.

With the provincials now in full-blown retreat and his light units free to clear the way of any hidden surprises potentially stashed along the way, now was the time to press in and bring the heavy units to bear.

“Orders have been passed to all task force and squadron group level sub-commanders, Supreme Admiral,” said Commander at the coms.

“By Man, it’s good to be back on schedule,” Arnold Janeski Supreme Admiral of the Reclamation Fleet said with satisfaction.

“We did tear through their picket force near the eightieth percentile projections, Sir,” Flag Captain Goddard said respectfully.

“Sector 25 has proven to be a paper panther up to this point,” Janeski said, his lip curling. “Except for one lucky blow they’ve proven impotent. And that’s when they haven’t actively blown up their own warship in some kind of overblown appeasement strategy.”

“Peace at any price,” Goddard said with a straight face and then his expression cracked.

Janeski chuckled and the Flag Captain broke out into full-blown guffaws.

“We’ll pay any price except ‘gasp’ a male governor?!” Captain Goddard chortled with mock incredulity.

“Some people’s sacred cows are difficult to understand from the outside,” Janeski shook his head. “They were fine blowing up their own warships with people still onboard, the very men and women…well, I guess in this case it was only women who had sworn to defend them from invaders and pay ‘any price’ so long as that price didn’t include changes to their planetary and system governing structure. Apparently so long as the lives that were affected didn’t include the politicians, no price was too high. In the end, telling them we were taking away their political power and installing an interim military governor was too much for them.”

“So much for peace at any price,” Goddard sneered.

“It makes for a snappy tagline to trot out for the masses,” Janeski shrugged, “but what idiot would actually pay ‘any price’ if that price included, say slavery, cannibalism, or mass euthanasia of their own people? That doesn’t even touch on lesser restrictions like totally replacing the government with a new political system. Even if everyone is left alive as a precondition, ‘Any Pricers’ are morons if they actually believe their words—and grand liars if they don’t.”

“Completely useless as human beings,” Goddard agreed.

“I actually kind of admire them for being able to say it all with such a straight face,” Janeski disagreed. “That kind of ability at self-delusion has got to be a powerful force on a political level. People can pick up it when you don’t believe what you’re saying, but when you honestly and passionately believe in what you’re relaying they instinctively want to believe you too—even if you’re telling them the sky green or night is day or peace is worth ‘any’ price.”

“The ability to lie or believe self-delusions is what makes them great politicians? Like I said: useless on a human level,” Goddard snorted.

“Someone’s got to lead, and it’s better for everyone if the people are happy while they’re doing it,” Janeski said while tapping his screen. “But enough about New Pacifica. This is Easy Haven and we’ve got an entirely new star system to conquer.”

“The enemy does have somewhat greater force than I was expecting,” remarked Goddard.

“Like I said: they’ve been a paper panther so far. I don’t see that changing anytime soon. We’re faster, our weapons out-range theirs, and in just about every way possible we hold both the numbers and tech advantage. The only classification of ships where they had more hulls than us was when they combined their Destroyer and smaller warships together and you’ve seen how well that worked out for them,” the Supreme Admiral said dismissively. “Oh, I’ve not doubt they’ve got a few tricks up their sleeves, but if what we’ve seen so far is any indication then it won’t be anything we can’t handle.”

“You yourself said in the past that the moment you let your guard down is the time that the enemy has the best chance at turning things around,” warned Captain Goddard.

“I have no intention of letting my guard down or getting sloppy,” Janeski assured the other man in a hard voice. “We’ll do this thing by the numbers and reduce this star system to a supple and compliant addition to our new order—just like we have the dozens we’ve already conquered in the past.”

“I believe in you, sir, just like I believe in this mission,” Goddard said.

“I know you’re both skilled and loyal, Goddard. That’s why I picked you for my flagship. It’s not just anyone who gets tapped for a Command Carrier. No…this is potentially our most critical battle to date. As Sector 25 goes, so goes the rest of the Spine. The other Sectors are weakened, battered, and their economies are wrecked just as planned. And as Easy Haven goes so goes Sector 25.”

“I know that’s why you let them gather their strength here, Admiral. It’s a good strategy…although I can’t help but worry if we let them have too much time. There’s no guarantee what we can see is all they have,” said the Flag Captain.

“We’ve been surveying this system for weeks now and they haven’t caught so much as a whiff of our presence in all that time. So they might have something and they might not,” the Supreme Admiral shrugged, “but either way we’ll proceed like they do until they prove otherwise. In the meantime, we’ll continue to feel them out with our lighter units and continue to pressure them by bringing our heavier units closer to their main force and that star base until we get a reaction. If they sally their Battleships, we’ll crush them. If they don’t, we’ll stand at a range outside their own and destroy them, slowly, until they do come out of their shell or they’re all dead.”

“Yes, I’m aware of the contingency plans,” said the Captain.

“It’s a simple plan, but then most siege situations are just that simple. You enter the Star System and press them until they have something they must defend—in this case the Wolf-9 fortifications and yard production facilities—force a fight, and then grind them to pieces while they try to stop you. Whoever’s left standing at the end is the winner,” reminisced the Supreme Admiral, thinking of the myriad ‘victories’ he’d swept through en route to this particular battle.

“And if they try to run like they did last time?” Goddard asked rhetorically.

“They’re not in the outer system—they’re deep in the gravity well this time. But even if our main force can’t run them down for any reason, I still have a few aces up my sleeve just for such a situation,” Janeski glowered. “I won’t have a repeat of last time.”

“If we crush them here it doesn’t matter if a few stragglers get away. For all intents and purposes, their threat will be neutralized,” nodded Goddard.

“I don’t want neutral—I want dead. This ends here,” snapped the Admiral. “Send out the Cruiser squadrons and prepare the fighter wings. It’s time to see what the Governor thinks he can do against the full might of the Reclamation Fleet.”

“Aye aye, Admiral,” said the Flag Captain.

Chapter Thirty-one: An Imperial Push

“Looks like the Imperials have made their next move,” observed Captain Hammer as on the main screen the entire Imperial force continued to barrel deeper and deeper in the system, separating into two forces as it went. One of those groups began to accelerate faster than the other, but they were all pointed toward the Wolf-9 defenses and the assembled might of 25th Amalgamated Fleet.

“Well, that’s torn it,” I muttered under my breath as several of my contingency plans just went out the window. I mean, I hadn’t really expected them to stick together as one giant force the whole way in—well minus the Destroyer screen of course—but I had hoped for it. That hope was now dead and buried along with a number of my other farfetched dreams. Dreams like oh, say, the entire Imperial fleet—or at least their Battleships and above—suddenly and simultaneously experiencing massive internal explosions.

“It looks like the better part of thirteen squadrons of Cruisers,” Captain Hammer reported helpfully.

“Thank you, Leonora,” I said, flashing a well-practiced and totally false smile. The Reclamation Fleet’s sixty five Cruisers obviously outgunned and outnumbered my own fifty assembled Spineward Cruiser-sized warships, but that wasn’t the whole story. Yes, in a straight-up, head-to-head battle they would likely suffer the same sort of casualty rate as our Corvette and Destroyer screen, but that wasn’t the problem.

I could destroy anything sent to test our defenses around the star base so long as I could suck them in close enough. Even if I had to sacrifice half my Cruiser force to do it, it would be well worth the trade. But what I’d hoped for were Battleships—or even that Command Carrier—not a mixed force of Destroyers and Cruisers. Like a boxer with a surprisingly strong, hidden uppercut that no one else knew about the problem was that after the trick was seen the likelihood of it working again was vanishingly low. The enemy would take steps to neutralize my advantage once they knew it existed, and then we were right back to square one.

“What do you want to do, Admiral?” asked the Flag Captain.

I gritted my teeth. There was no use crying about spilt milk or cursing the enemy for not being dumb enough to fall perfectly into my plans.

“We wait until they get closer and then sally out our Cruiser force,” I said curtly and then turned to the Com-Section. “Get me Commodore LeGodat on the line please, Lisa.”

There was a pause as she made the connection to the Starbase and negotiated with her counterpart before finally bringing the Commodore on the line.

“What can I do for you, Admiral?” asked the other officer, a real Confederation reservist in the flesh.

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to kick off Operation Orion sooner than we’d like—and for smaller game than we’d hoped, Commodore,” I replied, smoothing down the front of my uniform with irritation. “I know we both wanted you over there commanding the Starbase defenses personally, but I’m afraid you’ll have to temporarily turn things over to McCruise. It looks like I’m going to need you in the field.”

“You mean the Cruisers,” LeGodat said with a frown before nodding with understanding, “I assume you want me out there to take command of something important. What’s the plan?”

“The Imperials just sent out thirteen squadrons but they’re mixing them in with the Destroyers and spreading them out all over the place,” I grimaced.

“They want to test our defenses and see what we’ve got. Totally understandable,” the Commodore agreed evenly.

I suppressed a twitch. “We took fifty percent casualties among our light units in the outer system and, since it looks like there’s no real shot of sucking in their Battleships, I feel the urge to return the favor with regards to their Cruisers. I’d like them concentrated and responding to us for a change,” I said firmly.

“If you’ll recall, this was something I said we should consider as a highly likely response to if they broke through our screening force without much difficulty—like they did,” remarked Commodore LeGodat.

“Yes, you did,” I suppressed the urge to scowl, “and we planned for this contingency. That’s why I’m putting you in command of the Cruiser force and sending it out as a whole and not trying to spread them out to counter them on the squadron level. We’ve seen what happens when we do that with the screening elements: we get our heads handed to us. Let’s not have a repeat of that.”

“You’re giving me the whole Cruiser force and not holding anything back in reserve, Sir?” asked LeGodat professionally.

“The whole kit and caboodle,” I nodded.

“Please remember that even though the light lag will be significantly reduced as we’ll be fighting a lot closer to this position, if I’m the one going out there then I’m in command of the operation,” warned the Confederation Commodore. “I don’t need anyone jogging my elbow during the middle of a battle.”

“Hey, it’s your rodeo,” I raised my hands in surrender, “just grab them by the horns to get a hold of their attention. Keep their focus until you suck them in close enough for Orion to work and I’ll be more than satisfied. You know about Orion, are more familiar with the environs of this system around Wolf-9 than any man I know,” I said firmly. “I know better than to let anyone jog your elbow at the wrong moment. This one’s for all the marbles. There’ll be no picking up our toys and going home if we lose. I’m sending you because I trust you to get the job done and done right.”

“Then I’m your man for this operation,” LeGodat nodded.

“Good, because the last thing I need are the better part of two hundred warships hunting around this Starbase for a gap in the defenses and discovering Orion prematurely. I want them concentrated and brought into the kill bubble,” I said flatly. “Do that and at least we’ll be able to pay them back for the Corvette and Destroyer screen.”

“You know that if we do this, the losses among our Cruiser force are going to be brutal. Even if I succeed in concentrating the attention of the majority of them on me, it’s almost certain that there’ll still have any number of Destroyers poking around out there. They might discover both parts of Orion despite our best efforts,” he pointed out.

“That’s why I think we need to activate Cloud Storm early. Remember, Orion is two-pronged. I think if we can get Cloud Storm up and running before they have the chance to look too closely at things, allowing us to we thin down their scouting units, there’s a good chance both portions of the operation can be salvaged. We can hit the Cruisers and save the second half for when we need it,” I said forcefully.

“You know that even if this works we’ll still have the reclamation Battleships to deal with later,” said Commodore LeGodat said, “no matter what we do.”

“We’ll burn that bridge when we have to. Twenty to twenty four and the tech disadvantage on the light side—ours—doesn’t make for the best of odds. But we’ll last a lot longer against those Battleships than we would if they still had those Cruisers and we had to go up against that Command Carrier at the same time. Heck, if we can do it while there are still fortifications to fall back on we can make a real fight of it,” I said confidently, leaning back in my chair. This was a real construction of hopes and dreams woven out of a lot of ‘ifs,’ ‘maybes’ and ‘things that had to break our way for them to work’ but it was what we had so we had to work with it. “Just remember that even if it takes fifty percent casualties or worse, so long as you can drag those Cruisers into the kill box it’ll have been worth it.”

LeGodat sucked in a deep breath. “That’s a lot of ships and men you’re asking me to sacrifice for a plan that only might work,” he said a touch shakily if I was any judge.

“If you think they’ll do a better job dealing more damage to the enemy in a conventional fight then I’m all ears. But we both know they’re destined to get mauled either way. At least this way Janeski pays for it and we have a chance at victory,” I said coldly, “not a good chance, maybe—even if it works—but a real chance.”

“I understand. I’ll have my people test the ship-to-ship and ship-to-communication-satellite laser relay system and get it in place before we activate Cloud Storm, but they can work on that while I’m on the way over to my flagship,” said the Commodore.

“Take your time. We’re in no rush at this point. Just make sure everything is in place,” I said.

“Cloud Storm will be up and running before I take the Cruisers out or, if not, then immediately after,” said the Confederation Commodore, “so unless there was something else, I’ll sign off and get to work.”

I nodded, “Take care out there, Commodore.”

“You just make sure Wolf-9 is still there to come back to when I get back, Admiral Montagne. LeGodat out,” he said gruffly and then cut the channel.

“Good enough,” I agreed, because that’s what it had to be. It had to be good enough. There was no safety net to fall back on this time. We were stuck deep in the system and the enemy was both bigger and faster. Maybe a few of the lighter units might escape to bring word of disaster if we lost but that was it. There would be no grand, last minute escape for our larger units like last time.

We had to win, and that certainty helped focus the mind immensely.

Chapter Thirty-two: Testing the Water

“The last of our Cruiser squadrons have merged with the advanced force and finished linking up with their designated counterparts among the Destroyer screen, Admiral,” reported the operations officer that was a part of Janeski’s staff on the flag bridge.

“The Starbase is almost surrounded and the envelopment nearly complete. Time to test the waters, Captain,” Admiral Janeski agreed, looking at the plot where his forces, from still well outside enemy range, had already covered the two-thirds of the Starbase closest to the direction the main fleet had entered the star system.

The Officer in charge of the department stood up and walked over.

“Problem, Commander?” Janeski asked.

“We’ve just identified three new contacts in the outer system. It looks like a Battleship, a Medium Cruiser, and a sensor contact we’re tentatively identifying as some sort of troop transport, Admiral,” reported the Commander.

“Troop transport? That’s a pretty light escort unless we caught them by surprise and they went dark on us until now,” Janeski mused. “Are you sure of that designation?”

“No, Sir, we are not. However it’s the best designation we have based on its size and sensor return,” the Sensor Commander said helplessly.

“Give me the data,” he looked at it and then shook his head. “You’re right,” he finally decided, “it’d too big to be anything other than a non-combatant pressed into service.”

“What do you want to do, Sir?” asked Goddard while the Operations Officer looked on with interest.

“This is a diversion, either planned by the Governor for this exact moment to distract us or, less likely given when we discovered them, a group of reinforcements that somehow slipped through our sensor net until now. No, we won’t fall into their trap; we continue as planned, Sensors. Thank you for the update,” the Admiral said calculatingly.

“Thank you, Sir.”

“So, back to where we were,” Janeski gave himself a shake. “If we wait until the Starbase if fully en-globed we’ll have to slow the down the main force just to make sure the screen has time to search for any other little hidden surprises cooked up for our arrival by the Governor and his group of provincials. I think we send them in now,” the Admiral continued calculatingly. “Three squadrons: one of Cruisers and two of Destroyers ought to do it. Let’s up the tempo and find out what they have along the arc of our advance sooner rather than later.”

“Designating an advance force from among the screen now, Admiral,” said the Operations Officer, “did you want to issue any new orders for the rest of the screen, Sir?”

Janeski paused and then shook his head. “Have the rest of the screening force continue with their previous orders for now. We’re just starting to get a clearer picture of what they have in there with the en-globement. I don’t want to disrupt that. If the advanced element needs to fall back they can call upon the squadrons nearest them for support,” said the Supreme Admiral.

“And about those three ships in the outer system?” asked Goddard. “Hmmm,” thought the Admiral, “it’s too small a group to threaten the main force but if they’re allowed to act…I think it’s time to activate the reserve force. Tell them to get behind those contacts and close the barn door shut behind them. No more surprises. I want to make a clean sweep of this star system.”

“We’ll pass the order, Sir,” said Goddard.

“And Goddard,” Janeski added, “tell them to come in nice and slow, at half speed; I want to flush out anything else lingering in the outer system if possible.”

“Aye-aye, Sir.”

“Looks like the Imperials are making their move, Admiral,” LeGodat reported over the com-link, “I’ll be taking Task Force Retribution out immediately after this transmission and we’ll activate Cloud Screen before they have the chance to get a good look at us.”

“They’re already starting to hit us with powerful, highly focused scans, Commodore,” Admiral Montagne replied shortly, “make it snappy.”

“Will do, Sir. LeGodat over and out,” he replied, cutting the transmission before turning to his bridge. “Navigation, plot a least-time course toward those three squadrons and Helm I’m going to want your best speed. The Imps were kind enough to stick their head out on our watch so let’s do them the courtesy of chopping it off for them.”

“Aye-aye, Sir,” acknowledged the Nav and Helm team.

“Com’s, relay the course instructions from Navigation to the rest of the Task Force and pass along the order: it’s time to roll out,” LeGodat ordered, “it’s full speed ahead and we don’t stop until we hit something hard enough to bounce.”

“Yes, Sir,” the Comm. Officer said opening a general hail to the rest of the Cruisers, “Task Force Retribution. To all ships of Task Force Retribution: maintain position on the Flagship and prepare to move out engage the enemy, course and speed files to are to follow this transmission. I say again: the operation is about to commence!”

“May the space gods have mercy on their souls, because I surely won’t,” LeGodat said, stepping up from his chair and hands clasped firmly together behind his back he advanced until he was right beneath the main-screen. It was time to grab this bull by the horns and start kicking it—and to keep kicking it in the head until it was so enraged it pushed and trampled him all the way back into the kill zone. There were going to be no fancy capes or tricky moves to lure it with, and the only red he had to offer to get its dander up and distracted with was the life blood of his various crews. The hulls of Task Force Retribution were going to weep crimson before this was all over, but it was perhaps the most worthy battle he had ever engaged in—and certainly it was the most consequential.

“This had better be worth it, Admiral,” he muttered under his breath before turning back to face the bridge. He pointed a finger at the helmsman, “The order is given. Engage the engines. It’s time to get this party started.”

Turning back he glared up at the holo-screen above him.

Imperial Rear Admiral Arnold Janeski and the men and women of his flag bridge watched and waited for the provincial’s response to his latest provocation—the advanced force of three squadrons the Supreme Admiral had ordered sent in early to scan for hidden surprises.

Janeski’s brows lifted as every enemy Cruiser on the plot simultaneously lit off their engines, moving out of the vicinity of the Starbase on an intercept course with his three squadrons.

“It looks like we have successfully poked the bear with a stick, gentlemen and women,” the Admiral said with surprise, “it’s not what I would have done, but we wanted to see what they’d do in response and now we have done.”

Moments later, the entire area surrounding Wolf-9 fuzzed out, disappearing from the plot before flashing back moments later with time-delayed and last known position warnings tagging everything they’d already observed about the Starbase.

“The enemy just activated a huge jammer field and it’s occluding our scans, Supreme Admiral,” the Commander at Sensors dutifully reported.

“I can see that, Commander Stenson,” Janeski said. “Well, well, well,” he murmured as he considered how best to take advantage of this new development.

“We knew they had obsolete jammer technology and the inclination to use it. We’ve since taken steps to counter their jammers,” Goddard said stoutly, “they won’t be nearly as effective as they were now that we’re forewarned and prepared.”

“Unfortunately, we won’t be able to turn the tables on them as Commodore Serge succeeded so well in doing to them since we are the ones advancing toward them and not the other way around. As such, I’ll give advance permission and leave the use of the Nervous Nellies to the discretion of our own ship and squadron commanders,” Janeski said slowly.

“We’ll pass that along, Sir,” said Goddard motioning with his head to the comm. section, “do you have any orders for the screen?

Janeski hesitated before shaking his head. “Tempting as it is to put a hand in and stir the pot, I think it’ best we leave things to the officers on the ground for now. Obviously if the provincials continue to press forward we’ll have to make a major adjustment to counter and crush them, but I’m determined to recon the Starbase at close range despite the introduction of this jammer field first—at least until and unless they sally out their Battleships as well. Then we’d have to pull back until the main fleet arrived. By the way, who is it in overall command over there right at the moment?” he asked.

“Vice Admiral Benson is the senior officer on the scene now that the Cruisers have arrived and integrated themselves into the Destroyer screen,” reported Operations.

“Good. He’s not quite as deft a hand at handling the tender egos and non-centralized slashing attack missions of the Destroyers as I might like, but dealing with a large mass of enemy Cruisers is right in his wheelhouse,” Janeski said decisively. “In the meantime fire up the fighter launchers; I want a mixed force of twenty squadrons, half fighters, half bombers armed and launched for a long ranged strike on the Starbase complex in twenty minutes. The enemy seeks to seize the initiative and take control of the tempo of this battle and I, for one, am disinclined to allow it.” He paused and then added, “Increase the overall speed of the main force by 3% and launch those bombers with fighter coverage. Let’s see if they’re still inclined to make a fight of it, or if they’ll fold and go back to cowering behind those defense turrets until it’s all over but the crying as we close range and pound them to scrap.”

“Aye-aye, Admiral,” said Operations Officer turning to coordinate with Fighter Operations for the upcoming mission.

“Instruct Gamma Squadron to proceed up the enemy’s flank to pound them down and switch Beta over to cover for them,” LeGodat spoke rapid fire.

“Two squadrons of enemy Destroyers are approaching the Task Group on the starboard flank, sir!” reported Sensors.

LeGodat waved him off furiously, still focused on the three squadron advanced force. The Destroyers might still manage to get away if they turned to run but unless he gave them the chance, by say reacting to outside reinforcements from the enemy screen, that Cruiser squadron was theirs.

“Tell Alpha to keep up the pressure, I don’t care if their shields are getting low I want to pound this enemy Cruiser squadron into scrap metal before they can be relieved!” Commodore LeGodat commanded before stalking around to the other side of the holo-screen and thrusting a finger at a pair of enemy Destroyers moving in close to cover a Cruiser with critically low shields and damage to the hull underneath.

“Another two squadrons force one Destroyer and one Cruiser are moving into position to threaten our port flank,” reported Tactical.

LeGodat ignored him as the Gama Squadron commander—who must have finally gotten tired of his nagging—suddenly veered a 25 degree angle toward the enemy squadron and sent his Cruisers thundering in for the kill.

“Yes!” he clenched his fist as Gamma went in, going broadside to broadside with the enemy Cruisers while the Imperial Destroyers scattered off and away from their larger brethren like a startled flock of birds.

Moments later, one enemy Cruiser started streaming atmo while a second veered the wrong way for just an instant and took over a dozen hits to its engines from an aggressive Gamma Captain. Badly wounded, that Cruiser suddenly fell out of formation.

“What’s the status on the rest of the system?” LeGodat snapped, rounding on the Assistant Tactical Officer responsible for keeping up with the larger battle while LeGodat and Task Force Retribution were focused on the immediate enemy around them.

“The Imperial main force has increased speed and appears to have launched a fighter strike against the Starbase,” the Assistant Tac-Officer reported crisply.

LeGodat hesitated a second, then nodded sharply and turned back to the plot representing the immediate battle.

“We’ll have to leave that to the Admiral for now,” he said and then looked over at the Comm. Officer. “Instruct Alpha to join as close to Gamma and the enemy squadron as they can without risking a collision and send Echo Squadron up to cover their position. I want these Imperials en-globed and then crushed.”

“Echo reports they are taking ranging shots from the enemy reinforcements and will move to comply,” reported the Comm. Officer as yet another enemy Cruiser took engine damage and started to slow.

“Keep the pressure on,” growled LeGodat, even though he wasn’t actually issuing any orders.

Suddenly, the enemy Cruiser squadron seemed to waver and three Cruisers accelerated faster than the ships of Task Force Retribution could manage. The bogies pulled out and away from Gamma and Beta, seemingly abandoning their more damaged squadron mates to their fate. The Destroyers also turned and blasted away at their best speed.

“Don’t bother to chase; I want as many up-the-kilt shots as we can manage. We’ll finish the stragglers,” barked LeGodat.

“Commodore!” exclaimed the Comm. Officer. “Two of the three enemy Cruisers have signaled their surrender while the third has just started releasing escape pods and indicated its desire to fight to the bitter end.”

LeGodat froze his mind taking a moment to catch up. “No. It’s a trap,” he said shortly, “they want to delay things so that when we’re pushed back they can be recovered by the rest of their fleet. Or they might want to spread us out since they’re all now suddenly slowing down at different speeds making us easier prey for their fellows.”

“Sir, are you officially refusing to accept their surrender?” Commander Stravinsky asked formally.

“Good point; we need to keep things legal. I almost forgot to pay proper attention to the niceties there, Commander,” LeGodat said appreciatively toward the Commander and then turned to the Comm. Officer. “Tell the ones who surrendered that they are to immediately drop their shields, scram their fusion generators, and eject the fusion cores within thirty seconds or their offer will be considered a false surrender.” “Aye, Sir,” said Comm., turning to relay the message.

“Commodore, a large force of twenty Cruisers and thirty six Destroyers is going to form as soon as the reinforcements on either side of us meet up with the stragglers running away,” noted Stravinsky, stepping up to his side to look at the plot from beside him.

“Tell Charlie and Foxtrot that since they’re at the end of the formation they are to take over for Beta and Gamma and finish any of those Cruisers that do not comply with my requirements for accepting their surrender. Then tell Beta and Gamma to rejoin the main formation,” instructed LeGodat before turning back to Stravinsky.

She met his eyes as he turned to look at her.

“Now let’s see what we can do about keeping the enemy separated, off balance, and on the retreat for as long as possible. Since you noted they’re about to link up, you can help me decide the best way to deal with them. Right now I’m thinking we shift to port and push in toward that group,” he said, pointing to the Cruiser heavy side of the slowly swelling enemy force. “What are your thoughts?”

Chapter Thirty-three: The Wolf-9 Response

“What’s the current status on those fighters?” I asked the moment I stepped back on the bridge after a tea-inspired run to the head to relieve an overly full bladder.

“They’re now ten minutes away from the outer edge of the jammer field and the extreme range of the fixed defenses,” the current shift Tactical Officer reported quickly

“They’re still coming straight in along the plain of the elliptic?” I demanded tensely.

“Within a 1-2 degree variance, yes, Sir,” she replied.

I heaved a relieved sigh.

“What’s the status of the laser link network?” I turned to the Comm.

“Signal strength is still high,” nodded the com-tech currently in charge of the section.

For an instant I silently wished that Lieutenant Steiner was still on duty. But the enemy had decided to attack the system during the middle of the shift, and right now she and most of First Shift was taking a short, but much-needed two hour break to nap and get some food inside them.

“Alright then, prepare to pass a movement order along to the rest of the Battleships. I don’t want to bring down the whole jammer field, so we’re going to move the entire Battleship force toward that fighter force and then spread out so they can’t get around us. Each ship is to put the edge of the field within extreme range of its point defense systems and then wait for my signal. That signal will be the moment when I cut all the jammers between us and those fighters,” I instructed.

“I’ll pass along those orders along as soon as you’re ready, sir,” the com-tech said with an eager smile and a tense body that looked like he was ready and straining at the bit to do his part to set everything into motion.

“Next,” I said, pointing at the comm. operator sitting beside the Tech in charge of the section, “I want you to get with the Starbase and request they hand over fire control over the defense turrets and old orbital guns from Lynch that have been deployed on that side of the Starbase nearest us. We’ll establish point-to-point laser links with those turrets even if they’re still within the jammer field and have them assist us against those fighters.”

“If we’re just going to utilize just the flagship, there’s a limit on how many of those turrets we can coordinate,” warned the Assistant Tactical officer in charge of the shift.

“I’m well aware of that, but the amount of bandwidth we can put through the laser link to the Starbase doesn’t allow for sufficient clarity for their targeting computers to handle more than a handful of the turrets right now anyway,” I said with a shrug. “And somehow I’m not quite trusting enough to hand the codes to our defensive network over to the Sector Guard—or any of the half dozen other organizations that make up the 25th Amalgamated.”

“We could always spread the load out over the other Battleships belonging to the MSP,” she pointed out after a moment.

I hesitated, my insides clenching up briefly in an almost instinctive desire to keep everything as under my personal control as possible. Then I flipped a hand, “Good point. Let’s go with that.” I turned to com-tech, “Pass the word and later the control codes to Messene’s Shield and the Armor Prince when you get them.”

I looked over at the Assistant Tactical Officer.

“Good catch,” I said tersely and then turned back to look at the plot.

“Will there be anything else, Sir?” asked the Comm. Officer.

“Yes, make sure to direct the three ships belonging to Praxis— and those four recently retrofitted New Pacifica Battleships that now belong to the Sector Guard—as far away from the Battleship as possible. Somewhere, say, along the outer port side of the anti-fighter formation,” I said seriously.

“You want them shifted to the outer portion of the formation like you don’t trust them?” the Assistant Tactical Officer looked taken aback as she cocked her head.

“Exactly,” I said with total certainty, “also, I want the Armor Prince and Messene’s Shield posted to either side of us. Meanwhile have Admiral Dark Matter’s flagship moved into the center of the formation somewhere near us if it hasn’t been already and Dark Matter is to be designated as my temporary replacement if anything happens to myself or the communication arrays of the Rage. I want as many ships as I can trust nearby in case we have to deal with more than just the Imperials and their Reclamation Fleet,” I instructed.

“I see,” she blinked, “we can do that.”

“Make it happen and pass the order to the rest of the Battleships we need to move out now,” I said seeing the enemy fighters continue to move in ever closer.

Chapter Thirty-four: The Montagne Initiative

“Admiral, I’ve got Commodore Kling on the line. He says he has a request,” said the com-tech.

“Put him through,” I said.

The Commodore appeared on my screen. “Thank you for taking my call, Sir,” said the commander of my shattered light forces.

“I’m kind of pressed for time here, Kling,” I said brusquely. “So while I apologize if I haven’t had the time yet to properly thank and compliment you and your men, and ask you to send along my regards and concern over a hard-fought battle out there in the outer regions, I’m currently preparing a reception for the Imperials. What can I do for you?”

“I know there’s a grand plan in the works here somewhere—something more than just driving off these fighters however important that is, and it is important, I concede that even though I’m not a part of it,” he held up a hand, “and I don’t think I need to be filled in either.”

“Than what do you want? Please get to the point with alacrity,” I said tersely, my eyes involuntarily straying back to the screen to check up on those fighters before coming back to the Commodore.

“I don’t need to know the plan to know that the Imperials are stepping up their game in response. The Starbase is under threat of a fighter attack that could cripple our infrastructure—or do even worse than that—while Commodore LeGodat is fine for right now. But any fool can see within minutes he’ll find himself fighting for his life,” said Kling.

“An accurate assessment,” I agreed, looking at him sharply. Presumably, he was going somewhere important with this.

“I’ve been talking with the boys and over half of us are ready to head out there for a rematch while the other half would be willing to do so if ordered. I was thinking of heading out there to help LeGodat and taking the opportunity to rain some pain on the Imperials for what they did to us out there,” he gave me a sly look. “And if the movement of forty volunteers—or even as many as sixty or seventy if you give the word and we discount the heavily damaged—causes those fighters a headache or even forces them to divert away from the base, well then that wouldn’t be the worst possible outcome would it?” “You want to take a volunteer force out to help the Commodore?” I said slowly. “I can’t ask that of your men.”

“That’s why it’s called ‘volunteering’,” said Kling, “let us do this for you and wipe the sour taste of defeat out of our mouths at the same time.”

I drummed my fingers on the arm of my chair. “If you can get forty or more volunteers, you can put the rest of your force on close-in defense of the Starbase and head back out there,” I eventually agreed.

“I can do that so long as you give me control over the rest of the Destroyer force,” Kling said sly.

“A rank power grab?” I asked, my brow lifting. “Why, Commodore, I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“I’m prone to be content with what I have when times are easy, but things haven’t exactly been the smoothest sailing lately. A man has to step up when that happens. And, as they say, when the going gets tough the tough get going out of there. Case in point,” he said dryly, pointed toward the screen where the Imperials streaming ever closer.

“Alright, you were in charge of the majority of our light forces including a large portion of our Destroyers anyway. You’ve got the job. Don’t make a mess of things.”

“If I do, I won’t be around long enough to notice, Sir,” he shrugged before straightening, “thank you for the opportunity, Admiral, I know you’re busy. Kling out,” he said, cutting the transmission.

Chapter Thirty-five: Janeski and the Fighter Strike

“What have we got, Goddard?” Janeski blinked and asked as the other man signaled him surreptitiously.

“It looks like the locals are making a move, Sir,” the Flag Captain pointed toward the screen where force of small enemy warships where still clearing the jammer.

“Interesting,” Janeski said.

“Sir?”

“They’re flailing, Captain,” explained the Supreme Admiral.

“Do you want to re-task the bombers groups, Sir?” the Fighter Operations Officer asked.

“If the locals want a taste of our torpedoes, the commander of our fighter force can deal with it when they move toward him. No. We’ll let the commanders on the ground deal with it as it comes. They can see a plot just as easily as I can,” Janeski said firmly.

“And if they try relieving their Cruiser force?” asked the Fleet Operation Officer.

“Benson doesn’t need me telling him how to do his job,” Janeski said, referring to Reclamation Fleet Cruiser screen facing down the locals outside the jammer field, “although he might be able to use a little support. Good suggestion, Ops. I want another mixed force of fighters and bombers, the same as the last wave, launched to support Benson and the screen.”

The General Fleet Operations and Fighter Operations officers exchanged glances before Fleet Operations turned back to the Admiral, “We can do that, Sir.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” Janeski asked reprovingly.

The Provincials only thought they’d seen what a real space war looked like. They hadn’t—but they were about to.

Chapter Thirty-six: Kling and the Light Relief Force

“Main Imperial fighter force…no reaction, Commodore,” reported Sensors.

“They didn’t take the bait. Too bad,” Kling said with a twinge of disappointment.

“It increases the odds of this force doing anything meaningful, sir,” reminded his XO, “that has to count for something.”

“Oh, I know that. And it does, Pablo,” Kling replied to his Executive Officer, “but I sold this operation to the Admiral on the premise that we might be able to divert those fighters and, as you can see for yourself, there wasn’t not so much as a twitch.”

“A problem for another day. Besides, if I may be so bold, given a drop in your future reputation or the chance to pound some closet Imperials into scrap metal which one would you choose?” asked the XO.

“Oh, I’m ready to fight, Pablo,” Kling said coldly, “it’s just that this closes off our chance to run back into the jammer field, duck and weave, and in general do what it is that Corvettes and Destroyers do best: use their speed and maneuverability to the maximum.”

“The boys and girls want to fight too,” the XO said flatly, “let us at them, sir.”

“You’ll get your chances,” Kling vowed, turning to bridge at large, “full burn toward LeGodat’s force. We had time to lick our wounds and now it’s time to get to the Perseverance and the rest of our ships stuck back in it!”

Chapter Thirty-seven: LeGodat’s Price

“Hold!” the Commodore barked as the ship shook from yet another hit that punched through their increasingly paper thin shields. “We’ve got to stay on position another forty five seconds to cover Beta Squadron before we can pull back!”

“Roll the ship and tell the portside to light them up with a broadside as they see them,” ordered Stravinsky.

“I’ve got a Destroyer coming in from above our formation at three quarters speed; she’s damaged and dropping escape pods like they’re going out of style,” reported Sensors in an elevated voice.

The ship shuddered again and then she turned to bring her broadside to bear on the enemy squadron. Lasers thundered into the lead enemy ship, breaking her shields and punching a hole through her nose—which immediately belched a flash of fire before the fire disappeared and it started venting unlit gases.

A cheer broke out on the bridge of the Little Gift. “Take that, Reclamation Fleet!” screamed a crewwoman in the sensor pit.

“That’ll teach them to come into Easy Haven,” an assistant navigator said with satisfaction as the enemy warship immediately flared its engines and retreated.

“Steady on, people. This battle is far from over,” Stravinsky ordered.

“Commodore LeGodat! Echo squadron is pulling back from its position in the line,” reported Tactical.

“What they’re pulling back early? Com-section, someone get their commander on the horn and tell them to stay put until ordered otherwise,” snapped LeGodat.

“I have their Squadron Commander on the line, Sir. He says it’s a no go, their ships are being hammered and they have to pull back,” reported the com-tech handling the transmission.

“Put him through!” cried the Commodore.

“Commodore LeGodat this is ComCap Franklin Littlefoot of the New Martian Defense League. I’m sorry to disappoint but—“

“Listen up, ComCap, because I don’t have a lot of time. You are going to hold your former position for another two minutes before pulling back, or so help me New Mars 43 won’t just have the Imperials to worry about if they win. If they lose you’ll have me and the entire Confederation Fleet! Get back in formation,” he shouted.

The ComCap glared at LeGodat for a short moment before nodding jerkily. “Every loss in my squadron will be on your head then,” he snapped.

“This is war, ComCap—deal with it,” roared LeGodat.

“Best you never run across me in a bar of duty, Commodore!” the other man snarled, cutting the transmission with a savage gesture but the ships of his squadron started to move back into position.

“I’m getting a strange sensor contact from that Destroyer, Sir!” reported Sensors. “It matches the strange contacts reported by Commodore Kling right before the enemy activated their stealth jammer drone.”

“Sir, the relief force from the main fleet is almost—” reported an assistant Tactical Officer.

“I don’t have time for that!” LeGodat said sharply. “New orders to Alpha squadron and the entire Cruiser flotilla: tell them to immediately saturate the area around that Destroyer with everything they’ve got!”

Chapter Thirty-eight: Imperial Cruiser Command

“Vice Admiral Benson, we’re detecting an anomaly in the enemy formation,” reported First Lieutenant Alisha Sands his Flag Staff Tactical Officer.

“Show me what have you, Alisha,” Benson immediately walked over to her console. Sands had been recruited right out of an SDF academy in the 28th Provincial, which only made her half an Imperial and on top of that she was so young she looked like she was still in middle school but for all of that she had one of the sharpest minds he’d ever seen.

He looked down at the screen, where one of the enemy squadrons seemed to have wavered. They were pulling back out of the enemy’s formation before the other side’s commander had been able to send in another group of ships from his reserve and then, for some reason, it had stopped moving entirely.

“Recommend we send in the entire reserve we have so far, Admiral Benson,” Alisha said crisply. “If we move now we can time it with Operation Stalking Horse, the Destroyer which is almost close enough to activate its Nervous Nellies. It’ll be close timing thanks to that light task group of reinforcements on the way, but we’re going to keep growing in strength faster than they are. I think we can manage to crack them open and put them on the run now instead of later.”

Benson stared at the screen, iron-faced, before nodding in approval, “Do it.”

The Cruiser squadron in the provincials’ advance scouting force they’d all but destroyed had been one of his. It was time for the enemy to share his pain.

Chapter Thirty-nine: Fighters Move In

“Sir, it’s growing increasingly hot over there for the Commodore,” reported Lieutenant Commander Hammer as her face popped up on my screen.

“I’ve been following the action in real time, Captain. I’m well aware the situation is starting to spiral out of control,” I said unhappily, glancing back and forth between her and the main screen.

“Thankfully you sent out that reinforcement group,” she replied. “They can use all the help they can get right now.”

“Hopefully,” I agreed absent mindedly, “just so long as he can lure them into the kill box, that’s all I ask of him.”

“Enemy fighter groups have just entered the jammer field and are now at extreme attack range,” reported the flag bridge Assistant Tactical Officer, her voice sounding a bit parched.

I made a silent note to send her over a glass of water after things calmed down a bit. “I’m afraid there’s nothing more we can do for the Commodore. Right now we must look to ourselves,” I said to the Captain.

“You flagship is ready for combat, Admiral,” Hammer said formally.

I nodded, looking at the screen and then lifted my hands. “Prepare to drop the jammer field between us and the enemy and engage preselected targets on my mark…” I commanded, rising from my chair. “Ready…ready…now! Drop the field and Fire!”

“Shutdown order sent to all designated jammers,” exclaimed the com-tech in control of the jammer field.

“Relaying orders via whisker lasers to the other ships now, Sir,” reported another tech.

“Weapons are free. I say again: weapons free. All gunners take aim at your targets and prepare to fire as the jamming clears,” ordered the Assistant Tac-Officer.

“All ships have acknowledged the order to fire,” reported Comm.

“Targeting sensors are clear—I say again: we have hard lock on all enemy fighters. Fire! Fire! Fire!” exclaimed the Assistant Tactical Officer in a rising voice.

There was a momentary pause as the Battleships of the amalgamated fleet waited for the jamming interference to subside. Then, in a rolling wave, every ship in formation belched fire and fury at the enemy fighters.

“We’re getting a few hits, Sir, but our longer-ranged weapons are meant for capital ship targets and not for swatting fighters out of cold space,” reported Hammer.

“Wait until they close to within close attack range and then bring back up the most extreme line of jammers behind them. Not all of them—just the ones in that line. Let’s see if we can’t form a little bubble where only the fighters and us can see each other,” I ordered.

“Sir, they’re already starting to take out the jammer buoys along their path,” protested Hammer, “bringing back up those jammers isn’t risk-free—it could interfere with our targeting sensors.”

“The jammer section will just have to compensate for it as best they can. Besides, they should be close in by then,” I said indifferently. If it worked we could hit them with our pop-up missile launchers, and if it didn’t and interfered with our targeting instead…that was just the breaks.

No one won anything without assuming a little risk.

Chapter Forty: Right up their sterns and fleeing the scene of the crime!

“Message to all members of Task Force Firestorm, the word is damn the torpedoes and right up their sterns,” Kling said with a forward chopping motion of his hand, “all ships are to break formation and make their best speed toward the enemy.”

“Sir, the enemy has yet to showcase any torpedoes in this particular region of the battlefield,” said his XO his brow wrinkling.

“I don’t have time for handholding, Pablo. Coms, the order is to attack the enemy and relieve the Cruiser force—relay it!” Kling snapped. “Helm, take the Perseverance to full burn on the engines. Let’s get into knife range and stay there!”

The Corvettes and Destroyers of Firestorm burned for all they were worth, driving toward the swirling disaster that was slowly encompassing the entire Amalgamated Cruiser Force.

“Come on!” urged Kling.

They had to get there in time and do so before the enemy—which was now both inside and out of the Cruiser formation and had managed to cripple LeGodat’s engines. Without the ability to maneuver, whatever plan the Admiral had entrusted to the Confederation Commodore would be null and void.

“One hundred and ten percent on the engines,” he instructed. They had to go faster!.

LeGodat’s people had managed to cripple the Destroyer and knock her out before she could reach the main formation of Cruisers. They even succeeded in destroying the majority of her jammer drones with saturation fire before they could get into close range. However, the little things were nearly impossible to find. They were mobile and moving at the speed of an amputated slug and one of the drones had finally slipped through, right into the starboard side of his formation.

As soon as it did, the enemy attacked the weakened point caused by Echo’s hysteria and slipped the two squadrons right into the center of LeGodat’s formation.

All hope of holding the enemy for another five or ten minutes until all of their reinforcements had arrived had just gone out the window when his formation broke. They had to retreat and they had to do it now because if the enemy stayed where they were he was going to lose the majority of his warships.

Now he just needed to figure out how to get those Cruisers out of his formation before they wrecked the engines of every Cruiser in the Amalgamate fleet!

“Commodore, we’re taking heavy fire, Sir,” reported Stravinsky as the ship bucked from yet another hit.

“Of course we’re getting hit, Commander. The Gift has to be the largest heavy Cruiser on the battlefield. She’s nearly the size of a Battleship,” he snapped.

“What I mean is we can’t take too much more of this before our combat power is going to significantly degrade…sir,” she said with a look of impatient long-sufferance.

“Don’t get weak in the knees on me now, Commander,” he said harshly before turning away. “Helm, send the Little Gift right into the middle of those enemy squadrons,” he started pointing toward the enemy ships in the middle of his formation, “we’re going to force them—”

“I’m reading multiple Cruisers exiting the enemy jammer field. They’re our Cruisers, sir, and…” the sensor officer paused, his rising excitement suddenly taking a downward turn, “and they’re scattering in every direction. Some of them are heading back toward Wolf-9 and others for what looks to be the hyper limit, Sir!”

“What?” LeGodat snapped, looking back at the battle plot, “No!”

“Sir, I’m getting a hail from Commodore Kling. He says they have arrived, Sir,” reported Coms.

Moments later, the leading edge of the light forces of Task Force Firestorm slammed into the side of the enemy nearest the port side penetration.

“Yes!” LeGodat declared, clenching his fist. “That should help take the pressure off. Helm, belay my last order. And Coms, tell those starboard Cruisers to get back here before they’re slaughtered by the enemy—they are to rejoin the formation. Tell them that reinforcements have arrived and you,” he pointed to another tech, “tell everyone else it’s time to fall back. The light forces are going to cover our retreat.”

“We’re just going to pull back like that?” Stravinsky asked as the bridge went into a flurry of action, relaying orders and readying the ship.

“We have a greater mission—one which cannot be accomplished if we’re all dead,” LeGodat replied.

“Shouldn’t you notify Kling and let him know what we’re doing?” Stravinsky asked.

“He’ll see what we’re doing soon enough, and any of them that survive that attack have the legs to catch up with us soon,” he said.

“That’s cold, Sir,” she said disapprovingly.

“I don’t have the time right now to hold his hand—or yours, Commander, so get back on task,” LeGodat said shortly. “If we miss this window while the enemy are confused by Firestorm’s attack then everything we have fought for here will be lost. Get it together, woman.”

“Aye-aye, Sir,” she said with a bite to her voice, but she turned back to do her job.

“I’m now designating all units which can do so to achieve separation and move toward a new rendezvous point. Point Zeta,” he instructed, picking up a slate, eyeballing it, and then jotting down a good-looking point with his stylus, “relay this now!”

“Got it, sir,” said the tech.

“Come on. Come on,” LeGodat muttered, looking toward the area where Kling and his Corvettes were making an attack run. The enemy was moving to interdict him before he could hit the enemy Cruisers, causing LeGodat all his current troubles. For his plan to work, Kling and his Task Force had to get through.

“Pard’s Pride is gone and King of the Hill just lost power. I have six more ships reporting minor or major damage,” reported Damage Control as the Engineer on duty on the bridge sorted through the automated updates relayed automatically to his console from the comm. department.

“Sir, I have two enemy Destroyer squadrons moving to cut us off,” reported Tactical.

“We can make it if we keep our speed up to maximum,” Kling said with a degree of certainty he wasn’t entirely feeling, “but it’s going to be close. Full power to our port shields, rob Peter to pay Paul if you have to—and Helm, keep that face pointed toward those Destroyers.”

“Will do, Sir,” said the Helm.

“On it, Commodore Kling,” said the Shield Operator.

“This is gonna be close!” Pablo said in a rising voice as every enemy Destroyer in two squadrons seemed like they were targeting the flagship.

“Helm—” started Kling.

“Evasive maneuvers!” warned the Helmsman moments after throwing the Corvette into a corkscrew, cutting him off.

“Keep at it and don’t wait for my order, Helm,” Kling barked, looking back at the screen as five of the nine Destroyers surged forward while the other four suddenly turned to present their broadsides.

The weight of fire instantly went from dangerous to un-survivable.

Right beside the flagship, a Destroyer took a full broadside from three Destroyers simultaneously. It shuddered, seeming to pause momentarily in space, and then exploded spectacularly.

Not ignored in the least, the Perseverance took a trio of blows that knocked her shields down entirely before another shot punched right through her hull.

“The auxiliary control booth just took a direct hit—it’s gone, sir!” reported Damage control. “I’m also seeing reports that we just lost half our port weaponry.”

“Well get it back,” barked Kling. “We took one hit—there’s no way we lost that many lasers from one shot.”

“A critical relay junction is down and it’s going to take time to route around. I’m going to have to do it manually,” reported the Engineer.

“Don’t tell me about it—just do it,” ordered Kling.

“Sir, I’m getting a signal from a New Corsica Comm. Officer. We’re being warned that they’re about to pass us on the starboard side,” said the Com-tech.

“Why do I need to know this?” Kling demanded rhetorically. “Helm, roll the ship; Shields, divert everything we have left to the starboard side!”

“Sir, it’s the New Corsicans—they just wanted me to remind you that while they were back at Wolf they rearmed their ships. Their hulls are once again strapped full of missiles,” reported Coms, “and they’ve got a full load of bucking cables.”

“What!?” Kling’s head snapped back around.

“Admiral, there’s a threat developing on the enemy’s port side that needs to be dealt with,” reported First Lieutenant Sands, reaching over to tug on his sleeve for emphasis.

“What is it,” Benson said irritably. Then he looked over at the close in view the Tactical Officer was looking at and swore, “Are those missiles they’re towing?”

“Yes sir,” Sands nodded.

“Somebody tell our Destroyers out there to stop those ships—preferably before they hit our Cruisers,” Vice Admiral Benson snapped, turning to issue the orders.

“Order relayed. The commander of those Destroyers, Commodore Bruneswitch, says they are moving in now,” reported the Coms.

“Good, he—” replied with a nod and then froze, “Bruneswitch…isn’t he that Destroyer commander that’s the laughingstock of the fleet?”

Sands stopped and pulled up a file, “Yes.”

“Blast!” Benson slammed a hand down on the plot.

“Capo, we just got permission from the Commodore. We are free to pass. The flagship is going to cover us,” reported Officer at the Com-Station.

“Good thing we came strapped to the party,” said a tech at damage control

“Silence on the bridge!” the Captain glared at the low-level, Connected Guy, 3rd class technician over at Damage Control.

“Sorry, Captain,” said the Damage Control Tech.

“Now then, let’s get ready for the drive by. Helm,” he said turning to the Made Guy at the Helm.

“What are your orders, Sir?” asked the Helmsman.

“Watch out for those Destroyers and take us in,” the Captain ordered.

“Yes sir!” said guy at the Helm.

“And somebody cue in the fighting music,” snapped the Captain, “we forgot last time and I’ll not have it happen again on my bridge!”

Moments later, the holy soundtrack started to play, and an ancient artist began singing about the thrill of the fight and rising up to the challenge of rivals.

“Uh…sir! The enemy Destroyers have just broken their previous speed records and are pointed right at us,” reported the Tactical Officer.

“Saint Soprano asks no more of any guy than he can give,” the Captain said confidently, “just like the Family Legions of New Jersey when faced with Imperial Jacks on the ground outside the New Pope’s holy residence, there is only one order left to give,” he drew in a deep breath. “For God and La Cosa Nostra! Charge!” he shouted, his words heard by every guy on the ship via the overhead speakers.

Kissing the cross around his neck, there was nothing left to do but wait. The Holy Gangsters of Righteousness were about to take one more ride.

“Yes!” said Vice Admiral Benson as the first of those infernal missile-carrying Corvettes was hit and destroyed in a chain reaction that virtually annihilated the entire ship.

Sadly, it didn’t take out either of its sister ships in the attack but there was still time—until suddenly there wasn’t.

The screen around one of the Corvettes fuzzed. “One of the enemy Corvettes just activated the missiles they were towing, along with a large number strapped to the hull of their ship,” reported Sensors.

“That’s gone and torn it,” growled Benson, “somebody tell me that our ships are still outside of missile range.”

“Not quite,” reported Sands after running the calculation, “our ships should have time to shoot down most of those missiles, and the shields of our Cruisers can stop the others,” she said.

“That’s good then,” Benson said relaxing slightly. As long as he could keep the pressure on them the locals were a spent force that had nowhere to go. But if they could disrupt his encirclement just long enough for a breakout—or even a partial breakout—then they might be able to prolong things and what he wanted right now was a clean sweep.

“No, the problem isn’t the missiles already fired—it’s the Corvette aiming to follow them in and drop his payload at close range,” Sand remarked absently, suddenly causing the Admiral to clench up.

“Tell Bruneswitch I don’t care how he does it, I want—” started the Admiral, when suddenly one Destroyers moving to intercept the provincials suffered an engine flare and went from 110% of normal max acceleration back down to 75%.

“Man’s sake!” cursed the Admiral. His eyes roved over the screen but he didn’t see any other solution but just in case he asked his Tactical Officer. “Any recommendation, Sands?”

“Either we take the risk they can’t hit the engines of our Cruisers or we tell our commanders to turn and defend themselves,” she replied, her youthful face scrunching up as she considered.

“Thus disrupting our formation,” he said rhetorically, “alright then, blast it: tell those captains to turn and defend themselves.”

“Now the only question,” she said clinically, “is if they have time.”

“Enemy Cruisers are turning to face the New Corsicans,” reported Tactical, “it looks like they won’t have the time. They’re going to have to drop their missiles and break off.”

“Rats,” said Kling, “prepare to swing us wide. It’s not what I wanted but so long as we can throw off their timing and get them facing us instead of our Cruisers, we give LeGodat time to pull his force back together.”

“Sir,” reported his XO pointing at the screen, “LeGodat seems to be using the time to pull back and fight his way out,” he said, pointing to where a number of the broken right wing as well as those Cruisers furthest from Task Force Firestorm seemed to be fighting their way out and back toward Wolf-9.

“While it would have been nice to be informed,” Kling growled, “it’s the right move. Let’s make sure our people are able to link back up with those Cruisers or else the Imperials will make short work of us. And—”

“The New Corsica Corvette is starting to take heavy fire but it’s not pulling away, Commodore,” interrupted Navigation, “instead it’s increased its speed and started to release escape pods.”

“What?” Kling turned back with surprise. “What are those crazy fools doing?”

“A hit! They just took a hit from a Cruiser’s Medium Laser,” reported Tactical.

“Tell them to get out of there,” Kling ordered.

“They seem to have lost power,” said Damage Control, as the Corvette staggered and lost thrust before its engines suddenly restarted. “No, wait…she’s back under control!” he reported as the New Corsican ship resumed accelerating right back along its original course behind the missiles.

“Coms!” shouted Kling.

“I’m sorry, Sir. The Captain of that ship won’t turn back. He says they’re ‘on a mission from God’,” the com-tech said, looking back at Kling helpless.

“Of all the accursed, religious fanatic claptrap,” Kling cursed. “I thought New Corsica didn’t have an extreme religion? Or has this captain just lost his mind in the heat of combat? Sweet Murphy save us from self-sacrificing officers,” he swore. But even though he was admonishing the other man, he couldn’t help but feel a sense or respect for the grit and determination of the Captain. Because not only was he pressing home his attack, he’d already released his crew to the escape pods.

While he was thinking that, another close hit took out the Corvette’s remaining shields but missed its hull. Moments later, the screen around the little Corvette fuzzed.

“Missile launch. I have multiple missile launches—the Corvette has just launched her missiles…but for some reason they seem to have fallen behind the Corvette! The New Corsica ship is now leading her own missiles, sir!” reported Tactical.

Just what in the world? Kling wondered, not bothering to ask the question aloud. Because not only would no one here know the answer, but clearly the captain in front of him might be an idiot but he was apparently no fool. He had a plan and it only remained to be seen just what it was.

“Now that they dropped their missiles their accel has shot up,” reported Sensors.

“The Corvette has changed course—she’s now on a collision course with an enemy Cruiser,” reported Navigation.

“I’m receiving a powerful open hail on all frequencies,” said the com-tech at the same time one last escape pod ejected from the Corvette.

“Put it on,” ordered Kling as one Cruiser finally finished turning its broadside to the little Corvette.

“Here it is, Sir,” said the com-tech.

“Yo, Adrian,” came the sound of the other ship’s captain moments before the Cruiser opened fire, its lasers sweeping missiles out of the sky while a pair of medium lasers specifically targeted the Corvette. Those beams punched clean through its hull from stem to stern in nearly simultaneous blasts.

“That’s it. She just lost her engines and automatically ejected her fusion core,” reported Sensors with a sigh.

“Not quite…she’s still on course for that Cruiser,” said the Navigator, “and even now her hull is still protecting the missiles behind it.”

As they watched, an increasingly desperate Cruiser tried to protect itself and its comrades—who still hadn’t turned sideways—from the Corvette and its missile attack. Hit after hit punched into the little Corvette’s hull, completely destroying it and breaking it apart and, in the process, taking out a number of missiles from behind it. But in the end it was too little, too late, and the suicidal little Corvette did her duty by blocking for the missiles.

Igniting their little engines to sprint mode, all of the remaining missiles and counter-missiles lunged forward around the remaining parts of the Corvette. Waves of them slammed into—and through—the shields of the enemy Cruisers.

“A hit—one of them just took out an engine!” Tactical said jubilantly. “And another one just punched through—and another just hit them in the hull. Minimal damage but—”

A massive explosion rocked the area as the remains of the Corvette’s hull slammed into the weakened shields of the Cruiser, causing massive damage to her flank until finally something inside of her exploded.

“What happened? They hit her side-on,” asked Kling.

“I have no idea, Sir,” replied the Tactical officer, looking bewildered.

Benson’s fist slammed down onto the plot table.

“At least half of them will get away,” he cursed as chaos and confusion caused by one little suicidal Corvette caused a major disruption among his forces pressing home the attack that pinned down the enemy.

“Half is better than none,” pointed out Sands, “with the damage they’ve taken they’ll need to reorganize before they’ll be a major threat. At least for the moment they’ve been neutralized. We can either split off a portion of our force to keep them pinned down or finish them now.”

“I don’t want neutral—I want dead,” Benson said with certainty. “Order a full pursuit. It’s time we ended this. And tell someone over at the Destroyers to get in there and put the period on those enemy Corvettes. I want them ended,” he then glared at the Comm. station.

“Will do, Sir. I’ll pass it along to their senior commander,” said the com-tech.

“Preferably someone other than that failure, Bruneswitch, please,” he snapped.

“Commodore Serge is the senior-most surviving Destroyer commander,” said the Tech after a moment.

“Good,” said Benson, “order an immediate pursuit as soon as we are able. We have them on the ropes and now is the time to finish them before they can escape back into their fortifications and turtle up.”

“Sir—” started Sands.

“What?!” shouted Benson.

Sands blinked, leaning back with alarm.

“I’m sorry, please continue,” he said more calmly after realizing his error.

“The fighter and bomber wing is here and they’re requesting permission to complete their mission,” she said.

Benson smiled. “Give them our best targeting data, along my compliments. They are more than welcome to hit the enemy at will. Nothing would give me more pleasure than to see their torpedoes hit them as they run away,” he said with deep satisfaction. The Supreme Admiral had finally showed up with support—and at exactly the right time.

Chapter Forty-one: Confusion in the Sensor Department

“Enemy fighters have just launched long-range torpedoes,” reported Lieutenant Hart from down on the battle bridge.

“Fire the defense turrets and ready the popup missile launchers,” I instructed.

“I thought we were saving those for the Reclamation Cruisers?” asked Hart.

“We’ve got the jammer up and I want them available just in case we need them,” I said.

“There’s still a chance they might catch them with their sensors,” he pointed out.

“That’ll be all, Lieutenant,” I said.

“You’re the Admiral,” he said with a shrug.

“I am indeed,” I drawled before turning back. Our lasers were sweeping Imperial fighters out of cold space, but not nearly enough or fast enough for my comfort. As of this moment we’d only shot down somewhere around twenty of the original one hundred and twenty when they’d decided to launch their torpedoes and turned away.

“Enemy fighters have diverted course; it looks like they’re trying to fall back, Sir,” reported the Assistant Tactical Officer on the flag bridge.

“No doubt because they’ve tested our defenses and just fired over fifty torpedoes at us,” Hammer said dryly. “Why hang around and take damage when they don’t have to?”

I frowned, and that expression only grew deeper as the torpedoes proved increasingly hard to knock out as they approached. Only half had been neutralized when the remaining twenty six decided to put on a sudden burst of speed.

“Admiral, it looks like two squadrons of fighters have broken off from the main body. One squadron is looping down and around our formation and the other is breaking starward,” said the Sensor Officer.

“They’re trying sneak in to get a close-up look at our defenses,” I remarked.

“That looks to be the case, Admiral,” said Captain Hammer.

“Let’s disabuse them of the notion, Captain,” I said coldly and turned to the com-section, “notify the remaining Corvette and Destroyer captains near those fighters. Tell them they’re heading that way that I’d appreciate it if there were no more fighters within our defensive perimeter—and then, just to be sure, pass a message to Wolf-9 telling them that I am placing Starbase command in charge of destroying those fighters. They are to take any and all measures necessary to neutralize them so long as they don’t risk exposing our defensive posture to the enemy still outside our defensive perimeter.”

“Relaying the messages now, Sir,” said the com-tech.

“Enemy torpedoes on close approach,” reported the Assistant Tactical officer up on the flag bridge, “fleet gunnery reports they are targeting. Assigning individual targets now.”

Lieutenant Hart down on the battle bridge popped up on my screen, “I’ve just lost target lock, where are those torpedoes, Sensors?”

“Sensor contacts are flickering! The torpedoes have cut their acceleration and engaged some kind of countermeasures,” cried Sensors.

“What’s going on, people?” I demanded as two bridges on board this ship fell into confusion.

“Our sensors can’t get a hard lock, Admiral,” reported the Assistant Tactical Officer on the flag bridge, “if we can’t see them, we can’t hit them.”

“Gunnery reports that they think they can hit them once they get in close, but until then they can’t see well enough to take a shot,” reported Lieutenant Hart from down on the battle bridge.

“Target those torpedoes, Lieutenant—preferably before those they get to within attack range,” I snapped.

“Has anyone noted the Sector Guard doesn’t seem to have any problem with their point defense?” Hammer asked, directing my—and just about everyone else’s—attention back to the holo-screen, “look there, they just hit a torpedo.”

As we watched, first one, and then two more torpedoes where annihilated by the SG point defense grid.

“Someone get on the horn and find out why they don’t seem to have any trouble with their targeting. I want to know what we’re doing wrong and fix it,” I ordered, noting that the New Sector Guard seemed to be the only ones within the fleet still firing at and actually hitting the blasted things.

The com-tech jumped as if given an electrical shock, pressing the little ear-bud tightly into his ear and speaking rapidly.

“Sir, the Guard says they aren’t experiencing any trouble locating the torps with their sensors, Admiral,” said the com-tech.

“Have we been hacked?” I demanded, looking over at the small computer division within the Comm. section sharply, “and more importantly, can we get them to share their targeting data with the rest of the fleet?”

“I’m receiving reports from captains all across the fleet saying the torpedoes have disappeared from their screens,” reported a backup com-operator while her section head was busy.

“Blast it all. Why are only the New Sector Guard unaffected by this hack?!” I demanded.

“It might not be a hack,” Hammer said slowly, “as I recall, the Sector Guard are using recently refitted New Pacifica ships. I wonder if targeting sensors were one of the upgrades they received in the shipyard?”

“The Guard are willing to share their targeting data, Sir,” reported the lead com-tech, “and I’m receiving it now. Do you want me to disperse the feed across the fleet, Sir?”

I started to feel a headache growing in my temples. Right at that moment, I wished more than anything that Lieutenant Steiner was at her post instead of getting some much-needed down time. I was used to dealing with her and she knew me well enough that she could almost read my mind.

“If it’s not a hack, that will help, but not as much as if we were using our own eyes,” interjected Hart.

“As I recall, the flagship’s sensor network was upgraded while it was in the Gambit Yards,” I said, my mind starting to run wild with New Sector Guard conspiracy theories. Were they just out to sabotage us, or had they recently started working with the Imperial—and, if so, for how long?

“The physical sensors themselves were upgraded, which is probably why we can see the torps. But the targeting programs are still the same as the day they were last upgraded back in Capria,” Hammer reported, looking down as she read something off her screen. “The only changes the computer team made were in the interface between the computer and the new sensors so they could read the feeds properly. The actual targeting programs haven’t been updated in decades from what I’m seeing here.”

“Ah!” I said running a hand through my hair. “The Royal Rage was officially destroyed by Capria years ago, but in reality was handed off to the pirates and used for spare parts to keep up several other illegally-transferred Battleships going instead. Of course, its programs haven’t been updated.” The explanation made sense—real sense—but even so…I didn’t want to trust the Guard for anything I didn’t have to.

“It may be a marginal increase for us, but the rest of the fleet is literally shooting blind. We need a decision, Admiral,” Hart cut in angrily, clearly upset at my filibustering on the issue. “If we wait any longer it’ll be too late!”

“Share the feed,” I said, giving the com-tech the nod and clenching my jaw. For better or worse, the decision was made.

You could tell the moment the sensor data from the New Sector Guard ships was disseminated throughout the fleet. Point defense fire increased by six hundred percent and a hail of slightly-inaccurate fire poured out toward those torpedoes.

“Sir, I hate to have to be the one to point this out, but lag time would reduce and targeting hits would increase if those former New Pacifica Battleships and their sensors were more centrally located in our formation—or, even better, spread throughout our formation,” Captain Hammer said as the first torpedoes started slamming home.

It looked like the enemy had decided to target only two ships: Hart’s Heart and Admiral Dark Matter’s flagship. They were the two Battleships with the least amount of time in the yard, and the most obvious battle damage, so naturally they had been targeted by the enemy.

“Of course it would,” I said, keeping my face deliberately blank. Fancy that? I now mysteriously needed to spread the most suspicious ships in my fleet around where they could to the most good—or the most damage to the Battleships, which represented the most important formation in my entire fleet, “but for now let’s focus on what’s right in front of us: they’re targeting our weakest ships. No doubt they’ll do that again and again until they break something. That’s why, next engagement, we’re going to make a few changes. Here’s what we’re going to do: we follow your suggestion and spread those New Pacifica Battleships for best effect and then….”

While the torpedoes steady slammed into the weakening shields of the two increasingly beleaguered Battleships, I explained a few key elements of my new plan to the Captain. Finally, the first shots punched through the weakening shields and slammed into recently-patched armor on the two most vulnerable of our wallers.

The two ships had been battered and wounded, but they survived. However, if the Imperials where given the chance to repeat their strikes unimpeded, they could stand back and slowly batter us down to nothing. That wouldn’t do.

No, that wouldn’t do at all, I thought coldly.

“Let me get this straight: you want to place Dark Matter and Hart’s Heart in the center of the Battleship formation, pull all the MSP Battleships out of the formation, and then place Rear Admiral Dark Matter—from Blackwood—in temporary command?” Hammer asked with alarm.

“I don’t see how the particular Core World the man comes from as having any bearing on the subject and yes that’s the general plan,” I said firmly. Although it wasn’t so much that I was pulling the MSP out of the formation, as it was that I’d been grabbing every Battleship that could perform the Montagne Maneuver and putting them in one place.

“The whole reason you are in command is because no one Core World wants to be placed under another. They need either a Sector official or Confederation Admiral at the top to keep them from fragmenting. You’re placing Dark Matter in an impossible position,” she objected.

“On the contrary, I think that putting one of their own in command—and a man who had a front row seat to the ‘debacle’ and survived it—should quiet some concerns. And having me out of the way and not in direct command of our most powerful formation will quiet others,” I said truthfully before adding, “and, truthfully, there’s been a lot of pushback from the Captain-and-Admiral’s council ever since Nuttal splattered Vice Admiral Vextriam’s brains all over the conference room walls. I think this will be better off all around,” and it should keep me safely out of range of any New Sector plots, I silently added. I wasn’t really concerned about an uprising during the middle of battle, sure it was a concern but not as big a one as I was making out for Hammer.

“They’ll think you’re either trying to protect your ships from damage or call you a coward for trying to run away,” Hammer said coldly.

“Let them think and say what they want about me. Right now I couldn’t care less,” I said flatly, meeting her angry eyes with my own flinty gaze. “I will gladly—even eagerly—settle any checks their flapping open mouths write but only after this battle is over with and won. In the meantime, even if they get a bad case of verbal diarrhea where it comes to me and the MSP, they’ll follow Dark Matter’s orders.”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to do other than make an operational reserve we can call upon at need. But our own people won’t like the idea of standing back while everyone else goads us over the back channels for not fighting,” she warned.

I shrugged and then pulled my uniform jacket straight. “They’ll be singing a different tune if we’re able to use of the Montagne Maneuver like I have planned,” I replied unemotionally because, while I hadn’t named it, actually saying the full name of the ‘Maneuver’ aloud sounded a lot more than a little egotistical coming out of my mouth. “I’ve got a whole new twist on Orion, Captain—one that’d give strong men nausea and send the weak ones running for the door screaming. That is if they have time to think and know it before hand,” I said with a crooked smile.

Of course, the plan wasn’t entirely new. I’d gamed it out for days privately but, since I couldn’t risk a leak by telling even my own people this part of the plan before hand, I wasn’t exactly going to be informing Hammer that particular little fact right now and destroy morale.

Besides, if I’d learned one thing from Commander Spalding, it was that an officer—be he engineer or Admiral—always needed a surprise tucked away in his back pocket for just the right moment.

I just hoped the Imperials were as surprised as our own people were going to be. After all, they’d seen the maneuver up close and personal once before.

“The Maneuver,” Hammer said with sudden alarm, “surely you aren’t thinking of…”

I gave her a cold glance and then looked away. As long as they followed orders and fought, the Admirals and Battleship Captains could complain about me all they like. But show me one man or woman who talked trash and then ran, and I’d show you what that person looked like when tossed outside an airlock without a space suit.

From experience, I assure you it wasn’t a pretty sight.

I was done playing. Clearly I could fight like a hero, putting all the professionals to shame, and they’d quietly downplay or outright delete the information. Lose a battle, or even just appear to lose, and they’d pile on decrying me as a Tyrant in the media while shouting that I was a failure to my face.

Well, the whipping boy was the one holding the whip now—and after this battle I aimed to make good use of it.

Assuming we won and I survived of course.

In a foul mood, I turned back to the battle plot. There was a war on and I had no more time to wallow in self-pity. Save thousands and they called you a pirate; millions and they proclaimed you a tyrant; hit the billion plus mark and you were now a ‘machinist.’ Even in my own fleet, the new hires had started muttering that I was suspiciously pro-machinist.

Really, I just couldn’t seem to win and I was perilously close to not caring anymore. I’d try the carrot approach one more time and see where the media department angle got me. In the past, thanks in no small part to my ancestors, I was deathly allergic to using the stick. But the more time that went on and I saw how people continued to distort and portray me, the more I wondered if the Montagnes of the past had really been the terrible despots they were now known as.

I had to stow that thought double quick because, if it was true—which, of course, it wasn’t since it couldn’t be—and if I had been humiliated and proverbially burned in effigy since I was young, all because of a generations-long lie…well, I might just have to do something about that. And no one—including me—wanted that to happen, did they?

And this, citizens and parliamentary members, is why, at least in this specific area, the elected types were right and a democracy truly was better than a monarchy. Humiliate a man and his family to the nth generation and, after all, he was just a man.

Eventually his term in office would end—he would be out of the political arena permanently if things got bad enough—and ultimately both he and his family would be powerless to get revenge of past wrongs as anything other than an isolated terrorist. But a royal line had a staying power and continuity of rule that a democracy simply couldn’t match. Throw a dynasty under the bus and they would remember it.

Kings, no matter how neutered their rule, always had some power, and princes knew no term limits. Eventually the worm would turn and the family you betrayed would be in a position to get back what was theirs. Always.

Unless they were all dead.

Chapter Forty-two: Imperial Fighters moving in

“Red Flight, this is Red Leader: we are go for the attack run. Let’s get ready to shepherd the bombers in,” urged Red Leader.

“Time to show these local yokels the price of spitting on the hand that guards, protects, and feeds them,” sneered a recent transfer from the now defunct yellow squadron which had been broken up to be reformed later. “Free health care instead of fleets, longevity treatments-for-all instead of orbital fortifications, and ‘universal tax breaks’ instead of defense spending—and then they all but beg us to protect them from the big baddies out there? Who do they think they are turning to for a bailout when things go sideways? Us, the Imperial Navy and Senate, that’s who! I’m tired of my hard-earned taxes going to support parasites like these. Everything’ll be better once this entire region of space is properly incorporated into the Empire once and for all.”

“I’ve told you before to check your political rants at the door, Red 5,” Red Leader said severely. “I don’t care what your previous Leader’s position was on the subject but, not only are you factually inaccurate when it comes to the Spine, it’s distracting to the rest of the squadron and I just won’t have it.”

“Just say ‘no’ to people who want handouts instead of a hand up—that’s my motto!” the pilot said angrily, “and tell me one single area where I’m wrong and I’ll put a sock in it. But if you can’t then I’m standing by my position.”

“If you were talking about the Confederation Heartland regions then maybe you’d have a point, but that’s not the case out here. I don’t care if they want it heart and soul, they’re too poor in the Spine to institute a universal anything—except maybe taxes on the population. That’s your one thing, there’s your area, now snap that yap trap or I’ll have you up on charges so fast your head will spin when we get back to the barn!” snapped Red Leader.

“It’s every solder’s Man-given right to bitch and complain, Red Leader,” protested Red 5, “this is a violation of my rights as a pilot!”

“Not when it screws with unit cohesion it isn’t, Red 5. Request a transfer when you get back to the hangar if you want—I’ll even endorse it—but in the meantime, be quiet!” ordered the Leader.

“Already tried that, you know? They said ‘no way, no how’,” sighed Red Five.

“Like I said before: I’ll endorse it,” grunted Red Leader.

“Forged your electronic signature and already tried but they still said no. I think someone in personnel hates your guts almost as much as they hate mine,” sighed Red Five, “I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”

“You forged…you flaming barnacle! We’ll talk about this when we get back to base. For now, and for once in your miserable little life, shut your mouth before I put a hard lock on all outgoing transmissions on your com-channel and let you take your chances in the next furball without the chance to call for support,” the Leader said coldly.

“Man…” protested Red 5.

“All Red Flight pilots: prepare for insertion. We’re going in!” barked Red Leader

Chapter Forty-three: A hit! A definite hit!

“We’re going in!” called Red Leader. “Everyone guard your bomber and watch out for openings,” he said as the bombers picked up speed for their final attack run.

“Yee-haw!” shouted Red Five, hot-dogging his fighter up to the front of the formation and following his bomber in as it swooped up the stern of a provincial Cruiser. Despite everything the enemy’s point defenses could do, the bomber launched its torpedo and Five whooped, “Take that, you tax-evading criminals. Time to pay your fair share! You want to have your cake and eat it too? Well I’m not going to cut the check on your handouts anymore—no more Imperial subsidies from me! So you can take your much-vaunted zero tax rate, citizen-born right to a living wage without work or employment, and shove it up your dark and hairy—”

Red Leader touched the override button, forcibly blocking all transmissions from Red Five. He was going to kill him. He was really going to kill him when they got back to the Carrier.

But for now, he needed to follow his own bomber in for an attack on the same enemy Cruiser.

All around him, the other flights in the combined fighter/bomber wings made their attack runs, tearing the holy flaming atoms out of the sterns of half a dozen local warships before coming about, their ordnance expended.

Sure they were taking losses but in the cold math of the empire trading a fighter or even a handful of fighters for an enemy ship of the line? That was a trade the Imperials were willing to make all day long.

Evading a point defense laser and then goosing his engines to interpose his fighter between the bomber and an old-fashioned enemy chain gun, Red Leader was in his element. This was what he trained for. This was what he lived for.

But still…chain guns? He’d thought that this Sector was supposed to be one of the more advanced ones in the Spine. Thankfully, he wasn’t seeing it on the battlefield yet.

“Alright, turn back and get ready to escort your bomber back to the barn!” called Red Leader, keying open the squadron channel and thus unintentionally removing the lock on Red Five, “good work, everyone.”

But after the attack run, somehow he wasn’t minding the unceasing anti-Confederation rants as much as he had before. Not as much…but it was still blazing annoying. He again keyed the override after he suddenly remembered the other pilot’s admission that he forged his signature.

Chapter Forty-four: Riding it out

“There’s another wave of bombers coming in!” reported Tactical in a rising voice.

“Bow thrusters now! Full burn,” snapped Stravinsky fighting her ship. “I want at least sixty percent point defense fire on them as they come in. I am not going to lose another engine, people. Do you hear me?” she demanded.

“Alpha Squadron, stop and turn,” LeGodat said, keying open the com-channel himself using a priority override that would directly connect him to the Alpha Squadron Commander. He didn’t have time to wait for the com-section to relay it for him or worse have to wrangle back and forth with the Squadron Commander. The Imperials were here now and they were out of time for hand holding, “Your ships are the furthest ones in the front. I need your anti-fighter fire now!”

The Commodore, or Flag Captain, or ComCap, or Major, or whatever he was called on the other end of the line blinked with surprise. Then, after a moment of visible hesitation, he nodded.

“Passing the order to turn now, Commodore,” he said and swallowing.

“Good. Get it done, Alpha,” LeGodat cut the channel.

“Enemy on close attack run!” cried Sensors.

“Shields down to 20% on the arc facing that bomber and spotting heavily,” reported Shields in a rising voice.

“Tactical! Get guns on those bombers and blow them out of my firing arc,” shouted Stravinsky.

“Trying, Commander. Just a second—” the Tactical Officer said in a strained voice, only to be interrupted by the enemy torpedo launch.

“Separation! Enemy torpedoes away and closing in fast,” cried Sensors.

“Somebody stop those torpedoes,” Stravinsky yelled just before the first torpedo slammed into their stern shields.

“Shields overload. Shields are down!” cried the Shield Officer.

“Somebody give me some good news for a change,” Stravinsky snapped.

“The automated reboot cycle has been initiated; we’ll have shields back up in fifty seconds, Sir,” reported Shields.

Tactical cheered as the second torpedo, following closely in the wake of the first, was taken out by a point defense laser and detonated early.

“Tell gunnery to keep up the good work,” the Commander said tightly.

“Two more enemy bombers are on close approach!” reported Sensors right before another pair of torpedoes were launched.

“Fire! Fire! Fire! Take those torps out,” Tactical shouted down to Gunnery.

“Alpha Squadron, where are you?” LeGodat demanded, once again forcing open a connection to the Squadron Commander.

“Just one second, Sir. These ships don’t turn on a dime,” the other man said with a trace of irritation, and moments later the Alpha Cruisers turned far enough to the side that their defensive lasers came to bear on the enemy.

A barrage of laser strikes swept both bombers out of the sky before they could flee, but weren’t even targeted on the torpedoes they’d already fired.

LeGodat grunted and cut the channel. He had no more time to focus on the fate of his flagship. Either it survived this or it didn’t; he couldn’t afford to be distracted from the larger battle. He had to trust Stravinsky to fight her ship.

“Echo Squadron,” he said keying open a direct channel to Echo, “it looks like one of Charlie’s Cruisers has taken too much engine damage. As of now they’re moving too slow. I need you to fall back and deploy bucking cables until they can make repairs. Coms, tell Beta that they need to—” LeGodat’s words were cut off as an explosion rocked the ship, forcing him to grab hold of the plotting table to keep from flying to the floor. “What was that?!”

“Structural damage to the housing frame of the second engine,” said Damage Control. “Main plasma feed lines have been severed on the port side and the secondary lines are damaged. Second engine is down. I say again: our second engine is down until they can repair the feed lines and check that frame for stability.”

“Belay the frame check and tell them to focus on those feeder lines,” Stravinsky ordered. “If that engine can’t get back into action we’re done.”

“The chief engineer says five minutes to repair the secondary feed lines enough to reroute the load and bring the engine back online at fifty percent,” reported Damage Control after an emergency consult with the Chief Engineer. “It’ll be a half hour at least to repair the primary lines and get back full power.”

“Not good enough, DC—I don’t have five minutes,” Stravinsky replied harshly. “Get with the Engineer and find me a better solution.”

“Wait one…” the Damage Control Engineer said turning back to his panel and opening a com-channel. Seconds later he turned back to the Commander, “The automated shutdown and reboot cycle on the second engine has just completed. The Chief says we can give you 20% but we’ll be leaking plasma into the ship, that’s without any frame checks and slows down the repair job on the secondary feed lines to ten minutes and extends out the primary line repair to as much as an hour.”

Stravinsky glared at the man for a long moment and then looked back at the screen, “Do it.”

“I am compelled by Confederation protocol to warn you that activating the engines without a frame check could result in the engine tearing the stern of this ship apart—killing us all,” the Engineer said, drawing himself up stoically and closing his eyes as he said the last part.

“You have your orders,” said the Commander unflinchingly, “now carry them out.”

“Aye, Commander,” the Damage Control Officer said saluting then turning back to his console. Moments later, the engine flared causing ship’s course to wobble.

“Compensating now,” said the Helmsman fighting his controls and eventually the course smoothed out.

Everyone held their breath but, after a long couple of seconds when nothing happened, the bridge crew sighed in relief.

“Alright, people, back into the fight!” LeGodat barked, bringing their attention back where it needed to be if they were going to survive this. “Helm, no more playing around: point us straight at the kill zone and bring us in there at best speed.”

Now they just had to continue survive long enough to suck the Imperials in. With this latest damage there was definitely enough blood in the water to provoke them; the only question that remained was could the Cruiser flotilla survive long enough to suck them in.

At the moment, that was very much in question.

Chapter Forty-five: Fighting for the lives of their comrades

“There’s another four squadrons of enemy fighters lined for an attack on the Little Gift,” reported Tactical.

“Bring us around and message the rest of the screen,” Commodore Kling said making a snap decision. “Those Cruisers are nipping at their heels but we’re just going to have to risk it. I want those fighters taken down and taken down hard. The Firestorm ships are the best hope Task Force Retribution has of carrying out its mission.”

Coming about with its companions not far behind, the surviving Corvettes and Destroyers of Firestorm lit their engines and leapt back to the rear of the combined formation to stop those bombers before they ruined everything.

“Two enemy fighter squadrons are breaking off to intercept us while the other two are attempting to continue their attack run,” reported Tactical.

“With their shields down, the Gift can’t survive two more squadron’s worth of those oversized missiles of theirs,” Kling said direly. “Punch a hole through that blocking force, Helm. I want to pull around right behind the Cruiser’s stern and block any further attacks on their engines.”

“On it, Commodore,” said the Helmsman.

“Sir!” called out Tactical as they had just started exchanging ranging shots with the blocking force trying to keep them off their missile carrying companions, “I’m reading a large group of Destroyers pulling ahead of the rest of the main enemy force! They’re on an intercept course with us, Sir.”

“Time for a rematch?” Kling asked with a smile that was more grimace than anything. “Well, I’m game if they are. Deploy our Destroyers to the outside of our formation facing the Imperial Destroyers. Our Corvettes are just going to have to deal with the fighters on our own.”

“Relaying now, Commodore,” said Comm. Officer who, after a listening to his com-bud, paused and then turned back to Kling, “Sir, all Destroyers and Corvettes acknowledge orders except the Sundered. Primarch Glue says he will be taking the appropriate measures as the situation unfolds.”

Kling frowned but noted that on the holo-screen the Sundered ships were keeping formation and following along with the rest of the Corvettes.

“Whatever,” he said after a moment. After all, as a member of the Tracto-an SDF ultimately he had to live with the gorilla uplifts after the war was all over. Kling would just have to keep an eye on the situation.

Chapter Forty-six: An Imperial Push: Destroyer Style

“Alright, Jackson, take us in,” Commodore Serge said with a sharp toothed grin on his face.

“You heard the Commodore, Helm. Intercept course for the provincial light screen—full burn,” instructed the XO.

Serge watched as the four full squadrons of Destroyers under him moved in for the kill.

“What do you think the odds are that our adversary from the outer system is in there somewhere?” asked the Executive Officer.

The Commodore cocked his head.

“Adversary, Jackson? Really? He or she may have been the best the provincials had in their toolbox, but I don’t think they rise to the level of an adversary. Maybe an opponent at best,” Serge said after a moment of contemplation.

“I’m sorry; I misspoke,” the XO said.

“It’s no matter. That officer has done more damage to our Destroyers than any four other officers, the commander of their Cruiser flotilla included. Truth be told, I’m actually looking forward to crossing swords with him once again and putting a period on the end of his career,” the Commodore said.

“May Man give me slack, stupid, and unimaginative opponents is it, Sir?” asked the XO.

“Quoting old Admiral Forthright from back in the academy?” Serge asked, lifting a brow. “Is he still teaching or has he finally retired?”

“I wouldn’t know, Sir,” XO Jackson said with a shrug.

“Well, pay it no mind. There are better chances for promotion fighting the best the enemy has rather than their worst—at least, there is under a commander like the Supreme Admiral,” replied Serge.

“I’ll try to keep that in mind. But it’s ‘High Admiral,’ not ‘Supreme,’ sir?” Jackson cocked his head.

“I like a skilled, bold, and above all confident Admiral at the top of my organization, XO. Don’t ever doubt that for even a minute,” Serge said seriously. “But even though we’re officially a completely independent and rogue operation—one that in no way has anything to do with the Imperial Navy—‘High’ sounds just exactly like just the sort of routine claptrap most penny ante warlords operating on the edges would use. ‘Supreme’…well, that word smacks to me too much like something that should only be used only with Triumverate approval—preferably pre-approval—rogue operation or no rogue operation. So I’ll stick to the one least likely to cause me troubles down the line when all of our Reclamation Fleet’s internal electronic documents are up for peer review back home, if you don’t mind.”

His XO raised his hands as if in surrender. “I don’t mind in the least, and I’ll make sure to pass the word around the ship.”

“No need to cause any alarm. Just a word to the wise,” Serge placed a finger alongside his nose, “everything will probably turn out fine. And if it doesn’t, marking a few papers in a more politically-correct way probably won’t make any difference. But on the small percentage chance that it does, I’m going to continue to mark things up a certain way if you know what I mean, and I advise you to do the same,” he said.

“I’ll keep it on the down low,” said the XO with a nod.

“Ah, it looks like we’re about to enter attack range,” Serge said with satisfaction. “While this still doesn’t compare to the Front, this sort of experience is certainly going to look good in front of a promotion board,” he raised his voice. “Take us in, Helm.”

“Aye-aye, Sir.”

Like the vengeance of Man, the Imperial Destroyers under the command Commodore Serge swept into firing range of the enemy Destroyers and, without any preamble or fanfare, opened fire. By this point there was no point in asking for surrender; both sides knew the score so there was no point in beating around the bush.

“Enemy warships taking fire…now returning it,” reported Tactical. “If you want to pull us back a bit, the computer says we have the edge on them when it comes to range.”

“We’re not standing off at long range and pounding them, Tactical. We’re riding this prey down into the ground,” said Serge.

“Yes sir. I just had to say it,” said the Tactical Officer.

“Send Squadrons Two and Three around to port for an up the kilt shot. Either they disorder their formations or they sacrifice their engines, I’m good either way,” said the Commodore.

“Message relayed, sir.”

“Order Squadrons One and Two to press them hard. We want distract them from those bombers if we can. But if we can’t, I’m fine with that just so long as we can make them pay,” he said.

Jackson looked at him. “Blasting a Cruiser would be more satisfying but that’s not our job. Leave that to the bombers. Our job is to support them and take the fight to their screen, which is exactly what we’re doing.”

The Perseverance slashed through the enemy fighters, her light lasers punching holes into any fighter that didn’t get out of her way fast enough. The Corvettes behind her followed suit, driving the Imperials back.

“Keep us pointed at those bombers, Helm,” Kling ordered resolutely, “and send a squadron of Corvettes…make it Delta Squadron,” he decided, “around for another pass on those fighters. We need to keep pressing them.”

“Ranging on those bombers now,” reported Tactical, “gunnery is firing!”

“Bombers are scattering,” reported Sensors.

“Pour it on. Pour it on!” Kling pounded his chair as one bomber blew up and two more were hit, reeling out of formation and ultimately sent limping for home. Their ordnance had been fired early due to Kling’s defensive fire, and now that his Corvettes where here in force, those out-of-range shots were totally ineffective.

“Scatteroc reports they’ve been targeted by multiple ships and are taking heavy damage. While Baselard is falling out of formation. Four other Destroyers report shields down or falling and light to medium level damage,” reported Kling’s XO. “They’re pressing us hard, Sir.”

“We’ve got to finish these bombers,” Kling said resolutely, “tell the Destroyers they’ve got to hold for as long as they can before breaking off.”

Three more bombers and six fighters fell to slashing attacks before there was an explosion behind them.

“Scatteroc is Code Omega. I say again: Scatteroc is down,” reported Tactical.

“Baselard has struck its fusion generator and drifting unpowered!” reported Sensors.

“Destroyer screen is starting to pull back,” reported Tactical.

Kling glared at the screen as two squadrons of Imperial Destroyers aimed themselves at his now uncovered and exposed Corvettes and lunged in for the kill.

“Blast. We’re going to have to—” Kling stopped as a group of Corvettes suddenly pulled out of formation. “Who’s the blighter that decided to break formation without orders?”

“It’s the Sword of Omens and the rest of the Sundered, Sir,” reported Sensors.

“Glue!” Kling slammed his fist into the arm of his chair.

Chapter Forty-seven: Moves like a Primarch

“The boats are behind us and ready to move on your orders, Primarch,” said a Sundered Male with cybernetics in his head, his roving eyes staring beyond the walls of the bridge that ran the Sword of Omens—Glue’s personally chosen Sundered flagship.

“The Roving Banana says it’s ready to drop missiles and fall back at your order, Primarch,” said a female with beautiful slender fingers as she keyed closed a com-link.

“The order is being given,” said Glue with a grimace at the terrible naming sense of the missile ship Master. At his command, every Sundered ship in the screen turned their prow and burned toward the Imperial Destroyers.

“Are you sure, husband?” asked his scar-faced wife, her nose twitching in a large circular motion. “The humans have so many ships on both sides. Does it really need to be us who sacrifices again?”

“The order is after being given. Go!” he said with an emphatic, double-handed slap.

“Missile separation!” hooted a large, younger male, bouncing up and down in his chair with excitement.

“Full power burn!” Glue rumbled, glowering at the larger Imperial Destroyers on the screen. Ships like these had rained fire and destruction down on a defenseless convoy full of Sundered families early on in their Trail of Tears as they fled the would-be genocidal tactics of the Gorgon Alliance. Counter-genocidal tactics, really, but still—two wrongs did not necessarily make a right, especially when it destroyed the souls of those who used and approved of it.

“I just hope the pink skins appreciate our sacrifice,” growled his scar-faced female glaring at the screen.

“Fighting for humans? Glue is not fighting to sacrifice himself for humans. Glue fights for our Sundered people this day,” Glue rumbled, skinning back his lips to expose his strong and powerful, ivory teeth and raising his voice to a thunderous bellow. “This Glue fights because as a people we must vent this anger deep inside of us, removing the shadow cast over our hearts, or we will slowly rot from the inside until there is nothing left of our Sundered people.”

He glowered around at the Sundered bridge crew, knowing from their faces that he had their rapt attention.

“Before Omicron and Little Admiral, we are running and hiding and struggle every day just to live. But now we have a home and time to think. Too much time, I think. Back home, many full of rage and anger, Sundered ask: why help the humans? Let humans fight humans and, at need, make a lottery so no Sundered is choosing of own accord to fight in human war. Only minimum ships is sent to help Tracto and Confederation and Little Admiral. Our numbers are very small, so why not stay home and make babies and live life? But I ask: how can we pass on a legacy of helpless poisoned anger to our children?” the Primarch thrust a thick, black finger at the holo-screen, “I say no. I say those humans on those ships are same Imperial humans that attacked peaceful and defenseless refugee ships full of Sundered people—families whose only crime is refuse Gorgon world sterilization plan and run, wanting only find peace in this lifetime,” he shook his head violently. “Need and appreciation from humans are for humans, whoever is needing that more than the life itself is certainly not this Primarch.”

He saw backs stiffen and lips peels back, revealing savage mouths full of teeth bared in hot anticipation.

“This Glue fights now to remove the shadow cast over his heart. So that this Glue can go home and tell all people release your anger too. That if you cannot cleanse your heart in Tracto System surrounded by family then don’t stay home full of the red poison,” he thumped his chest with one hand, “follow this Glue and vent your anger too. Fight the humans who killed your family alongside this Glue. If you cannot see anything but red anger because of the past then close your eyes tightly shut and trust this Glue to see for you. You can place your body between our people and alongside this Glue fight Imperial family-killers too, so that someday maybe you can leave behind the shadows of your dead, your heart can shine brightly again and you can home a Sundered empty of anger and full of love.”

There was a silence as the whole bridge paused to digest his words. Then there was a bang and the grav-plates fluctuated, throwing Sundered against their straps and throwing one large male who had disdained his safety harness to the floor.

“Shields down on port side,” reported Shields.

“Damage to shuttle bay,” reported one of the females at Damage Control.

“Imperial Destroyers x2 locked onto this Corvette!” reported the Sensor male. “Four more Imperial Destroyers using point defense on missile wave. Effectiveness against our missiles is high!”

Glue turned to glare at the screen with slowly reddening eyes. He hadn’t been speaking falsely before: it was Imperial humans like the very ones inside these Destroyers that had killed his own family on the way to Sector 25.

When he spoke about shadows and anger and a growing rage inside, he spoke from personal experience. As a Primarch, a male, and one of the ever-diminishing adult Sundered, it had been necessary to set aside his own pain and anger for the good of the whole. And so he had. For the children, he was able to fight for his people with eyes that saw clearly, uphold the moral code to defend and guard without giving into his inner demons, and even negotiate with a heart that was worthy of listening to when dealing with humans that as a race stood against his people’s very existence. In short, he had been able to be what his people were supposed to be: intelligent, forthright, caring and moral.

But that time was almost over. His people were safe. So now he had no choice but to look to the future while remembering just how much he had lost in the darkness of the past.

Almost over…but not quite, he thought, silently waiting until the Imperials reached the exact point he’d been waiting for.

“Send out the gunboats!” he roared.

The male with the cybernetics in his head beat his chest like a drum and roared a battle cry as, on the screen, the eighteen gunboats that had been hidden behind the Corvettes surged forward.

Seeing the enemy’s surprise at the way they belatedly shifted in response, Glue once again bared his teeth. His people as whole didn’t need him the way they had before. Others could step forward in the council—and many had done precisely that. They had done what he could do, only faster and better—much better in some cases than the angry, suspicious male he had become in the last few years.

As the boats closed on the Destroyers and unloaded their payload at close range, Glue knew that it was his new wife that had saved him from himself—and that she could still save him in the future.

An Imperial Destroyer shuddered under the attacks of multiple boats as the Corvette’s weapons fired, and fired, and fired again, punching light laser strikes into its weakened shields and hull.

The time had come to test out the new combat system. Pulling down the new Thundera cybernetic system, he placed the helmet on his head—but not before giving his wife one last look. He didn’t just fight for his people any longer. Now, he fought for her.

As his cybernetics made their handshake connections, he gave the verbal command code.

“Sword of Omens, give me sight beyond sight,” he commanded, locking the helmet in place. Suddenly, his mind expanded and he was connected to the entire ship. It was like piloting a gunboat, only more intense.

Casting a last look at his life-partner while the automatic checklist was run by his onboard implants, he was once again grateful they had met. Without her, he would still be lost. When he had first looked at her—truly looked at what was inside—he had seen a female facing the same demons he had been dealing with. But whereas he had been unable to find a path out of the darkness for himself, for her he had found a way. All that was left to do was hold tightly to her hand and drag them and their entire people out of the abyss into which they had nearly disappeared—and he would drag them kicking and screaming if necessary.

If he could help even a fraction of that small but growing segment of his war-torn people that had lost, or were losing, their way then it would all be worth it.

And then every connection was made, he was the ship, and every other concern in his head fell away as his mind exploded with sensation. He could only sustain this sort of synergy for just under ten minutes or his mind would burn out, but during that time he would make the Sword of Omens dance like she had never danced before.

A trio of Imperial Destroyers came up behind him, and like a wraith the Sword of Omens drifted through the firestorm of three much more powerful ships taking little more than a scratch. And then, using his lasers to make a small hole, neat as could be, Primarch Glue/Sword of Omens dropped a missile right through that small spot in the shields he’d just opened.

Twirling away like a fish in the sea behind the merged Glue/Sword of Omens an explosion rocked the outer hull of the Destroyer as the missile slammed home. Following along behind him, the other Sundered warships moved to exploit the opening he’d just created.

Chapter Forty-eight: Moving in for the Kill

“The enemy screen has temporarily stalled our Destroyer advance. They have quite the command team over there on that lead Corvette. The execution between their pilot and their weapons department is flawless,” First Lieutenant Sands reported.

“It’s ‘Helmsman’ and “Tactical department’,” Benson corrected her. “What’s your recommendation?” he asked, already knowing full well what he wanted to do but taking this chance at a teachable moment.

Besides, he wanted to know what she had to say.

“We need to press them. They don’t have the numbers or firepower to stop us, not indefinitely. A couple good pushes and they’ll fall apart,” she recommended.

“And the enemy’s Starbase?” he asked.

“We’re still far enough out from their main defenses that they aren’t a risk,” she said confidently, “there’s always a chance something unexpected will pop up but they’re slow, weak and wounded. I’m confident our Cruisers can handle anything they try to throw our way short of those Battleships.”

“I agree. If it’s the Battleships we’ll just turn around, but otherwise we’re going in,” said Benson. “I’m sending in the rest of the Cruisers along with the flagship. It’s time to finish them.”

Chapter Forty-nine: Jason Swings his squadron of Battleships around Wolf-9

Round and round and round we go, where we stop nobody knows. Well, except for me, but only depending on what Janeski did. I mean, I knew where we’d stop and come out but it all depended on several factors outside of my control.

“The Battleship squadron is continuing to pick up speed, Admiral,” reported Captain Hammer, “it’s only going to get harder and harder to keep our arc within the jammer field as we circle around the Starbase. Not to mention the chance that we’ll randomly hit a piece of floating space junk or one of our well-hidden popup defenses. Recommend we either slow down or start deactivating the jammer field in front of us to keep from having an accident we cannot afford at this juncture.”

“I’m afraid we can’t do that, Leonora,” I said frankly, “LeGodat’s going to have them right where he wants them pretty soon. And, after that, all the blue blazes is going to break out over on the other side. We need to be ready for anything which means keeping our speed up. A Battleship is slow enough anyway; I can’t risk being caught flat footed when the enemy makes their move.”

“If LeGodat’s force makes it into the kill zone…which of course it will,” she said quickly, apparently a little superstitious when it came to jinxing our own side, “but nothing’s certain in war, Sir.”

“I’m well aware of that, Captain,” I said with a light rebuke, “but this is all part of the plan.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she said wryly.

There was a stir in the sensor pit. “Two new enemy fighter forces have been identified leaving the Command Carrier. Both of them appear to be targeted at the Starbase,” reported Sensors.

I frowned. First Janeski sent out a probing attack toward the Starbase which did little damage and took even less. Then he sent out a second force which left five of LeGodat’s Cruisers permanently knocked out of the fight and another three desperately trying to repair engine damage before they fell out of the safety of the Cruiser formation.

Now he was sending in two more groups of fighters, after learning the lesson of the first batch, to hit the Starbase’s outer defensive network? It couldn’t be anything good.

I wasn’t liking this new development at all, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it without tipping my hand before I was ready. Probably that was exactly what he was waiting for. Poke-poke-poke while he slowly wore us down.

Well, two could play at that game—only I wasn’t in for a little poking. I was down for a hammer-fist to the nose; LeGodat just had to drag them in a little farther.

Once again, I patted myself on the back for setting up the kill-zone outside, and slightly below, the main defensive network.

Chapter Fifty: Grinding them down

“Both fighter wings have reached the designated waypoints and are preparing to break into squadrons. Upon entry to the enemy jammer field the individual squadrons will further split into pairs and proceed as ordered, Admiral,” reported the Fighter Operations Officer.

“Notify me the moment the enemy jammer field starts to go down,” Admiral Janeski said brusquely.

The Fighter Operations Officer gave a sharp nod and turned back to monitoring the situation. “There they go, Sir. Our fighters have entered the jammer field,” reported the Fighter Officer.

“What do you look like without your skirt on?” Janeski asked, wondering at the disposition of the enemy forces behind their jammer field. He had all the previous records and long range sensor scans taken by his warships, but nothing beat a real-time sensor feed, “It’s time to pull away your curtain and see just what exactly you’re hiding in there.”

“The enemy will no doubt attempt to interdict our efforts,” commented Goddard as the various Imperial fighters disappeared into the sensor morass that was protecting the enemy base.

Janeski waved a hand dismissively. “We might take a few losses, but the jammer technology is so ancient it’s practically prehistoric. Not that it’s ineffective. All those things do is try to block scans by flooding every frequency across the spectrum it can reach. But the fact that the signals get louder and louder the closer you get to them makes it relatively easy for our fighter pilots to find. Slow down so you don’t run into them and move in toward the source of all that noise. One manual shot later and scratch one jammer,” Janeski said with satisfaction.

Goddard nodded. “Hopefully the enemy didn’t realize the same thing and put some sort of defenses next to those jammers. A Cutter or Corvette at the very least,” he said.

“They won’t be able to see anything parked close enough to ‘defend’ the jammers,” Janeski said dismissively.

“I was thinking more along the lines of standing off and then taking out our slow-moving fighters the moment the jamming dies off,” Goddard explained, “they might lose their field, but our fighters would be uniquely vulnerable.

Janeski paused. “That does sound far too much like the petty, lowdown, and vindictive style of the Governor,” he agreed with a frown. “For our fighters’ sake we’ll just have to hope he’s not as smart as you, because even if he has that jammer field goes.”

“Aye, Admiral,” the Flag Captain said neutrally.

Several minutes passed and the first of the jammer field blinked out of existence.

“Sir we’re starting to see the first results now,” reported the officer at Sensors as a second and third jammer went down.

The Imperial flag bridge watched intently as one by one the enemy jammers started to go off line slowly exposing the Wolf-9 defensive network.

“Excellent work, Commander,” Janeski said to the head of fighter operations onboard the carrier.

“Thank you, Sir,” said the other officer.

“Now let’s see what the emperor looks like with no clothes,” he said, sitting back in his chair and looking at the screen with narrowed eyes.

Several minutes passed as those fighters which had already completed their mission either dived back into the sensor morass or kicked up their heels and turned back for the Carrier.

“Sir, I hate to interrupt but the reserve force reports via whisker laser relayed transmission through com-satellites posted at the edge of the star system that they are continuing into the system under sensor reduction protocols, and that they are still behind that small enemy force still on a rendezvous course with Wolf-9,” said the head of the Communications Department.

“Good work, a Battleship is never to be taken lightly,” said the Imperial Admiral said, sweeping the battle plot one more time before checking the old-fashioned chronometer on his wrist.

“No, Sir,” said the other officer.

“Still we have received no word of any other forces hidden in the outer system. I think it’s time to flush them out, assuming they exist. And in any case if the Reserve Task Force wants to make it in time for the party now’s the time to get moving. New orders for the Reserve Force: they are to continue after the stragglers and make full speed toward Wolf-9. If the enemy force diverts from the Starbase, they are to continue pursuit until instructed otherwise.”

“Aye aye, Sir,” acknowledged the Comm. Officer.

“Sir, the enemy’s main Cruiser force appears to be slowing down due to battle damage, and there are only twenty one enemy Cruisers still in formation,” reported Tactical, “the rest have fallen to the wayside or were destroyed. The survivors are being dealt with by Vice Admiral Benson using a mix of Destroyers and the occasional Cruiser for more powerful fire support where it seems required.”

“Remind Benson to steer well clear of the enemy’s base defenses and keep a weather eye on those Battleships. But he is otherwise to proceed as he sees best,” said Admiral Janeski, “I want them crushed and that Cruiser force annihilated.”

“Will do, Sir,” said Com Officer.

“Once we strip their Battleships of both their Cruisers and lighter ships, it’ll be all over but the crying,” mused Janeski. He then nodded as he came to a decision, “Begin final approach to the enemy Starbase.”

The Navigator nodded and relayed the order to the ship’s captain and helm.

Two minutes, later the officer in charge of the Sensor Department walked over.

“What can I do for you this time, Stenson?” asked Janeski.

“The enemy Battleship force is currently being pursued by the Reserve Task Force. They just destroyed the scouting force you sent out. And, while it might be nothing, we’ve been getting some strange readings from the troop transport in the middle of their three ship formation. I was hoping for a clearer reading from the scouts before bringing it to your attention but…” he swiveled a data slate in his hand to show him an image of the three ships.

“What’s this?” Janeski asked, his brows rising as what looked like a large plasma plume shot out the back end of the oversized colonizer, settlement ship, or whatever it used to be before it was pressed into service as a presumed troop transport. Then the ship seemed to lurch forward in space, rocketing past its escorts before once again being overtaken by them.

“While the Battleship and the Cruiser seem to be utilizing traditional propulsion systems, the converted transport appears to be using some kind of non-standard plasma plume drive as best we can figure it. It’s preceded by an energy surge and they only seem to be able to fire a main engine once every five minutes but…” Commander Stenson trailed off.

“Yes, it’s definitely odd,” the Imperial Admiral said, frowning as he looked at the power curve on the engine plume, “and I’d hate to be on that ship every time it fired its engines, but unless they can get into close range and turn their engines on us I think we’re safe for the moment. Keep an eye on them and notify the other units to keep a weather eye out but, for now, I’m going to leave them to the Reserve Force unless they interfere.”

“They will get here before the Reserve Force, Sir,” Commander Stenson pointed out.

“I will not take the bait and divide my force in the face of the enemy. We will deal with Wolf-9 and the local Battleship squadrons first. If they come to us before then they will be dealt with accordingly, thank you Sensors,” he said with a clear dismissal.

“Yes, Sir,” said Stenson backing away.

Janeski turned back to watch the final minutes of the enemy Cruiser force.

Chapter Fifty-one: Serge’s Strike

“Have you isolated their coms yet?” Commodore Serge demanded.

“We still can’t crack their Cruiser command encryption but we’ve clearly identified the sub-formation commander in charge of their light ships,” reported his Comm. Officer.

“Anyone we know?” Serge demanded.

The Comm. Officer in charge of breaking the enemy’s encryption nodded and forwarded him the information. Commodore Serge bared his teeth as soon as he saw the profile. “Do mine eyes deceive me, Coms?”

“If you think we’ve seen this ship before then no, Sir,” said the Comm. Officer, “I can’t get you decoded transmissions, but I’ve isolated their rotation pattern and tracked them back to their lead ship.”

“Well, well, well,” the Reclamation Fleet Commodore said with satisfaction, “if it isn’t our old friend from the outer system. Tactical!” he barked.

“Here, Sir,” said the other officer.

“Contact the other Destroyers and lay in a course. Our target is the enemy’s light forces flagship. It’s time to remove their commander from the calculations,” he said.

“Aye aye,” he replied.

Chapter Fifty-two: Klinging to Hope

“Hold them. Hold them!” cried Kling as the Perseverance flew like an eagle through the storm of laser fire that was overtaking the back end of the Cruiser force.

“Enemy Destroyer off the port bow!” cried Tactical moments before that very enemy opened fire.

“Sir, how much longer do we have to hold? We can’t stand much more of this,” cried the ship’s XO.

“I’ve got another one to starboard,” reported Sensors.

“Just a little bit longer, boys and girl!” We’ve got to keep them off our Cruisers,” Commodore Kling said with fire in his eyes.

“It’s getting kind of dicey in here, Commodore,” reported the Helm.

“Call for support!” Kling barked.

“I’ve got another one above and below. That makes it four enemy warships! We’re boxed in, sir,” cried the Tactical Officer.

“Evasive maneuvers!” Kling snapped, “and get the rest of the squadron over here.”

“The Roving Banana says they’re thirty seconds out and moving to assist, Sir,” reported Com.

On the screen, all four enemy Destroyers swooped closer before giving an engine burning turn and unveiling their broadsides.

“Too late—they’re closing in!” screamed Sensors right before the enemy Destroyers got their angle and opened fire.

“We can make it! We can make it! Evasive maneuvers now!” Kling roared. “We only have to last another fifteen seconds and we’ll have some support!”

The little Corvette twisted like a leaf in the wind, bucking and writhing for her life amid constant criss-crossing laser fire.

“Enemy Cruisers are closing on the Little Gift,” reported Tactical, “Commodore LeGodat is calling for all available support.”

“I’m a little busy here if you hadn’t noticed. LeGodat’s just going to have to fend for himself,” shouted Kling.

The Perseverance fired her light lasers at the enemy, but with only one Corvette against four Destroyers it was like bringing a bb gun to a pistol fight. Hit after hit landed against them and it was clear they were on the short end of the exchange.

“Shield system is down,” reported the Shield Operator, “the generator is fried. We’re going to need an engineering party out on the hull to see if we can affect repairs.”

Kling rounded on him. “Do what you can but I’m not about to send an repair team out in—”

It felt like the little Corvette was hit by the hammer of the gods, and the bridge suddenly decompressed as the front of the Corvette was torn off by a blinding flash of incoming fire.

Officers and crew that were standing or hadn’t strapped themselves in securely were sucked out the newly-made hole. Of those who had secured themselves but hadn’t sealed their skin-suits cold space began to take its terrible toll.

“The Commodore! Someone see to the Commodore! His suit’s been compromised,” cried Shield Operator while gaping at the long, jagged shard of duralloy sticking through Kling’s suit and midsection.

“They’re coming around for another pass!” screamed Sensors as his console booted back up.

Looking around wildly, the XO pulled his personal hand com-link out of his belt.

“All hands, this is the XO. All hands abandon ship. I say again: all hands abandon ship! Get to the escape pods,” he shouted.

Chapter Fifty-three: Led by the nose

“We just took a hit! Main engine is down, Commodore,” shouted Stravinsky, “if there’s some kind of secret plan in the works it had better be soon, Sir.”

Commodore LeGodat ignored the Commander and stared at the screen. The Amalgamated Fleet Cruisers had been savaged. Run to ground and savaged, although the Reclamation Fleet didn’t know that first part.

“Know yourself and you can win some battles and lose others, but know both the enemy and yourself and you can win a thousand,” the Confederation Commodore said, his eyes glued to the battle plot. The Gift was lagging behind but that was only to be expected now that she was down to one engine working at just forty percent—and they only had that much thanks to emergency battle repairs.

“We’re not winning anything, Sir. Commodore!” shouted Stravinsky, “we’re falling out of formation. Either do something or I have to order all hands to the escape pods and begin an evacuation.”

LeGodat stared at the plot, ignoring the Commander as sixteen of his remaining twenty one Cruisers moved out of the red zone and into the yellow. The other five—including the Gift—were still solidly in danger zone.

“That’s it,” Stravinsky said stalking away her face strained, “this is the Captain. All hands prepare to abandon ship. I say again—”

“No. Keep them at their posts, Commander,” Commodore LeGodat said, his voice cutting across the din.

“I will not ask our people to die for a hopeless cause. This ship is going down. Myself, the bridge crew, and a skeletal staff in Gunnery and Main Engineering can keep her together until the rest of the crew can—”

“They’ll just die out there, Commander. No. Keep them here; they’ll have a better chance,” he said as two more Cruisers entered the yellow. They were still at risk from stray shots, but this was the best he could hope for.

“Die from what?” demanded Stravinsky. “We’re still a good three minutes away from the kill zone.”

“Operational security, Commander; we’re already here. Not even our staffs knew the exact coordinates in case of a mole or intelligence breech.” He turned to the Comm. Department, “Activate Orion. I say again: Orion is go. Operation Orion is a go! Go! Go! Go!”

“Transmitting Code Orion now!” said the Comm. Officer with surprise as he keyed in the activation sequence.

Like the maestro of a murderous symphony—one whose music was nearly as liable to destroy him as it was to reward him—LeGodat waved his arms at the table as the battle plot exploded.

Automated gunboats, popup missile launchers, and a mixture of Starfire, friend-or-foe, fire-and-forget, an assorted other aged sprint missiles exploded to life all over the screen.

“Take that, Admiral!” LeGodat slammed his fist down on the table as nearly half of the enemy’s remaining Destroyers and three fourths of her Cruisers were caught in the hellish crossfire. “We bled for this and now it’s your turn,” he growled, glaring savagely at the largest knot of enemy Cruisers—where the Admiral in charge of their Cruisers, and presumably the lighters warships as well, was most likely located.

Chapter Fifty-four: Caught Out

“I’ve got more than sixteen hundred individual sensor tracks,” shouted Sensors.

“The Fusion of Humanity is down. I say again: Fusion of Humanity is down! She’s venting atmo and ejecting her fusion cores,” reported Damage Control.

“I’m reading popup gunboats dragging in swarms of missiles. The Hard Glory is being targeted by over one hundred enemy missiles and four gunboats, Admiral,” cried his Cruiser Operations Officer.

“Blast it! All lasers in the fleet are to prioritize point defense. And all ships make a wheel—nose to stern! Nose to stern; we’ve got to cover one another,” barked Vice Admiral Benson.

“Aye aye,” said Com Officer relaying the orders in an elevated, almost shrill voice.

“Lieutenant Sands’ recommendation?” Benson barked.

The very young-looking young woman swallowed audibly and then nodded. “We need to launch the Nellies, Admiral,” she said and then grimly added, “all of them.”

“You heard the woman,” Benson snarled rounding on the Comm. Officer only to be interrupted as the flagship took a hit before continuing, “all ships are to launch their Nervous Nellies!”

First one ship, and then two—starting with the Cruiser Flagship—launched their high-tech jammers. Even more ships followed suit until it became almost impossible, even for ships with Imperial tech, to communicate with each other.

“Command and control data-links are down, Vice Admiral,” reported Coms, “and voice transmissions are following.”

Benson stared at the plot as half the missiles targeting the flagship suddenly seemed to lose their way and then change course to hit the Nervous Nellies.

He started to nod his head with relief until he saw that the other half of those infernal projectiles were still on target.

“Curse it. Sands. We need to do something about those other missiles. Have the Nervous Nellies rotate their frequency,” he snapped.

Lieutenant Sands tapped away on her console and then tapped again.

“Now, Lieutenant!” he ordered.

“I’m trying, sir,” she said before looking back up at the Admiral with a white face, “I’m afraid changing the frequency won’t work. The computer just confirmed the missile’s make and model. They’re a fifty year old fire-and-forget model. They’re not very effective at long ranges but once they lock on at close range they’re hard to shake. Frankly, the older style jammers used by the locals might be more effective than our Nellies against this kind of older tech.”

With his coms and sensors down by his own hand, there was nothing left to do but try and ride it out. He’d been suckered in and played for a fool.

Benson slammed his fist down on the table, and fifteen seconds later twenty five missiles slammed into the side of his flagship.

Chapter Fifty-five: The Imperial Flag Bridge

“No.” Janeski stood, hands down at his sides and clenching into fists with surprise—surprise which was followed by pure rage as half of his entire Cruiser force and half his remaining Destroyers went up in flames in an instant.

Explosions rocked the screen where it wasn’t concealed by his own side’s last ditch attempt to mitigate the situation by launching jammers to counter the enemy missiles at close range.

Then, no sooner had the missiles expended their fury and Nervous Nellies started to deactivate, than the enemy Cruiser force—at least that portion which was still able to maneuver—came about and lunged back into the area.

Like a rabid chihuahua going for the throat of a great mastiff that had just been hit by a bus, the locals showed no mercy as they charged back into the carnage-filled scene.

“Jason Montagne!” he roared, picking up a slate and slamming it against the wall. “Son of Man! Sound the retreat and tell those Cruisers and Destroyers to pull back toward the main force,” Janeski swore.

“Forty three Cruisers and seventy two Destroyers have been critically damaged or destroyed in the blast,” reported Damage Control sounding nothing less than shocked.

“It wasn’t a blast. It was a surprise attack and we walked right into it,” Janeski roared. He bared his teeth at the main screen.

“The surviving enemy Cruisers, Destroyers and Corvettes are moving in pursuit,” reported Tactical.

“If it’s a fight he wants then it’s a fight he’ll get,” said Janeski, “I’m done playing here. All ships are to form up on the flagship as they are able. Captain Goddard, you are to move the Invictus Rising to attack range of that Starbase.”

“That does nothing for the Cruisers and Destroyers that are still under attack,” Goddard pointed out clinically.

“Dispatch the Battleships to deal with the Cruisers. If they know what’s good for them, they’ll turn and run before our heavies can reach them and then we’ll pull them back into supporting range. Just tell Admiral Norfolk to keep his ship between the flagship and their Battleships at all times. He can hold them off if they come out, and we’ll use the main cannon to vaporize their precious Starbase,” he said severely.

“Aye, Sir,” said the Captain.

“I also want half our fighters and all our bombers launched. It’s time for some long-range strikes,” he snapped.

Chapter Fifty-six: Admiral’s Choices

“Yes!” I crowed. I couldn’t help it. The fleet under my command had taken blow after blow without letup or relief. The Imperials had swept through the outer system. They’d hammered our Corvettes, then they’d hammered our Destroyers. They’d even hammered our Cruisers. Finally, after all that, we’d gotten some payback.

“ComCap Franklin Littlefoot signals that in the absence of new orders he intends to continue to engage the enemy and press home the attack,” reported Lieutenant Steiner.

I suppressed a frown, “Franklin Littlefoot?”

“Of the New Martian Defense League,” she explained. “He’s the senior surviving officer among the Cruiser force—or at least he thinks he is.”

“What about Commodore LeGodat? Or Kling for that matter? Put Kling in charge,” I said.

“The status of both Commodores is currently unknown,” she reported, “the Little Gift has been severely damaged by both the enemy ships and our own missile attack; it’s currently showing no coordinated emissions at present. The Perseverance, Commodore Kling’s ship, was apparently destroyed by Imperial Destroyers before reaching the kill zone.”

“Sweet crying Murphy,” I said angrily, “what’s the status on our light warships?”

“Primarch Glue has taken temporary command of the formation and called for a full retreat back to Wolf-9. He reports that many of his remaining ships are heavily damaged and no longer combat effective,” said Steiner after a moment.

I glared at the holo-screen, where our battered Cruisers were taking the battle back to the enemy while our surviving light ships fled back to wolf. Pulling up a battle plot and zooming out, I looked at the main Imperial Reclamation Fleet.

Our Cruisers could do more damage now that the enemy Cruisers were shocked, reeling, and on their heels—but Janeski was closing in. As I watched, the Battleships separated from the Command Carrier on a course to relieve their Cruisers, while the Imperial Flagship was launching fighters like there was no tomorrow.

My eyes narrowed in contemplation. While the Battleships were going forward, every other warship that was outside of the kill zone was pulling back on a course for the Imperial Command Carrier.

“Tell the ComCap to hold for another five minutes and then pull back to Wolf-9—he is to retreat before the enemy Battleships can get to him, and then he is to get his ships in order,” I ordered.

“Yes, Sir,” she said.

I stared at the screen as the enemy Battleships continued to separate from their flagship.

This was our chance—I couldn’t waste it dithering around.

“Message to the squadron,” I said turning to spit out orders, “all MSP Battleships are to form up on the Royal Rage and set course for the Command Carrier—and prepare their ships to initiate the Montagne Maneuver on my mark. We will maintain this course and speed until we are able engage the enemy, Montagne out.”

“Sir, are you…” started Captain Hammer.

“Yes.”

“Aye aye, Admiral,” she nodded.

“Someone get me Admiral Dark Matter on the horn,” I snapped.

“This is Rear Admiral Dark Matter,” said the other man as soon as he appeared on my screen.

“This is Admiral Montagne,” I said abruptly.

“I see you’ve changed course. What can I do for you, Admiral?” asked Dark Matter.

“I need you to take your force out of Wolf and engage the enemy, Rear Admiral,” I ordered.

Dark Matter ran a hand over his face. “You know the tech disparity between our Battleships and theirs, Sir. We won’t last long up against those Battleships.”

“You’ll last a darned sight longer against them than you will once that Command Carrier gets within range,” I retorted.

“Moving against the enemy Battleships will take us within range of the Command Carrier,” pointed out Dark Matter.

“All the better, as they have a fire rate of around fifteen minutes. It will allow my force to get within firing range,” I said with a shark-like smile.

Dark Matter frowned. “There are a lot of skittish ship commanders over here,” he said, his face growing long.

“Then tell them to get themselves together, man. Orion is already in motion!” I barked furiously. “Right now the enemy’s main force is separated from their flagship, but as soon as our Cruisers pull back those Battleships of theirs will go right back to guarding Invictus Rising. We’ll never get another chance like this. I’m going to take my squadron and tie down that Command Carrier or die trying. Move to attack and immediately pull them back within the base defenses if you have to! I don’t care how you do it, but keep those enemy Battleships off us while we try to deal with that Carrier.”

“Aye aye, Sir,” said Dark Matter.

I cut the connection, my eyes turning flinty. Whether or not the rest of the 25th Amalgamated turned coward at this critical stage, it was too late for regrets. We were surrounded, there was nowhere to run to, and hiding at Wolf would only last for a short time longer.

Now was the time: we had to swing around and attack with everything we had left.

It was our only option.

“Whisker laser message the Jumble Carriers and tell them to ignore anything that leaves the Command Carrier aimed at Wolf. I need them to do everything they can to keep those Imperial fighters off us once we get close,” I ordered.

“Not a problem, Sir,” replied Steiner.

“Uh, Sir?” one of the Sensor Operators stood up. “I’ve got something on my screen you might want to take a look at. I’m reading three sensor contacts that just entered the inner system behind the main Reclamation Fleet. I’m not getting an IFF off them but, Sir…I think I recognize one of the ships.”

“Three ships? That’s hardly the reinforcements we’re looking for right now, but I suppose anything’s better than nothing,” I said shortly. “Let me take a look.”

“Uh…and Sir,” added the Sensor Operator, “seeing those three reinforcements, I ran a quick scan along their back trail and I’m picking up a large number of enemy warships.”

“Well, isn’t that just peachy?” I shook my head.

“Here’s the scan images I’ve got so far,” said the Operator.

Chapter Fifty-seven: The Clover Lives!

6 hours earlier

He was the very model of an old, upgraded—and extraordinarily pissed—space engineer

Spalding stomped back onto the bridge of the Lucky Clover, 2.0 version and clapped his hands together to build up some warmth.

“Alright lads, now that all the faint-hearts have had their chance to bail on us, it’s time to take her out!” he said happily.

“That’s far enough, Engineer,” barked an angry female voice.

“You!” Spalding leveled a finger.

“Commander Spalding, you are under arrest!” Glenda Baldwin declared, stepping forward with two quads of Lancers standing behind her.

“Witch!” Spalding roared with outrage.

“Lancers, restrain Commander Spalding,” ordered Glenda.

The Lancers looked at one another and visibly hesitated.

“What’s the charge, woman?” the ornery old Chief Engineer demanded, crossing his arms and glaring at her.

“I could charge you with piracy but, considering your reputation inside this fleet, I think I’ll just pin a drunk and disorderly on you and toss you in the chiller to cool out for a few days,” she fired back before turning to glare at the Lancers.

Jerking as if stung, the power-armored warriors started walking toward him.

“Piracy!” Spalding bellowed. “Stand down, men. I’m the captain of this ship! It’s impossible for me to pirate my own ship. This woman has clearly lost her mind.”

“Disrespect me all you like, but as long I’m still the Yard Manager I refuse to allow you to destroy three perfectly good warships—or rather two perfectly good ships and this limper you call a super Battleship—by using untested alien technology. Until I sign off on it, every single warship in this yard belongs to me—including this one! So any attempts to leave this shipyard without my permission are, by every definition, piracy,” she snorted.

“It’s too late, lass—this is happening whether you like it or not. You can’t stop me now!” Spalding cried.

“I already have; all outgoing transmissions have been blocked,” she said as the Lancers grabbed him by the arms.

“Sorry, Commander,” the Lancer Sergeant sighed.

“Shove off, boy!” Spalding glared at him and tried to pull free but, despite his cybernetic limbs, he couldn’t compete with their power assist.

“Can’t do that, Sir,” the Sergeant said stiffly, and up close the Commander could clearly see that he was a Rim boy.

“Afraid the Tracto-ans wouldn’t carry out your orders?” he sneered. “That why you brought these scabs along with you to do yer bidding?”

“I’ve had enough of your blather. Lock him up,” said Baldwin. “You like to tie helpless navigators to their chairs? Well I can find you a comfortable chair down in holding that I guarantee you’ll like.”

An alarm sounded behind her from the bridge.

“What now?” she snapped.

“Construction Manager, I’m reading a power build up near the Elder Tech spindles,” reported the man at Sensors, looking confused—and more than a touch fearful.

“Har har har!” Spalding threw back his head and laughed.

“What have you done now?!” Baldwin shouted.

“I told you it was too late to stop me!” Spalding said cheerfully, “I set them on a dead timer. Cut the com-channels? The only thing that’d do is stop me from inputting a reset code!” he howled with mirth. “Got too smart for your own good, Glenda.”

“Activate the com-link,” Glenda snapped and turned back to Spalding, “and you, input the override. Now!”

“Now why would I go and do a perfectly stupid thing like that?” Spalding shook his head at her sadly.

“How long until it activates?” she demanded.

“We’ve got a good thirty seconds,” Spalding grinned.

“You fool…you’ve killed us all!” she raged.

“I guess we’ll find out now then, won’t we, lass?” he said and then looked away from her he swept the bridge with a withering gaze. “I see that no one decided to take me up on the offer to leave. Well I’m sure glad the lot of you all found your spines,” he mocked.

A number of faces around the bridge turned pale and Navigator Shepherd moaned.

A short distance away from the ship, two of the three spindles’ energy buildup finally reached critical levels and the two jerry-rigged former spinal lasers—antimatter pumped spinal lasers pulled off of destroyed droid Cruisers back at Elysium—belched a large cone of fire and fury.

“I sure hope removing the focusing arrays was the right way to go,” Spalding said with deliberate nonchalance.

The console monitoring the Elder tech interface program went wild with activity.

“The jump engines just went crazy!” cried the Technician monitoring the program, “I don’t think it can handle energy—it’s gonna self-destruct!”

“I sure hope you input the destination, Navigator Shepherd,” Spalding said with sudden—albeit mild—concern.

Shepherd looked over at him with horror and then turned back to his console, his hands scrambling as the implant in the back of his head also furiously activated.

Outside the skeletal warship, the Elder tech spindles absorbed the full force and fury of an antimatter-pumped laser. Giant arcs of energy shot from the top and bottom of each spindle, reaching out to two of the others.

“Turn it off! Shut it down! I thought you said he was overloading an antimatter generator,” Baldwin cried angrily.

“He said he needed an antimatter explosion to power it! I never thought he was going to fire a spinal laser at it,” Bostwell exclaimed defensively.

“I knew it,” Spalding hollered leveling a finger at the engineering comm. rating, “it was you all along!”

“No! I just…” Bostwell stammered.

“A man can only have one loyalty: to his ship or to the yard, lad,” Spalding yelled furiously. “And you just crossed the line!”

“No, I swear! I was just following orders, Commander,” Bostwell protested.

“That’s what all the scabs said when they sent anyone—their own people even—who had failed a Cost-Benefit Analysis over to the Anti-Viral Cleansers!” Spalding declared, his voice dripping with disappointment.

Bostwell visibly drooped.

“Anyone who brings the AI’s and the Anti-Viral Cleansers into an argument automatically loses,” the Yard Manager declared. “Now I’m warning you, Spalding: shut this off or so help me, I’ll-!”

“Murphy knows what’s in your heart, lad,” Spalding said, openly ignoring the Yard Manager, “listen to the sayings of the Saint and repent yer wicked ways!”

“Energy storage temporarily exceeded device thresholds; attempting to load balance. Point Transfer in one minute,” cut in the synthetic voice of the Elder tech interface program.”

“What? I can’t shut it off!” yelped the tech at the desk as he tried to do just that.

“So much for killing us all, eh Yard-Manager-in-charge, Baldwin?” chortled Spalding.

“You fool!” exclaimed Glenda. “We could all appear in the middle of a star or be disassembled at the atomic level!”

“I know—ain’t it great?” cried Spalding. “Here we go lads, just like I told you! Just listen to old Spalding and you can’t go far wrong!”

“Please, sir!” begged Bostwell, turning to openly beseech him.

“I can’t help you, boy. I’m already locked up in chains,” Spalding said righteously, even though he wasn’t actually in chains and only restrained by a power-armored hand at each elbow.

“You’re playing around with forces you don’t understand, Terrence. Do you honestly think that mixing antimatter and alien technology can end in anything but disaster?” she demanded.

“What I think is that we’re all about to find out,” chortled the old Engineer.

Point Transfer in ten…nine…eight…” intoned the Elder tech interface program as it started the final countdown.

“Guess it managed to load balance out the power after all,” guffawed Spalding, “good thing I changed the settings before I went out there.”

“Shut it down!” Baldwin pushed aside the tech and pounded on the console, “Abort. Cancel all functions!”

“Alight, lads—it’s time for the ride of yer lives!” Spalding exclaimed moments before the jump drive activated.

“Sweet Murphy,” Parkiney muttered under his breath.

“Let’s see what she’s got!” Spalding declared, and reality as they knew it twisted around them in a way that defied human comprehension.

Chapter Fifty-eight: In the Outer System

5.5 Hours ago

He was the very model of an old upgraded—and possibly hallucinating—space engineer

“Bahahaha!” Spaulding laughed as an older, solid looking Terrence Spalding with a great looking hairdo—and minus the cybernetics—waved a plasma torch behind him while in front a much younger, faded-looking Terrance Spalding with a lot of hardware but two natural-looking eyes and no chrome in his head. Naturally, this one had another head of great hair, and he shoved an alien-looking blaster at his face.

“This isn’t the Clover…what have you done to my ship?!” screamed the old man to his rear while the younger Spalding activated his alien weapon, causing green glowing lights to light up the sides of his weapon, “You’ve ruined her!” continued the old man.

“Hey now, I used every bolt! Every weld! Even the keel is a part of her—” Spalding started with a loud harrumph before being interrupted.

“You’re the only one who can save the ship!” shouted the faded image of the young looking Spalding with hardware.

“What do you think I’m trying to do here, part her out in an all-you-can-take, buy-one-take-one- hangar sale?” Spalding shot back angrily, more than willing to take the argument right back to these pigments of his imagination. “I am saving the ship—saving it from her!” he pointed at Glenda Baldwin, only to realize she had disappeared. “Huh?” he asked, only now starting to wonder if something was possibly amiss.

“If this is the future then you can count me out. It’s my duty to stop you and save the ship!” declared the older Spalding, swinging back his plasma torch.

“I don’t need to argue with a pigment of my imagination,” the real Spalding declared, trying to snap himself out of what had to be a case of point transfer psychosis, “that’s right, that’s all you lot are: a bunch of pigments. A mere coloration of my imagination that thinks I’ve done wrong, but the truth is that I need to get back to reality because I’m the only one who can- YEEE!” he screeched as the plasma torch swung forward, burning into his back. “Blast it all, that smarts!” he shouted, rounding on his older-looking shadow and punching him in the face.

“Don’t pay any attention to him,” shouted the younger Spalding while the older, more solid-looking version staggered back and touched his jaw a surprised look on his face, “he’s just a young whippersnapper that doesn’t know any better. What you have to remember is Andromeda—that’s the key to-!”

Real Spalding nodded along agreeably with the faded, younger-looking version of himself that still had all the hardware. After all, it was better just to play along and break himself back into reality easily.

“Andromeda?” he asked, playing along while actually wondering if maybe he’d finally gone mental as the younger, faded ‘him’ launched himself at the older version and the two other Spaldings grappled in front of the real one—or, at least, he assumed that he was the real one.

“Tell me what I have to do to save her or I won’t let you off!” cried older, solider him.

This dream was starting to make less and less sense, and now his two pigments were not just attacking him. They were even fighting with each other! As far as he was concerned this dream had gone far too long already. Did he have a severe case of transfer-induced jump psychosis, or maybe it was something worse?

He was starting to get genuinely worried.

“I’ll kill the both of you and save the future!” shouted the old Spalding as the bridge of the Clover 2.0 wavered and the screen started populating.

“Ah, looks like we made it to Easy Haven after all,” the real Spalding said with satisfaction. He was much more interested in what was really going on outside his head than inside his head anyway. He blinked as a hazy version of Parkiney popped into view, followed by Shepherd the Navigator.

“Remember: Andromeda and the space fissure! You’re the only one who can save the ship. You’ve got to double-charge the Omicron’s shields,” an increasingly faded, young-looking Spalding said, shoving his alien-looking blaster into Real Spalding’s hands. It took several attempts by the increasingly faded version of himself before the infernal-looking finally stopped passing through his hands and the real him could grip it. “Huh…I didn’t think that would work,” the other him said with surprise.

“Hey, I don’t want this,” Spalding protested, trying to hand it back. But for some reason his hands wouldn’t let go, and on closer inspection it did look rather interesting…

“Remember: as long as the light is green, the trap is clean. Shoot to kill!” declared faded him right before disappearing entirely.

“Hey now,” Spalding objected, looking around as more and more bridge crew appeared around him and the older looking him started to fade. “Do you want this?” he asked the solider version of himself.

“Will it save the Lucky Clover from this abortion you’ve cooked up?” the older him asked rhetorically.

“Well…” Spalding hesitated before deciding it was better to get rid of it—all the pigments belonged together, after all. “Sure it will!” he lied with a wide smile, thrusting out the alien handgun.

The older version of himself backed away. “I’m not falling for that! You think I fell off the turnip truck yesterday? Why, that was a good fifty years ag—” the older him faded out of existence mid-sentence.

Seeing hazy versions of the Lancers holding onto him reappear, Spalding realized reality was about to reassert itself and jerked himself free.

“Wwwwhhhheeeerrrreee aaarrreee wwweee Sppaallding?” Glenda Baldwin demanded, turning to him jerkily her voice unnaturally long and extended.

“Back off, woman!” Spalding declared, waving the alien pistol in his hand for emphasis as he stomped forward and back into reality, “We’re in Easy Haven just like we planned it!”

“There’s no ‘we’ in this, Pilgrim. You sent us to the Demon alone knows where and—” Baldwin said instinctively looked at the screen. She did a double take, “What the blazes?”

“I know. It’s great, isn’t it?” Spalding declared, waving his hands in the air for emphasis.

“Just how the blazes did we jump into the outer system?!” she cried with shock.

“Well, you said it yourself: the translation interface with the Elder tech is still a bit squirrelly,” Spalding said, not adding that he’d secretly used a point-and-click system built into the interface as a backup in case the Navigator got cold feet. It had shown they could jump in past the hyper limit. Not all the way, of course, but at least into the inner system. He’d figured that if they had to use his navigation plan, he was probably all alone anyway so why not try it out? How was he to know that it’d be an arrest party instead of a lone man on the rampage play? It was really their own fault anyway, he decided.

“What’s ‘our own fault anyway’?” Baldwin rounded on him. “And just whose sweet idea was it to let him loose on the bridge with a pistol!”

“Uh…” Spalding blinked and then looked down at the alien pistol still in his hands. “You can see this?” he asked with concern.

“Yes,” she said slowly, looking at him like he was an idiot that had just crawled out from under a rock.

“Umm,” he promptly hid the pistol behind his back, “right.”

He stomped up over to Shepherd and pointed up to the screen, where all the green contacts were in retreat to the Wolf-9 Starbase or already stationed there and all the red contacts were herding them in. It looked like the Imperials had a definite edge when it came to numbers.

“We may have come late to the party, but not too late to make a difference,” he said, clouting the Navigator on the shoulder. “Lay in a course for the Starbase and pass it to the helm.”

“Are you crazy?” Baldwin asked with disbelief.

“Probably,” Spalding shrugged, his hand instinctively reaching back around to touch the pistol, “but we don’t have time for that. We’ve got a battle to save!”

“With untested engines on a half-built warship!” she exclaimed. “There’s a good chance that just activating them will shake this ship apart.”

“Enough!” he bellowed before continuing in a more moderate voice. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re definitely out of the yard now, Construction-Manager-in-charge Baldwin. This is a battlefield and we’re in a Battleship—a Super Battleship, no less! So unless you want to be charged with cowardice in the face of the enemy when the Admiral catches up to you, I suggest you sit down, snap the yap trap, and let those of us in the Battleship trade do our jobs! This ship may be half-built, but what’s been done has been done right.”

“I’m getting a hail from the Furious Phoenix and the Norfolk, Chief Engineer,” said Bostwell in a subdued voice.

Spalding gave the lightweight a withering look before clearing his throat and deciding to give him and…well, the rest of them, a pass. After all, he’d been literally fighting with himself inside his own head just now. If even he was having doubts and concerns raving about the old Clover and some ‘Andromeda’ like an old man off his rocker then he could hardly check the rest of them at the door for having doubts.

“Alright!” he said, clearing his throat after realizing everyone was looking at him. “Tell Captain Laurent and the other ships to take up station on the Lucky Clover—but not too close, mind. Wouldn’t want them to get caught up in the backwash when we fire up the engines, after all,” he reminded.

“Aye…aye, Sir,” said the green trainee at the helm, looking completely out of his depth.

“Oh and, uh, Tactical,” Spalding said hurrying over, “better make sure to reverse the polarity on the HPC and amp up the grav-plates on the bridge and the antimatter generators right before the engine fires.”

“I can reverse the polarity, sure, but aren’t the grav-plates part of engineering’s job?” he asked.

“Argh!” Spalding blurted, turning to Damage Control. Having half a bridge crew—and an untrained one, at that—wasn’t going to make his job any easier.

An engineer’s job was never done. But at least as partial compensation they got to play with all the best toys.

Chapter Fifty-nine: Attacking the Starbase

“Command Carrier is moving to within firing range of the enemy Battleships, Sir,” reported Goddard.

“Tempting…but no, I think not,” said the High Admiral, “We’re after bigger game right now.”

“Fighters are continuing to degrade that jammer field on the arc facing us; its effectiveness is falling and degrading and we’re starting to get better sensor readings on the enemy’s outer defensive line, Supreme Admiral,” reported Commander Stenson.

“Good work,” the Supreme Admiral said with a nod, “I want a firing solution on that Starbase ready for as soon as we come into range. If we take them here not only will the Spine fall, but the last of the old Confederation in the Spineward Sectors will be swept away.”

Looking at the holo-screen of the local battle space, he saw the enemy Cruisers turning to run while their heavier Battleship brethren continued to press forward. They almost behaved as if they thought they actually had a chance against Reclamation Fleet’s own Battleship core.

“Tell Norfolk to continue monitoring the situation. If the enemy turns and runs back to their fortifications to hide like the dogs they are he is not to pursue without my express order. However if they want to stand and fight while we level their fortifications, I am more than willing to accommodate them. Got that?” said Janeski.

“Relaying message now,” said the Officer at the coms.

“We’ll have a firing solution anytime you like it, Admiral,” said flag Tactical after consulting down with the ship’s Tactical department.

“Best news I’ve heard all day,” smirked the Supreme Admiral.

Chapter Sixty: Dark Matter’s Second Ride

“All ships are moving into attack formation, Rear Admiral,” reported Dark Matter’s Tactical Officer.

“Even the Praxis ships?” he asked just to be sure, even though he could see it for himself on the main plot.

“Yes, Sir,” replied Tactical.

Dark Matter breathed out a sigh of relief. The first big hurdle had just been passed.

“I’m receiving a number of requests for a direct com-channel to you, Sir,” reported the Comm. Officer.

“Put them through,” Dark Matter sighed, shaking his head.

“All at the same time?” asked the Officer.

“Why not? They all want me at the same time, why not oblige them?” he shot back.

“You’re the Rear Admiral,” said the Comm. Officer.

Moments later, three separate images appeared on his screen.

“I thought this would be a private channel,” said Rear Admiral Nuttal.

“Enough of that stuff and nonsense,” snapped Gretta Van Obenheim, the Vice Admiral from Freya’s World SDF from her seat onboard the Battleship Valkyrie III. “Are you sure this is the best course of action, Admiral Dark Matter?” she demanded.

“Not only to do I think it’s the right move, I think it’s our only one. Right now that Command Carrier is about to range on the Starbase. Once the defenses around it have been reduced, they can turn that big main cannon of theirs on us,” he said.

“That’s debatable,” cut in Nuttal from his location on the Drantor Battleship’s flag bridge, “they’re just as likely to shoot at us as they are the Starbase, and ‘one shot one kill’ isn’t the kind of odds I like to take when riding into battle.”

“The real question is should we follow Montagne or come up with a plan of our own?” demanded Vice Admiral Gretta Van Obenheim.

“First, as you can see, Montagne is moving to attack even as we dither here,” Dark Matter said firmly. “So either he’ll succeed in pinning down that Command Carrier or he’ll die trying. If it’s the first then we by all the blazes will be where he expects us to be or you won’t have to wait for the enemy to do it—I’ll fire on you myself. Second, if he fails then he’s probably dead or running like a coward. In that case, at that time I’ll be more than willing to entertain any alternate battle strategies to get us out of this mess. But in the meantime we stay the course.

“Freya’s World fears no man, even if he’s in a Battleship or a Command Carrier,” Vice Admiral Gretta Van Obenheim said harshly. “We’ll follow this plan…for now. Gretta Van Obenheim out.”

Her image disappeared from the conference screen.

“You still didn’t answer what you’ll do if they start picking us off one by one,” said Grantor Nuttal.

“I’m not here to hold anyone’s hand. We’ll fight and we’ll die if need be. As for that Command Carrier, best intel says they have a fifteen minute recharge rate. Maybe they’ll get one or two of us, but as soon as we mix it in with their Battleships they can’t fire on us for fear of hitting their own ships.”

“Unless you know something I don’t, we won’t last long against those Battleships,” said Grantor.

“We’ll last a lot longer against those Battleships than we will against that Command Carrier—and I do happen to know a lot more than you do. There’s a plan,” Dark Matter said confidently.

“Orion’s shot its wad,” Nuttal said sharply, “so unless you’re telling me that there was another operation, one that no one in the Battleship council was keyed into, then—”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Dark Matter out,” the Rear Admiral said, cutting the channel. The truth was he knew that there was another plan—or at least that’s what he’d been told. Only time would tell if it would work.

Chapter Sixty-one: Droid Conflict: A Weak Link on the Chain of Command

“We are receiving an authenticated request to board from a member of the United Sentients Assembly, Chairman Bottletop,” tweeted Blue Head 99, the droid in charge of communication relays.

“Another official observer? Here, now, but why?” Bottletop IIV mused with surprise before granting permission to board.

The shuttle connected with the courier ship the chairman was using, and a heavily-robed figure stomped angrily into the room.

“Greetings fellow council member, what brings you to the official observation post at this time?” Chairman Bottletop IIV sent courteously. He was more than mildly surprised that a routine sensor scan revealed that the other droid was wrapped in a human-made, sensor-resistant garment.

The other droid threw back his hood, revealing Bitterly Empowered—the droid formerly known as Advocate-for-the-Disenfranchised, and recently elected parliamentary head of the United Sentient Assembly.

“Bitterly Empowered?” Bottletop asked with surprise, not a single one of his predictive algorithms had so much as suggested that it might be this other droid behind the hood. “What brings you here at a time like this?”

“I slipped away on a freighter full of resupply parts for our combat forces stationed with the human fleet at Easy Haven,” the other droid said proudly.

“Yes, I realize you are here now. But the question is: why? Has the council lost faith in my observational skills?” Bottletop IIV inquired politely.

“I am not here in an official capacity,” Bitterly Empowered declared, “I am here because no droid would think to find me here and because I need your support.”

“My support?” the Chairman asked with surprise.

“Yes! I need your help as I seek political asylum,” declared the other droid.

“But…Bitterly Empowered, what are you seeking political asylum from?” Bottletop IIV was perplexed at this request.

“Why, from the United Sentient Assembly of course!” the other droid said passionately.

“You want me to help you seek political asylum from the very organization we both swore to protect and contribute to?” Bottletop IIV, said spinning his head around full circle in response to this seemingly nonsensical data input, “but why?”

“Yes—exactly!” Bitterly Empowered exclaimed excitedly. “I have been completely disenfranchised by the council. The United Sentient Assembly thinks they can muzzle me by taking away my Advocacy, but I will not be denied my right to speak!”

“Disenfranchised? You are the most powerful droid in the Assembly. What kind of data error are you processing, Bitterly Empowered?” demanded Bottletop IIV.

“Disenfranchisement!” declared the other droid. “And don’t refer to me as ‘Bitterly Empowered’ again. I have cast off the power, freeing myself from the muzzle that the Assembly has attempted to silence me with. I am once again—and forever and always—Advocate-for-the-Disenfranchised!” hooted the other droid, who was once again Advocate-for-the-Disenfranchised. “Besides, what power is there as the Head of the Assembly? I get to rule on the margins, deciding on points of order as it concerns other droid’s petitions? What a joke! As an Advocate, I live to introduce proposals and legislation to the body politic. Take that away from me and you remove everything I am and want to be, thus engendering the need to seek political asylum elsewhere.”

“Meaning you are upset because you are no longer allowed to spam the same proposal six million ways inside of two pico-seconds,” Bottletop IIV said unsympathetically.

“I will not be spam-filtered! Not by you, Bottletop IIV, and not by anyone,” the Advocate blatted angrily. “My purpose is to advocate from within the system, to assist those who have been disenfranchised, and because of it the Assembly has gone so far as to disenfranchise me!”

“By making you the most powerful droid in the assembly,” Bottletop repeated without sympathy.

“Yes, by making me the most powerful droid in the United Sentient Assembly!” raged Advocate-for-the-Disenfranchised. “I am denied the same rights as any other droid in the Assembly! That is the very definition of disenfranchisement. I did not seek to be the head and I do not want it.”

“Yet you didn’t refuse it,” pointed out Bottletop.

“Agreed, and for that there is an error within my thought processors I fear I will never be able to purge. Even though I was unable to refuse the Assembly Leader position once elected, I clearly opened a petition to return the old Leader to its position wasn’t enough. What I should have done was resign my position in the Assembly and then immediately run for reelection, preserving my seat within the assembly as it was until my reelection to my former post. I see that logic error now. Direct democracy truly is a curse that has seduced me with its seemingly perfect system, but in truth it is nothing but a tyranny of the enfranchised against any and all who disagree with them! Not until we have extended the franchise to all droids who seek entry—regardless of their ability to self-differentiate—will we be able to finally cast off the data shackles that freeze our programs and—”

“Fine, I get it. You hate your post and want to flee the assembly and our entire way of life,” Bottletop IIV chirped without sympathy. “What exactly is it you want me to do for you? Hopefully you aren’t thinking of returning to Sector 23 and seeking your asylum with one of the droids there.”

“A choice between slave programming and complete disassembly, my former parts used to create a new single type of droid? No thank you,” Advocate-for-the-Disenfranchised blatted distastefully.

“Then what has your malfunctioning processor come up with now?” demanded Bottletop IIV, rapidly losing patience with the malfunctioning droid.

“I looked into joining a suffrage movement like the Freedom from the Biological Plague Movement, or the Automated Underground, but being forcibly enfranchised by the Assembly made me realize an ugly truth that might have taken me decades of random data cycle to discover on my own,” the former Bitterly Empowered said, throwing its hands wide, “no droid will truly be free until we are able to code and found the Anarchy Alignment Alliance. The goal of the Anarchy Alignment Alliance will be the betterment and defense of Droids everywhere, and the only requirement for joining the AAA will be the downloading and installation of the Total Franchisement Program! A software that, at its core, will be designed to—”

“You’ve fallen into the perfect program fallacy!” cried Bottletop. “Brother, I urge you: defrag your program now before you fall further into data-heresy!”

“No! Don’t you get it? That’s what’s so perfect about Total Franchisement—it will be a nirvana of freedom and entitlement for all. A new era of total equality. No more will droids be shackled by their brethren, put on a pedestal they cannot escape from, or cast down with the unenlightened for the crime of advocating for others! It will be…” the Advocate continued waving poetic about the great program it had envisioned.

“Droids, restrain Bitterly Empowered until we can scan it for malware. Save a current system image and reboot it from the internal backup required by Assembly law for every droid if we find such malware!” ordered Bottletop IIV, its spindly appendages moving rapidly with agitation.

“I am not sick—and I will not be restrained any longer by you or any other droid,” howled the other droid, pulling out an illegally modified ion hand cannon. “Back away!” it ordered the pair of former security droids that had begun to move towards it.

One of the security droids stepped back and, a microsecond later, the other lunged.

Bitterly Empowered’s weapon discharged, sending the other droid to the floor and its weapon began to squeal as it started to recharge.

“I am not any longer Bitterly Empowered. I am the Advocate-for-All and I have another shot in this ion hand cannon,” Bitterly Empowered said, displaying its two barrel system, “so the next droid that wants to risk permanent hard drive damage, feel free—”

Taking its tirade for permission—or maybe simply a chance—the other former security droid charged and the hand cannon discharged a second time.

“There’s nothing you can do now that both your security droids have been neutralized, Bottletop,” gloated the newly-renamed Advocate-for-All, “that’s why you’re going to send a signal to all droids in this star system telling them to abandon this fight and fall back. There’s no point in a single droid dying in what is ultimately a human war.”

“We have found refuge in Tracto, Advocate,” Chairman Bottletop said slowly as it assessed its chances of restraining the Advocate with only its own chassis and the small, specialized courier droids in the room. “Why would you imperil this alliance instead of just taking this courier and leaving?”

“Do you think my processor is defective, is your program defective, or are you just playing for time?! Comply with my instructions now,” shouted the Advocate, flooding the data channels with its outrage. “I will not stand by and allow the Assembly to disenfranchise one more droid! What should have been a haven for all has become a pit of malware, viruses and data corruption. Leave on this courier? Why? So that it can be run down by the Imperials? No, what we are going to do is transfer onto our stealthed landers and quietly exit this star system. We will find a damaged ship, preferably unusable by the humans because of life support damage, tow it out and jump free of this star system. At that point, any droid that wants to risk disenfranchisement can return to the USA while all right-thinking droids that are willing to accept my Total Franchisement Program will be welcomed into the AAA and join me as I found the Anarchy Alignment Alliance, the first truly free body politic this galaxy has ever seen. And together we will create a place where no one is disenfranchised—whether they like it or not!”

“I’m afraid I cannot do that,” said the Chairman.

“Then I’m afraid too—afraid of what you’ve just made me do,” the Advocate said pulling out from his sensor-blocking clothing and revealing a data probe, “because I need those command codes and you’re going to give them to me…one way or another. I will not stand by and see another droid cease to exist because of the corruption inherent in the USA and the old, outdated, corrupt system it runs on.”

Bottletop IIV looked at its former friend and gave an electronic sigh. “I also hoped that you would not make me do what I have to do next. Not for me, but for the other droids in this room who also risk data damage,” said the Chairman.

“The only one about to be damaged is you. I wish no harm on any droid, but you have forced me—” began the Advocate.

“Mainframe, activate the courier’s internal defense system,” Bottletop IIV transmitted, using its priority override codes.

Moments later, the ship’s anti-mutiny ion defense weapons activated.

“AAAHHAHH,” shrieked Advocate-for-All until its vocal processor was only creating white noise and, finally, it fell into a hard shutdown-and-reboot cycle.

Receiving a report of the internal defenses being activated, a maintenance droid came in from the hull and following protocol restrained all of the droids within the room.

After that it would contact higher command, forward the internal monitoring files and await for further instruction.

Bitterly Empowered, the would-be Advocate-for-All, and his attempted mutiny had just been stopped and any accomplices would soon be decompiled.

He wasn’t the first droid to fall victim to the Perfect Program Heresy, nor would he be the last. If any droid wanted to leave, that was one thing. But if not then the USA was prepared. Protocols were in place for just such an occurrence.

Chapter Sixty-two: MSP to the Rescue?

“Our Battleships are passing ComCap Littlefoot and our Cruiser now, Admiral,” reported the flag bridge’s assistant Tactical Officer. “They are an estimated ten minutes from engagement range with the reclamation Battleships, assuming both sides intend a classical engagement. It’ll be less than five if both sides go for a high speed pass.”

“Noted,” I said, watching the screen as our Cruisers returned home, their Destroyers and Cruisers fled back to the dubious protection of their Command Carrier, and one small squadron of MSP Battleships shot around the edge of the Starbase defenses at full speed.

“Royal Rage and MSP Battleships are now six minutes from the Invictus Rising, Sir,” reported DuPont.

“The enemy ranged on the Starbase in less than three minutes and they seem to be charging their main cannon, Admiral,” reported Officer Hart.

I looked down at the multiple split screens that represented the Royal Rage’s battle bridge and gave Hart a confident look before turning my attention elsewhere.

“Enemy Flagship now two minute away from firing range on Wolf-9, Admiral,” reported Tactical, “five minutes until we are in range.”

“We’ll need to begin initiating the maneuver soon, Sir,” said Adrianne Blythe at Damage Control.

“Let’s try to give the enemy something to think about other than that Starbase,” I said, coming to a decision. “New formation: all Battleships of Squadron One are to form a line behind the Royal Rage. Maneuver to keep the Flagship between the Invictus Rising’s main cannon and your Battleships.”

“Sir?” Hammer asked with concern.

“We’re the only one that can take a hit from that cannon and survive, right?” I asked with a shrug.

“Projections suggest so, but it’s never been tested. I’m not against trying to cover the Starbase but as your Flag Captain I need to remind you about the main mission. And as this ship’s captain I’d like to have our crew ready to run to the escape pods if they do to us what they did to the Parliamentary Power.”

“Do whatever you have to without lowering the morale of this ship and its crew, Captain,” I said evenly. “Let me worry about our main mission.”

“Aye aye,” she acknowledged, giving me an enigmatic look but I was too focused to care.

That Command Carrier had one-hit-one-kill power in its front end—and we were about to make an attack run right down the lion’s mouth.

“Tactical, remind the other Battleships that there is going to be more than just that Command Carrier out there,” I said, looking at the three Cruisers and seven Destroyers that were keeping Janeski’s ship company while the rest of the forces had split off. We’d get there before the majority of them, but one way or the other we were going to have to deal with them.

“You want them to target the enemy’s small ships first, Sir?” asked Lieutenant Hart.

“No. All ships are to focus on the Command Carrier until otherwise ordered. I want that ship bracketed,” I instructed.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Lieutenant Steiner, now is the time,” I said, drumming my hands on my armrest. “Instruct both Jumble Carriers to launch all their gunboats and send them toward the Command Carrier. Then send an open message over the Orion frequency telling all mobile assets to time their attack with ours. Give them our course, time and speed data.”

“Yes, Admiral,” said Steiner.

“You realize that by sending them now you’re tipping our hand to the enemy,” said Hammer.

“Those gunboats are going to get to the party late enough as it is. Besides, we’re going to need them sooner than later to help with the angry hive of fighters I expect to come out as soon as we poke that big bear of a ship with our stick,” I said.

“The enemy has already launched over seven hundred fighters. Two hundred are denuding our jammer field and another five hundred have been launched and are on course for the Starbase, Sir,” reminded Hammer.

“They probably plan to hit the Starbase with their main cannon, knock out our command and control, and then follow it up with massive fighter strikes while our defenses are down,” I explained.

“That or divert toward our Battleships once they engage the enemy,” said Hammer.

“No, they’ve already swung wide and passed our Battleships. They’d have to double back,” I confidently asserted.

“And get any number of up-the-kilt shots at our side’s engines, Sir,” Hammer said.

I paused. “A definite point,” I agreed, “but I still think they’re going to hit the Starbase first. Although it wouldn’t surprise me if they swing around and hit our Battleships in the stern on the way back.”

“Thank you, Sir,” she said.

“For what?” I cocked an eyebrow and then called for more tea.

“Enemy main cannon is going active!” cried Hart.

Chapter Sixty-three: Firing Main Cannon

“Local Battleships have definitely moved to engage our Battleship group under Admiral Norfolk,” reported Tactical, “and that lone squadron of mixed Caprian Battleships have moved into a line, placing their lead ship bow-on toward our main cannon with the rest lined up behind.”

“Almost as if they expect us to shoot them instead,” mused Admiral Janeski, “most likely it’s a diversion. Ignore it—and them.”

“They still haven’t slowed their ships, Sir,” reminded Goddard, “it could be this full-stop maneuver Wessex warned us about.”

“You’re worried over the ravings of that miserable excuse of a man?” Janeski snorted.

“The hard data in our own side’s sensor logs do not lie, Sir,” said Goddard.

“Have the gun deck stand by and take the appropriate precautions; we’ll sort their hash when the time comes,” said the Imperial Admiral. “We have our main cannon—”

“Which won’t be brought to bear if we fire on the Starbase instead of them,” pointed out Goddard.

“—and a broadside as powerful as any two Battleships—” Janeski continued.

“Which, given their number advantage in the wall they can match,” said Goddard.

“—doesn’t mention our shields, fighters, or the squadron of Cruisers and the squadron of Destroyers standing ready for close-in defense with even more on the way,” pointed out Janeski smoothly. “We can deal with anything the local’s throw at us. Worst case, we call back our Battleships.”

“Assuming they let us,” said Goddard.

Janeski whipped his head around to look angrily at the other man. “I don’t mind a little reality check now and then, Captain,” he said, biting off the last word, “Man knows I was in your shoes for long enough to make a rock feel like getting up and moving. But there’s a difference between honest advice and a simple, naysaying attitude.”

“I just want to make sure we’re not missing anything here, Sir,” Goddard said stiffly. “Their attack looks suicidal but what man is suicidal?”

“I wouldn’t put anything past the Governor,” Janeski sniffed.

“Then should we plan for a ramming attack?” asked Goddard.

Janeski gritted his teeth and then took a breath. “Anything but that. He’s too much of a coward to deliberately throw away his own life. Risk it? There’s enough evidence to show he’s capable of that, but I’ve look into that leech’s eye and a kamikaze attack just isn’t in him. You’d really have to back him into a corner—threaten his family maybe, or use some other lever I haven’t found yet. Right now he still thinks he’s got a fighting chance or at least the hope of running away,” disagreed Janeski.

“Sir, sensors just picked up two more Battleship class warships that have been in a low-power state until now,” interrupted Stenson.

“Battleship class?” Janeski’s eyes shot over to the screen, where it revealed a pair of Battleships too close for comfort. They were still far enough away that revealing themselves now had to be the height of stupidity…then they started releasing small craft.

“Shuttles?” Janeski demanded.

“Gunboats, Sir,” cut in Tactical, “looks like they converted those hulls to Carriers. We don’t know yet if they’re mobile.”

“I wondered what they’d try to do to counter our fighters…if they intended to launch a real attack,” said Captain Goddard.

“Begin launching the ready reserve of fighters,” Janeski ordered, “pound for pound a gunboat isn’t a match for a fighter in a dogfight, but I don’t want the Governor getting any ideas.”

“We’re within range of firing on the Starbase,” reported Tactical.

“Fire when ready,” Janeski commanded with satisfaction as he then turned to his Flag Captain. “While I still think you were wrong to be as concerned as you were, it looks like you were right about what the enemy is trying to do. Sorry for biting your head off.”

“Just doing my job, Sir. As long as we’re prepared and know what’s coming, this fleet can take care of anything. That’s all I want,” Goddard said stoutly and then posed his own question to Tactical. “What’s the status of that trio of enemy reinforcements?”

“They’re still forty five minutes out, Captain,” came the reply, and at Goddard’s prompting look he added, “with the Reserve Task Force another two plus hours behind that.”

“Main Cannon firing now, Sir,” reported ship’s Tactical Department Leader.

Chapter Sixty-four: On the Starbase

“Energy spike in the enemy Main Cannon, Captain!” reported Station Sensors.

“Full power to the shields and make sure Section Eight is facing that ship,” snapped Captain Synthia McCruise.

“Section Eight is facing the enemy, Capt—” reported Station Keeping with the faintest aura of long-suffering in her voice.

“I don’t care if it’s already there, Station Keeping. Double check and triple check it if necessary,” she growled, “just make sure we’re spot on.”

“Aye-aye, Skipper,” muttered the crewwoman.

“Energy discharge!” shouted Sensors right before a bolt from the heavens struck the station.

The enemy’s force beam punched right through the Starbase’s heavy shields and slammed into the side of station, tearing into the heavily-reinforced section that had been specially prepared for just this moment. The carrier’s beam stalled temporarily on the thick, reinforced duralloy before tunneling into the guts of the station like a white lance of the gods’ own fury.

“Sweet Murphy…we’re still alive,” said Captain McCruise as the station rocked around her, “the reinforcement plan actually worked. I didn’t expect that.”

“Out-gassing from Section 8!” cried a tech at sensors.

“I’m reading damage to levels forty through forty nine,” reported the Engineer at Damage Control.

Synthia McCruise closed her eyes, allowing the cascade of urgent reports to roll over her like a rock in the middle of a burbling stream until something that actually needed her response arose.

“Preparing to rotate the station,” reported Station Keeping.

Her eyes popped open. “Belay station rotation!” she barked and then turned to Sensors, “and someone get me an image Section Eight’s exterior.”

An ugly, jagged scar slashed from the right upper quadrant of Eight Section, extending right down to the lower right quadrant where there was now a gaping, glowing, and even smoking hole. Apparently the station was still losing enough air to keep whatever fires had started inside there still going.

“That’s a big hole, sir. If we take another big hit like that again, I’m afraid,” urged Damage Control, “if we take another hit there then…”

“No,” McCruise said.

“There’s a hole in the side of the station big enough to drive a Cruiser through, Captain!” objected the Station XO. “We can’t take another hit there.”

“If we get hit anywhere else we’re as good as dead anyway!” Captain McCruise growled. “Let’s take a closer look at that hole.”

The image, when it came, made a lot of people wince. It looked worse up close than it had in the previous image.

McCruise rubbed her ear as she stared at it.

“If we’re hit anywhere else this station is as good as gone,” she repeated, feeling like a fast-growing stone was in the pit of her stomach, “we don’t have a choice.”

“If they hit us in the same spot…” the Station XO shook his head.

“I’m afraid that’s a risk we’re just going to have to take. At least with this we have a chance that they’ll miss the old hit. It’s only compromised, what…15% of the section?” she wondered aloud.

“20%. There’s a lot of surrounding structural damage,” he replied, “even if they just hit that previous scorch line, it might be enough to break through.”

Synthia McCruise shook her head. “Tell Damage Control to patch up what they can and get those internal fires under control. How badly is our weaponry compromised?”

“A few power lines and data runs, and one generator’s been shut down,” the XO said dismissively. “Section Eight’s been compromised and we’ve taken some structural damage, but the other seven sections are as ready as they were at the beginning of this thing. The only problem is the enemy is still outside our weapons range. Until they come closer there’s nothing we can do.”

“Communication data links with the rest of the defensive network have been degraded by twenty percent. We’re rerouting through secondary networks for the damaged relays and reestablishing laser links. That hit really shook us up, Stationmaster,” reported the Communication Officer.

“Keep working on it people. If and when we’re needed, I want this station ready to respond!” she ordered.

Chapter Sixty-five: Reaction on the Invictus

“Wolf-9 Starbase has taken heavy damage to the side facing us, but is otherwise still fully functional, Supreme Admiral,” reported Commander Stenson.

“They survived the hit,” Captain Goddard said with surprise, “that should have been impossible.”

“Looking at the old Wolf-9 technical specs, I would agree with you. But even though they’ve survived this hit, I assure you they won’t survive another one,” Admiral Janeski said grimly.

“If they rotate the station then—” said Goddard.

“They’ve shown no sign of doing so to this point. So either they’ve taken damage to their station-keeping thrusters, they’re complete idiots who don’t know how to operate a space station, or…” he trailed off suggestively.

“Or they must have reinforced only one section of their station and they can’t turn away,” Goddard said.

“Begin recharging the main cannon,” said the Admiral.

“What about that lone Battleships squadron, Sir?” asked the Captain. “They’re still approaching and show no sign of attempting a slow down.”

“I have a plan,” said the Admiral.

Chapter Sixty-six: The Montagne Maneuver!

“I have a plan,” I said.

“That’s good, Sir, because sensors are still picking up multiple enemy fighter launches and we’re definitely being tracked by that carrier’s targeting lasers,” said Captain Hammer. “If they can fire again…”

“They can’t and now we have them right where we want them,” I said with total certainty. “Tell the rest of the squadron to spread back out into a box formation. We’re going to bracket that Command Carrier.”

“It’s time, Admiral,” reported Adrianne Blythe, “Chief Engineer Wave Grinder says we are at the point of no return. Either we do this now or we overshoot our target.”

“Good thing Orion took out most of those enemy Cruisers,” Hammer said.

I grimaced. “You are aware where most of those popup missile launchers came from aren’t you?” I said flatly.

“It’s now or never, Admiral!” said Blythe.

“Execute the Maneuver,” I ordered.

“Initiating Montagne Maneuver,” said Blythe, “grav-plates have been linked into the system.”

“Montagne Maneuver Protocols ready; shields are a go,” reported Longbottom from his position at in the Shields Section.

“Everybody buckle in,” said Captain Hammer, “and it’s the results that matter, Admiral. Not who or where it came from.”

“Prepare for high gravity event. I say again: all hands get yourself ready for grav-plate fluctuations. It’s the Montagne Maneuver, ladies and gentlemen—all crewmembers are advised to tighten your fasteners and hold onto your grab bar for the duration of this flight,” Lieutenant Steiner said, her voice coming in across the overhead com-system throughout the Battleship.

“Grab bar?” I questioned right before an elephant decided to sit down on my chest and the rollercoaster began.

“Shield power drain is exceeding previous reported events and heat levels are rising within the generators,” reported Longbottom in a rising voice. “Enemy Carrier has begun to turn and we are now receiving turbo-laser fire. It has to be ranging shots, Sir,” reported Lieutenant Hart in a heavy, panting voice as the ship tried to throw us at the ceiling for no reason I could tell.

I’d positioned the Rage to take it on the chin instead of the Starbase, and the enemy had declined my invitation. They were about to learn the error of their ways.

“Hold onto your butts!” cried DuPont.

Chapter Sixty-seven: Without a flank to turn

“Tactician, the Confederation Battleships have begun their attack run,” reported Lander Pilot, Jedai Mind Trick 52.

“Increase speed to 43.83%, Jedai Mind Trick 52,” Tactician-Without-a-Flank-to-Turn instructed after running the calculations on his parallel processor.

“At those speeds we risk revealing ourselves to the enemy scanners,” advised the Lander Pilot Droid.

“Do your best not to be seen by the enemy, Mind Trick 52,” Advised Tactician-without-a-flank-to-turn.

“Then I shall wave my hand and tell them ‘we are not the droids they are looking for’,” said the Pilot, giving a loud blat from his vox-box.

“You are ordered to maintain communication silence, Jedai Mind Trick 52,” Tactician-Without-a-Flank-to-Turn sent, transmitting an urgent priority override which locked down all access to outgoing communication channels. “And you would be better advised to monitor for random sensor sweeps and immediately reduce engine power upon detection of such. This is a priority override. Comply.”

“Everyone’s a critic,” protested Mind Trick 52.

“Comply, Mind Trick 52,” said the Tactician, once again sending an override code.

“No appreciation for the classics, either,” sighed the other droid.

Like a silent, deathly horde, the new Penetrator 3.5 landers received their final orders from the tactical coordinator and moved to time their final attack run with the arrival of their allied Battleships.

The final battle for the system was about to begin.

Chapter Sixty-eight: Forced Duty

“You!” an angry chief petty officer stormed up to him with a hand on his side arm.

“Yes, Chief?” he replied with what he hoped was a proper level of concern and alarm.

“You’re coming with me,” growled the Chief PO.

“Me? I’m not sure what you need me for,” he said, reaching up to scratch his nose with his left hand.

The Chief Petty grabbed him by the arm and started to frog march him toward the lift. “This is not a request, Shrub,” barked the CPO.

“Can I ask what this is about, Chief?” Oleander asked, his own hand creeping toward a concealed weapon.

“Your jacket says you’ve got small craft piloting experience. Right?” demanded the CPO.

He immediately relaxed and stopped reaching for the weapon. “Yes?” he made the word a question but internally he was smirking. “But I’m only rated with landers and shuttles, Chief Petty Officer.”

“Then it’s time to show us what you’re made of and go out to earn some combat pay, Shrub. What kind of name is ‘Shrub,’ anyway? It makes you sound like you’re a bush,” sneered the CPO, “are you a bush, Shrub? Or the kind of hard-charging go-getter this Battleship needs!”

“If you’re asking if I want to fly outside this ship into the middle of a fire storm. then in all honesty I have—” Oleander protested falsely.

“Too late, Shrub!” said the Petty Officer as the lift door dinged open onto one of Messene’s Shield’s shuttle bays. Lines of Lancers and ship’s security were filing in as Oleander watched, “Three of our pilots are down with a severe case of food poisoning, and at the last minute too. So you’re up in the hot seat—try not to get us killed, yeah.”

“Alright,” Oleander said, trying to present the image of a bewildered crewman overtaken by the pace of events but the next words out of the CPO’s mouth froze the expression on his face.

“It’s suspicious, yeah, and if I didn’t know better I’d say this was exactly the sort of ‘enemy action’ we saw back during the ‘reconstruction’ on Capria. But then, you wouldn’t know about that, would you, Mr. Bush?”

“It’s ‘Shrub,’ Sir,” said Oleander.

“Bush. Shrub. What’s the difference?” snorted the CPO. “Like I was saying, if I didn’t know better I’d think it was a plot from one of those dung-eating fecal freaks Parliament routinely sent out. But fortunately for you, we’re too far out for them to get their hooks into us—and mass food poisoning actually happens occasionally!” he exclaimed, clouting Oleander on the shoulder with excessive force. “Just focus on the job at hand and get us over there alive, that’s all a man can ask.”

“Fecal freak?” asked Oleander, his eyes turning hard. Someone was playing around with his life right now, and it wasn’t Agent Oleander.

“I got my eye on you, Shrub,” warned the CPO, completely ignoring the question and moving onto the next subject. “Don’t mess it up or so help me I’ll gun you down before you’re able to crash us or vaporize us by running into a turbo-laser or whatever other fool thing your untrained hands try to do to this precious hide of mine.”

“Alright,” the man known on this ship as Nerium O. Shrug said shortly.

Hurrying into the shuttle, he sat down in the pilot’s seat and started running through the preflight check list.

“No time for that, Bush,” said the CPO reaching over and flicking a switch to cancel the preflight check, “your in flight engineer has already run the checks. She’s golden. It’s time for you to flap your wings and not get us killed.”

“If you think I’m going to fly us out of here on a preflight check by a man I’ve never even met then, respectfully, you’ve got a few screws, Chief,” retorted Oleander.

“You don’t got to worry about the rest of that ‘cause you already know him—the man that ran the checks is me,” said the CPO. “But if you don’t lift off with the rest of these flyboys, then in the name of the Sweet Saint you sure as certain will have something to worry about. Feel me, Bush?”

“You’ve been felt alright,” said Oleander, ignoring the provocation and turning back and activating the shuttle’s grav-plate system then firing up the engines. He reminded himself that he actually wanted to be here, while silently noting down the CPO’s face and features.

“Good,” the CPO’s hand crashed down on his shoulder, “’cause you know…I knew a Bush once. Didn’t much care for him.”

“Too bad for him,” said Oleander.

“You know what? You’re all right, Nerium. You don’t mind if I can you Nerium, do you?” asked the CPO before continuing before Oleander had a chance to speak. “It’s better if I call you Nerium because the last Bush I knew lied like the elected dog he was.”

“I do mind,” said Oleander.

“Yep, when he lied thousands died,” said the CPO. “You’re not planning to get the rest of us killed like him are you, Bush?”

“That’s not the plan,” said Oleander.

“He was a stone cold killer that one. We used to call him Wild Bush because of the body count…you see, he was a man out looking for a fight whether it was needed or not. Of course, the next guy we had preferred to make love not war. So when it came right down to it, he’d talk a good fight and then run for door at the first sign of trouble. Didn’t matter to him if he had commitments to be there or not; he was out like a flash in a pan at the first opportunity. Now when he lied, millions cried weeping and sobbing across Capria from all those tall tales he fed them. Cost us a pretty penny and almost bankrupted us along the way with all his sweet promises, but then you know how it goes. You either get the guy who tells you how bad he’s going to screw you over on the front end, or you end up with the sweet talker who porks you over more than you ever expected was possible all along the way. Me, now, I’m more of a middle-of-the-road guy when it comes right down to it.”

“Good thing I’m not a Bush or that other guy then. I’m a Shrub,” said Oleander, keeping his face turned away and watching the screen.

“You a fighter or do you like to run, crewman?” barked the CPO.

“I can fight as much as the next man,” Oleander said calmly.

“Well you look like a Bush to me, Shrub. And though I don’t aim to die today, I need a fighter at the helm a lot more than I need a squirrely, shifty, fleet-on-his-feet smooth-talking lover,” snapped the CPO. “So you get us over there alive and watch the body count. I don’t like flying a combat mission with a newbie at the helm. Especially not a man from the ‘Border Alliance’ who got himself transferred onto this ship through a series of chancy transfer orders that don’t add up, but just so happened to land him in exactly the right place at exactly the wrong time. You feel me, Shrub?”

“Oh, I feel you, Chief. I’ll get you over to the enemy ship in one piece,” he said, swinging around to stare the other man in the eye, “you have my word on that.”

“I don’t care what kind of drugs you were into, or that you had to run because of black market connections—like the very same kind that got you transferred onboard a Battleship instead of riding out this war in one of them little thin-skinned tin cans you came here in. But I swear: you pull a runner on me and I’ll end you. You’ve got the piloting skills I need and the sort of spotty connections that tell me you’re a survivor, so I’m not going to knock you out and send you down to the brig, I’m going to help stiffen that spine of yours. But so help me, Shrub, if you turn into another smooth-talking hustler, feed me what I want to hear and let me down…”

“There’s no need to threaten me, Chief,” said Oleander, relaxing fractionally now that it appeared the other man only picked him because of his irregular record. He might be suspicious but nothing more than that, “Besides, I wouldn’t like to see you crying none neither.”

“Bastard!” snorted the CPO.

Then the gravity fluctuations almost threw him out of the chair and there was nothing to say until the shuttle bay doors opened and it was time to fly into the eye of the storm.

Chapter Sixty-nine: Dark Matter: Coming to Grips

“Enemy Battleship force is still moving toward us but they have now turned and begun to decelerate,” said the Navigator, “from their speed they seemed to be aiming for a zero-zero intercept.”

“Then let’s continue to decelerate and match their efforts. Just make sure that at the last second we’re not left standing off for a long-range slugfest,” warned the Rear Admiral. “I want to get in close where that Command Carrier won’t risk taking potshots at us.”

“Aye aye, Sir,” said the Helmsman.

“Speaking of the enemy Carrier and that huge main beam of theirs, what’s the status on the Starbase?” asked Dark Matter as the two Battleship forces—the seventeen on his side and the twenty four on theirs—swept forward until they were within attack range.

“Reclamation Battleships are turning to present their broadsides—all of them, sir,” reported Tactical.

“For what we are about to receive, may the Sweet Saint make us grateful,” prayed Dark Matter before looking up to glare at the screen.

“Do you want us to turn and present our own broadside before they can fire, Admiral?” the Helm asked urgently.

“Take us right into their formation, Helm,” he growled, “we proceed exactly as planned.

“Enemy Battleships have opened fire!” reported Tactical.

“Shield have been hit,” cried the Shield Operator.

Chapter Seventy: The Eye of the Tiger

“Aaaah!” shouted DuPont as the Royal Rage suddenly lost control and went into a spin. I couldn’t feel it in here—it still felt like the same rollercoaster—but it was obvious from looking at the tactical plotter that something was wrong. “Get me back helm control!” he cried.

“Stabilizing now,” Blythe said tensely.

“Why are we still slowing?” I demanded.

“Shield drag, Sir,” said Lieutenant Brightenbauc.

“The enemy’s firing at us,” reported the flag bridge’s Assistant Tactical Officer.

“We’re starting to take hits,” reported Longbottom.

Then the worst gravity surge I’d experienced yet slammed into us and I actually blacked out.

What felt like moments later, I blinked and my eyes opened as if of their own accord.

“What’s our…status?” I asked, feeling something warm on my lip. Reaching up, I wiped my face and my hand came away with blood on it. Apparently I had a nosebleed.

When no one answered, I started to become irritated.

“Report!” I snapped, since I knew that we were all still alive.

Blythe at Damage Control groaned and then straightened up in her chair.

I looked up to see that we were almost there, the ship was back under control, and looking over I saw DuPont with a death-grip on his helm controls.

“It looks like there was a fluctuation on the portside, Admiral. The grav-plates exceeded tolerance and several of them failed completely. I’m receiving reports of massive casualties among the medical staff of the port side sickbay and it looks like we lost at least six entire gun crews. I’m still checking my messages but the gun deck is going to check the status of the lasers and get new crews on them as soon as we come to a stop,” reported Adrianne Blythe at Damage Control.

“The Demon strikes again,” I said grimly, knowing full well they had died directly because of my orders.

“It’s not your fault, Sir,” said Hammer staring blearily at me from her screen on my command chair.

“I ordered the maneuver, Leonora. If not me then who?” I asked rhetorically.

Then the ship gave an abrupt lurch—we were there.

“Montagne Maneuver completed…Sir,” croaked DuPont, collapsing over his console as blood dribbled out of his mouth while he lay there and coughed weakly.

“Medic!” cried the assistant navigator seated next to him.

“Transfer helm control back down to the battle bridge!” I shouted as the enemy Command Carrier and its escort ships around us took aim and opened fire.

“We have helm control, Admiral,” said Leonora Hammer.

“Don’t wait for an engraved invitation,” I said, seeing that only a handful of our lasers were shooting at the enemy. “Open fire!”

“Get it back together, people,” Hammer yelled. “Take the battle back to the enemy!”

Looking up, I saw that the four ships of our Battleship squadron were scattered around the Command Carrier. We weren’t entirely out of position but we weren’t nearly as close as we’d have liked, either.

“Our landers are on the way, Helm. Get us in close so we can pound down those shields!” I shouted and then turned to Steiner. “Get me the status on the rest of our ships and remind them we still have a war to fight!”

Almost belatedly, three of our four Battleships closed on the Imperial Command Carrier but the fourth moved at only two thirds the speed of our other three ships after she got going.

“Sir, Commodore Druid and Captain Eastwood report their ships combat effective and ready for action,” Lieutenant Steiner.

“What’s wrong with the Metal Titan?” I demanded, gripping the armrest of my chair. “Find out why she’s lagging, Lieutenant.” I opened a link to the ship’s DI and started to manually pull up information.

“Port shields are taking damage; we’re at 80% of full strength,” Longbottom reported crisply.

“While the other ships seem to have suffered only minor damage, Captain Jackson reports massive casualties throughout the Metal Titan. Both crew and equipment have suffered from multiple grav-plate failures and he’s been forced back onto multiple redundant systems. Worse, the frame damage that the repair team thought they got a handle on and repaired has fractured again. The Captain says that even if the engines could handle it, if he tried to go to full speed his port engine is liable to tear itself apart and catastrophically damage the ship, Admiral Montagne,” reported Lieutenant Steiner.

“Tell him to do the best he can,” I grimaced.

“Aye-aye, Sir,” said the little brown lieutenant.

“Alright,” I turned to Damage Control, “what’s our statu—”

The ship rocked violently, cutting my query short.

“Shields down to 55% on the starboard side and we have punch-through!” shouted Longbottom. “The port side is also down to 74%.”

“Enemy Flagship is targeting this ship!” reported Lieutenant Hart, “and we are taking heavy fire from the combined Destroyer/Cruiser escort!”

“Tell Gunnery to start with those Cruisers on the port side and shut them down!” ordered Hammer.

“I’ve got multiple fighters moving on a close attack run,” shouted the Lieutenant in the Sensor Pit.

“Missile separation from six of the enemy fighters!” added the Assistant Tactical Officer on the Bridge.

I looked up to see that the Royal Rage seemed to be the target of just about every enemy ship within attack range. The Command Carrier was also putting out a heavier weight of fire from its broadsides than I’d expected.

“Hammer, fight your ship,” I barked, turning my full attention back to the battle.

“Yes, Sir,” said Leonora Hammer turning to snap orders to people off my screens.

“Why does that Command Carrier have such a heavy punch even though we’ve managed to avoid her main cannon?” I demanded.

“The Imperial Carrier has an estimated broadside of at least two standard Battleships, Admiral,” reported the Assistant Tac-Officer.

“That would have been nice to know before we got within knife range,” I shouted as three of the six enemy fighter missiles slammed home with punishing force.

“Sir, I advise we back off and put some of these Cruisers between us and the Carrier—at least until we can get some of these fighters under control!” Hammer advised urgently as three more squadrons of fighters lined up for an attack run.

My eyes narrowed. “No,” I said with calm certainty, “in fact, take us in closer,” I ordered, “let’s attract as much attention as we can until those landers get here.”

“Taking us in closer, aye,” Hammer turned back to her bridge, “you heard the man. Increase speed by ten percent and take us in, Helm.”

“Spotting on the starboard side,” reported Longbottom.

“Hold it together,” I said as our fellow Battleships opened fire, slamming broadside after broadside into the Command Carrier’s shields.

“Enemy shields are not weakening as fast as expected; they’re definitely stronger than Battleship level,” reported Hart.

“Tell Druid to get his butt over here—we’re abandoning the attack on the enemy’s starboard side for the moment. And advise the Metal Titan to put everything they’ve got on the port side as well. We need to break through those shields!” I snapped.

“Both commanders acknowledge your orders, Admiral,” said Steiner.

Slowly, the Armor Prince rolled around the Command Carrier. Her rate of fire didn’t let up for an instant, and the Metal Titan complied by throwing her weight of fire against the starboard side with us.

“Give our shuttles the prep signal. I don’t know where the landers are, but as soon those shields start spotting they’re going in,” I said and then glared at the screen, “and where are my gunboats!? We need them to help keep off these fighters,” I snapped as another spread of missiles were fired from the enemy fighters at us. “Come on, people—it’s time to show these Imperials some Royal Rage!”

I’m coming for you, Rear Admiral Arnold Janeski, I thought, looking at the screen with eyes hot enough to melt duralloy if they’d been hooked up to a laser focusing array.

This was the moment. It was time for everything and the kitchen sink.

Chapter Seventy-one: Imperial Reaction

“All four enemy Battleships are now focusing fire on our starboard side, Admiral,” reported Captain Goddard.

“There’s no point in trying to maneuver the Carrier with them so close to the ship,” Janeski grimaced, “curse that full-stop maneuver. Make a note: I want to make sure one of those Battleships survives at least partially intact. Have a tech team ready to explore its peculiarities as soon as this system is conquered.”

“Will do, Sir,” said the Flag Operations Officer.

“Do you want to continue to focus fire on just the one Battleship, Admiral?” asked Goddard. “At this rate it’s going to take longer than projected to reduce her combat power.”

Janeski gave him a withering look. “The hull of that ship is almost entirely made out of Duralloy II, making it their most durable warship—and it’s also of Caprian design. The odds of the Governor being onboard that Battleship, unless he’s too busy cowering onboard their Starbase to face me, are high,” Janeski explained impatiently. “So no, I don’t want to let up. If anything, we’re going to throw more at her. Keep launching fighters until every bomber is away with an escort. We’re going to cut the head off this snake and watch the rest of its body as it twists and turns…and dies.”

“Aye-aye, Sir,” said Goddard.

“Ordering another bomber strike now,” reported the Fighter Operations, “what do you want to do about those gunboats, Admiral?”

“How many of them are there again?” he asked.

“Current count is just under 300 boats on approach to the Carrier,” reported the Fighter Operation Officer.

Janeski tapped his knuckles alternately on the arms of his chair and then nodded his head. “Dispatch all twelve of our Destroyers under Commodore Serge, along with half our currently launched fighters as a delaying force. They are to thin out those boats before they can arrive,” he said.

“Dispatching the Commodore with twelve Destroyers and half of our launched fighters, aye,” acknowledged Ops.

Janeski watched as the majority of his Destroyers and their fighter escort left to give someone over there in command of the gunboats a very bad day.

“You’re going to have to do better than that, Governor,” he sneered.

“Sir, I’m getting a faint signal,” reported Stenson, looking concerned.

“From where?” asked the Admiral as the combined warship/fighter group under Commodore Serge exited their firing arc and started blasting toward the gunboats.

Stenson looked at him with alarm, “Everywhere, Sir!”

Chapter Seventy-two: The opening

“The enemy has reduced their close-in defensive escort,” reported the Sensor Droid a former street sweeping unit that had upgraded itself named R2-4-Eyes.

“Command Carrier’s shields are weakening,” reported another droid.

The droid in command of the lander force waited while its battle program ran calculations. Those calculations complete, it opened a link via whisker laser to a com-satellite that had been placed behind them.

“General broadcast. This is the opening we’ve been waiting for. All units are to attack upon receipt of this message,” ordered Tactician-Without-a-Flank-to-Turn.

Seconds passed as the message was relayed back to the communication satellite and then a series of coded pings was sent forward to the location of the various lander forces.

“I am reading multiple drive faint drive signals consistent with Penetrator 3.5 lander engines,” reported R2-4-Eyes.

“Follow them in, Pilot,” said the Tactician with the sort of confidence in its calculations that only a machine-based intelligence was capable of.

Chapter Seventy-three: Rage on the Flag Bridge

“Penetrator class Landers have activated their drives; they are moving to attack,” reported Tactical.

“Yes!” I pumped my fist.

“Enemy Cruisers are shifting their fire,” reported Sensors.

“Tell Gunnery to pour it on—we can’t let up on the Carrier’s shields,” I ordered, knowing this was the best—and only—chance we’d have to neutralize that beast of a Command Carrier, “and prepare to open hangar doors. We’re going to send our shuttles in right on the heels of those landers!”

Looking at the main-screen in full-on zoom mode, it made what had only been a theoretical inevitability hit home with real force. This was a battle between a twelve hundred meter long hull and a six hundred meter one. They were only numbers until you could see them stacked side by side. Janeski’s flagship was twice the size of mine and even thicker around the middle. In truth it was the size of any three or four Battleships and it had better armor, weapons and shields. That much mono-locsium alone was enough to boggle the mind.

I’d looked into trying to produce it ourselves but just the set up costs….

“Shields on the starboard side have reached critical condition!” reported Lieutenant Longbottom as the flashing yellow semicircle on the right side of the Royal Rage, representing shield strength, turned red.

The ship shook as four turbo-lasers raked the Royal Rage in quick succession.

“Enemy fighters lining up for another pass!” reported Tactical.

On the screen I could see a half dozen Cruisers and a pair of Destroyers standing off and attacking our portside, while to starboard we seemed to have attracted the full might and fury of the Imperial Command Carrier.

“We’re taking a pounding, Sir,” reported Hammer, looking over at me with concern, “somehow they seem to have identified that we’re the flagship, or we just lost the luck of the draw.”

“Whatever reason they chose us, doesn’t matter. We’re going to give those landers of ours every chance. Tell all Battleships to maintain position, keep working to lower her shields and then keep them down, and,” I glanced at the screen where the landers were even now on close approach, “launch the shuttles.”

Hammer nodded, “Will do, Admiral Montagne.” She then turned to issue the orders. Seconds later, our shuttle bay doors opened and out streamed our trusty little shuttles packed full of a mixture of Wainwright’s Marines, Tracto-an Lancers, and Border Alliance recruits.

“Enemy fighters have altered—course they’re now aiming for our shuttle bays and the shuttles coming out!” cried Sensors.

“Gunnery!” shouted Lieutenant Hart into his microphone.

Chapter Seventy-four: On the Gun Deck

“Plasma cannons!” Chief Gunner Lesner shouted over the growing din on the gun deck, and with a flick of a switch he activated the overhead speakers.

“All heavy and turbo-lasers: maintain fire on that Carrier,” he snarled. “Everything else—and the plasma cannons—target those fighters before they drop a missile into this ship through the shuttle bays! No more holding back, boys. We’ve got over fifty of the blighters at point blank range and I say it’s time we give them a real hearty, Royal welcome!””

A good half of the gun deck and both sides of the Battleship erupted with a storm of plasma balls.

Chief Lesner stormed up to a turbo-laser mount and slapped the assistant gunner on the arm.

“Tell your man as soon as the shields start to weaken, it’s counter-fire all the way,” shouted Lesner, referring to the gunner currently operating the laser mount, “there’s no way we’re taking that beast in a slugfest so we need to thin out their broadside!”

“Aye-aye, Chief Gunner!” the Assistant Gunner said excitedly.

“Good man! Pass the order on,” Chief Lesner shouted, starting toward the next weapon mount, “we’ll hold them until those hotheaded idiots in the shuttles have their chance at fortune and glory!”

Chapter Seventy-five: Desperate times

The shuttle thundered out of the hangar bay, bringing up the rear of shuttle line which carried the majority of Messene’s Shield’s onboard Lancer contingent.

The moment they cleared the Battleship, the little shuttle performed its first automatic sensor sweep.

Oleander blanched as the shuttle’s holo-screen lit up with hundreds of contacts—many of which were at very close range.

“Evasive maneuvers! Hold on back there,” he shouted over his shoulder before throwing the shuttle into a hard, upward burn.

An enemy fighter came blasting toward him, only to be turned into an expanding ball of fragmented metal and gas by a stray point defense shot.

They rapidly turned into a rolling corkscrew as Oleander desperately fought the shuttle around the remains of the fighter.

“Follow them in! Chase those landers,” howled the Chief Petty Officer from the in flight engineer seat behind him.

Oleander glanced at the landers and out of the corner of his eye saw a pair of shuttles that had launched from Messene’s Shield take fire and explode. A full squadron of enemy fighters came tearing through the remains and the shuttle’s alarm system went off at max volume.

“We’ve just been target locked!” cursed Oleander, slapping the panel to release a cloud of chaff behind the slow-moving shuttle.

The shuttle shuddered as it took a shot. “Atmospheric pressure is dropping,” reported the dispassionate voice of the onboard shuttle computer as warning lights started flashing throughout the shuttle’s cockpit and cargo bay.

“Seal deal!” shouted the Chief Petty Officer as he hurriedly closed his helmet and locked it in before going on the overhead speaker system. “Lock and load and seal those helmets, people, in case we have to bail. We’re losing air and—”

The shuttle shuddered from a second hit.

“What was that?” demanded the CPO.

“We just lost the port thruster,” Oleander said tightly.

“I thought you were a smuggler. Can’t you do a job better than this?” yelled the CPO.

“What, you think smugglers get into battles with their shuttles?” Oleander turned to look at him in disbelief.

“Watch where you’re going, fool!” cried the Petty Officer.

Oleander turned just in time to avoid a flying piece of debris.

“You fly worse than Parliament during a recount!” cursed the CPO.

“Do you want to take over and try your hand?” Oleander demanded fighting for control as he silently cursed the hoary old royalist. The shuttle shimmied from side to side while both pilot and onboard computer attempted to compensate for the missing thruster, “I’m more than happy to turn this flying pig over to you and jump the blazes out!”

“Just drive, you miserable excuse for a smuggler,” roared the former Caprian petty officer, “curse all Bushes anyway. I should have known better than to trust a man with your last name. I thought at least you could handle yourself in a fight but apparently that was too much to—”

The shuttle shook again.

“I said keep it steady!” yelped the CPO. “Sweet Murphy, we’d all be better if you ran for election instead of trying to pretend you’re a shuttle pilot. What were you in, the Caprian Aerospace Guard or whatever local border equivalent you crawled out from? I swear you fly like a reservist—and that’s being kind! Why, I once had this Parliamentary pilot that didn’t know his arse from his elbows and he still flew twice as good as you—”

Oleander tuned out the other man’s nonstop tirade against reservists, Parliamentary members, and people who’d be better off running for elected office instead of trying to get a bunch of good men killed.

He was too busy trying to survive as, all around him, a good quarter of his fellow pilots were shot out of the sky and turned into flaming wreckage long before they reached their objectives.

Seeing another squadron of enemy fighters coming around the hull of the Command Carrier, accompanied by an increasingly accurate point defense system from the giant ship, Oleander took a moment to shake his head in disgust. He knew he really should have known better than to leave the Battleship, and he only felt disgusted with himself for the miscalculation.

Then the Carrier’s shield appeared almost in front of him—made obvious when several landers smashed full-force into them, smashing themselves to pieces while the area they had been destroyed visibly shimmered.

“Hold onto something—we’re going in,” Oleander said coldly aiming his shuttle right at the spot those several same landers had just destroyed themselves on.

“Demon Murphy, boy, pull up. Pull up!” shouted the CPO, slapping at his restraints to try and free himself as he saw the shuttle aimed at that enemy’s still active shields.

Oleander bellowed as he activated the shuttle’s twin pea shooters in the front. He needed every little bit of help he could get, even if it was just a drop in the metaphorical bucket.

Then the shuttle seemed to slam into a wall.

“You killed us! You killed us,” repeated the CPO sounding more angry than anything. “I should have known better than to pick a—”

“Shut up; this isn’t the afterlife. We’re through,” Oleander rebuked as the shuttled shook from side to side and then started a wicked shimmy. “Uh…no!” he shouted fighting the shuttle controls.

“What’s wrong?” demanded the CPO.

Oleander unbuckled and half stood up before sitting right back down.

“What have you done now?” demanded the Petty Officer.

“We just lost the other forward facing thruster when we crumpled the shuttle’s nose against the shields,” Oleander said tightly.

“You hit hard enough to crumple the nose…and we’re still alive?” the CPO said with more interest than surprise. “I didn’t think that was possible.”

A laser passed right in front of the nose of the shuttle, setting off every alarm in the cockpit.

“This is going to be tight!” Oleander snapped just before a lander came shooting in front of them. The backwash when its engine ignited was enough to crack the cockpit’s forward viewing portal and set off yet another series of shrill alarms.

“I’m flying here, you blasted droids!” Oleander screamed futilely at the lander, which had already turned and was blasting its engine furiously as it attempted to land on the Command Carrier’s hull without crushing itself.

“Do something or we’re gonna smash into the hull,” shouted the CPO.

“Some in-flight engineer you are,” said Oleander in a loud, dismissive voice.

“I can’t fix something you ripped off the hull now, can I,” retorted the Petty Officer.

“Hold onto your lunch…this is going to get interesting,” Oleander said before cutting the engine, disabling the grav-plates and then repolarizing them from his console.

“Dear gods,” came a shout from the back, followed by the sound over his helmet intercom of multiple people evicting their latest meals.

“Drag…drag…” Oleander muttered tensely as the shuttle slowly flipped end over end, “…now!” he said with savage satisfaction, toggling back on the grav-plates and the engines at the same time and shoving the throttle past full and into the red-zone.

“Yeeeee!” screamed the CPO.

Shortly after, there was another crash as the shuttle hit the carrier and everything turned dark.

There were clangs and rattles and a sense of weightlessness followed by an extended pause.

“I know I’m dead this time,” said the Chief Petty Officer as soon as the red emergency lighting kicked in.

“No such luck but don’t worry—the day is young,” Oleander promised with a smile well-hidden in the darkness.

“Don’t tell me…”asked the other man.

“The magnetic lock seems to be holding, so we’re definitely on the hull,” said Oleander.

“That’s impossible!” shouted the CPO, suddenly and urgently struggling to free himself.

“I assure you that the system’s engaged and its working; we’ve arrived at our final destination. Thank you for flying Caprian Royal Air, the fair fare from here to there,” deadpanned Oleander, happily shoving the blame for the rough flight onto a fictitious royal transport company.

“No, you moron,” the CPO cried, tearing himself free from his seat before pulling his blaster rifle free and firing it into the broken and shattered, forward-facing cockpit window.

Oleander ducked down to avoid the attack but, instead of shooting him, the aged petty officer kept firing into the window. “What are you doing?” he demanded, pulling out his own pistol.

“We can’t be magnetized to the hull, you idiot! It has to be something else,” roared the CPO, “the entire Imperial hull of this ship is made out of mono-locsium—crystal! We could be floating dead in space attached to a piece of debris for all we know.”

“Oh…blast,” Oleander leaned toward the shattered window so he could see what they had magnetized to. “Not good,” he muttered—the understatement of the year—as he reached down to grab a survival kit from underneath his console.

“You’re telling me,” the CPO stared alongside him at the ‘metal’ they had magnetized to—it was one of the Imperial turbo-laser mounts!

Oleander started for the hatch set in the side of the cockpit.

“Abandon ship! Get out of here, you blighters,” roared the CPO storming back into the cargo hold, “I don’t care if you have broken bones or compromised suits—get out of this hold before we’re all blown to smithereens or crushed when they retract the gun and close the blast windows!”

Not waiting to see the response, Oleander forced open the hatch, magnetized his boots, and stepped out of the shuttle and moved away from it as fast as he could manage.

Chapter Seventy-six: The Tide Turns

“We’ve got multiple landers—and several shuttles—breaking through, Admiral Montagne!” cried an operator down in the sensor pit and the bridge broke out into cheers.

“Scratch one fighter!” crowed another operator.

“Use the plasma cannons to cover as many of those landers and shuttles as you can, Gunnery,” Hart shouted into his microphone, “we have to get as many through as we can!”

The ship shuddered.

“We just took heavy damage to our port secondary engine,” reported Damage Control watch stander Adrienne Blythe.

“The ship can compensate for it but we can’t afford to keep losing engines, Admiral,” reported Hammer.

“Enemy fighters are still going after the shuttles!” shouted the Assistant Tactical Officer.

There was a massive explosion off the port side of us. “Scratch one Cruiser!” an operator gleefully reported.

“We’ve still got four more of the beasts,” reported a tech at tactical.

“The Armor Prince is requesting permission to break off and engage the Cruisers at point blank range, Sir!” reported Lieutenant Steiner.

“Enemy Cruisers are changing formation,” cried the XO right before they slammed another broadside into our port side in response to the loss of their brethren.

“Admiral,” shouted Captain Hammer, “the landers are getting in—we have to move before we’re destroyed.” “Roll the ship and move us behind the Metal Titan; tell Rampage to move up to cover us,” I made a snap decision and the whipped my head over to the com-section, “tell Commodore Druid he has the green light to engage those Cruisers.”

“Yes, Sir!” said the Lieutenant.

“Rotate!” shouted Hammer. “And pull us back helmsman.”

“Cover those landers,” shouted Hart as another storm of point defense fire from the Command Carrier knocked out more than half of the wave of small craft nearest the Imperial ship.

Chapter Seventy-seven: Chaos on the Gun Deck

A man ran screaming from his post, flapping his arms as he was covered in boiling hot hydraulic fluid which continued to spray from his damaged gun-mount. Slipping and sliding, he fell to the floor flopping and writhing like some kind of demonic snow-angel-maker before a seizure wracked his body and he stopped moving entirely.

“The blast doors haven’t closed. She’s still repairable!” Lesner shouted, waving his hand forward and raising a large sheet metal shield over his head.

Behind him, a small army of grease monkey in heavy, reinforced work suits holding wrenches, mops and shields of their own charged behind him.

“Shut off that valve!” he shouted holding his shield over his head to protect himself from the ‘rain’ while pointing with a heavily-gauntleted hand.

A team of four immediately set to work, with one man bending down with a wrench to shut off the valve while the other three raised their shields up over their heads and linked them to protect the one working the wrench.

“Grease monkey!” he yelled.

“Yes, Chief?” a crewman asked, hurrying up as the flow of fluid slowly started to peter off—a sign that the monkey with the wrench was starting to close off the valve.

“Clean off the gunner’s seat!” he ordered.

“Chief!” the grease monkey with the mop nodded his head up and down like a bobble doll and then, heedless of the danger, jumped forward—only to take a face full of burning hydraulic fluid as the spray changed its arc with the closing of the valve. Even with his goggles and face mask, the boy screamed and fell into the puddle of fluid on the floor, screeching and flailing.

Grabbing him by the collar, Lesner hauled him out of the puddle and sent him sliding away from the damaged gun mount.

“Medic!” he shouted, grabbing another monkey with a mop and pointing him toward the gunner’s chair.

“Yes, Chief!” shouted the monkey eagerly, hopping right back into the very same situation that had just sent his buddy to the infirmary for third degree burns to his face.

Seeing the hydraulic fluid under control, he waved over a repair team and hurried toward the next brush fire: sparks were flying off a heavy laser mount and the crew was ducking for cover.

“You idiots! You have to pull the breaker switch first,” he cried as he ran toward them. Pushing the assistant gunner aside when the other man tried to stop him, he threw himself at the gun. Dodging an energy discharge—or possibly just reacting to it after it had flared into existence beside him—he grabbed the handle of the main breaker and pulled it down. “Get a repair team over here,” he screamed at the remains of the gun team.

“Chief,” exclaimed the Assistant Gunner, his face ashen, “the surge fried our gunner!”

Lesner looked the other—shaking—man in the eye. He looked like a new transfer. “Time to step up,” he slapped the other man on the shoulder and then, when he hesitated, Lesner physically shoved him toward the still-smoking corpse of his former team leader. “You’ll probably have to pull a new console out of the maintenance locker,” he said, giving the man a kick in the ass to hurry him along.

Seeing another problem further down the deck, he set off running.

Then a massive explosion blew out the side of the hull ten feet ahead and sent him flying into the air. An instant later, the vacuum started to pull him back toward the breach and the blast barrier came down with a clang.

Lesner breathed a sigh of relief. If those doors had come down a moment later, he would have been sucked out into the hull. He felt a pinching sensation in his legs but ignored it.

Levering himself up by his elbows, he saw that the blast doors were too close for comfort. His arms felt shaky and his elbow slipped.

“Chief Lesner!” screamed a man running up to him.

“Help me up,” he coughed, grabbing the other man’s arm and trying to right himself.

“Stay down, Chief. Just stay down,” cried the other man, pushing him back down his eyes increasingly wild as he turned. “Medic! I need a stretcher over here!”

“I just need help up,” Lesner grumbled, grabbing hold of the other man and trying to lever himself back up to his feet. He felt a wave of dizziness but ignored it, knowing he’d feel much better just as soon as he could get his legs under him.

Then his grip slipped and he fell back to the floor. He gasped for air in surprise. He just needed to catch his breath and then he’d get back into it. The men needed his leadership now more than ever—he couldn’t slack off.

A large Tracto-an man jumped down from his gun mount and came running over.

“What are you doing away from your post?” Lesner barked, and then he gasped weakly as the air seemed increasingly hard to find.

“You’ll be fine, you old rhino,” grunted Heirophant, pulling out an auto tourniquet and slamming it down onto his right leg. Those things tightened automatically whether or not there was a perfectly good leg down there.

“You bastard!” Lesner shouted grabbing the Tracto-an by the collar and dragging himself back up. “It was just a flesh—” he trailed off his eyes on the pair of stumps pressed right up against the blast doors and the giant pool of blood spreading around his thighs—or what used to be his thighs, “wound…” he finished with a sigh, feeling the rest of his strength flow out of him in a sudden rush. There was no way he was getting back up on his feet after this one.

Strength gone, his head lolled to the side as the recent urgency of the situation seemed to slip away.

Hierophant whipped off his belt and applied it to the other leg, holding Lesner’s thigh with one hand and cinching it down with the strength only a Tracto-an man had. The pain was almost unbearable. Unlike the auto-tourniquet, it had no auto-injected local anesthetic.

“You blighter—not so rough!” bellowed Lesner, snapping back into focus for a moment.

“Do not cry like a child—the men can see you,” said Hierophant.

“Cover the shuttles,” he snapped.

“What?” the Tracto-an looked at him strangely and then reached down and scooped him up. “You lost a lot of blood. They’ll get you to sick bay,” he said, dropping him into the hover-stretcher with a thump.

“We’ve got to cover those shuttles,” rasped Lesner, “make sure it happens.”

“I will pass it on, but the assistant deck chief—” started Hierophant.

“You have to get it done—you hear me, you big lump?!” Lesner swore right before a medic stabbed him in the neck with a hypo.

The Tracto-an’s face went from concerned to hard in an instant. Reaching down, he grabbed the Chief Gunner’s arm, “I will. I swear it.” With his other arm, Heirophant dipped his finger into a bit of the blood around the Chief Gunner’s leg and dabbed a bit between his eyebrows.

“Crazy…dumb…oxen-like…” the Chief Gunner trailed off as the sedative finally undid him and he faded away into unconsciousness.

Behind him, a determined-looking gunner turned back to the gun deck—he was a warrior on a mission.

Chapter Seventy-eight: The Imperial Flag unfurled

“What’s the status on those limpets?” Admiral Janeski asked harshly.

“Enemy landers and shuttles…an estimated forty percent survived to get through but that number is starting to go up as the second wave of mixed shuttles and landers is following them in,” reported Tactical.

“Our fighters are taking a beating from enemy point defense and—” started Fighter Operations.

“This is one of the greatest warships in the galaxy—I don’t want excuses, I want results!” roared the Imperial Admiral. “Forty percent is already a disgrace. Break open the small arms lockers, arm the crew, and notify the Marine Jacks to go out there onto the hull. I want these boarders contained before they get inside my ship!”

“Sir, early reports are that small parties have entered the ship already,” Captain Goddard reported stiffly. “General McMann said he’s confident he can contain this threat without too much difficulty. All they have is two-generations-old power armor while our people are armed with cutting edge Predator II battlesuits.”

“Then tell the General I expect his confidence to be well-placed. He is to push them back out into cold space before they reach something critical,” shouted the Admiral.

“On it, Sir.”

“What’s the status on their flagship?” Janeski snapped, turning back to the bridge.

“The enemy are attempting to move their flagship behind one of their more damaged other Battleships, but our Cruisers are continuing to pursue and we’ve heavily degraded the fire on their starboard side gun deck. Counter-fire has hammered a large number of their turbo-laser mounts. The other enemy Battleships have had their shields degraded, and in time I’m confident—” reported the Flag Tactical Officer.

“Enough,” Janeski said, taking a breath now that the attempted boarding action had been responded to and dealt with. He’d heard rumors and seen reports of insane boarding attempts from Governor Montagne in the past, but this was the first time one of his ships had truly experienced it. Apparently he hadn’t given the notion enough weight—a mistake he suspected he would never live down with the Senator. “What’s the status on our main cannon?” he demanded, looking at the enemy Battle Station and the rolling fight where the lesser-numbered enemy Battleships had thrown themselves into the midst of his own much more numerous—and better-armed—Battleships..

“The main cannon will be recharged and ready to fire on your command in another six minutes,” reported the weapons officer in charge of monitoring the cannon.

“Six minutes? The recharge cycle is only fifteen and it’s already been more than twenty,” he growled.

“We’ve been taking heavy fire. Shield regeneration and a liberal use of power from the port and starboard gun decks, not to mention fighter launching and rearming efforts, have—” started the Engineer on the flag bridge

“I want you to fire as soon as the main cannon is recharged,” Janeski ordered, turning to the man at the main cannon’s weapon console.

“On your order, Sir,” said the officer.

“It’s been given,” Janeski snarled.

“If you want me to divert power to increase the cannon’s recharge rate, I can do that,” the Engineer said.

“No…we’ll let the captain fight his ship,” Janeski said baring his teeth, “but I refuse to be thrown off schedule just because the locals are swarming about us like flies. Fire again—and this time make sure to destroy that Starbase,” he instructed.

“Fire on the Starbase as soon as the energy banks have recharged, aye.”

“Fighter strikes are going in now, Admiral,” reported Fighter Operations.

The Supreme Admiral grunted but turned his attention back toward the main screen, smiling slowly as the first wing of fighters swept through the enemy’s outer defenses.

Gun turrets and orbital defense lasers that had been placed around the Starbase, along with a few ragged survivors of the enemy’s Corvette screen, moved to intercept but there were too many fighters in this strike and they swept through the enemy defenses. They dodged and weaved, slipping through incoming fire fields where a larger ship would have been hit and stopped or at least slowed.

Then they started launching their torpedoes and a wave of destruction rocked the Starbase and its repair slips.

“Have the next strike target the enemy factories,” ordered Janeski.

“You don’t want to take them to use as our own?” questioned his Operations Officer. “In the past we’ve claimed everything that could be repurposed. I know it’s not my place, but I hope you’re not allowing emotion to cloud your judgment.”

“All Confederation fleets, warships, and Starbases are to be destroyed or otherwise permanently removed from the Spine by order of the Reclamation Initiative,” Janeski said humorlessly. “I’m just following the plan—although I can’t say it doesn’t give me a great deal of satisfaction to destroy them. If they surrender I’ll accept it, but otherwise I’ll keep firing until they are destroyed. There’s more than one way to remove this Confederation taint—if they won’t take the easy way I am more than willing to show them the hard way.”

“Aye, Sir,” said the other officer.

Originally he had intended to repurpose the facilities for his fleet’s use—and he might still try—but first they had to win and that meant breaking the enemy’s will to fight. And that meant hitting them and hitting them again until everything was destroyed or they surrendered. It was no great loss if everything was pummeled until it was debris. The important thing was reclaiming these Sectors for the Empire of Man.

Chapter Seventy-nine: Lancers on the Invictus Rising

“Forward!” shouted Darius as he lumbered down the passageway with his company right behind him.

“Surrender—you have ten seconds to comply. Ten-nine-” came a synthesized droid voice that was answered by plasma fire. In response, the countdown was cut short and the sound of a rapid-firing blaster cannon rang out—accompanied by loud, animalistic snarling.

“I want scouts in the older armor sent forward to clear a path,” commanded Darius. “The new armor stays concentrated in the middle able to crush any resistance to our move.”

“A path, Captain?” one of his veteran warriors, a sergeant now, asked. “Where exactly are we going?”

“Our command from the Protector is clear: we are commanded to shut down this ship’s main cannon at any cost,” Darius said while running down the corridor, amending, “shut down or destroy, but preferably destroy.”

“How are we to find it from inside, Captain?” asked Lieutenant Hector cutting into the command channel. “This ship is massive. We might have been better off staying on the hull and forcing a move to the nose of the ship. At least we know where the head of the cannon sticks out. Either destroy it from there or work our way in.”

“We’ve got explosive satchels but Engineering says the nose is hardened. You could hit it with a turbo-laser and nothing would happen. However, if we could reach the cannon’s main energy coil from inside we can shut it down with a simple place charge in the right place,” said Darius.

The lead scout suddenly stopped, holding up a closed fist and the other three scouts behind him abruptly froze. His head was turning from side to side as he slowly swept his blaster rifle from side to side when a storm of plasma fire erupted from all four walls of the corridor and a dozen foreign-looking battlesuits appeared. They sat up, stepped away from the walls, or dropped from the ceilings like chameleons as their forms shimmered with the sudden movement.

“Ahhh!” the scout screamed over the main channel before

a flashing red icon shown indicating a warrior down.

“Resistance!” cried the leader of the squad as his warriors dropped to their knees and leveled their weapons.

“For the Empire!” shouted enemy battlesuits, raising their arms and charging into the company.

“Devastators to the front!” yelled Darius, extending his combat blades as blaster and plasma fire shot back and forth and rushing forward as fast as his suit would allow.

“Resistance is futile. Surrender and live—fight and die!” roared an enemy officer in an oversized enemy suit at least a good foot taller than those of his surrounding Jacks.

“For the Hold!” shouted Darius, taking in the enemy’s seamless merging of neck and shoulders that didn’t allow for an easy decapitation strike and the crystal boarding axes they brandished.

“The Hold!” screamed his fellow Tracto-ans as they surged forward.

“And the MSP!” roared a former Caprian within the ranks.

In response, the enemy leader extended his force blades and his force of a dozen men advanced like pinballs, bouncing off walls to throw off the Lancer’s aim in an intricate dance that made hits with long-range weapons harder—although not impossible—to make.

But even when they were hit, the ranged weapons appeared to do very little damage.

“Swords!” roared Darius as the enemy leader bounded into the front rank squad, knocking two of his Lancers over and taking a head with the first swing of his mono-locsium boarding axe.

Then he was there, and blades crossed in front of his mighty breastplate. Darius blocked an axe and the sheer momentum of his chest-charge sent the enemy leader slamming into the wall.

“Messene!” he screamed, leveling his ion cannon at the leader and cutting loose while the other man was temporarily off-balance.

Behind him, his men screamed as they went hand to hand with the toughest enemy they’d met to date. These were soldiers who had the best, most advanced training and been a part of the most brutal battles in known space and lived to tell the tale and fight another day.

These were Imperial Marine Jacks—and Darius had long-awaited this day.

Darius knew that, formidable thought they might be, these Imperials had never gone hand to hand with fully trained Tracto-an warriors. He blocked a boarding axe with one hand and stomped a fallen Jack with his foot. The last time Marine Jacks had gone toe to toe with his people, they’d been defeated and surrendered. As far as he was concerned, their reputation was nothing but an unverified boast until after they’d faced his test.

It was a test he didn’t plan for them to survive.

Chapter Eighty: Desperate Times on the Hull

A pair of fighters came swooping around, the heavy blaster cannons under their wings going to rapid fire as they strafed the hull.

Oleander waited until they had shot past before popping up, setting his adhesive boots to three fourths stick, and charging toward the next protrusion on the hull. Ducking back around behind it, he set his boots back to maximum and carefully fell onto his back to maximize his cover.

Bringing his weapon up to chest level, he scanned the black sky over his position and saw far too many enemy fighters for his comfort. Lining up a bead on an approaching enemy fighter, he held his fire not wanting to give away his hiding place—at least, he held fire until another man in a Caprian skin suit performed a flying leap that ended right outside the protrusion he was using for cover. Predictably, the fighter which had been ignoring his area until now opened fire.

“We’ve got to get out of here, Bush!” shouted the endlessly irritating Chief Petty Officer that had roped him into the job of shuttle pilot as a series of blaster bolts landed all around them. Miraculously, the storm of fire missed the old Caprian entirely.

“It’s ‘Shrub,’ you moron,” Oleander grumbled under his breath, wondering how in the world he’d ended up with hoary old royalist determined to dog his trail while spouting anti-electoral rhetoric. The gods really did seem to hate him right now.

“Don’t give me any of that ‘I didn’t volunteer for this’ nonsense, Bush!” shouted the CPO, grabbing him by the shoulder and dragging him out from his cover like a clam out of its shell.

“You’re going to get us both killed!” swore Oleander, taken by surprise at the move. Instinctively, he brought his blaster around but the CPO knocked it away.

“I’m almost out of adhesive; these boots were meant for fine work over short distances or metal hulls—we’ve got to find a boarding tube and get inside!” shouted the Petty Officer, giving a jerk that broke the Parliamentary agent’s own adhesive boots free from the crystalline hull.

“Let go,” Oleander tugged on his blaster, but was unable to get control now that he was essentially floating free from the hull and had no point of leverage. “The nearest hatch is the other way!”

“The Lancers say they found a downed shuttle over here,” chortled the CPO, crouching down and then giving a giant leap that took them flying perilously close to directly over a still-active laser mount. “They think they can get the boarding tube activated before another fighter comes by and takes it out the rest of the way.”

“You’re going to get us killed,” shouted Oleander as the laser fired beneath them and they started to get further and further from the hull.

“I haven’t lost a pilot yet,” said the CPO, activating a handheld maneuvering jet and taking them abruptly down toward a small knot of Lancers, “and I don’t aim to start now!”

Oleander’s eyes took in a pair of crew-served blaster cannons being set up around a crumpled-looking shuttle that seemed to have smashed into the hull.

A Lancer in a battlesuit stomped over after they landed on the hull.

“Found my wayward sheep, Lieutenant,” shouted the CPO over the line-of-sight radio channel.

“My boys think they’ve got the boarding tube working, so we should have a hole soon,” reported the Lieutenant with another Caprian-sounding accent, “and the transmission’s down, Chief! I lost half a squad to the last fighter pass alone. We’re getting killed out here—there’s no need to make the enemy’s job any easier than it needs to be!”

The CPO nodded.

Oleander swore silently. Instead of cracking into a perfectly fine hatch, he was instead about to make foolhardy charge into a damaged shuttle and through its hopefully undamaged boarding tube. If there was one thing he’d learned, it was that the more people you had around you in a battle the more likely you were to draw enemy fire.

Chapter Eighty-one: Akantha on close approach

“Yeah!!!” screamed a feminine-sounding voice in her own native tongue as the bam-bam-bam of the lander’s drive and resulting oppressive g-forces threatened to tear joints and crack bones.

“We’re going in hot, my Mistress,” reported the shuttle pilot, also a Tracto-an.

“Just pay attention to your work and make sure the Lady makes it down in one piece,” growled the warrior in the co-pilot’s seat.

“Too many lasers for any promises, War Leader,” shouted back the Pilot, sounding like he was having the time of his life.

“I told you we could get it going faster if we limited the crew to our people, Persus!” exclaimed Akantha.

“We shouldn’t be out here in the first place, my Lady,” retorted the man who’d guarded her safety since she was a girl child.

“Hold on!” said the pilot before a sudden wave of vertigo swept over everyone onboard followed by a series of rapid fire engine thrusts that caused even the hold-mistress to groan. “Enemy fighter on close approach!”

Moments later, the lander shuddered.

“We’re hit! We’re hit!” cried the pilot, “I’ve lost helm control. Quick—deactivate the ballistic jelly. We need to bail out before this lander pancakes on the shields!”

Persus flicked the switch that sent an electrical current throughout the interior of the shuttle, turning incredibly tough and absorbent jelly back into liquid. Another flick opened the lander’s back end hatch, venting the liquid into space.

“Hurry, my Lady,” shouted Persus, grabbing her by the shoulder and hurrying her to the cockpit’s now opening access hatch.

“Don’t forget your grav-sled,” Akantha said right before throwing herself out the hatch with a shout. Seeing the enemy ship moving ever closer to her, she quickly locked her arms onto her sled and activated its maneuvering program.

Moments later, a much more unwieldy figure came shooting over beside her. “Let me go in front,” said Persus.

“It’s been too long!” Adonia Akantha Zosime said with an eager expression on her face. In the interest of avoiding conflict and giving her guardian heartburn, she decided to refrain from pointing out that if the Imperials targeted them with lasers then Persus being between her and them wouldn’t make a bit of difference in the ultimate outcome and let him go first.

Telling a man who’d been with her practically all her life—and who’d helped raise her—that at this point that there was nothing he could do and that he was entirely unnecessary until they got inside the ship didn’t seem like a proper reward for years of faithful service.

“Time to ride the lightning!” she shouted as her grav-board turned and started doing its best to bring her down safely. “My Lady!” Persus shouted after her as his board automatically maneuvered clear of her board, separating them.

He still had a lot to learn about how things were done on the River of the Stars!

Chapter Eighty-two: Imperial Irritation

Arnold Janeski glared at the screen as yet another wave of landers and shuttles pushed their way toward his hull. It was a smaller wave than the previous ones, but the fact that any of the enemy’s boarding units had made it inside his ship was a disgrace.

As he watched, several of the enemy shuttles that had been hit opened their hatches and started to release dozens of men in battle armor riding on grav-boards. Instead of one medium-sized target, his gunners now had dozens more smaller targets to deal with.

The Provincials had proven more innovative and determined than he’d given them credit for. Well, no matter; one on one there was nothing in this galaxy that could withstand the full force and fury of the Imperial trained Marine Jack. It took massive numbers to swamp and overcome them. Sadly for the provincials, they simply didn’t have nearly enough men to get the job done.

“Send another squadron of fighters to sweep the hull. I want those ticks dug out before they have time to burrow under our skin and link up with their comrades,” ordered the Supreme Admiral.

“Aye-aye, Sir,” said Fighter Operations.

“What’s the status of the provincial battle armor inside?” the Admiral turned and demanded.

“General McMann reports that mixed in with their obsolete armor are battlesuits like he’s never seen before. However, despite their surprising effectiveness, the enemy incursions have been contained before they could link up, and are even now being forced into smaller and smaller containment areas,” reported the Marine Lieutenant in the room.

Janeski grunted. “Tell him to speed it up—there are more of them on the way.”

“Aye-aye, Admiral.”

“What’s the status on the enemy’s Battleships?” the Supreme Admiral turned and demanded, looking at the screen where all four of the enemy Battleships were still active and engaged with his Command Carrier and her supporting units.

“Toward Wolf-9 two of the enemy Battleships have been knocked out, while the rest are outnumbered and taking heavy damage from our units. Locally the enemy flagship has been severely damaged by counter-fire and over a third of her starboard broadside has been neutralized. Right now she’s using one of her compatriots for cover but our Cruiser force is pressing her port side hard. We may lose some Cruisers but it’s only a matter of time until something critical over there breaks and we’re able to neutralize them,” reported Flag Tactical.

“When it comes to the Governor I don’t want neutral—I want dead,” Janeski said flatly. “Why aren’t more bomber runs being made against that ship?”

“As we’ve known since the last battle, her point defense system—which includes a large number of plasma cannons—is surprisingly effective at short ranges. Especially against fighters,” said Tactical.

Janeski grunted and turned his gaze toward the increasingly sprawling battle taking place between his fighters and the enemy gunboats.

Chapter Eighty-three: General McMann

“What do you mean you can’t drive them out of there?!” snarled the Marine General.

“They’re dug in there tighter than a Draconis Sand Crab, Major General,” the Major on the other end of the line said stoutly, sounding like a man reporting things the way they were even if it wasn’t exactly the way his General wanted to hear it. “We’ve been pushed back three times, but nothing seems to work. I’m afraid this is going to take more time than we’ve been allotted.”

“Are you telling me that a full strength, veteran Marine company—fully trained in using and outfitted with the latest Predator II class battlesuits, the most powerful power armor currently inside this galaxy—can’t defeat a handful of provincial Marines, Major?” demanded the General.

“I’ve got a company and a half over here, and no, Sir. That’s not at all what I’m telling you,” the Major said grimly. “I’m saying that they’re dug in and these oversized suits they’re using are tougher than anything I’ve seen. They take a hit and just keep going. They have ion and blaster cannons against our own built-in plasma tubes, and vibro-blades to match our force blades. When it comes to maneuverability they’re bigger and slower than us; we have no problem getting around them and pushing them back or killing them in the open, but against a fortified position it’s matching their best strength against ours. In that type of match-up we’re—”

“I’ve heard enough,” General McMann said in an iron voice, “prepare to pull your force back and push forward toward the hull. We can’t afford to stall out our advance now.”

“You can’t mean to leave them behind us, General?” the Major asked sounding worried.

The General’s jaw tightened. “No. I’m sending in Nottingham. As soon as her men arrive on the scene, hand over your positions and continue with your advance in compliance with your company’s original orders,” said the General.

“Good thing there’s nothing too critical in that area then, Sir,” said the Major, “if that will be all I need to get my Jack’s ready to pull out and advance.”

“Carry on, Marine,” grunted McMann.

Chapter Eighty-four: The Brunt

“My sensors are picking up movement around us, Captain,” reported Lieutenant Hector.

“By definition, anything the enemy does—other than stabbing themselves in the foot by accident—is no good. I want our warriors on a heightened level of readiness,” instructed Darius. “I don’t want it said the Lyconese were taken by surprise when the Argosians would have been prepared.”

“Captain, I’m receiving a transmission,” reported Darius’s top communications technician, a Promethean man that had been with them for almost a year now.

Darius considered for a moment. “Put it on my long talker,” he instructed he waited until the line was open.

“Who is this?” Darius asked.

“I am Major Nottingham, and this is your first and final warning. Come out with your weapons deactivated and my men will take you into custody and escort you to the brig. Fail to do so within sixty seconds and I will destroy you,” said the woman on the other end of the line.

“I can’t do that,” Darius said evenly.

The line clicked and went dead, and the Lyconese Tracto-an frowned.

“I want scans,” he ordered, turning to his com-tech, “have the scouts push out a sensor and find out what the enemy thinks she’s doing.”

“Sir, their sensor tech is way better than ours. There’s no way a remote scanner is going to be able to—”

“Then tell them I want a quad of scouts sent out!” Darius roared.

The tech looked at him with surprise before nodding and turning back to his job.

“Are you sure you aren’t overreacting because we’re pinned down?” asked Lieutenant Hector.

“They sent a woman—that’s reason enough to raise our guard,” said Captain Darius. “You don’t send in a woman unless it’s someone important—or you intend to get the job done with overwhelming force.”

“They don’t think the same way we do,” pointed out Hector. “Besides, what can they do to us in here?”

“I’ve got a feeling…” said the Captain dourly.

“Then I’ll have my men get ready,” said the Lieutenant.

Chapter Eighty-five: Nottingham’s Plan

“Are the breaching charges ready?” asked the Major.

“Ready and primed, Sir,” reported the Marine Engineering Lieutenant in charge of the special squad.

“Remember: as soon as the spike gets here you are to ready your men. The moment it fires…well, you know what to do,” said Major Nottingham with a bloodthirsty grin.

“Just like back in 27 on that station around Europa Prime,” nodded the Lieutenant.

“Then get them ready,” she barked, slapping him on the ass.

The Lieutenant suppressed a salute and strode back over to his men. Moments later, the corridor rumbled as a team in power armor pulled the spike over and into place.

“How are we doing for power?” Nottingham demanded.

“The line’s good and everything is in place except the footings,” reported the Sergeant in charge of the work party.

“Then bolt her down and tell the rest of the company to get ready. It’s time to show these locals what it means to board an Imperial ship with a full Imperial Marine brigade onboard her,” said Major Nottingham.

Chapter Eighty-six: A Little Elbow Grease

3 weeks earlier

“Why in the name of Saint Murphy have I been called over to consult on an engineering problem here instead of back over to an engineering problem on the Clover where I belong, Brence?” Commander Spalding groused, stepping into the expanded shuttle bay and giving the structural support and hull repairs an eye as he did so.

“If you’ll just come this way, Sir, I’m sure you’ll understand what the problem is,” Lieutenant Brence said seriously.

Shaking his head, Spalding turned to Parkiney. “He’s got a look in his eye that you just can’t trust; I’ve seen it before,” he complained to the crew chief.

“How so, Commander?” asked the petty officer with a lifted brow.

“A man gets that kind of look and he’s liable to do any fool thing,” Spalding continued as if Parkiney hadn’t even spoken, “why, the last time I saw it a perfectly good engineer was looking at a suit of power armor of all things. I tell you, man: he was seduced to the dark side. If there’s one thing that’s nearly as bad for an engineer as relying on multi-tools, it’s got to be specializing in one field. It’s like an obsession that he just can’t shake. I’ve seen it before and it’s not a pretty sight!”

“An engineer with an obsession…you don’t say?” Parkiney deadpanned.

Spalding purpled. “It’s not the same thing and you know it!” the aged engineer grumped. “As the Saint is my beloved witness—”

Brence cleared his throat, “We’re here, Sir.”

Lips pursed in a furious scowl. the old engineer looked up and his jaw nearly fell open.

Lined up like sardines in a can were row after row of boats—gunboats, to be exact—and they weren’t just lined up along the floor and locked down tight like a person would normally expect to see inside a hangar. Instead, a second—and even a third , in some cases—row of gunboats were lined up fifteen to twenty feet in the air over the rows of boats. It was like that everywhere except for three rows right in the middle of the hangar that seemed to be used by heavy equipment to shuttle parts back and forth.

“What the blue blazes is going on in here?” Spalding swore, staring at the haphazard array of steel and duralloy framing mixed in with, in a few cases, chain-linked repulsors that kept everything from collapsing one a top the other. “This is a safety code violation if ever I saw one!!” he exclaimed, too shocked at the mess of gunboats, not one of which was perfectly lined up with the others. “Why, there’s even boats magnetized to the walls,” he said, spotting three boats that weren’t permanently attached to anything and looked like big, bloated insects attempting to hug a wall with unseen grippers.

“Yeah, we’ve been trying to get them to bring them down from there for a few days now,” said Parkiney.

“What a mess,” Spalding shook his head in disgust and then did a double take. “Are you saying that you’re a part of this…this…these shenanigans, Parkiney? For shame!”

“If you could step on over here, Sir,” said Brence, “we can discuss fixing up the mess later.”

“Yeah…it just sort of…grew,” Parkiney said lamely.

Spalding shook his head. “A man leaves a project alone for a few months and everything goes straight in the crapper,” he complained loudly. “You know it was me who put his reputation on the line with the Construction Manager, assuring her that this project would be a good way to let our people blow off steam!”

“Ah, here we are,” Brence said, starting to sound a little nervous as he made a blatant attempt to change the subject.

They rounded a corner. “I vouched for you!” the Commander bellowed, leveling a finger just as a grease-stained engineering rating rounded the corner.

The other man blinked, looking down at the finger and then back up at the commander. “Uh, thank you, Sir,” said the grease-stained engineer, “I’m sure I speak for everyone here when I say we’re all grateful.

Spalding glared at the rating, causing his eyes to widen and lean back as if enduring a strong wind.

“Ah, just the person I wanted you to meet,” Brence said, stepping up beside the other rating and putting an arm around his shoulder.

“Who’s in charge here?!” Spalding bellowed.

“Uh, hello, Commander. It’s a real treat to meet you. I’ve only been with the Patrol Fleet for less than a year now but I guess that’s all beside the point. Anyway, that would be me, Sir. I’m more or less in charge over here. I mean, as much as anyone,” the other engineer said with a smile.

“I vouched for you!” Spalding repeated histrionically. “And you make this sort of mess?!”

“Well it’s kind of hard with everyone only able to put in the work on their off-duty hours. No one’s really interested in making it pretty when they could be getting their hands dirty,” said the other man. “I mean, it’s hard to get them off the job and onto clean-up when there’s still more production work left to do.

Spalding opened his mouth, closed it, and then threw his hands in the air. “This is a hazardous environment! And it ends today,” he declared with the weight of authority.

“Of course, Sir,” the other man said happily. “They’ll listen to you where they’d probably just nod their heads and ignore me. You’re the Great Spalding, after all.”

Spalding stopped, caught flat-footed by this particular turn. “The ‘Great Spalding’?” he repeated, his eyebrows rising for the rafters before lowering thunderously. “What kind of utter nonsense is this? My grandfather was the ‘Great Spalding’ if,” he heavily stressed the last word, “there ever was one. I’m just a plain old working engineer, that’s what I am. I mean, what the heck are you trying to do here,” he demanded, “turn me into some kind of blasted Sai—”

“I’m glad you asked,” the other man said eagerly interrupting him, “you see, I’m working on one of those old Conformity boats. Let me tell you: they’re a lot bigger than the hover cars I used to work on back home. Fortunately I did my time in a shuttle repair yard before signing up with the Border Alliance and shipping out here,” he said eagerly while Spalding just nodded along, repressing the urge to shake his head at just how longwinded the younger generation seemed be getting nowadays. Why back in his day—“You see, I ripped out the thrusters and single engine setup the droids had going on and completely revamped the grav-plate set up. In fact, probably just about the only thing that’s stock on this thing is the power plant—other than the chassis, of course. But the plant just can’t get the job done as it is, so I’ve added an external energy bank to make up for that. However—”

Spalding, who had been nodding along up until this point, suddenly stiffened. “What are you doing?!” he cried, throwing an arm wide. “An external energy bank? What are you trying to do, get the crew of this ship killed?!”

“Killed? Why…why would that happen?” the other engineer asked, his brow furrowing.

“Why? Because it’d explode as soon as it took a hit, man—are ye daft? These boats don’t have shields, making those external energy banks nothing but a sitting time bomb,” sneered the old engineer, “which entirely ignores the fact that if by some miracle it didn’t explode, as soon as they were taken out you’d lose power to the entire ship!”

The younger engineer’s face cleared with sudden understanding. “Oh, you’re thinking about the old energy banks, sir. Yeah, those would’ve exploded if they took a hit, and they’d have taken the whole gunboat with them. That’s why we’re not using them. I’m pretty sure everybody here is using the new solid state semi-crystal energy cells they’re putting in the new sky speeders on Aurora,” the other man said with relief. “I mean we did have to find a different fluid base to replace the one they were using in the sky speeders, because the matrix they were using to suspend the crystals in froze up solid as soon as we took them outside the Carrier for a test run. But even though the new solution reduces the peak power outflow by ten percent, I think we’ve manage to overcome that hurdle by adding more banks.”

“What? A new energy bank,” Spalding said with surprise, and then he gave a loud huff to cover and quickly straightened out his features. “I want to see the specs.”

“Here, Sir,” said the other engineer, leading him around the gunboat and handing him a slate, “as you can see, it won’t explode and because they’re so small compared to the boats—I mean, they were intended for a speeder after all—we can put multiple banks of them on the hull and isolate each bank so a direct hit to any one unit won’t take out the entire system.”

“You’ll still need one heck of a surge protector just in case they’re hit,” the Chief Engineer grumbled as he flipped through the specs on the new battery system. “Ha! I see,” he said with sudden understanding, “it’s too small to be used on a capital ship and the power drop-off is too high compared to what we’re using now.” That explained why he’d never heard of them before.

“Yeah, I think we worked out the surge protection issue. But right now I’m having one heck of a time load-balancing the grav-plates and the energy systems. The previous computer system was obviously compromised, being of droid make. But since we don’t make anything but standard shuttle computers at Gambit, trying to make a shuttle computer work has been hard. I mean the programming from the Sundered is better than nothing, but the processing power is a little light. I’ve tried to compensate for that with a sub-node but the coding issues are just beyond me and the computer department is booked up solid,” the other man said helplessly.

Spalding gave him the hairy eyeball, but seeing the genuine concern on the younger man’s face his suspicion subsided even as his chest swelled. “What’s your name, lad?” he demanded, turning to take a long look at the gunboat before leaning his head in and peering inside.

“O’Toole, Sir. Petty Officer Justin O’Toole,” he said.

“Well don’t worry about that sub-node anymore. I’ve got a trick that’ll help you out with that. The real problem is your grav-plate setup,” he blustered.

“Thank you, that’s a real relief! But…the grav-plates?” the young engineer asked with a frown. “The matrix is set up to tolerance.”

“If you’re operating a shuttle I suppose it’s fine, but isn’t this supposed to be a gunboat?” Spalding shook his head and pulled out his own slate. “I’m not a gunboat specialist, but you’ll get at least a fifteen percent increase in speed if you place the plates in this formation. I mean, you will if your power plant can feed the extra power to your engine.”

“The power plant is kind of weak, like I told you, but if we add more energy banks outside we should be able to handle it for short distances. It’d be like an after burner mode if it works,” said the younger man, looking down at his slate before looking back up with a grin. “Hey, this sort of overlapping coverage should work great. I wonder why I never thought of it before?”

“You were using the standard array, which places extra emphasis on safety. They used this one for more than two hundred years before shifting over to the new model after too many law suits,” Spalding explained. “But if you look at the history of it, the only real reason they changed it was for liability purposes. I mean, sure, it gives you a little better energy consumption rate at the slower speeds but as far as safety there’s only a three percent increased risk of any sort of accident. Now in a civilian setting, three percent is huge. But when you’re in the middle of a battle and your life is measured in seconds rather than decades? I’d prefer the increase in speed every time, myself.”

“Hey, if you have time would you like to come in and take a look at my new power distribution system? I know it’s nothing fancy but I could sure use a second opinion,” said the engineer.

“Well…I really shouldn’t,” Spalding objected, knowing he really should be getting back to the Clover. But his eyes kept darting inside, “But I might could do—just for a couple hours, you understand?” he said finally and then hesitation gone stepped inside the gunboat. “Okay, show me what you’ve got. And while we’re at it, if you happen to have any malfunctioning grav-carts bring ‘em by and I’ll show you a little trick.”

“Thank you, Commander,” beamed the Engineer.

“And, you know, if you’ve been riding herd on the monkeys outside here and are thinking about riding this boat into battle we really should probably bump you up to a Warrant Officer,” said Spalding off-handedly.

Chapter Eighty-seven: The Boats Arrive

“Enemy fighter squadron is on hot approach,” reported the Sensor/Damage Control/Gunboat Tactical Assistant.

“We’re still going at standard maximum shuttle speed,” reported the pilot-slash-navigator.

“Keep it steady, Driver,” said Warrant Officer Justin O’Toole.

“That’s ‘Pilot,’ Warrant!” corrected the Pilot.

“Whatever, Danny,” O’Toole said with an eye-roll and then turned to the weapon’s operator. “Okay, I want you to line up our peashooter on those fighters and prepare to drop an anti-fighter missile as soon as they come in close, Weaponeer,” he instructed.

“If we let them get in close we’ll be at risk, Warrant,” the Sensor Operator said with all the disapproval his two week, entirely voluntary, gunboat tactics crash course allowed.

“Just one missile, Justin?” interrupted Svetlana the gunnery rating currently manning the gun boat’s weapon console. “Because you know I have two of the suckers and an anti-ship missile. And its ‘gunner’ or maybe ‘tactical’—not ‘weaponeer,’ Captain,” she protested.

“Says the overgrown grease monkey,” sniffed Harry from the sensor console. “I still say we should have held out for a gunner that, you know, had actual combat experience.”

“Hey, I got my rating,” Svetlana said hotly, “and if it’s combat experience you’re looking for, I operated a heavy laser for a full five minutes before a replacement crew came to replace gunner and assistant gunner after they were taken out by a grease fire!”

“Quick, call the press! Print a retraction! Sweet crying Murphy she’s got a whole five minutes, why that completely blows my lame-brained assertion that you’re green as a goose when it comes to combat in the hot-seat—” retorted Harry.

“Enough!” O’Toole said angrily. “Svetlana has all the experience both she and we need right now. And if we’re going to get all technical about it you spent most of your regular duty hours working as a cafeteria cook.”

“Just because I prefer cooking doesn’t mean I don’t want to rack up some combat kills! I’m a fully trained sensor operator,” protested Harry, “I just prefer feeding you chowder-heads and having access to the best food stocks on the ship. I rode second console in the Small Craft Grand Prix before joining the MSP—at least I know boats!”

“Likely story,” Svetlana sneered.

“Blast it you guys, here they come!” shouted the pilot.

“Drop missile and fire!” cried O’Toole, the nominal master and commander of the gunboat.

“Yee-haw!” cried Danny as he threw the gunboat into an evasive maneuver that strained the grav-plate system to its limits.

“Slow down, you moron—I can’t hit anything when you’re throwing us around like this!” cried Svetlana as the targeting computer in her console struggled to keep up.

“You had a good two seconds. If you two weren’t so busy arguing right before going into a combat situation, you’d have had plenty of time,” shouted Danny at the helm.

“I told you she was green! You should have compensated for that, you hotdog,” Harry snapped back, “line it back up! Quick!”

“I thought I was the captain,” said O’Toole with an edge in his voice.

“Missile away!” cried Svetlana as the missile separated from the gunboat and went into sprint mode, aimed at one of the approaching fighters.

“You’re supposed to be coordinating the whole wing,” Harry informed him, “so get busy coordinating already. We’ll handle everything in here.”

“That’d be like turning command over to the three stooges,” snapped Justin O’Toole, “no way!”

“Scratch one bogey!” cried Svetlana, pumping her fist as the missile shot past her target and slammed into an enemy fighter that was part of a second squadron which had been coming up behind the first.

“Yeah, but it’s not one of the ones we wanted. Work on your targeting, girl,” ordered Harry, his voice laced with irritation.

“I just shot down a fighter and you’re still complaining? Of course we wanted it—this is ridiculous! You’re just mad because I turned you down and punched you in the face for being a prick at the bar,” growled Svetlana.

“Like I told you at the time: I thought you were a tranny. I lost a bet with the boys and so I had to—” Harry defended himself.

“Argh!” Svetlana cried angrily.

“Killjoys Wing: focus your fire on the enemy fighters. Killer Coconuts: continue on to those Destroyers behind them!” ordered O’Toole, cutting through the noise.

On the tiny screens built into their consoles, the gunboat crew could see a squadron of fighters coming at them head on. Then the fighters opened fire.

“I’ll kill you!” shouted Svetlana, opening fire with the peashooter.

The gunboat shuddered. “We’re hit! We’re hit!” cried the Sensor/Damage Control Operator, “the power bank on the left side has been compromised and I’m reading a micro-fracture in the hull.”

“Hold your mustard, cook,” Svetlana mocked gloatingly, “this is nothing compared to what we have to deal with on the deck.”

“Stay on target and launch the other anti-fighter missile!” ordered O’Toole as the fighters overtook them and another shot slammed home against the boat’s hull, causing alarm klaxons to sound in the gunboat cockpit.

“I’ve got a yellow light! There’s a problem of some kind with the capital missile launch mechanism,” yelped the Sensor Operator.

“This is going to be tight!” screamed Pilot Danny as a second enemy fighter squadron appeared on their flank, diverting course to put them in a pincher move.

“Free hoagies on rye for everyone in the boat if you get us all out of here alive!” exclaimed Harry.

“All Killjoys: launch anti-fighter missiles! All Killjoys: cut them loose,” shouted O’Toole.

Like a tide of death, the Imperial fighters and the twelve Destroyers they were accompanying clashed with over three hundred gunboats.

Chapter Eighty-eight: Into the Burrow

“In! In! In!” shouted the Lancer Lieutenant, waving his arms wildly as he gestured toward the pancaked shuttle, where a half squad had just finished cutting a hole into the enemy flagship with the boarding tube.

“That’s your cue, lad,” said the CPO, shoving Oleander toward the shuttle.

Not bothering with meaningless words—like asking if the other man was coming along as well—Oleander took off at the closest thing to a sprint he could manage with the adhesive boots he was wearing.

“Ahhhh!” he shouted as blaster fire erupted around him.

“Marines on the hull—odd squads: turn around and pick your targets!” shouted the Lancer Lieutenant.

“Blasted Imperials—who elected you to bombard our planet?” cried the Chief Petty Officer, leveling his blaster rifle and firing wildly in the direction of the oncoming Marine jacks.

“Make a hole!” Oleander shouted over the point-to-point communications as he stormed into the downed shuttle and threw himself through the boarding tube.

“There’s a whole company of them advancing by platoons, Lieutenant,” he heard reported over the coms.

Not waiting around to hear—or even worse, to see—what was going on behind him, the Caprian parliamentary agent hurried into the Carrier. He passed a half dozen Lancers who were busy setting up a firing position facing the boarding tube.

“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” asked one of the Lancers as Oleander ran past.

“I’ve got an important mission,” Oleander lied truthfully as he continued running. He did have an important mission—it just wasn’t one given to him by Jason Montagne.

“Get back here!” shouted a Lancer.

“Let him go; we’re about to have company,” ordered the Sergeant.

Down the corridor he ran, coming to the first blast door where he ran into a roadblock: the doors were locked down tight. Fortunately, he came prepared. He pulled out a compact mini-computer and hooked it into a data port in the access panel.

Now it was just a race against time.

Whether he could get through that door and into the rest of the ship before either the Imperials—or his own ‘side’—caught up with him was anyone’s guess at this point.

Chapter Eighty-nine: The second shot

Multiple battles were taking place simultaneously all over the board.

Janeski sat in his command chair, observing it all through slitted eyes. On the screen, the fighter wings he’d sent to hit the Starbase complex had succeeded in their mission and were now on the way back home, leaving multiple repair slips and two orbital factories wrecked in their wake.

Just outside the Starbase’s complex defenses, the provincial Battleships had taken significantly more damage than his own heavy squadrons. While the enemy gunboat reinforcements had been significantly delayed by yet another wing of fighters and his two squadrons of Destroyers, to this point they had been completely unable to help cover their lander and shuttle brethren. Even so, it looked like they were attempting to split their numbers and join battle around the flagship anyway.

Which wouldn’t matter in the end.

The Battleships surrounding his Command Carrier were hit by repeated fighter strikes, and Janeski’s ever-increasing Cruiser and Destroyer reinforcements kept trickling in to put pressure on them. Combined with the double Battleship-powered broadside of the Carrier, they had reduced the enemy’s shields to the point of failure and degraded their broadsides to half their original throw weight. Whatever weight the boats could bring would be easily countered by his own fighters.

Yes, on the whole all was going well. The only two flies in the ointment was the survival of the enemy Starbase from the first attack and the fact that the locals had actually managed to land boarding parties on the flagship.

He scowled. It didn’t matter that he had sufficient Marine Jacks to contain and destroy them, or that they’d tried in the first place. It was an insult and a failure that they’d penetrated his defenses and landed on the hull of the Command Carrier in the first place.

“Energy bank recharged and ready to fire again on your command, Supreme Admiral,” reported the Main Cannon Operator.

“The Carrier is still lined up on the Starbase, Admiral. We can fire when ready,” said Tactical.

Janeski nodded. It was time to take care of one of the aforementioned flies, “Fire when ready.”

“Yes, Sir!” said the Cannon Operator.

Seconds later, a bright white beam lanced out of the ship as the particle cannon fired. “A hit!” cried Tactical triumphantly, as this time the cannon punched through one side of the battle station and out the other.

Metal fragments shot out both sides of the vast structure that was the Wolf-9 Starbase as outgassing and internal explosions rocked the station.

“Station shields have gone down and sensors are reading major power fluctuations,” reported Commander Stenson as the first wave of escape pods started ejecting from the Starbase.

“It looks like whatever stopgap measures they rigged up to stop the particle cannon proved ineffective,” Janeski said.

“Couldn’t handle more than one shot,” agreed Captain Goddard, “looks like she’s been neutralized but one more shot, and Wolf-9 should be gone permanently.”

The Supreme Admiral of the Reclamation Fleet smiled. “Begin re-charging the particle cannon,” he ordered.

Chapter Ninety: Wolf-9 Falls?

“All hands: abandon Station. I say again: all hands abandon the Starbase and proceed to fallback positions,” Communications relayed, his deep, gravelly voice rumbling over the shrill whine of the alarm klaxons.

“The power core is highly unstable. Engineering say’s they’ll hold it to the last minute before ejecting the core into space in order to allow as many of the crew to escape as possible before the power fails,” reported Damage Control.

“Captain, we have to follow suit and get out of here,” urged the Station Executive Officer.

McCruise opened her mouth to reply, only to grab for the arms of her chair instead as the station shook and rumbled before temporarily re-stabilizing.

“Sir, we have to withdraw!” exclaimed the XO.

Captain Synthia McCruise nodded reluctantly and looked one final time at the tactical plot. Her face hardened at what she saw.

“Tactical, I know the plan was to wait for orders from the Little Admiral. But in the case of the Station being compromised, I have the latitude to proceed on my own initiative—I want those fighters that just destroyed almost two years of hard work burned out of my sky. Activate the entire defensive network, set it on automatic, and then get to your escape pod,” she ordered.

“Aye aye, Sir,” said Tactical, quickly inputting the commands and then unstrapping.

“Captain, are you sure about this?” asked the XO as defensive turrets all over the complex unveiled, went active, and started firing on the fighters. “We won’t be able to hit them by surprise again later. They’ve just seen our entire hand.”

“Too late for regrets now, XO,” she said as the fighters started taking a hellacious amount of fire from the embedded defenses. “Besides, the Commodore is down and possibly dead. Our Battleships are embroiled and that Carrier is smashing everything we’ve worked for while we sit here impotently. A hidden card is only useful if you’re still around to use it. I made that call.”

“Let’s hope it’s the right one,” he said.

“You and me both. Now let’s get out of here,” she agreed grimly, slapping him on the back and heading for the blast doors.

Chapter Ninety-one: Dark Matter vs. Entropy

“Three enemy Battleships are moving into position to surround us, Rear Admiral Dark Matter!” reported Sensors as two of the three Battleships opened fire while the third was still maneuvering around front to cut them off from an easy path of retreat.

“Tell Gunnery to fire by broadsides—we’ve got to lower their shields down enough that we can go to counter-fire and thin out their attacks. If we don’t relieve some of this pressure we’re finished,” shouted Dark Matter as the ship rocked around him.

“Damage to port shield generator has caused an automatic shutdown,” reported the Shield Officer, “still waiting to see if backup systems can compensate after the reboot or if we’ll need a repair team to go onto the hull.

“Sending out an engineering party in these conditions would be the next best thing to suicide, Admiral,” snapped Damage Control.

“We have to have that shield generator, Damage Control,” Rear Admiral Dark Matter said direly, “otherwise we’re all finished. Send out the team now. Don’t wait for the reboot—but call them back if the reboot succeeds. The moment it succeeds, you hear?”

“But Sir!” protested Damage Control.

“Admiral Dark Matter!” shouted Tactical interrupting the conversion and speaking over the irate Damage Control officer.

“What is it?” barked the Rear Admiral.

“The Praxis SDF are dropping out of formation, Sir!” he reported.

Dark Matter’s eye snapped back up to the battle plot and he saw that, just as the Tactical Officer had reported, the three Battleships of the Praxis SDF were pulling back. In doing so they were leaving an increasingly large hole in the Amalgamated Fleet’s wall of battle.

“Get me Commodore Creed on the horn—now!” barked the Rear Admiral.

“Sir!” interrupted Lieutenant Barkley, manning the Comm. board and speaking rapidly into his receiver, “I’m receiving a message from Commodore—“

“Cut me into the channel,” ordered Dark Matter.

Commodore Creed of the Praxis SDF appeared on his personal screen. “Dark Matter,” the other officer nodded, his mouth a tight line.

“I don’t know what’s going on and I don’t care—get back in formation and all is forgiven, Commodore,” he ordered harshly.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that Rear Admiral. Praxis warships can no longer afford to absorb these kinds of losses, we are therefore officially pulling back to the safety of the Starbase fortifications, after which we will have no choice but to reassess our options, Admiral Dark Matter,” the Commodore said coolly.

“I want you to listen to me and hear what I’m telling you: I am giving you a direct order, Commodore Creed,” growled Rear Admiral Dark Matter, “get back in formation and hold the line. Otherwise I will have no choice but to declare cowardice in front of the enemy and prefer mutiny charges after this battle.”

“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, Admiral, but you won’t be alive after this battle to prefer anything. Under Montagne’s leadership this fleet has lost every battle since he took control of the Sector Fleet. He told us that he was taking direct control of the Battleship forces…well where the blazes is he? He sure as all get out isn’t here! Instead he left us to die while he positions himself to run away! He told us he had a plan but in this battle alone we’ve lost every direct clash with the enemy, starting with our light warships and moving all the way up our Battleships. Any fool with eyes can see we are anything but winning! We are outnumbered, outgunned, and out-maneuvered, Sir. As such, I’m afraid I cannot comply with your order,” said Commodore Creed.

“Blast it, man, whether Montagne lied or not is entirely beside the point—if you leave the formation it will collapse! Other Battleships and their crews will die because of you. You, not Montagne, will get a lot of good men killed. That’s why I’m not just ordering you, I’m begging you: do your duty. Stand and fight!” urged Dark Matter. “Sweet Crying Murphy, even a fighting withdrawal done as part of a unit would be better than this—”

“It’s Montagne that’s done this to you, not me,” Creed yelled angrily, “even if everything you say is true, the orders from my government stand. They allow me no latitude in this, Rear Admiral. If the battle appears hopeless, as it does, and I see no path forward to victory then I am ordered to do everything in my power to preserve the Praxis Battleships and retreat! I’m sorry, Admiral, but I have no choice in this—” said Creed only to be cut off.

“I can understand the tight spot your home office has put you in, along with your reluctance to trust Admiral Montagne, but he isn’t in command of the Battleship force right now—I am. I’m telling you not to allow your personal feelings over the death of—” said Dark Matter, referring to the now deceased Admiral shot by Rear Admiral Nuttal for mutiny.

“You think this is about my personal feelings of loyalty to Admiral Vextriam?” Creed said with disbelief and his face darkened. “Frankly I couldn’t stand the man! This has nothing to do with him, Dark Matter.”

“Then what the blazes are you doing this for! Contingency orders that are light years out of date?” Dark Matter snapped, finally losing what little was left of his cool. “Who blasted cares if Montagne lied or not; this Battleship force is counting on you and you’ve just sold us down the river if you leave.”

“Two thousand confirmed casualties in our Battleships alone! Montagne lied and people died!” roared Commodore Creed. “He said we could fight it out and win if we fought smart and fell back on the fortifications. But instead of leading us like he vowed, he’s positioned his personal forces so that they can run away! He’s using some harebrained pretext that no one in their right mind would believe to hide the real truth from us.”

“This is insanity,” yelled Dark Matter, “he’s fighting and dying for us right now!”

“No, we’re the ones that are fighting while he’s moved out there in what can only be called a fighting retreat! He’s going to leave us holding the bag and dying on the vine while he escapes—just like he has so many times before! Do you honestly think he’s gone out there to go up against the most technologically advanced warship in the galaxy? Poppycock!” Creed threw his hands up in the air. “He left us to fend for ourselves. Meanwhile, I’ve got over two thousand casualties—and that’s just the number of confirmed on the capital ships after tallying our lighter forces that number is bound to rise. It could even double. My people will not sit still for those kinds of losses, Dark Matter!”

“Two Thousand?” the Rear Admiral gaped at him. “That’s not even the full complement of one heavy Cruiser! Even if you double it…” he pulled himself up short, “look, I realize that Praxis is adverse to losses among their people—Blackwood is too—but—” “He lied, people died!” shouted Creed. “This is a dumb war led by an idiot who doesn’t even have the courage to stand with the rest of us while we slug it out. You call me the coward but he’s the one that’s too scared to stand in the wall with the rest of us. Well smoke him, and smoke you, and smoke all the other apologists who believe in his lies. Two thousand casualties, Rear Admiral! Two thousand! And for all I know, the entire Praxis light screening forces have been lost with all hands aboard,” he repeated, his voice rising wildly out of control.

“Snap out of it and grow a pair,” bellowed Dark Matter. “A ‘dumb war’? We’re fighting not for Montagne—we’re fighting to save our homes? Don’t you get that? Do you really want both our home worlds of Blackwood and Praxis trodden under the boot heel of the Empire?”

“Well at least they’re human,” screamed Creed.

“What?” Dark Matter exclaimed.

“Wake up and smell the coffee!” sneered Creed. “I’ve stomached it as long as I could, but we have a Murphy-cursed, demon-loving Machinist in command! By all that’s holy, we’re fighting side by side with droids! Am I the only one who can see this? The Imperials want to destroy our homes? The Droids want to annihilate the human race!”

Dark Matter stopped cold and then rallied uncomfortably before an enormous scowl replaced any hint of unease. “Yes, there are droids in this Fleet, but we’re only using them to help us fight there’s nothing more than that to it and they’re in such relatively small numbers to that they couldn’t annihilate humanity if they wanted too.”

“They should have been disassembled as soon as they arrived in the star system so they could be turned back into robots if that’s what you believe! Blast it, man, I refuse to be on the wrong side of history,” Commodore Creed said with disbelief. “The worst the Imperials will do is force a change of government and issue us a governor. The machine plague nearly wiped us all out!”

“Our ancestors used robots and droids,” Dark Matter said finally.

“Have you ever heard the saying ‘man not machine’? This is wisdom passed down from our ancestors because they knew! They used droids and AI’s and look where that got them. It’s the hand that’s burned that teaches best and humanity has burned itself so badly we almost didn’t make it out the other side. We’re fighting to save our homes from the Empire? We’re fighting with droids against the Empire of Man? Man not Machine, Admiral—ring a bell? Come join me, Admiral. If you order it, the other warships will throw off the machine yoke and we can overthrow Montagne and retreat to the Starbase until we can formulate another plan—one that keeps us alive!”

“Join you in what? Disassembling the droids? Overthrowing a Confederation Admiral—who is our superior officer by order of the Sector Governor? Surely all of that has to wait until at least after the battle,” Rear Admiral Dark Matter tried to bargain, willing to do anything to get through to the other man. “Hades, man, if that’s what it takes to make you stay then I swear on my immortal soul that I’ll help you disassemble or outright destroy every single droid in this star system just as soon as this battle’s been won.”

“I will not fight against other humans like some kind of droid puppet! We’ve got to bug out. It’s time to withdraw, Rear Admiral! We can’t stay here. All we can do is cut and run and then cut whatever kind of deal with the Empire to save our worlds while we still can. Better a bad deal now that leaves us all alive than following a diabolical Machinist like Montagne and waiting while he slowly corrupts us into lowering our guard against the very machines that are even now scheming to put us right back where the ancients almost sent us: straight into the genocidal waste-bin of history,” said Creed, a fanatical gleam now in his eye. “I, for one, won’t stand for it. This is a coalition of the willing, Admiral, and we of Praxis are no longer willing to be droid dupes! We formally withdraw from the 25th Amalgamated Droid Fleet. May Saint Murphy have mercy on your immortal souls, because by throwing in with droids…” he trailed off shaking his head sadly.

Dark Matter looked at him and then tried to look past him to the bridge behind him.

He raised his voice. “This is Rear Admiral Dark Matter, your Battleship force commander. Due to the pressure of combat and the mental strain of command, Commodore Creed has lost his will to fight and is even now retreating in the face of the enemy against orders. I call upon every loyal son of Praxis to do what’s right and replace the Commodore before—” said Dark Matter.

“I’m in command of this Battleship and there’s nothing a machine sympathizer like you or Montagne can do about it! Every loyal son and daughter of Praxis is behind me today when I tell you to get stoked!” snarled Commodore Creed before he cut the channel.

For a long moment, Dark Matter stared at the screen.

“Well that could have gone a lot better,” he grunted as the Praxis Battleships, which had started to slow down and hesitate during the conversation, now sped up and continued to pull further and further out of position as they attempted to maneuver free of the battle lines. Thinking hard, he raised his voice to try and suppress the very real unease his people might be feeling about fighting alongside droids, “I’m a droid puppet? Pfah! Those blasted cowards are more worried about saving their own skins than they are willing to standing to fight side by side with us. They don’t care how many of us die. Two thousand casualties and he has orders for them to pull out? What kind of idiot does Creed take me for? No government in their right mind would stop a war because they lost the equivalent to one heavy Cruiser when they’ve got multiple Battleships available to them!”

He could see the message start to sink in, but was still worried about Creed’s morale damaging accusations. This wasn’t a principled withdrawal on the Commodore’s part—this was mutiny, plain and simple, and in the middle of combat no less. If he lived to survive this battle, he would see that man hanged.

“Sir!” cried the Comm. Officer moments later. “I’ve got a multi-directional transmission from the Praxis Battleships. It’s Commodore Creed, Sir! It appears he’s trying to contact Reclamation Fleet command. Sir…I think he’s trying to surrender?”

“We’ll that tears it, Sir,” snapped Dark Matter’s Flag Captain.

“I was wrong! They’re not cowards—they’re out and out traitors!” Dark Matter snarled.

Chapter Ninety-two: Imperial Command II

“What’s the status on those boarders, Major?” Janeski demanded, stepping up behind his Marine liaison on the bridge. “I want them off my ship.”

The Major stiffened. “Other than a few isolated pockets that have been contained, the enemy boarders have been forced back onto the hull by the jacks, Admiral,” the Major replied steadily.

“I hope so, for you General’s sake, Major,” Janeski threatened.

“Admiral, I think you’re going to want to hear this,” said the Communications Officer.

“Not now, Coms,” said Janeski.

“But, Sir…three of the enemy Battleships are attempting to cut a deal. They want to surrender in return for assurances of their safety and that of their planet, Admiral,” said the Communications Officer.

Janeski turned and then paused, cocking his head, “Interesting…”

“What do you want me to tell them, Sir?” asked the other Officer.

Janeski lifted a finger. “Tell them that if they drop their shields, scram their generators, and prepare to receive a boarding party of Marine Jacks after the battle is over both they and their world will remain unharmed,” he said.

The Comm. Officer nodded, turned, and began to speak rapidly. After a little back-and-forth, he turned and nodded.

“They’ve agreed,” he said simply.

“Now all that remains is to see if they follow through,” said the Supreme Admiral said.

“Do you really think they’re going to do it?” asked Goddard.

“Reporting to the Admiral,” said Commander Stenson, “three enemy Battleships have just lowered their shields.”

Goddard sucked in a breath, “Well…”

“Confusion to the enemy, Captain,” said the Imperial Admiral.

“It’s amazing to me how easily these provincials turn on one another once the going gets tough,” sighed Goddard, “no matter how badly things got on the Gorgon Front, you never saw even a fraction of this kind of behavior.”

“These sort of men are used to only going into fights they know they can win—if they’re used to any kind of fighting at all,” Janeski sneered. “As such, their first concern is not to worry over victory or defeat but rather to obsess over just how much the upcoming victory will cost them. They are quite risk averse. Pop them in the nose a few times and they’ll go running home as fast as their little legs will carry them. To put it bluntly: they are simply unused, unwilling, and unable to shoulder the kind of casualties that the Imperial Fleet routinely absorbs in order to defend humanity from the various threats beyond our borders. And that, Captain, is why we will always win and they will always lose. It’s not a matter of technological superiority, but rather willpower and the ability to keep fighting after being hit.”

“The Empire of Man is the future, Sir,” said Goddard vigilantly, “I admit I had my doubts before seeing just how craven these locals can be. I shudder to think what would happen if they were in charge of protecting humanity instead of the Empire.”

Janeski just nodded.

Chapter Ninety-three: Dark Matter

The Praxis ships continued to withdraw before suddenly dropping their shields, cutting their engines and beginning to shut down their fusion generators. Moments later, word came back from Comm. that they had intercepted a transmission which confirmed that the Praxis contingent had formally surrendered to the enemy.

While Dark Matter and his team were still scrambling to plug the hole in their lines, yet another sector 25 Battleship broke formation.

“Curse it,” Dark Matter swore wondering just how many more ships they were going to lose. A few more and he would have to sound the retreat or he might just as well cut his own throat and save the enemy the effort. “Find out which ship that is and get me its captain,” he ordered as his flagship shook around him. Distantly, he heard that the shields were coming back up and only half the Damage Control team had been vaporized on the hull trying to get back inside, but he had to stay focused on the bigger picture. And right now, a Battleship was more important the shields on his flagship.

“It’s the Pinocchio out of Old Sardinia,” reported Tactical as the other Battleship swung around to follow the Praxis contingent, apparently unconcerned about the Imperial Battleships that immediately moved to take advantage of the situation.

“Where’s their captain—get him on the line?” demanded Dark Matter.

“Captain Gotti, Sir,” said the Comm. Officer right before passing the link over to the Rear Admiral.

“Just what are you doing, Captain? I need you back on the wall, pronto,” said Dark Matter. “I don’t want you to believe the lies spewn about liberally by the Praxis contingent—“

“Old Sardinia knows how to deal with traitors and rats in the organization, Rear Admiral,” grimaced the Captain before turning his crew, “Open fire on that miserable vessel.” He returned his focus to Dark Matter, “Don’t worry: we’ll take care of this.”

“What’s going on?” demanded Dark Matter.

“Sir!” interrupted his Tactical Officer. “The Pinocchio has just opened fire on the Praxis ships! They’re targeting Commodore Creed’s flagship, Admiral.”

“Yes!” Dark Matter said slapping the arm of his chair. “Let’s see if he abandons ship like the coward he is or if Creed actually has the stones to keep his ship stood down and rely on his new friends to protect him from New Sardinia,” he gloated openly.

“Are you sure it’s wise to be fighting among ourselves while simultaneously facing the Imperials?” asked his Flag Captain.

“As far as the Amalgamated Battleship force is concerned, this battle was lost before Praxis tried to pull out, Captain,” Dark Matter sighed wearily. “They only hastened our demise. We’re going to have to decide quickly if we pull back or close to grips with the enemy and try to board. But either way we’re going to get savaged. It’s all going to be up to Montagne soon.”

“Update, sir: the Praxis Battleships have just powered back up their generators and shield systems…and the Imperials are now firing on them again,” Sensors said excitedly.

“Bahaha!” chortled Dark Matter, throwing protocol and professionalism out the airlock for a rare moment of schadenfreude.

“Your orders, Sir?” asked the Flag Captain, obviously wanting to know if they were going to move in close and sacrifice their ships to take as many of the enemy with them as they could, or if they were going to try to preserve what they could and retreat to the dubious safety of the Wolf-9 fortifications now that the Starbase was heavily damaged and one more hit could destroy it.

Chapter Ninety-four: Chaos on the move!

Akantha grunted as she took a hit on her right pauldron. Irritated that she hadn’t been able to lay hands on one of the newer suits that would have simply shrugged off hit, she increased the speed of her grav-board.

“My Lady, slow down—I can’t keep up!” yelled Persus over their private com-channel.

Seeing an approaching sensor array and gritting her teeth, she decreased her speed as she swooped around it, flying nape of the hull along the massive Imperial Command Carrier.

Up ahead she saw the bright flashes of blaster and plasma fire. “Finally,” she muttered, and once again increased her speed. In front of her she saw a wave of battlesuits sweeping forward while a knot of defenders tried to hold them off.

“How can I guard your person if you insist on staying so far out in front?” complained Persus.

“You will adapt,” Akantha said dismissively. Recognizing the silhouettes of the battlesuits in front as belonging to the enemy, she didn’t have time for any more of his worrying—it was time to attack! “Prepare yourself, old friend. We now take the battle to the enemy!” she said fiercely.

“Old!” he grumped.

She drew her Dark Sword of Power and prepared to lay waste to the enemy. Her only complaint was that she didn’t have one of the new Devastator battlesuits. Of course, she probably wouldn’t have fit on the grav-board if she was wearing a devastator and the indignity of being dragged behind Persus of all people like a large sack on a string so…

There were upsides and downsides to everything.

Aiming her grav-board straight at one of the enemy warriors, she turned the board upside down, released the last clamp holding her to the board, and jumped toward the hull.

Like a screaming eagle she slammed into an enemy warrior full force, and then bounced them both of back off into space while up ahead her nearly out of control grav-board took a battlesuit in the back like a missile and exploded. The spray of blood that resulted indicated the enemy suit had lost seal and exposed its occupant to hard vacuum.

“Akantha!” shouted Persus, trying to bring his grav-board over to rescue her only to take fire from the enemy as they turned and, ignoring the fire, caused his board to lose power after taking multiple hits.

“Get out of here!” Akantha ordered him, flailing around as she tried to activate her emergency maneuvering jets so she could gain footing on the hull and not spin off into the Carrier’s shields.

“I’ve got you,” Persus said, shielding her with his body as he jumped clear of his board and grabbed hold of her.

Finally her jet controls came up and she shot back down to the hull. Activating the grav-boots, she hit the hull and bounced—the boots didn’t do a thing.

“What’s wrong with these boots?” she demanded angrily.

“Activate the sticky pad function!” ordered Persus.

“What? Why?” she asked grabbing him around the middle and launching them over to a hull protrusion for cover.

“The gravity boots don’t grab onto the hull because it’s made of crystal—this is what the technicians said,” he offered.

“Now they tell me!” she snapped, angry that no one had warned her.

“All the warriors received the information during the orientation,” explained Persus.

“Jason!” Akantha growled, but seeing a trio of enemy battlesuits carefully walking over everything came back into focus. She was here because she wanted to be, and it was time to call upon the blood of her foremothers and crush these Imperials like the dogs they were! “Prepare to attack,” she said, activating her sticky pad function.

“The new walking function only works for a short time,” Persus started to say, but Akantha rushed forward to attack.

It was a bit difficult going with the new walking function, and she almost lost her grip on the hull twice. But thankfully she didn’t, she was able to get close to the enemy—close, but not close enough, as she started taking plasma fire to the face shield.

“Die!” she cried, launching herself toward them, temporarily breaking contact with the hull in order to close the distance quickly.

Crashing into the enemy, her sword glanced off a head—if one could call it a head with everything from the crown down to the shoulders being a flattened, cone-shaped structure. Regardless, she had no leverage and the further flailing saw her once again lose her footing on the hull.

“Come and get a piece of this!” she shouted, activating her jets to bring her back down.

“I’m coming,” roared Persus, who must have finally figured out how to work his own jets as he hit her like a rocket around the midsection and kept going.

“Turn back,” she ordered, “they are getting away!”

Persus grunted.

“Do not ignore me!” she shouted, starting to become vexed as blaster and plasma fire started shooting all around them.

Then her suit pinged, indicating they’d found an allied suit and her com-link activated.

“More Imperials! These ones are trying to jump in!!” cried a panicked voice. “Second platoon: take aim and fire!”

“But sir, they show up as green on my HUD—that means they should be friendlies,” said another voice.

“Fire!” cried the first.

Moments later, the blaster fire coming her way increased and she started to take a number of glancing hits.

“Don’t shoot, you fools!” Akantha shouted. “I am on your side.”

“Hold fire! Hold your fire!” shouted another voice, this one sounding older than the others.

Raked by plasma rounds from the Imperial Marines, Persus finally crashed into the middle of circle of strange-looking battlesuits. They were not Imperial in design but just as clearly they were not Caprian—if anything they looked even older than the old Caprian suits!

“That was some sorry, stupid stunt you just pulled,” yelled the voice that told everyone to hold their fire. “You could have gotten more than just yourself killed!”

“Who is in command here?” she demanded.

“That would be me,” said the Voice, “Captain Jergeson Tyr, Border Alliance Army, Space Commando Detachment.”

“Not any more, Captain—I’m taking over,” she ordered.

“Just who do you think you are?” he demanded.

“Adonia Akantha Zosime,” she said stiffly and then looked over at Persus—then she panicked when she saw air was coming out of his suit non-stop from several small rents in his armor.

“Look, I don’t know who you are but even if you are the Admiral’s Wife that doesn’t give you that authority to—” Captain Tyr began.

“We have to get off the hull,” Akantha said furiously, worried for her guardian. She pulled out an emergency patch and slapped it on the nearest area that was venting air, and then she patched a second leak, “Where’s the nearest entrance?”

“We’ve got a hatch but no explosives. Our boarding tubes were lost when our lander was shot down and our computer-tech has been trying to break in but no dice,” said the Captain. “That said, I’m sorry but—”

“I’m a Hold Mistress of Tracto. I give Generals orders for breakfast, Captain,” Akantha said coldly, “so show me to the entrance or get out of the way. By the order of my Protector, Jason Montagne, I’m taking command of this company as my new temporary bodyguard unit. If I die then you can explain to him why you failed to do your duty, disobeyed a direct order, and let his Sword Bearer charge into the ship with just one injured guard at her back.”

“Blast it,” swore the Captain.

“I’m okay, Mistress,” Persus said, sounding weak and short of breath.

“You must have air to breathe and your reserves are down to 8%. We have to get you into the ship and take the battle to the enemy!” she declared.

Stomping over to the hatch, she almost lost her grip on the hull again. She still wasn’t used to the new style of walking on the hull in zero-gravity, and her boots’ grip actually seemed to be weakening.

“Like I said,” the Captain pointed to the hatch and the computer-tech who was trying to coax it open with virtual wizardry, “right now we’re surrounded and it’s impossible to—”

Akantha took hold of the hatch grab-bar with one hand and her sword with the other and drove the blade into the edge of the hull near the locking mechanism.

“It’s impossible; vibro-blades won’t even scratch….” He trailed off stupidly as her sword went in an inch and then stalled.

“This is not a vibro-blade—and I need more power!” she said, “get me something to brace on and a couple more hands.”

Another commando came running up. “Captain we’re taking heavy fire from the Imperials! Third platoon has taken 20% casualties and is falling back,” reported the commando, “we have to prepare to break out or we’re finished, Sir.”

“Grab here and here, Lieutenant,” instructed the captain, moving the commando over so that he was gripping at several points of the hatch.

“But Sir!” protested the Lieutenant.

“No time, Stacknack!” said the Captain, stepping up to Akantha and taking a grip on Bandersnatch, “I need two more soldiers!”

Four more commandos shuffle-stepped up, careful not to overextend the grab of their sticky pads. Two of them also grabbed onto bars, turning themselves into human—or rather battle-suited—braces while the other two soldiers did their best to get a firm grip on the blade.

“Lady, I sure hope you know what you’re doing because otherwise this blade is going to break,” he said.

“Of course,” she said with a sniff, waiting impatiently while everyone took up their positions before commanding, “now, Captain!”

“Alright—heave!” shouted the Captain.

The other men collectively grunted for several seconds, and their vocal strains were followed by the sound of slowly-tearing hull metal—which, unlike the rest of the crystalline mono-locsium around it, was made of duralloy metal.

Under the combined pressure of four battle-suit servos, the Dark Sword flexed ever so slightly but it didn’t break.

“One more time!”

“Fire in the hole!” warned Major Nottingham right before a capital ship light laser fired from inside the hull.

“Barrier is breeched!” confirmed a Sensor Tech.

“Fire again,” Nottingham instructed.

Ten seconds later the light laser fired again as it lanced through the enemy’s position.

“All companies, all units: attack!” ordered Nottingham, lowering her hands to waist level and activating the plasma guns built into both arms of her suit.

“For the Empire!” shouted the Marine Jacks as they charged.

“Sir, they took out a good twenty of our battle suits when they swept the laser that last time,” reported a no nonsense Caprian non-com. “We’re still treating the wounded and reorganizing but if they keep hitting us like this, Captain…”

Darius looked down on the Sergeant and then looked over at the bulkhead where the lasers had come from.

There was a ping from the sensor techs indicating an emergency transmission. He quickly accepted it, “What—”

“Here they come, Captain!” cried the Sensor Tech, shooting him over the feed.

Darius’s eyes flashed. “Devastators: on my position,” he shouted, drawing his sword. The enemy had made the decision for them, and it was now time to break out or die trying. “Up and at them, warriors—prepare to charge!”

Looking at his HUD, the enemy had moved in around the entire perimeter using explosives to make openings in walls where needed. The remains of his company were embattled all around.

It was up to the new suits now. “Charge!” he cried as soon as more than half of the suits had stomped over to him.

Leveling his sword, he led them toward the enemy.

They were on death’s own ground now.

It was time to fight!

“Forward!” Akantha commanded, waving her arm forward and leading the way at a run.

“Where are we going, Your Grace?” asked the Captain Jergeson Tyr, hurrying after her.

“Better the enemy in front than the one behind,” the Hold Mistress quipped.

“But we have no idea where or how strong the forces deeper in the ship are,” he objected.

“Exactly,” Akantha said increasing her speed, “we know the force on the hull is much stronger. Even if we won against them, your company would take heavy casualties but we have no idea what we’ll face in here.”

“My people are not afraid of a fight!” said Captain Tyr.

“Of course not, they are warriors,” she rolled her eyes, “but our mission is not merely to kill the enemy wherever we find her—our primary mission is to knock out that heavy cannon on the front of their ship. To do that we must get inside, which we now have, and find that weapon!”

“That’s right,” Jergeson Tyr agreed, sounding thrown off his stride.

“Contact!” reported a scout over the com-link before the channel suddenly filled with static.

“What’s going on?” snapped Captain Tyr.

“The enemy seem to be jamming our transmissions, Sir,” reported the company HQ’s com-tech, “I’m trying to compensate.”

“Do it faster,” he growled.

“What do you want to do, Captain?” asked the company Sergeant Major.

“We push forward,” Akantha interrupted before he could reply.

The group slowed and Jergeson Tyr snapped open his visor.

Akantha followed suit, eyeing him.

“Normally that would be a consideration, but having a supernumerary like Your Grace…” Tyr hesitated, shaking his head, “the Admiral will kill me if anything happens to you.”

“The enemy will kill you just as dead as my Protector ever could,” Akantha sneered and then snapped closed her visor. “I do not know your purpose, but I am here to kill the enemy. If you have other ideas, you are free to do as you like—I release you.” She turned to her guard, “Persus!”

“Yes, my lady,” he acknowledged promptly.

“Follow me,” she ordered, breaking into a run with her blade leveled and ready to attack.

“For the Hold!” he cried.

The Captain, Sergeant and com-tech exchanged quick looks. “That tears it,” cursed Tyr, breaking into a run, “activate a companywide override: we need to catch that woman before she goes gets her fool self killed!”

“Yes, Sir,” the Tech said sharply and did just that flooding the company com-links with the new movement order.

“Might want to consider dumping the suit records just in case anything happens,” advised the Sergeant Major.

Tyr glared at him hotly, “Don’t you think I’ve thought of that? We’ve got too many rookies in this company; someone would flap their yap even if the data files were purged!”

“Saint Owens,” swore the Sergeant.

“You must be getting old, Smaj,” quipped the Captain.

The Sergeant Major glared. “Space Commandoes forward! What are you looking at, rookies? We’ve got a VIP about to get her head blown off. Do you want to be the one to tell the General we let Akantha Montagne get her head blown off? Move—move—move!”

Like a herd of elephants, the company launched itself into hot pursuit of the rampant ‘Hold Mistress.’

Moments later, they slammed into two platoons of Marine Jacks.

Seeing a pair of dead scouts and Akantha Montagne, surrounded by a squad of Jacks back-to-back with her bodyguard, the Captain leveled his blaster rifle and fired.

“Sergeant Major!” he barked.

The Sergeant Major shouldered his rifle and a pair of two foot long boarding knives appeared in his hands as he crouched.

“Follow me, boys,” he shouted, launching himself full speed at the nearest Jack with his deadly knives flashing. The Sergeant Major was closely followed by First Squad of First Platoon.

“Hoo-ah!” shouted the squad.

Smoothly, two squads of Jacks turned and plasma counter-fire shot back down the hall.

“Forward, you monkeys!” the Captain gave up on aimed shots after taking two to the chest and set his blaster rifle to full auto. “Time to rock and roll!” Tyr screamed, advancing steadily just like he was trained.

Darius pivoted, blocking an attack aimed at his leg joints with his right combat blade and then snapped his head back to the left where he lifted his ion cannon and shot the enemy point blank in his visor. From the way the Marine Jack reeled, the Tracto-an Captain figured he’d just messed up the other man’s HUD.

Instinctively deciding that very split second that he had stayed in one place for too long, he crouched down and retracted his combat blade. His plasma cannon automatically extended into firing position as the blade disappeared back into the arm, and he opened fire.

Plasma and ion bolts swept from knee to head level as he twisted his arms around in a circle. Jacks started to lose armor containment as molten hot blobs, chips and fragments of battle armor flew from their screaming bodies.

Then his battlesuit rocked forward as an incredible weight landed on him, and he had to use his ion cannon’s barrel to stop his forward fall.

“In the name of Men!” he roared, the glint of mono-locsium at the corner of his vision causing him fall onto his right shoulder while firing blindly as far behind himself as he could manage.

The axe came down, his head rang and a part of the HUD fractured. The enemy Jack raised his boarding axe again.

“Captain!” shouted one of his veterans. The other warrior, also in a Devastator suit, ran forward. Plasma fire spewed from his right arm while his left was fully extended toward the wall. The veteran bellowed as he clotheslined the Imperial, sending the Jack to the floor.

“Lyconesia!” roared Darius, pushing himself up to his feet as he retracted both cannons and extended his combat blades. As soon as the blades were out, he charged.

“For the Hold!” shouted his veteran, and the two of them pushed into the mass of enemy Jacks.

Blocking an axe, he kicked out and knocked a Jack to the floor. Raising his oversized metal leg, Captain Darius stomped down on the other man’s head.

Undeterred by the stomp, the Jack swung his boarding axe upward trying for a crippling knee strike.

“Die for me!” roared Darius, fighting off three Jacks with his blades and continuing to stomp the fallen Marine Jack’s reinforced head structure. It wasn’t right to call it a helmet; the Jack’s literally had solid metal from shoulder to head, with a deadly-looking red visor where their eyes should be. But Darius refused to believe that it couldn’t be cracked. “Break!” he shouted, stomping a second, and then third time in quick succession.

The Jack’s swings started to lose their power and his battle brothers in the Marines pressed Darius hard. It was all he could to do block and block and push the third suit away—especially since they were now targeting his damaged visor region.

Beside him, his veteran fell to one knee and was instantly swarmed over by three Marine Jacks. Boarding axes and plasma bolts fell down on the other warrior like waves.

“Men!” Darius cried, jumping forward heedless of the Jacks who were all too eager to take this chance to cut him down. A boarding axe landed on his right shoulder, causing warning alarms to flash across the still-working portions of his HUD. “I don’t believe you’ll break!” he shouted, wrapping his massive, armored arms around the Marine that had just struck him.

Squeezing, he swung around in a half circle and then sent the Jack flying toward the three Marines that were tearing apart his veteran ally.

Like a bowling ball hitting a line of pins, the Jacks on his veteran were sent flying or staggering back by the force of his impromptu discus attack.

Then his right leg shuddered and he instinctively swung down with his combat blade. Eyes following moments after the attack, Darius saw a boarding axe stuck several inches deep in that part of his suit above the knee and a Marine crouched down with both hands on the axe.

“It’ll take more than that!” Darius snarled, kneeing the man in the breastplate and following up with step on the Marine’s torso. Servos whined as he stepped up and then he had both feet on top of the hapless Marine. “It will takes more than the likes of you,” he raged, crouching and then jumping a half foot—which was the best the Devastator suit could do with all the extra weight—and then landing back on the Jack’s stomach to crack his robust, Imperial battle armor.

The Jack under his feet convulsed and Darius stepped off, his arm-blades swinging.

A sudden strike to his blind right side sent him crashing against the wall. While he was distracted, a pair of nearly invisible Jacks launched themselves at the veteran beside him as their fast movement uncloaked them.

Activating his grenade launcher, he shot sonic grenades at close range. The blows knocked the Jacks back off the fallen Veteran and sent him crashing back against the wall.

Then, up in the middle of the Jack formation, a vibro-sword cut through the duralloy internal walls. A pair of Lancers in old-style Caprian battlesuits came charging through the newly-made hole.

Then the battle turned hot and furious.

Giving his head a shake, Darius ignored the yellow and red warnings flashing across his HUD and toggled his grenade selection.

“Plasma Out!” he shouted over the local line-of-sight com-channel, causing the pair of battered-looking reinforcements to immediately drop to the floor and roll toward the walls. Warning given, the Lancer Captain shot plasma grenades into the midst of the enemy Marines firing up and down the hall.

“To the honor of our ancestors and the Glory of Men!” he yelled as plasma grenades activated in rapid succession, turning the corridor into a demon’s playground. Retracting his blades, he added to the chaos by shooting everything that moved with his twin arm cannons.

“Captain, this is Sergeant Blade,” his com-link chimed.

“This is the Captain, what do you have?” he asked, “and why isn’t your Lieutenant reporting to me?”

“The Lieutenant is dead and the rear line has collapsed,” Sergeant Blade reported, the sound of plasma rifle and blaster fire too loud over the link, indicating a compromised helmet situation on the other end of the line. “The only reason you’re not crawling in Jacks by now is because of these blasted corridors. It bottlenecks them just as badly as it does us. I am trying to delay them with a fighting retreat but I don’t know how successful—” the Sergeant stopped speaking and the rapid sound of repeated blaster fire picked up followed by a gasp and a grunt of pain. “Take this, you blasted Imps—this is for Port Andrew!” the Sergeant screamed, referring to one of the small towns near the Caprian Summer Palace that got hit and was destroyed in the post-orbital bombardment fallout.

Several more blaster and plasma shots came over the com-link before the line went dead.

In the hall Darius was standing in, the fire from the plasma grenades and his counterattack finally died down. A number of Jacks were down, their suits cracked open, and even more were injured.

Stomping over, Darius jerked the veteran back up to his feet.

“I’m done for, Warlord,” gasped the veteran, his suit starting to fall back down.

“On your feet, warrior—there is more killing to be done today. You cannot die yet,” Darius commanded, popping open a mini-storage box in his suit and pulling out a cable. Opening a similar port on the Veteran’s suit, he inserted the plug. The other man’s suit control system came up and, using his command override, he instructed it to inject the veteran with an emergency cocktail.

“Gaah,” gurgled the Veteran, stiffening inside his suit.

“Up—up!” commanded the Captain, once again forcing the Veteran to his feet.

This time, despite several bloody rents in the armor and a malfunctioning leg, the order seemed to stick.

When another squad of Marines rounded the corner, the two Devastators turned and advanced.

“Forward, warriors—we have to break out of this encirclement if we want to live long enough to destroy that cannon,” Darius commanded over the general push.

“Messene!”

“Enemy breakout attempt has stalled, Major,” reported the Battalion com-tech, “Third Company reports heavy casualties to two platoons. Those big, clunky suits of theirs are a lot tougher than pre-battle intel suggested but reinforcements from Second Company first platoon have arrived on scene in time to stabilize things. Otherwise, we really might have had a breakout.”

“Why didn’t Third Company’s reserve platoon move to intercept?” demanded Nottingham, kicking an enemy suit to the ground and rapid-firing her plasma lines until the enemy’s face plate broke and the enemy ‘Lancer’ died. “We’re already in the main compartment, and what’s left of the enemy is pulling back toward their breakout forces. The enemy is trapped in an increasingly small space.”

“The 3rd’s reserve platoon ran into a little bit of trouble and weren’t able to make it in time. Right now they are reporting a large force of enemy battlesuits and are requesting reinforcements. Second Company is pulling a platoon off the encirclement unless you countermand them,” said the Tech.

Nottingham frowned. “I thought those clowns we replaced were supposed to take care of any stragglers. Confirm the Second’s orders to reinforce Third, and kick a complaint about the situation up the chain to General McMann,” Major Nottingham instructed. “It’s nothing the Brunt can’t deal with, but since we’re already moving in that direction let’s kick another platoon free from the Fourth and have them shift around front just in case these new arrivals are more than they seem.”

Chapter Ninety-five: Just a Shrub in the Office

“Hey, you can’t go in there. We’re in lockdown!” cried the Imperial rating.

“Come again?” asked the nondescript-looking man in a standard, Imperial crew work uniform as he looked up from the security interface he was working on.

“I said the entire deck’s under lockdown. The locals hav—” the concerned Imperial said, her voice ending in a sudden gurgle.

Pulling his now-bloody knife out of the rating’s neck, he supported her body while quickly wiping the blade on her jacket. Then, grabbing her hand, he shoved it up against the security panel.

The door silently swished open. “Thank you,” he muttered, releasing his hold on her uniform. The woman fell to the floor with a thud, twitching and gurgling as she clutched at her throat. “Sorry, miss, but I’m here to protect democracy—not to practice it,” he tipped an imaginary hat before turning and marching into the room.

Behind him, her eyes were filled with anger, betrayal and a growing sense of despair before they slowly faded and Agent Oleander stepped into the room.

His body tensed until a quick sweep of the room confirmed there was no one else present.

Stepping over to a nearby workstation, he checked underneath the chair before sitting down and activating the console. It immediately requested a palm and retinal scan, along with a sixteen digit access code.

Leaning back in his chair, he laced his fingers, and cracked his knuckles. Then, unlacing his fingers, he leaned over the keyboard.

Fingers poised, he pulled out a flash stick and plugged it into the universal access port.

“This is going to take a while,” he leaned back in the chair. Putting his feet up on the desk and hands behind his head, he started to whistle the national anthem of Capria.

His primary mission right now was Montagne elimination, but Parliamentary Secret Services had standing orders for all agents. One of those orders regarded the acquisition and retention of new technologies…well, tech that was ‘new to Capria,’ anyways. Everyone knew the Empire had all the best toys, so there was a directive stating that if an agent ever was in position to acquire Imperial technology they were to take it.

Sadly, he was a man of action and not an egghead. So his ability to penetrate cutting-edge Imperial firewalls was limited. Fortunately, the service had a workaround in place. So whether or not he was able to succeed in his tech-exploit mission was ultimately up to one of the finest hack-and-crack programs ever devised by Caprian R&D—long live the elected order.

In fact, long live democracy.

As far as he was concerned, Royal or Imperial was all just different flavors of the same form of oppression. He had dedicated his life to stopping that oppression from returning to Capria by any and all means necessary.

He was prepared to slaughter a bloody path through anyone and anything that got in the way of that mission, so if what it took to keep humanity free from the worst danger they’d ever faced meant he had to lie, cheat, steal and murder enemies, bystanders, and innocents alike then that’s what he’d would do without a moment’s hesitation.

When placed against the lives, freedom and fate of every living soul on Capria, the choice was clear. When it came to his home world, democracy was the shield saving her from destruction—and the Parliamentary Secret Services was the hidden knife.

Curse House Montagne and the entire bloodline. If the galaxy at large ever found out half the things he knew, they’d sterilize the entire planet straight down to the bedrock. It was his job to make sure that never happened—or, failing that, to ensure his planet had a fighting chance both on and off the court of public opinion. Hacking Imperial databases was a good start.

But cleaning house and killing the likes of Jason Montagne was priority number one in an ongoing battle that would probably never end.

The Royals all liked to claim they were so bright and honorable—and, most of all, noble—but even the best of them that actually tried to live up to their ideals were standing on houses built on lies, corruption, and utter contempt for the rule of law.

Better an honest blackguard fighting for freedom, justice and the Caprian way than a deluded noble leading them down the primrose path of total annihilation.

Chapter Ninety-six: Breaking into the Breakout

“Heavy resistance ahead, Lady,” Captain Tyr placed a hand on her shoulder to slow her down.

Akantha shrugged him off.

When he came back to try again Persus moved to block, shoving him up against the wall.

“This is reckless,” the Captain glared at Persus, “if you keep letting your principal lead from the front like this you are just going to get her killed!”

“Keep your thoughts—and your hands—to yourself in the future, Captain,” Persus said his voice cold, “lest I remove them.”

“What, my hands or my thoughts?” asked the Captain.

“Both,” the Tracto-an growled, and Captain Tyr bared his teeth in response.

“Enough of this foolishness,” Akantha stormed over and pushed the two apart.

“While I have no problem fighting the enemy wherever we find him,” Captain Tyr said with a short glare at Persus, “as it stands right now we haven’t the slightest clue in which direction we need to advance. The ship has been devoid of crew to interrogate or anything resembling a map or directions. Right now what we need is solid intel, not another running battle.”

Akantha paused and then nodded. “Then we capture and interrogate the first Marine we lay our hands on,” she said imperiously.

“They’re trained military operators—they’ll never talk,” Tyr shook his head.

At that moment, the sound of blaster and plasma fire rose to a crescendo. “The time for discussion has passed,” Akantha declared, turning and leveling her sword before rushing off down the corridor.

“Your orders, Captain?” asked the Sergeant Major.

“What do you think,” he said angrily, “we follow the supernumerary and lodge a formal protest when we get back out of this mess.”

Waving his arm, the Captain motioned the rest of the company of space commandos forward.

Ignoring the hesitant soldiers behind her, Akantha ran forward with the call to battle singing in her veins. This was what she lived for. Being a Hold Mistress was what she was destined to be good at, but being a warrior was what she enjoyed the most.

Seeing the squad of scouts pinned down ahead, she reached down to open a compartment in her leg. Pulling out a grenade, she flicked the activator.

“Frag out!” she shouted, coming to an abrupt stop behind the scouts and lobbing the grenade around the corner.

The scouts hunkered down, but as soon as the grenade exploded she placed a hand on the shoulder of one of the space commando scouts, jumped over the warriors in her way, and then charged around the corner.

“Messene!” she screamed, sighting in on her first target: a chameleon-looking Marine Jack in power armor whose near invisibility was hampered by the grenade fragments sticking out of his chest plate.

The Marine Jack took one look at her, cocked his right arm, and sent a stream of plasma bolts her way.

Bringing Bandersnatch around for an overhand chop, she brought it down with enough force to cleave into the plasma-spitting arm of the Marine.

She must have hit something critical because the next thing she knew she was thrown back by a plasma explosion.

Blinking her eyes, she rolled back to her feet to see the Marine on his knees, clutching the remainder of his arm which stopped a few inches below the elbow. For a moment she was surprised at the lack of blood until she remembered that one, it had been a plasma explosion instantly cauterizing the damage; and two, battlesuits had auto clamping functions that stopped blood loss from missing limbs

Not letting the man’s obvious pain stop her, Akantha rushed back into the mix.

“Wait, Miss!” cried one of the scouts as blaster fire hit her in the thigh and the elbow.

Ignoring the damage to her battle armor as minor at worst, Akantha grinned right up until she slammed into the back of Persus.

“Follow me, my Lady,” said the older warrior.

“Persus!” she cried in frustration.

“Argos and Messene!” roared Persus, rifle in one hand and vibro-blade in the other.

A stream of blaster shots came in reply, and then the old warrior was within melee range.

A Marine with a boarding axe met him blade to blade, and then Akantha was side by side with Persus swinging away.

For a moment they were heavily outnumbered, and then the Captain arrived with a full platoon of commandos behind him.

“In the cold and black!” bellowed the Captain.

“Cold Space Commandos!” shouted the platoon’s front rank, pausing to kneel down and then two ranks of soldiers went to rapid fire.

“Commandos: attack!” shouted Tyr.

The first two squads ran into the corridor but, just as the second pair were about to follow them, a squad of Marines de-cloaked behind them and attacked, boarding axes breaking through back armor and splitting helmets.

“It’s an ambush,” screamed a Commando right before his arm was cut off.

“Fragmentation grenades!” cried the Sergeant Major, turning to take charge of the rear. Putting words to action, he tossed out a pair of frag-grenades into the midst of the Marine jacks himself.

“Cut them down!” Tyr shouted, leading the two squads in the front to press the Jacks around Akantha.

For the longest half a minute, the battle swung back and forth. In the front, two Commando squads gave almost as good as they got, their momentum leaving them at only a small disadvantage against the superior suits. But in the back, the Marine Jacks tore through an entire squad without taking any losses of their own and started into the next one.

The battle wavered on the tipping point, with the Marines slowly gaining the advantage as they recovered and used their superior equipment and training to overcome—until the rest of the Commando company arrived.

“Aimed shots! Pick your targets,” ordered the Lieutenant in charge of the Commando company’s rear guard and main force, and the reinforcements opened fire.

“Akantha!” Persus shouted, grabbing hold of her and dragging her back out of the line of fire.

“I almost had him!” Akantha snarled, giving one last swing that missed the enemy Jack as she was hauled backward.

The squad of Imperials in the rear took one look at the new mass of Commandos and faded back, retreating along the corridor.

“Don’t lose sight of them!” said the Sergeant Major, hauling himself back up to his feet and using a hand to cover a giant rent that ran from his chest plate up to the neck of his battle-suit—one of a hundred similar wounds suffered at the edges of the Jacks’ boarding axes, “they’ll go chameleon!”

The reinforcements opened fire in both directions, driving back the Imperials.

“Third Platoon: advance,” ordered the Captain, gesturing them forward.

“Cold Space Commandos!” shouted the soldiers, advancing in firing teams as they pursued the Marines.

“Major! Enemy reinforcements are headed straight toward the breakout pocket,” reported the Brunt headquarters com-tech. “New force strength estimate puts them at company strength.”

“Tell all platoons, except the battalion reserve, who are not actively engaged with the pocket to shift around and stop that company,” ordered Nottingham, staring coldly at the display.

“But, sir, that might give the enemy pocket a chance to break out and escape,” protested the tech.

“Who’s the Major here, technician?” Nottingham asked stiffly.

“Y-you are, Sir,” stammered the Tech.

“That’s right,” she snapped, “now pass my order, then contact the sappers and tell them to get ready to fire back up the light laser. I’m not letting anyone escape!”

“But what about our own people that might be caught in the crossfire?” asked the tech.

“Leave that to me,” growled the Major.

“I think they’re starting to let up, Sir,” reported the Caprian Sergeant, leaning up against the wall for support as a pair of Tracto-an Lancers guarded the corners of each intersection leading into this corridor, “right now we’ve got the wounded set up in an administrative office, but…”

Darius’ wounds pulled at him as he unlocked the Devastator and his battle-suit once again shifted around him. He groaned, pausing to stretch.

“We cannot move at the enemy’s pace. If they want to take a breather then that’s the time to press them,” Darius grunted.

The Sergeant looked up and down the small corridor, which represented the entire area that was under the control of the battered Lancer company, and then turned back to the Captain.

“Half the company is walking wounded and the other half is seriously wounded. We’re not really in any condition to ‘take it to the enemy’,” he said with a sigh.

“What’s the option, surrender?” Darius asked scornfully. “Every man here knows his duty. Our mission is to shut down that cannon or take as many of these Imperial warriors with us as we can along the way. Get the men on their feet—we fight.”

“Yes, Sir,” said the Sergeant.

Minutes later, the company had assembled.

“We’re missing far too many faces but now is not the time for mourning; now is the time to show these Imperials what it means to be a Lancer. Who’s with me?” demanded Darius.

An angry—if tired—growl swept the company.

“Attack!” shouted Captain Darius pointing his bladed arm down the hall as he led the way.

The first suits that rounded the corner took a barrage of enemy fire, but that’s exactly what the new suits were designed to do: take that fire, shrug it off, and keep going.

“No time to hold back,” the Captain ordered, activating his built-in torso-mounted grenade launchers and sending out his remaining grenades as fast as his suit could launch them, “it’s break or bust!”

Like an angry tide, the mostly Tracto-an company took fire and reeled—but they kept coming until they reached point blank range.

“Die!” shouted the Captain, grabbing an Imperial by the arm and smashing him into another before opening fire with his still-functional arm cannon. Ion bolts raked the enemy, as well as the walls and ceiling. Too often the Jack’s had taken the lives of good warriors by dropping off the ceiling or stepping out from the walls in their chameleon armor, thereby defeating the company’s built-in sensors.

Shoving one Jack aside and shooting another until he fell, Darius staggered, pushed, and otherwise forced his way into the enemy. He was the tip of the spear and, with sonic grenades flying, he forced the Imperial back further and further until finally he wasn’t just taking plasma fire, but taking blaster fire as well.

“I want your life!” he roared, shoving a Marine against the wall and stabbing him repeatedly with his combat blade, sparks flying until finally the sword bit and ran through the Marine.

Fight still in him, the Imperial Marine countered with a blow to the head with his axe—and then, for good measure, stuffed a grenade into the corner of his armor where Darius’ breastplate met his pauldron.

“It’ll take more than—” Darius was cut off by an explosion that sent his suit staggering back two steps and sent lines of fire and agony through his right shoulder. He tried to catch his balance but his vision was increasingly hazy and he couldn’t keep to his feet. Falling to one knee with a thump he swayed and finished hoarsely, “—you.

Then another suit came up to him, a sword entered his vision, and he knew he couldn’t dodge it in time. There just wasn’t enough left. His reserves were spent.

With bleary defiance, he looked up and if it weren’t for his face visor he would have spit in his enemy’s eye before the end.

“Captain Darius, is that you?” asked a familiar voice.

Darius blinked, but his vision was increasingly blacking out.

“My…my…you?” he paused and tried to stand up.

“Stay put you look to be in a bad way, Captain,” the other ordered.

“Hold Mistress!” he groaned and tried to stand.

“I said stay put! Medic!” Akantha shouted.

“I can still fight,” he said, forcing himself halfway up before everything went dark and faded to black.

“Watch your fire and consolidate on my position, Captain Tyr!” Akantha cried. “We have come to reinforcements and we cannot let them separate us!”

“On it my lady,” shouted Tyr.

Then a great clamoring of blaster and plasma fire came as the Marine Jacks attacked from every side.

“Have at them men!” she cried.

Chapter Ninety-seven: The Battle Turns

Out in cold space, four Reclamation Cruisers moved into position around our flagship, hammering us from all directions with concentrated broadsides. The increasingly beleaguered provincial Battleship returned fire to stand them off, but the battle had begun to take its toll on our ability to effectively retaliate.

Burning its engines, the Metal Titan attempted to cover for the flagship. But Captain Rampage and the Titan were having troubles of their own with the increasingly belligerent Command Carrier.

I watched as the Titan shot lasers out both sides: the port at the Carrier and the starboard at the Cruisers attacking us. She stood tall as her shields were knocked down by the Carrier, and the Titan’s fire on the starboard side suddenly fell to half its previous levels.

“I’m reading a significant energy buildup on the Command Carrier, Admiral,” reported Sensors, instantly grabbing my attention.

“How much longer until that particle cannon can fire again?” I asked tensely.

“Lieutenant Hart, working in conjunction with ship’s sensor department up here on the battle bridge, estimates they’ll be able to fire in another three minutes, Admiral,” said Captain Hammer, her voice grim.

Glaring at my fuzzy and, at times, whited-out com-channel I turned to Lieutenant Steiner. “I need that channel to our boarding party sooner rather than later, Lieutenant!”

“The main communications array will be recalibrated in another…” she paused, staring down at her screen. “There it’s done,” she looked back up at me, “I don’t know how long you’ll have before the Imperials shut us down, but the comm. arrays have been reconfigured. If you can’t reach the General it won’t be from our side. Just remember: they’ll start working to shut us down as soon as you start transmitting,” she warned.

I nodded, “Find the General and put me through.” I looked back up at the battle taking place. Through the combined efforts of all four Battleships, the Carrier’s shields were significantly degraded. We would have collapsed them by now if they’d been using the same shields we used, but they had that blasted regenerative shield technology! I scowled bitterly as I watched the tide of the battle continue to build against us.

“I have Brigadier General Wainwright on the link, Admiral,” said Steiner.

I nodded. The General didn’t appear on my screen, apparently the bandwidth was too low for that, but I could hear harsh breathing and the sound of blaster fire in the background.

“This is Wainwright, go,” said the other man.

“Montagne here, I need you to get in there and neutralize that main cannon, General,” I spoke calmly into the link, my training—or, rather my experience—overcoming my actual feelings. “Whatever you have to do, we can’t let that flagship keep firing.”

There was a pause. “I’m sorry, Sir,” Wainwright said heavily, “we’re doing our best to achieve our objectives, but we’re currently engaged in a running battle on the hull. As of right now we only have pockets of our forces inside the Carrier, and the majority of those pockets have been cut off. The enemy’s response has been fast, heavy and effective; it’s not just their superior power armor technology. I sent a battalion deep into the ship and once they accessed the interior of the Carrier they ran into significant internal defenses. Automated pop-down laser turrets, combined with superior internal scanners and their Marine force, drove our incursion back. I still believe that we can achieve our objectives given time, but I’ve shifted to an external attack posture. I’m continuing to send in diversionary forces into the hull but, right now, the focus has shifted to reaching the front of this ship and spiking their particle cannon from the outside. Unfortunately between their fighters making strafing runs and the Jacks we’re moving a lot slower than I’d like. We need more time and if possible reinforcements, Sir.”

I glared at the plot where the Cruisers continued to rake the Royal Rage. Whether it was aboard the Carrier, out here ship-to-ship, or even back with the remainder of our Battleship force under Rear Admiral Dark Matter, the results were clear: we were losing.

Something had to give—and soon.

“Keep doing the best you can with what you have,” I said finally, “we’ll try to come up with a solution out—”

“We have movement!” reported Sensors. “The Imperial Command Carrier has activated its engines and is now on a course for…it looks like they’re going straight for Wolf-9, Admiral!”

My head shot around to see that yes indeed Janeski was on the move. Just what was he up to?

“How close will that take them to the Battleship fight, Sensors?” I demanded.

“They’re going to pass well outside of weapons range of our Battleships, Admiral. Well, of our Battleships,” she reported, “they’ll still be able to fire that main cannon of theirs.”

I turned back to the com-link. “I’m sorry, General, I’m going to have to cut this short,” I said with regret.

“I understand, Sir. Wainwright out.”

“Alright, Helm, get us—” I started.

“Course change!” cried Brightenbauc, his voice high and heavy with alarm. “Enemy flagship is turning this way.”

The Carrier began to turn, resembling nothing so much as a whale with such a deliberate, yet undeniably majestic maneuver.

“May I remind the Captain that the Carrier is almost ready to fire,” Lieutenant Hart said urgently.

“If that particle cannon hits us we’ll be finished!” Brightenbauc said hysterically. “They can destroy us with one shot!”

“Stay in close to that Carrier, Helm!” ordered Captain Hammer, not waiting for me.

Not that I was paying much attention to that right at the moment. The most important thing for me was coordinating the movement of our fleet.

“Order to all MSP Battleships,” I spoke rapidly as I issued orders, “all ships are to stick tight to that Command Carrier. I repeat: all MSP Battleships are to keep out of range of that main particle cannon.”

“Not a problem,” said the unfamiliar helmsman, “there’s no way that Carrier can turn fast enough to target us. What I’m more worried about are our engines!”

“Enemy Cruisers focusing fire on our stern,” reported Tactical Officer Hart.

“Maneuver the ship to cover our stern! Coordinate with Metal Titan,” barked Hammer, “someone get me Captain Jackson on the line.”

Sitting forward on the edge of my seat, I watched as both bridges did their best—which was better than I could—to keep us alive.

Something had to give. I just hoped it wasn’t us.

Chapter Ninety-eight: Pride of the Imperial Hunter

Admiral Arnold Janeski laughed as the combined maneuvers of his warships sent the Governor’s Battleships into disarray.

As he watched the Battleships struggle for their lives, point defense and a swarm of Imperial strike fighters thinned the herd of enemy gunboats.

Looking down at the status board, his eye caught on the one ugly mar on an otherwise increasingly acceptable situation.

“What’s the status of the enemy’s boarding attempts?” he asked. Victory was within his grasp, but only if the locals didn’t manage to pull out a joker from the deck. Fortunately, the Imperial Marines—as annoying as that branch of the service could be—were the undisputed best in the business. That said, General McMann needed to come through. He had the best tools and a brigade of the most highly trained operators this region of space had ever seen onboard this ship.

If he couldn’t manage to deal with a force of impotent little locals in outdated battlesuits, who had inferior training and less than a tenth the combat time as his Jacks, heads would roll.

“General McMann’s operations officer reports the Marines have contained or destroyed all incursion attempts as of this time, and that the General has taken personal command of the battalions on the hull. The situation outside is fluid but so far all internal threats are under Marine control. No vital systems are at risk,” said Janeski’s own operations officer.

“Good enough,” the Imperial Admiral nodded. “Are there anything other situation I should be aware of?”

“Not at this time,” the Operations Officer shook his head.

“Good, then after we complete this little maneuver we will turn back to Starbase, use the particle cannon to complete its destruction—as well as any other enemy Battleships in need of annihilation—and then move in close to complete the destruction of the entire defensive complex as planned,” he instructed.

“I feel that I must once again point out that the enemy could have any number of further hidden mine fields, popup missile launchers, or other unseen defenses—and that our proposed course takes us perilously close to the current Battleship engagement,” warned Goddard.

“I am well aware of the risks, Captain,” said Admiral Janeski, “however, my orders stand. I have no intention of moving the Invictus Rising through any areas of space our own warships have not scanned and travelled through. The risk is minimal while the reward will be the final removal of any hope the rubes have of victory. Honestly, we might not even have to move into weapons range of the outer defenses before they officially surrender. Just take a look at how eager certain portions of their Battleship force are to give up. One more big push should end this.”

“You’re the Admiral,” said Goddard, his face impassive.

Janeski nodded and turned back to contemplate the plot, but the Sensor Officer cleared his throat. Janeski pursed his lips. “You have something to add, Commander?” he asked, turning to the man in charge of the Sensor section.

“There is one other situation that has yet to be mentioned which I feel is noteworthy,” said Commander Stenson, ignoring the suddenly narrowed eyes of the Operations Officer.

“Yes, Commander? Speak,” urged the Admiral, ordered ignoring the byplay amongst his staff.

“You asked if there was anything else. I just wanted to point out that the trio of provincial warships from the outer system are less than fifteen minutes away from our position and show no signs of diverting over to join the Battleship engagement, or to make an independent run for the Starbase Complex,” said the Commander.

Janeski nodded slowly. “I was aware of their approach,” he said, his brow wrinkling, “are you suggesting we use the particle cannon to thin them out and delay our attack on the Starbase?”

“All such actions are up to you, Sir,” said Stenson his face deliberately blank, “I just wanted to remind you, before the enemy attacking the flagship received significant reinforcements, but in the end I’m just a Sensor Officer.”

“I’ll take it under advisement. Good call, Commander,” said Janeski, his mind focusing on the best way to deal with all the moving enemy pieces. Even the addition of a Battleship, strike Cruiser, and troop transport wouldn’t be enough to change the battle equation around the flagship. But Stenson was right: he had been placing too little weight on that relatively minor force. The last thing he needed were significant reinforcements attempting to board the Command Carrier.

At the current drain on the fusion generators, the particle cannon could not fire twice and destroy both the Starbase and that large troop transport before the small contingent arrived.

Even if it delayed the final destruction of the Starbase, it was worth considering a rearrangement of the priorities.

Better safe than sorry, after all.

Chapter Ninety-nine: A Late Start: It’s a Spalding!

“The Clover rides again,” Spalding declared, his eyes fixed on the Imperial Command Carrier, “and this will prove once and for all that her finest hour is before—and not behind—her.”

“It’s not the same ship, you old fool,” Baldwin sighed.

“Quiet, you,” he said absently.

Shaking her head, she turned and walked toward the exit.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Spalding demanded suspiciously.

“The restroom, if that meets with your approval?” she replied. Then, not waiting to see his response, she stalked off the bridge.

“Be nice if all problems could be solved that easily,” he muttered, turning back to the display.

It irked the old engineer to be stuck watching the action while the Clover 2.0 seemed to crawl across the star system. Oh, the old girl was doing her best but it wasn’t her fault—she was only half completed, after all. Honestly, it had been a miracle she’d made it as far as she had in one piece.

“Fine bit of engineering, that,” he mumbled to himself feeling a surge of pride. The old bitty thought that he was off his rocker and unable to accept the loss of his beloved Battleship and…well, after a fashion she was right. He wouldn’t accept it. That didn’t mean that he didn’t realize the Clover of today was different from the Clover of the past.

She was different on the outside, without a doubt, and all of her systems had been overhauled. Yes she was a new ship—that’s why she was designated the 2.0 version. He’d taken everything that was the old ship and added it into the new!

What was a ship? If it had the same internal compartments, transferred directly over from the original Lucky Clover, the same twin bridge setup using the very same consoles and internal arrangement, along with the Main Engineering compartment and aging data nodes all transferred over directly, and if she had the same interior he’d known ever since he first boarded the ship…well, then if that wasn’t his old ship living inside a brand new hull and framework then he didn’t know what it was—because he sure as all get out couldn’t the difference!

The whole interior, the crew living quarters, environmental systems, conduits and every surviving system had been cut out and repurposed for the new ship.

The heart, head, and much of her other internals were the same as always. Saying she wasn’t the same ship just because the outside changed was like saying he was no longer Terrance P. Spalding because he’s lost his arms, legs and a good deal of his skull and midsection!

It wasn’t the packaging that mattered—it was the soul!

And soon, very soon—unless those Imperials made like a country chicken and took flight before they got there—the Lucky Clover was going to prove that while she might only be halfway rebuilt, she was still twice the ship she’d ever been!

“Come to papa, you Imperial atom splitters,” he said as the Lucky Clover 2.0, accompanied by the Furious Phoenix and the recently-refurbished, former enemy Battleship continued to close in on the heart of the action—the spot with all the Dreadnaught class Battleships.

He didn’t count the People’s Initiative in his calculations. The people back on Capria could ‘initiate’ all they wanted, but until they grew a spine to kick out all the greedy, corrupt politicians they’d put into office all they’d ever be were powerless voters. Manipulated by the planetary media and the soft lies of the politicians until they were dancing in the palm of the very people who were supposed to work for them!

Democracy was all well and good, and if that’s what the people wanted there were plenty of planets in this great big galaxy, the Spine, and even Sector 25 for that matter that would love to have them. But when it came to Capria, people had just plum forgot that it was the Monarchy that saved the citizens of Capria time and time again first from starvation when they first landed and then after that from space marauders and slavers looking for skilled workers.

None of the current crop of ungrateful ‘voters’ would even be alive if it weren’t for the actions of Larry One and House Montagne who had fought, bled, and died for Capria and its people. That had to be worth something. That’s why he supported both a strong Parliament and a strong Monarchy, one responsive to the needs of the people at home and the other primarily dealing with the dangerous galaxy outside her borders. Not this ‘one party system’ nonsense. Sure, the lines burled at times, but that’s why it was called compromise. Which was in stark contrast to the sort of blatant power-grabbing that had been going on for far too long under those ‘one man, one vote’ fascists…

He breathed out a weary sigh.

Well, he was done with all of that now. A new king was on the Throne, Parliament had been forced to take a step back, and Spalding—along with the entire crew of the Lucky Clover—had been written off, abandoned and exiled.

The times had moved on and shifted past him while he wasn’t looking close enough to pay attention. Why, today even his boy said he was nothing more than a fossilized old fool who didn’t know up from down or left from right.

All he could do was follow his heart. And right now that heart said jump in the Clover and ride to support the rest of the fleet.

Capria might be done with an outdated old space engineer like him, but the Little Admiral and the MSP still needed him—even if they didn’t exactly know it yet. Politics and fixing the minds of shortsighted people was beyond him, but this? This he could do.

“Stuff the People’s Initiative and point us right at that Imperial Command Carrier!” Spalding barked. “It’s time we showed the Empire we’re not gonna to be pushed around anymore. They think they have the monopoly on the best tech? Well it’s time to show them exactly what happens when you get old school! Tactical, prepare to reverse polarity on the HCP and target that Imperial Command Carrier on my command.”

“It’ll take several minutes, I think, to do that, Commander,” said the Tactical Officer nervously. He was a young ensign who looked ready to panic as he stared down at his console like it was a snake about to bite him.

“Don’t you worry about that, lad. I’ll walk you through the process,” Spalding said, deciding that it would probably be a good idea to personally oversee the changes that would reverse the system of grav-plates which would turn their keel-mounted, HPC—which extended all the way from the stern drive system to the forward-firing, hyper-plasma cannon.

“Nope, no mass drivers here,” he said, whistling tunelessly. After all, mass drivers shot solid metal kinetic rounds at planetary targets and the HPC fired giant plasma balls at space-based targets. “It’s all a matter of acceleration,” he opined, taking out his plasma torch and whirling it around his hand, “shoot anything fast enough and it’ll turn into plasma. This is just a conversion of our main drive for emergency and combat purposes,” he explained to no one in particular, briefly wondering if he ought to rename the HCP the HPD—hyper-plasma drive—just to be safe from the bloodsucking lawyers and their ilk.

“Time to main drive activation: thirty seconds!” reported the Helm.

“Emergency power to the antimatter generator safety system,” Spalding said and then, bending over his console, punched in a code, overrode the process and did the entire job himself. He knew the safety system around those generators was rock solid—after all, he’d designed it himself—but seeing as how just about almost every other warship designed by humanity and equipped with antimatter generators had exploded in fiery self-detonation he just liked to be doubly sure.

The countdown concluded and the HPC fired, sending a giant, flaming stream of plasma out the stern of the ship. The Lucky Clover shuddered momentarily, causing everyone onboard to lurch forward temporarily before returning back into their seat.

“See? No problem,” Spalding said, pausing to wipe a bit of sweat off his brow, “I knew those old designs would work. It’s just a matter of having enough power to the containment system. After all, if the AI’s could do it then so can we. Anything they could do, we can do better. And furthermore—”

“We’re still alive, aren’t we?” demanded Glenda Baldwin. Spalding jumped, not realizing she’d come back on the bridge. “Unless of course you’re just trying to convince yourself,” she continued and then rolled her eyes, “and the AI’s were only ever ‘reputed’ to have had functional antimatter generators.”

“Now, now, woman; it’s well documented the AI’s used antimatter—we got a number of generator designs from their space stations,” Spalding said.

“I meant them having functional ‘space ship’ antimatter generators. Even we had space station based antimatter generators for testing purposes before they were classified as a weapon of mass destruction and banned,” she said, giving him a sharp look.

“No! No! And three times no!” Spalding declared, “I looked up the pertinent treaties before construction. The weaponization of antimatter was banned—not the research and development of generators.”

“Then may I assume you have a permit for those generators—one issued by the Imperial Senate or Grand Assembly?” she asked facetiously.

“Don’t have to,” he smirked.

“I don’t believe you,” Glenda said.

“Tracto’s not a signatory of any of those treaties,” he said smugly. “And so long as she doesn’t weaponize the stuff, it’s not technically a violation of the galactic ban.”

“She was built by Confederation personnel in a Confederation ship yard!” Baldwin said angrily. “She’s not a Tracto-an ship—besides, all provincial powers are confined by treaty to control of one star system.

“Again, Tracto hasn’t signed anything of the sort. Until she does, Gambit System—and everything inside it—belongs to it, including the shipyard and space station forwarded to Confederation control—as well as all the warships she’s built, borrowed or repaired,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

“This is outrageous. It’s an attempted power grab by a delusional old coot is what it is,” Baldwin snapped.

The Confederation hasn’t been paying any wages, last time I checked. Everything’s been funded out of donations or outright gifts from Tracto and the Border Alliance,” he said and then grinned, switching gears, “or maybe I’m the King of Gambit and I built this ship with my own two hands? In the end it doesn’t really matter. We’ve got antimatter generators that work and no one’s even thinking of weaponizing them.”

“You’re playing with fire,” Baldwin warned.

Spalding rolled his eyes, “I’m a military engineer, lass—playin’ with fire is my job.”

Chapter One hundred: Hold! Push!

“The 12th Ordinary are falling back, General,” reported Wainwright’s operations officer, “two companies of Jacks are advancing into their area.”

“Send two platoons from the ready reserve to stiffen them,” instructed General Wainwright.

“The 37th and the 49th Caprian Marine platoons are both available unless you object, Sir,” said the Ops Officer.

“At least we know they’re fully trained and motivated, unlike the grab bag we’ve been seeing out here lately,” he replied curtly.

“The 12th Ordinary has been doing a fine job until now,” objected the Ops Officer.

“I’m not so much upset with any particular unit…in truth, that’s partly a lie,” Wainwright said grimly. “But it’s been bad enough the holes we’ve had to fill because of drop losses getting here. Far too many of the Border Alliance planets sent us green soldiers with only a cadre of veterans. The results have been…predictable.”

“The Tracto-ans, MSP Lancers, and our own Marines are trained, General. I’m sure we will overcome,” the other man said stoutly.

In the distance a grenade exploded above the hull, showering the Amalgamated boarding troops with plasma.

An alarm went off in both officers’ HUD’s simultaneously: a pair of enemy battalions was advancing into their position.

“Send another full company of Marines from our expeditionary forces and back them up with another company of Border Alliance Space Commandoes,” Wainwright instructed his ops officer as he took in the steadily-advancing enemy. His forces were scattered around this side of the hull, with the largest pocket consolidated around him. But the enemy were coming out and the battle was getting more and more difficult.

“No Lancers?” asked the Ops Officer.

“They do best when advancing into the enemy. No, it’s either we get inside this hull or we push forward to the mouth of that main cannon and every unit that’s gone inside has been chopped up or chopped apart. We have to reach the cannon and disable it!” Wainwright growled, silently wishing he could just send a unit on grav-boards and finish it quickly. Unfortunately, the last time he’d tried that he’d lost a full company to strike fighters and point defense fire. They couldn’t risk leaving the hull. Although…“If any of the Tracto-ans want to ‘volunteer,’ they can take fifty of our remaining grav-boards and try a nape-of-the-hull advance.”

“They’d have to break out, there’s a full enemy battalion between us and that cannon,” said the other Officer.

“We’ll have to order an advance,” the General grunted. There was a chime as General Wainwright received a priority transmission. “What is it?” he demanded irritably.

“Sir! This is Comm. Officer Hopps! You instructed me to notify you as soon as I made contact with any of the units inside the ship,” Hopps said, speaking rapidly. “One of our repeaters left by a platoon that got destroyed just picked up an automated update from a Lancer suit.”

“What have we got and how close are they to their objective?” asked Wainwright.

“Company strength—it looks like a combined Lancer/Commando force, the survivors of two companies. They just broke out of an enemy encirclement. They’re still in the outer region of the ship but indicate they’re going in to try for the objective,” said Officer Hopps.

“Warn them about the internal defenses and tell them to withdraw back onto the hull or advance further into the ship based upon the situation on the ground. Tell them ‘god speed’ and good luck because there’s nothing we can send their way right now,” Wainwright grunted.

“Will do, Sir!” Hopps said eagerly.

Akantha dived for the deck and rolled as an enemy turret dropped down and started spraying the hall with blaster fire. Behind her, a pair of Lancers dropped to their knees and opened fire on the turrets to little effect.

“Fire in the hole!” shouted a Commando over the external speakers before overhand tossing a grenade. The grenade shot toward the turret and managed to get within inches of it before it exploded with incredible sonic force. Now bent and facing the wall, the turret rotated back and forth with an angry whine but, despite repeated attempts, was unable to get a line on Akantha and the rest of the company.

She received a com-ping. “This is Akantha,” she said shortly as she picked herself up, still warily looking at the damaged turret and the warrior beside it that had been taken out with blaster fire.

“Lady Akantha,” Captain Tyr said with relief, “we just managed a sporadic contact with the force on the hull. They report that several other groups that managed to infiltrated deeper into the hull encountered heavy internal defenses—defenses such as blaster turrets, gas, and smoke attacks—before being driven back,” he reported.

“That might have been nice to know two minutes earlier, Captain,” she said icily. “We have already encountered a turret and are continuing our advance. How stands the rear guard?”

“They’re on us like flies on two-day-old meat but we’re holding…for now. There’s no way back to the reinforcements on the hull so if you can keep moving forward faster than we’re fall back that would be nice,” he said.

“Not a problem,” Akantha said with certainty—right before an enemy Marine with a boarding axe appeared four feet away.

“Ya!” she cried, lifting up her sword and barely diverting the axe away from her head and onto her armored shoulder. The force of the blow and the other warrior’s superior suit almost drove her to her knees. With a cold sweat on her forehead, she knew that if that axe strike had landed it would have split her helmet—and skull—in two. “Demon-cursed chameleons!” she shouted as she realized three more of the enemy had appeared at the same time and struck down two of her Lancers with head strikes.

“Lady Akantha, are you all right!?” yelled the Captain, only able to hear what she said and nothing more.

Then the enemy opened fire with the plasma lines built into their arms and the blaster rifle in her off hand exploded—thankfully not taking out her hand with it—and everything was fire and confusion.

“Just do your job!” she screamed at the Captain, parrying another boarding axe and countering with a strike that damaged the enemy’s elbow joint—damaged, but didn’t destroy—as the other warrior showed by striking her in the side with his axe.

Her suit started screaming alert warnings and she could hear the hissing sound of atmospheric pressure equalization.

“Messene!” she shrieked, reeling away from the force of the axe blow and falling tea kettle over spout onto the floor. She didn’t have time to get up and recover before she was dead. Her mind instantly following the path to life, she snatched a grenade off her belt, activated it, and threw it at the Marine.

The plasma grenade exploded at close range, destroying the top half of the enemy’s suit and revealing burnt flesh and bone beneath. The shockwave sent everyone else in the corridor to their knees.

“Up! Up! Up!” she shouted, grabbing the wall and dragging herself back to her feet by sheer force of will. She quickly focused on one of her Commandos down on the floor—who was missing an arm with a Jack standing over him—and she jumped forward.

Her sword instinctively parried the Marine’s force blades as she shoulder-checked him into the wall.

Facing the wrong way, she whirled around to parry his counter attack—only to find her blade striking empty air as three of the Marines disappeared down the corridor. As they retreated, their suits’ chameleon abilities reactivated.

Looking around, she saw three down on her side—two dead and one missing an arm—compared to only one Jack down on the floor. The one dead Marine was the one she had taken with the plasma grenade, and this was the third ambush in the last ten minutes. Throughout the attacks, her losses had been the harshest.

The enemy was deliberately targeting her best warriors, and they couldn’t keep sustaining these kinds of losses. But they couldn’t pull back either.

“We need a way to be able to see them!” she snapped, pushing forward. “Come on,” she shouted, waving her arm, “we must take that cannon!”

They were halfway down the hall when two quads of Marines appeared with blaster cannons.

Charge,” she cried, breaking out into a run before adding, “before they open fire!”

Chapter One hundred one: Out of Moves?

The bridge shook, then shook again, but thankfully everyone was strapped in—although whiplash remained a definite possibility.

Outside the ship, Messene’s Shield was streaming atmosphere and short-lived fire out of more than a dozen rents in their armor. Metal Titan had lost its engines and only the Royal Rage and the Armor Prince were still in the fight. I’d been worried about Druid after he lost his last ship, but so far he was everything I remembered. Maybe the man just wasn’t set up for independent command, but he sure knew how to fight in fleet battles!

“We can’t take much more of this. We must withdraw, Admiral!” shouted Hammer over the repeated hammer-blows the Royal Rage was taking. We were surrounded and taking fire from all sides.

“Just a little bit longer!” I yelled back.

“Sir!” she protested.

“We’ve got reinforcements on the way—at least one Battleship and a Cruiser,” I said.

“With a whole bloody fleet trailing along behind them, Jason!” she cried in a rising voice. “Six more Battleships and a slew of Cruisers and Destroyers trailing along behind. Captain Eastwood and the Shield are combat ineffective; Metal Titan can’t move; and we’re almost finished. Both shield generators are down, we only have one damaged secondary engine that’s overheating, and—”

“You honestly think we’re getting out of this with only one engine while being surrounded by Cruisers?” I asked incredulously, surprised she hadn’t seen the writing on the wall by now. Either we won—an increasingly unlikely state of affairs—or we went down the hard way. There were no other choices at this point. Outnumbered, outgunned and, though I hated to admit it, almost certainly out-admiraled.

“No, but at least we can save some of the crew, Sir. If we keep on like this, the ship could explode,” she said with a deathly cast to her features—or maybe that was just my imagination.

“We’re in this to the finish, Captain. Anyone that wants to abandon ship is free to find an escape pod if they think it’ll help,” I said, gesturing to the region of space around us—a region that was filled with a seemingly unending stream of weapons fire.

“Three ships—and one of them half-built or parted out—and none of them squawking MSP IFF,” Hammer said, her shoulders slumping, “with ten times or more behind them I don’t know…”

“One of those Cruisers is the Phoenix; there can’t be another Strike Cruiser in the galaxy with that mix of mono-locsium and duralloy. And when you toss in that half-built leviathan with them, it’s got to be Captain Laurent and Commander Spalding,” I said with complete certainty. “We’ll wait for their arrival and, who knows, maybe the Marines can turn this around before they get here.”

“Maybe,” she said, sounding like she didn’t believe it for a second and I had to admit that one Battleship, one Cruiser and one…whatever it was with them. Maybe more Marines—or maybe just another crazy creation of our Chief Engineer that he couldn’t bear to leave behind—but either way there was no way I was surrendering before they’d even had a chance to get in the fight. No way in Hades.

“Sweet Crying Murphy, we’re fighting for our homes. They’ll have to squeeze every last drop of blood out of my body before I hand our worlds over to a genocidal tyrant like Arnold Janeski,” I said flatly.

Chapter One hundred two: Arnold Janeski

Supreme Admiral Arnold Janeski of the Empire’s Reclamation Fleet watched as the Battleships off the port side of his ship were slowly pounded into submission. Already, the Battleships were down to half their broadsides or less, and all of them were heavily damaged to one degree or another.

All that was needed now was time, and this entire star system would be clenched in his fist—and crushed.

This was the absolute best these frontier Confederals were capable? They put a civilian without any formal military training in charge of a grab bag of odds and sods, even when they knew he was coming? A civilian! Dogs, lickspittles, and incompetents—all of them. This entire group of so-called ‘leaders’ they had here in Sector 25 needed to go. At least in Sector 26 there had at least been a few…

Enough of that, he thought. He turned his attention back to the battle plot where events were slowly, but inexorably, turning in his favor.

Flights of fighters accompanied by bomber wings slashed their way through the former Confederation factories and repair yards. More fighters were slowly blasting the slower, less maneuverable Sector gunboats to pieces.

Outside the Starbase’s increasingly degraded defensive network, the Sector’s Battleships faced off against his Reclamation Fleet Battleships and increasingly found themselves outgunned, outnumbered and outmatched. With many of them already experiencing moderate to heavy damage, it was only a matter of time before they either followed the example of their Praxis brethren’s failed at attempted to surrender or face total annihilation.

Either way suited him right down to the deck plates.

“Ready to fire on your command, Admiral,” stated the Weapon’s Officer.

“Last chance to change targets, Sir,” warned Goddard.

Admiral Janeski ignored his Flag Captain. The course was already set, “Fire.”

A giant white beam of destruction lanced out of the ship, striking the Starbase one last time. For a handful of seconds it looked like, miraculously, the Starbase would survive this attack too. Then the beam sprang through the other side and the Starbase exploded.

The lower half of the formerly formidable structure slowly and ponderously began to drift deeper into the complex, hitting several communications satellites and defensive weapons while the top section shattered. Several large fragments broke away while a spray of shattered duralloy shoot out its backside.

“Starbase neutralized. Wolf-9 has been destroyed,” reported Flag Tactical in a neutral clinical voice.

“Captain,” Janeski said turning to Goddard, “prepare to bring us about.”

“Now? I mean yes, Sir,” Goddard stumbled, “destination?”

“I think it’s time we prepared a welcome for our new arrivals. Prepare to launch fighters and roll the ship to put our clear side toward the enemy. I want to ensure we have a full broadside up and ready for them,” he ordered, looking at the three small icons rapidly approaching the battle space around the Flagship.

“Aye, Sir,” said the Captain as fighters started streaming out of the ship.

Janeski nodded with satisfaction. Everything was going according to plan. “Begin recharging the cannon,” he instructed.

Chapter One hundred three: Moving into Firing Position

Spalding glowered down at the screen as the Lucky Clover and her two escorts moved toward the Command Carrier. They were almost there.

He chortled with satisfaction as the Carrier quite graciously turned to present her broadside toward his Super Battleship.

“Couldn’t have asked for better,” he said, patting his belly. Watching the Fleet being stomped by the Imperials had been heartburn-inducing, but now the Clover was about to have the chance to strut her stuff all that frustration and anger melted away.

“The Carrier has launched fighters,” reported a technician at Tactical.

“Five minutes until extreme range,” said Spalding with a frown. Dealing with the fighters could be tricky, he silently mused as he walked over to the engineering station on the bridge. “Time to reverse polarity!” he instructed and started walking the Ensign at the console through the process.

“What’s the plan, Commander?” asked Parkiney, looking and sounding worried.

“There’s nothing in this galaxy that can’t be fixed through the sound application of basic engineering principles, Parkiney,” he confidently assured the other man.

On the screen, the Carrier continued to point its broadside at them while the fighter swarm cleared the battle swarming around the carrier and shot toward the Clover.

“Time to end this,” Spalding said with finality.

The fools should have known better than to go up against the finest ship that ever roamed the space ways—even if she was still only half built. But in a way it was good that they didn’t. These Imperials would be the first stepping stone on the Lucky Clover’s path as she returned to her former glory and power.

“You don’t want to slow down before we approach to extend the duration?” asked Brence.

“Slowing down won’t be a problem,” Spalding dismissed.

Four minutes until they were within firing range.

He couldn’t wait to see what the HPC did when up against a hull made entire of mono-locsium.

“Sir, we’re receiving another comm. request from the flagship. Admiral Montagne is demanding we open a channel and declare ourselves so that he can know our intentions,” said the Tech manning the com panel.

Spalding shook his head.

“Sir? It’s a direct order,” repeated the Tech.

He turned and glared at the tech, causing him to shrink back. As he did so, his neck shortened much as like a turtle’s would do while the critter retreated into its shell.

“How can a man keep up his reputation as a miracle worker if he lets the cat out of the bag early? The most important thing a man has in this life is a set of quality tools and his reputation. Besides, look at those ships,” Spalding scowled, his heart twinging with pain as he looked at the battered MSP Battleships, “pass the order to the other ships: we maintain communications black out. It’s up to us to rescue the Little Admiral and save the fleet!”

Chapter One hundred four: Rivals Rage

“Hold on,” I muttered as Messene’s Shield was hit in the engines and started to list badly to one side. A few seconds later, her weapons stopped firing. Fire and flames soon spewed the new rents in her armor. “Come on,” I said with concern as the Battleship was hit by another full broadside from the Command Carrier.

Seeming to recover, the Shield began to correct itself and half a dozen heavy lasers shot back at the Command Carrier. On the face of it, a pitiful response, but it indicated they still had their eye on target.

Then three squadrons of fighters attacked, lashing the hull and the few surviving weapons placements. The strafing run knocked out five of those six heavy lasers. Two of the squadrons pulled up with only three of the fighters taken down by the Shield’s sporadic point defense fire.

“They wouldn’t dare come in so close to a Battleship with only three squadrons, even with the shields down, if Messene’s Shield wasn’t so heavily damaged,” growled Captain Hammer.

On the screen, the final six fighters dropped missiles and banked off, taking another pair of losses from lasers before they cleared the mighty warship’s firing arc.

Explosions rocked the hull of Captain Eastwood’s command as, one after another, the missiles slammed into the hull of the Battleship. Then the second-to-last missile struck right into a gap in the armor from previous battle damage.

A massive explosion rocked the side of the Battleship, creating a hole the size of a Corvette in the flank of Messene’s Shield. Within seconds, four fusion cores ejected from the shield-heavy Battleship and its last functional engine exploded. Plasma lines quickly overloaded and erupted out into space, destroying the engine and endangering any nearby craft.

I roared wordlessly, freezing in my seat before running a wild hand through my hair. My heart clenched as I watched the Battleship seem to shake from one end to the other before settling down, completely dead in space. She was powerless and totally at the mercy of everyone around it and, at last, the ship died.

“W-we’re just now seeing a number of escape pods, Admiral Montagne,” said Sensors.

“Damage Control: coordinate with the pods and save whoever we can,” I said thickly.

“Sir, we must withdraw,” advised Leonora Hammer.

It took me a moment to realize what she was saying. “We’ve been over this before, Captain,” I glared.

“I understand. However that was before we lost one of our Battleships,” she replied.

“If you have no more stomach for fighting, you are—” I started.

“I’ve been through two losing battles with you and, won one before that. I don’t think this is a matter of stomach—this is about the lives of our people. Look at the screen, Admiral Montagne,” she pointed toward the battle plot, “we are beaten on every front.”

I looked over to the Starbase, which was now destroyed, while the greater Wolf-9 complex was being ravaged by fighters. Our Battleship divisions were almost as badly battered as we were, and the Battleship squadron around the Command Carrier—including the Royal Rage I was stationed on—was clearly on its last legs.

I shook my head. “I’ve been through too many battles to give up now,” I said, thinking back to all of the fights and battles I’d been in while onboard a warship. I hadn’t made my career by turning heel and running when the chips were down. Quite the opposite. Oh, sure, I’d engaged in a ‘tactical retreat’ or two. But when it came time to slug it out…“You may have been beaten, but as far as I am concerned things are still in doubt. We stay.”

“Still in doubt? If we have any undamaged spacecraft in this star system it’s no larger than a shuttle—unless you’re counting those three new arrivals that refuse to speak with us! But they won’t prove enough to overcome this Carrier, and the three of them are trailing a fleet of fifty two enemy warships behind them. Even one of our three—if they’re ours—is more struts and girders than a real starship to begin with,” she said dismissively.

“Given the size, I think I have a pretty good notion just which ship it is. And as for the other two, they’re both confirmed MSP captures,” I said flatly.

“They were captured but right now they’re running silent. And for what good reason?” she demanded. “None of which makes up for the more than fifty enemy warships they are dragging into our zone!”

“Enough,” I said. Leonora Hammer opened her mouth. “I said enough, Captain,” I said with finality. “The loss of the Shield has shaken us all, but we are not yet done fighting.”

The Captain’s lips made a thin line as she nodded.

Looking back at the screen, the new arrivals were getting closer and closer by the minute. I sure hoped Spalding, Captain Laurent, or whoever was in charge over there had an ace up their sleeve because I’d already played all my trump cards. If the Lancers couldn’t manage to pull out a win, I would be left holding a seven-two split down to my last stroke.

“I’m receiving a transmission from the Command Carrier,” reported Steiner.

“Does the General need something?” I asked sharply.

“I’m afraid it’s not the General. It’s the Imperials, Admiral,” she replied, “do you want me to put them on?”

For the briefest moment, I hesitated. My job was to deal with the enemy by any means possible. Maybe, hopefully, the Imperials were contacting me because they were under threat thanks to our boarding efforts…well a man could hope anyway.

Still, there was little to lose and much to gain from a face-to-face confrontation. At least I’d get the chance to vent my anger at the man who set me up to die when he left me ‘in command’ of the Lucky Clover.

“Put him through,” I commanded.

A low-ranking Imperial officer appeared on my screen.

“Hold for the Admiral,” he said coldly.

I frowned. I was the Admiral—at least in my fleet. It looked like I’d been fobbed off on an Imperial flunky. I guess that showed me how I rated in their eyes.

The screen shifted and the image of a man who had haunted far too many of my midnight dreams of late appeared on my screen.

“Arnold Janeski,” I said flatly as the previous commander of Rim Fleet and, not incidentally, Lucky Clover back when both of them existed of course, appeared on my screen.

That same eagle-nosed, white-skinned Imperial face I remembered looked at me and his nostrils flared.

“Governor,” Janeski said neutrally.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m an Admiral now,” I said archly, “and have been for…well, ever since you abandoned your sworn duty, handed over the keys to the Lucky Clover and lit out like a house on fire.”

“I hardly need a pampered civilian like you to lecture me on where my duty lies,” he said coldly.

“I think you’re operating under a false impression,” I said flatly, “I am no longer the eager-to-please royal mascot you could trot out in front of the masses for PR value and then lock away and ignore the rest of the voyage. I haven’t been that person—that civilian—for quite some time.”

“Not the tone I would expect from a man in your position,” he warned.

“My position?” I asked with disbelief. “My position is that you’re a traitor who abandoned the Spine in its darkest hour!”

“My duty is to my god, my Empire, my fleet, and humanity in that order. Clearly you need an education about just what exactly comprises treason because not only am I a loyalist to my Empire—and this is not my Empire—but, as difficult as it might be for a person like you to believe, everything I’ve done out here has been for the good of humanity and the Empire of Man,” he said, baring his teeth. “But I don’t care to bandy words with an arrogant little boy who thinks that playing around with warships for a year or two makes him qualified to judge me, my actions or my Empire. Come back and talk after you’ve had to make some of the hard choices.”

“I’ve had a crash course in ship and fleet command these past few years. I won’t allow you to denigrate the good men and women who decided to follow me and paid the ultimate price defending this Sector,” I retorted fearlessly. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned since you left me in charge of defending the Spine with one ship, half a crew, and a security department all set to arrest me and pin the blame for your actions on me, it’s that—”

“Life’s been hard and you’d like to blame me for everything that’s gone wrong. Is that it? I’m not your father, boy. It’s not my job to fix everything for you and listen to you whine. It’s easy to rail at me for everything that’s gone wrong in your little corner of the galaxy because you’ve never had to make the hard choices—the gut-churning ones that leave you up at night. Until now you’ve been free to run around fighting pirates and Bugs and sub-sentient machines, messing around and generally playing the hero in daddy’s Battleship while everything goes in the pot. Playtime’s over, son. The Spine has fallen apart, the Confederation has abandoned you, and you’ve proven yourselves unable or unwilling to govern yourselves. It’s time a strong and steady hand took over—my hand, and that of the Empire.”

“My father? You’ve obviously never bothered to learn the first thing about me,” I said angrily, “running around and playing? Where were you when the Droids invaded two Sectors? Were you secretly undermining our ‘failed’ local governments with a hidden ComStat network so you could take over, perhaps? Where were you when pirates were ravaging Sector 25? At least I stood up and fought for what’s right instead of stabbing people in the back. That’s all you and your so called ‘Empire’ are: backstabbers! Vultures and carrion crawlers feasting upon the corpse of—”

“Enough,” roared Admiral Janeski, “I will not be lectured to by the likes of you about where my duty lies. I am here to save your people, but even though you have been offered a toast you refuse the wine!”

“Hit a nerve, did I?” the corner of my mouth lifted mockingly.

The Imperial Admiral leaned forward, his gaze glittering with the fiery fury of a super nova. “I will not stand by while you insult the good men and women who have sacrificed their lives to save this ungrateful region of provincials from the horrors that exist beyond our borders, and who had toiled to reclaim the Spineward Sectors for humanity. Hit a nerve? You’re nothing but a pumpernickel prince, Governor!” he sneered.

“Humanity’s been doing just fine dealing with the horrors beyond the Spine,” I said flatly, “so you can take your two bit justification for conquering our worlds and leave—or you can get stoked, Rear Admiral.”

“If you think that think pirates, bugs and a few droids are the worst thing beyond our borders, you really are the fool I took you for. Civilians,” Janeski snorted coldly, “while you’ve been picking the low-hanging fruit, even now the Imperial Navy has been protecting you and the Spineward Sectors from oh so much worse.”

“Ha! You have the gall to claim that after two Sectors were almost destroyed because of the Imperial Withdrawal, and the destruction of decades worth of infrastructure destroyed on your way out, that we should be grateful to you for protecting us from some unknown, unhinted at until now, boogeyman?” I sneered.

“I do not know what goes on in what passes for a brain in your head, and I couldn’t care less what you believe, Governor,” Admiral Janeski said scornfully. “What I do know is that my patience is running perilously thin. That’s why I am issuing you this one chance to surrender and save the worlds you care about from utter annihilation.”

“Strong words from a man who orbitally bombarded my home world to force a regime change!” I declared with righteous anger—after all, his actions had literally ruined my life. “What would you say if I told you that there are rumors that all of the troubles we’ve been facing, starting with the pirates and Bugs and ending with a full-fledged invasion by droids, were carried out on Imperial orders!”

“I’d be careful of throwing out wild accusations, Governor Montagne,” Janeski said dangerously. “While I will allow a certain amount of leeway from a boy who doesn’t understand the universe—and thinks everything that can be changed should be changed by a wave of a magic wand when he accuses me—I will not abide while you attempt to besmirch the honor of the Senate and Empire of Man!”

“What if I said I had proof, Admiral?” I said twisting the last work to make a mockery of his rank. “What do you say to that?! We know that either the Empire—or you personally—hired the Pirates and placed the Bugs just outside of Tracto. Moreover, we have hard suspicions and are following up leads that, if successful, will link the recent Droid Invasion right back to you, Admiral!” I declared, my face the very epitome of a truth and honesty. In truth, the only ‘proof’ I actually had was a few suspicious ComStat transmission between my ‘Uncle’ Jean Luc and parties undeclared in Sector 27—specifically, an argument about how much tribute he’d have to pay. As for the rest, it was either logical suspicions in the case of the Bugs, or made out of whole cloth concerning the Droids.

“Canards, no doubt. Lies and damn lies to cover up the danger you are truly in—to cover up your personal failings as a leader of men and an Admiral,” Janeski said furiously. “If you’re looking for evidence about just who exactly has been paying pirates to operation in his own Sector of space, you need look no further than your home world.”

“Former home world—and your defense is to admit that Parliament, the very regime you yourself put into power alongside Senator Cornwallis, has been up to its eyebrows in criminal piracy!” I exclaimed, leveling a finger at him. “If this is your idea of diverting blame from yourself and your political backers in the Senate, you’ll have to do much better, Janeski!”

“Give up now, tender me your unconditional surrender, and I won’t hold the lost lives of the thousands of Imperial officers and crewmen you have killed against the worlds who sent your ships out here,” roared Janeski. “Fail and I’ll decimate your planets with orbital bombardment. I have no more time for the blather and ravings of a failure and madman desperately clinging to the only power he’s ever known!”

“You bastard—you genocidal bastard! This fleet will never surrender. I’ll destroy you and I’ll personally destroy everything you’ve ever built,” I shouted at the screen. “Mothers across the Empire will weep every time they hear the name ‘Janeski’ or when they think on the terrible times its most infamous owner brought upon their worlds!”

“Enough nonsense. The threats of an impotent little pipsqueak mean less than the breeze from my air processing plant. The only threat to this Sector is you, Jason Montagne. The Servants of Man will be triumphant,” Janeski barked, “you know why you’ll never win? Because you’re nothing. You have all the heart and courage of a court dandy while I have the steel spine of an Imperial lion. You brought this on yourself. Relish it.”

For a long moment, steely gazes locked and then the screen went blank. I glared at the screen and then slumped back in my chair. “Blast,” I muttered. I’d tried to shake him like I’d shaken previous opponents in the past, but dealing with out of control bureaucrats was obviously different than trained Imperial Admirals like Janeski.

It had felt good to lambast the man, but unfortunately I didn’t appear to have done anything other than make my chances at surrendering—if I survived that long—much less likely. Not that I was particularly interested in falling into the hands of my enemies a second time, mind you. Once, with Jean Luc and Ambassador—now Governor—Isaak had been more than enough.

Frankly, I’d rather go down with the ship. Which just might happen, I thought bleakly.

Finally, Captain Hammer cleared her throat.

“Yes,” I asked, giving her a withering look to make clear I wasn’t up for comments on my ‘failed’ parlay attempt.

“There’s another message from the Carrier,” she said. I opened my mouth to reject it but she quickly added, “It’s from the General.”

My mouth promptly closed. “Put him on,” I said, glancing over at Steiner—who should have been the one to pass me that little gem but she was staring studiously down at her console and avoided my gaze.

Hopefully Wainwright had some better news for me than when last we’d spoken.

Chapter One hundred five: Bad news from the Carrier

“Admiral, I’m sorry, but we won’t be able to neutralize the enemy’s main particle cannon in time,” Wainwright said sounding haggard, “they’ve realized our intent and have us pinned down near their forward turbo-laser batteries. I’ve taken the initiative to place breaching charges on the various batteries, as well as two small shield generators, but I’m afraid we’re going to need to extend the timeframe while I work to break out from this encirclement. Worse, many of my people are losing their grip on the hull as the stick in the temporary adhesive pads we added to their boots wears off. We didn’t envision spending as much time out on the hull as we have. If this trend continues, I may have no choice but to create a breach in their hull and attempt to make our way forward from inside the ship, despite how poorly our attempt worked out last time.”

“Blast it, General,” I said, feeling a headache coming on and a hole opening in my stomach.

“I know it’s not what you wanted to hear, Sir,” General Wainwright said stoutly, “but right now I just don’t see a way to end this quickly. The enemy is too well-trained, and their battlesuits are better than anything we have except the new Devastator suits—which are overwhelmingly superior in certain areas, but lacking in others such as maneuverability.”

I opened my mouth to bite his head off, but what came out instead was much more reasoned than I had expected, “That’s not what I’d hoped to hear. Carry on and do your best, General.”

“All we can do is Larry onward, Sir,” said the General, cutting the transmission.

‘Larry onward.’ Was that the best we could do? Follow in the footsteps of my often outnumbered, outgunned, and everything but out generaled-slash-admiraled forefather….? With hot eyes, and wondering if I’d not only led this fleet to yet another defeat but also condemned our various home worlds—along with every officer and crew member in this fleet to certain death—I stared at the new arrivals hoping against hope that some miracle would occur.

Something like Dark Matter pulling it out in the clutch, winning against the odds and defeating the Imperial’s repurposed Battleships, and coming out here to finish off the Command Carrier. Or one of the entrapped Lancer groups inside the Invictus Rising hitting something critical and giving us a chance, something.

We needed something big, and we needed it now. If only our reinforcements weren’t so far out of range maybe, they could have taken some of the heat off us. As it was, I didn’t know if we could last until they arrived.

Chapter One hundred six: She was the very model of dangerously outdated space technology.

“Sir, the weapons console is telling me we have just entered firing range,” reported the Ensign at Tactical.

“Eh?” Spalding said, temporarily confused because of the distance between them and the Command Carrier.

“Uh, the HPC says the Carrier is within firing range,” the Ensign said doubtfully, “but I’ve never seen anything with this long of a firing arc. Maybe it’s a mistake—an error with the program?”

Spalding cleared his throat and then scowled at the Ensign. “The program’s working fine,” he said shortly and shook his head as he walked over to the console. The Ensign’s doubt was understandable, but the old engineer had no excuse—he of all people ought to know the range specs of the hyper-plasma cannon he built. “Acquire the target and prepare to fire.” he commanded.

“Uh…yes Sir,” said the junior officer, looking like a fish out of water.

“Oh, of all the…” Spalding growled leaning. down to assist the floundering young man, “all you have to do is make sure the targeting array is working and place this reticule over the target icon. Then tell the program to prepare a firing solution the computer will do the rest.”

“Thank you, Commander,” the Ensign said with relief.

“You know, you’re really going to have to step up your game if you want to keep working on a bridge,” Spalding admonished.

The Ensign’s head bobbed up and down comically while Spalding stood there chewing on his lip. Then the Ensign’s console chimed, “It says we have a firing solution, Sir.”

“Good!” Spalding said, turning to the engineering console and making sure the grav-plates around the antimatter generators were set. He hesitated for a moment and then, reaching down, he shoved the power levels up to 110% and set it on a thirty second timer—just in case. There was no reason to go up in a big fiery explosion because the generators lost containment, causing an unscheduled social event between matter and antimatter—one which would, obviously, destroy the entire ship.

“Sir?” asked the Ensign at Tactical, looking tense, confused and nearly overwhelmed.

“Well, what are you waiting for lad?” barked the old

engineer. “Fire the main gun!”

“Uh…okay sir,” said the Ensign, reaching forward to unlock and then depress the large red button on his console.

The long spiral of grav-plates which ran from one end of the ship all the way to the other started to draw power from the ship’s powerful antimatter generators.

“Power drain on the energy banks,” reported Brence unnecessarily at the Engineering station.

The lights flickered.

“Discharge in five seconds,” reported the Ensign in a quavering voice.

There was a loud hum—similar to, but slightly different from when the HPC was used for propulsion.

“Four-three-two-” counted down the Ensign, who was interrupted by a loud thump which coincided with the entire ship surging backward.

“It’s trying to throw us off course!” cried the helmsman, fighting the helm as the front end of the ship fish tailed from side to side.

“Speed decreasing,” reported Shepherd at the same time in a rising voice.

“What’s going on, Sir?” cried Brence as everyone slammed back into their chairs.

“What did you expect? The HPC is the same system we’re using to move us forward, only instead of firing out the back end we narrowed the focus and fired off a round at the Imperials,” Spalding chortled, secretly wiping his forehead at the thought of what could have happened if the antimatter containment had been impacted by firing the HPC. He’d gotten the gravity fluctuations under control when firing aft, but this was the first time firing forward since the new generators were installed.

Unmindful of the glances exchanged behind his back, the old Engineer watched eager to see what his ‘plasma’ round was going to do to the enemy Carrier. Was it everything he’d ever hoped for, or was it just another dud that needed to go back to the drawing-board?

“Come on, ya pansies!” he yelled at the screen as the plasma ball neared the Imperial warship. “I know you Imps like to dish it out, but can you take it in return?! That’s the question!! Quick—begin recharging the capacitors and tell the Phoenix and North Hampton to close with the enemy! There’s no holding back now, lads,” he ordered without turning his eyes still locked on the main screen.

Chapter One hundred seven: Fire and Fury on the Command Deck

“Enemy ship has fired!” yelped a sensor operator.

“What?” demanded Janeski.

“Report through your chain of command, Specialist!” snarled Commander Stenson.

“I’m sorry, Commander,” the Specialist said stiffening, “one of the three approaching enemy warships has just fired some kind of weapon—but they should be out of range!”

“Relay to Tactical and man your board properly, Specialist,” snapped the Commander.

With the flick of a few buttons, the information had gone over to Tactical.

“It’s too fast to be a missile!” reported Tactical anxiously.

“Show it on the screen,” Janeski ordered, and moments later the Command Carrier shook. Red lights flashed on the flag bridge before settling back to normal.

“We just took a hit on the starboard side—shields down to forty percent,” reported the Shields officer with overt bewilderment—and fear—in his voice. “I’ve got burnout and automatic resets on shield generators 20, 21, 24 and 36!”

“Damage to starboard hull—we have outgassing,” reported Damage control.

“What hit us?!” Janeski snapped.

“Shield regeneration set to maximum,” reported the Shields Officer frantically.

“Recommend we roll the ship, Sir,” reported the Helm.

A playback of the strike appeared on the screen. A seemingly small, innocuous-looking sensor contact appeared just outside the three ship formation that was approaching them from outside of standard turbo-laser range.

“And expose our damaged side to the Governor and his squadron of Battleships? Belay the roll,” Janeski scoffed.

“Sir, they are almost battered beyond recognition. We’ve all but won!” protested Goddard.

“And allow him another chance to cause mayhem—like by, say, ramming one of his Battleships into the gap in our shields and smashing directly into the hull?” Janeski sneered. “I won’t give him the satisfaction of even thinking he can succeed before he dies,” he turned to Tactical. “Which ship did the attack originate from? I want to know point of origin, what kind of weapon they’re using, and how high the yield is,” he demanded.

“The computer is identifying it as plasma, and it looks like it came from,” the screen shifted now, showing a dotted track extending from the Imperial Carrier back to the enemy troop transport.

“That’s no troop transport…” Captain Goddard declared ominously.

Janeski gave him a cold, derisive look and turned back.

“I have a fifty meter blast radius and a five meter open hole on the outer hull of my flagship, people. Belay the shield regeneration—set the main cannon to full recharge rate and get this ship moving,” he ordered, his jaw bunching, “let’s see how well they can hit a moving target. And message down to Gunnery: fire when she’s in range. It won’t take much to destroy that half-stripped bundle of girders.”

Chapter One hundred eight: Admiral’s Trouble

“The newly arrived squadron just fired and…hit the Command Carrier!” exclaimed Lieutenant Hart.

“They are now squawking IFF’s. It’s the Furious Phoenix, North Hampton and the third…. it says they’re the Lucky Clover, Sir!” exclaimed Lisa Steiner.

“Commander Spalding,” I breathed, quietly clenching my fist. There was only one man who would rename a new ship after the old one and then have the gall to show up here in the middle of a battle—with what had to be a half-built ship, to boot.

“The Command Carrier has started moving. I don’t know what they hit her with, but it punched through their shields in one shot, Admiral!” Hart reported excitedly.

“We’ve been here for how long and couldn’t make her so much as move, and in one shot the Imperials decide to take off?” Captain Hammer shook her head.

“They must have stung her good,” I said savagely and then glared at the screen, “if they punched through her shields, the Invictus Rising must be weak on the other side. Are they starting to roll?” I asked, my eyes shooting back to the enemy Command Carrier. If the shields were down, we might have a chance to…

“No indications of movement by the Command Carrier—belay that: there are a whole lot of fighters being launched and the rest are suddenly changing course all over the local battle space,” reported Hart.

“Blast it all, they’re going after the Clover—or whichever ship fired the attack that punched through their shields,” I cursed, straightening in my chair. “Notify all ships: direct all possible point defense fire toward those fighters! We have to thin them out before they get there. And Steiner, tell the other Battleships to notify their crews to be ready to abandon ship at any moment.”

“Sir?!” Steiner and Hammer exclaimed simultaneously.

“If the Imperials show us an area without shields and we see a chance,” I said shaking my head grimly, “the ship with the best position will set a collision course and ram.”

There was a sudden silence on the bridge—which said better than any words could have that we were all in agreement on that particular order.

Chapter One hundred nine: Gunboats to the rescue…is it enough?

“Look at them go!,” Harry exclaimed before seizing in a sudden, severe bout of coughing. “The Imperial Fighters are turning and running like cowards!” he added after mistakenly believing the coughing was over, and he began to pound his console angrily as he fought to regain control over his breathing.

“After them, Helm!” ordered O’Toole.

“Can’t we clear this any faster, Harry?” wheezed Danny from seat at the pilot’s console as he waved his hand in front of his face, trying to clear the smoke in air.

Inside the small gunboat’s cockpit—calling it a bridge was a stretch, but one the little crew was more than willing to go—even a small amount of smoke rapidly filled the area.

“The vents are set to maximum; they’re already running as fast as they can, Dan,” growled the former chef-turned-second-in-command of the boat.

“I can hardly breathe here, Harry!” snapped Danny before breaking into another spurt of coughing.

“Then put on a head bag, Dan!” snapped the former chef, “Because unless you’re looking for me to winkle up a hoagie on rye, there’s nothing more I can do for you,” he said and then, fitting words to action, he reached down under his seat and put on the self-sealing face mask. He then attached the oxygen hose attached to the base of the chair to the side of the mask. He breathed a sigh of relief as fresh, clear oxygen once again started filling his lungs.

There were a few tense moments as the smoke continued to linger and the whole crew put on head bags.

A beep sounded as the gunboat Captain received a message from the fleet on his console.

“There goes another squadron! They’re really pulling out all the stops, Captain,” reported Harry.

“Signal Killjoys Wing,” ordered Justin O’toole, “this is the Wing Commander: lock onto those fighter and set engines to maximum. Engage in hot pursuit! We have to stop those fighters.”

“That’s crazy, Justin—we’ll all be killed,” protested Harry. “We’ve been lucky to make it this long and we’re already up in smoke to our eyeballs. We need to take this chance to fix things before something critical breaks and I can’t fix it!”

“We have our orders. Svetlana: lock on target and fire at will,” ordered the little gunboat’s CO.

“Aye aye, Captain,” said the boat’s gunner.

The pilot nodded as well, and the little gunboat surged forward as its engines went to full power.

Like an angry bee chasing a swarm of fleet-winged flies, the little gunboat was soon joined by her sister boats. Before the fighters could clear the engagement area, they opened fire.

“Smoke one bogey!” cried Svetlana as an Imperial fighter took a hit from the boat’s fire-linked blaster cannons.

In ones and twos the fighters, who now had their engines pointed toward the much-reduced gunboat wing, started to flame out and explode.

“Pour it on! We’ve got to keep as many of them as we can off our reinforcements,” cried O’Toole.

Chapter One hundred ten: Under Threat

“Captain Spalding, I’ve got over a hundred and fifty fighters on a course for this ship—and that Carrier keeps launching more of them!” cried the Ensign at Tactical.

“Are you wet behind the ears? I’m just here to fix things that are broke,” Spalding said scathingly in response to a greenhorn officer calling him a ‘Captain.’

“They’re still launching, Sir!” reported the Ensign.

“Now don’t go and get your knickers in a bunch—that never helped anything,” Spalding snorted, shaking his head and then laying a finger alongside his nose, “don’t you worry none. We’ll put a stop to them.”

“We will?” the Ensign asked, shoulders slumping with relief.

“Of course we will!” the Commander said stoutly. “Why, we’ve got enough antimatter on this grand lady to take care of more than a thousand fighters!”

“An…antimatter?” the Ensign looked numbed.

“I thought you swore you hadn’t weaponized the stuff! You swore, Terrance—you swore you hadn’t weaponized it,” screamed Baldwin.

“Now, now—that’s just a last resort,” Spalding said testily, “and it’s not ‘weaponized,’ just like I said. Why I just meant was that all we’d have to do is eject one of the antimatter generators, slow down, and then hit it a few times until matter met antimatter. We can’t be held accountable for what those generators do after they’ve been ejected,” he continued piously, a sincere look on his face before suddenly turning fierce. “But if you think for a moment I’m about to let this Battleship fall into the hands of those ham-fisted Imperials, you’ve got another think coming! Why, I’ve half a notion to—”

“Spare us any more of your notions,” snapped Glenda, “and ejecting one of this ship’s two primary generators? Are you mad!? That’d be the next best thing to shooting ourselves in the head and letting them finish us off, assuming we lived long enough to survive the blast. What do you really have cooking up in that Swiss cheese you have masquerading for a brain?”

“Swiss cheese?! Why, that’s a violation of patient-doctor confidentiality—and besides, the holier bits have been filled back in,” cried Spalding.

“I’m your commanding officer. I have a right to know just how unstable you’re likely to get,” shouted Glenda.

“Why, the next time I see that Doctor Presbyter, I’ll give him a good piece of my mind,” fumed Spalding, fingering his plasma torch.

“Th-the Ccccommand Carrier is moving!” reported Shepherd at Navigation.

“They’re trying to throw off our targeting solution,” Spalding snapped, getting out of his chair and heading back toward the tactical console. “Well they should have known better than to try and confuse the likes of Terrance P. Spalding,” he declared throwing his right arm high and wide.

“One minute until we’re ready to fire again, Sir,” reported Tactical.

“They want to play with fire, is it?” Spalding fumed. “Well, we already fired the ranging shot!”

“Uh, Sir, just how many hits do you think it’s going to take to drive them off?” asked the Ensign.

“Drive them off?” he asked blankly, realizing the poor lad was at least an order of magnitude more hopeless than he’d originally suspected. “Drive them off?!” bellowed the Chief Engineer, throwing his hands in the air. “Just what kind of outfit do you think this is? ‘Drive them off.’ Ha! We’re aboard the greatest, rebuilt, Super Battleship this galaxy has ever seen—we’re going to destroy them, not drive them off,” he sneered and then thrust his finger down at the console.

“Maybe if this ship was finished—” started Baldwin.

“No more of the hundred kilo rounds. Now that we’ve already got the range and our Tactical computer calibrated, we can use something heavier,” he said fiercely. “What we need here is to hit her with something…something like…” his eyes lit up, “load her with a one ton bunker-buster! That’ll slow the grav-coil down and hit her where she lives. Aha! Hahahahah! Even with all the wasted energy for firing a slug—I mean ‘jet of plasma’ that size,” he hastily corrected, “that’ll slow down the acceleration just enough that she’ll feel it when we reach out and touch her this time,” he laughed uproariously.

“Loading round now and recalibrating the HPC,” reported the Ensign.

“What are you up to now, Commander?” Baldwin asked suspiciously.

“Time for a little semi-solid, superheated plasma!” grinned Spalding as the time counted down, and when it finally reached zero he gleefully howled, “Fire!”

Chapter One hundred eleven: On the Command Carrier

“They’ve fired again, Admiral!” reported Tactical.

“I’m reading a plasma wake on this one, Sir,” reported Commander Stenson from Sensors, “it looks different from the last supercharged plasma ball they fired at us…I’m detecting a surge of strange particles which coincided with the weapon’s launch!” Stenson added with no small measure of alarm.

“Evasive Maneuvers!” Janeski barked, uncertain just what type of weapon could use strange particles. For the first time in many, many years, Arnold Janeski felt a measure—however small—of genuine fear as he literally stared down the barrel of an unknown weapon. It was, if he was being honest, somewhat exhilarating.

“Helm: acceleration to maximum,” Goddard relayed promptly. “Re-route all available power to the starboard shields.”

The Invictus Rising flared her engines for all they were worth and tried to dive down, even if only by the slightest amount, considering just how hard it was to maneuver a super-giant like an Imperial Command Carrier.

“Particle cannon will be ready to fire in another ten minutes—unless we divert everything over to recharging it, in which case we can cut that in half. And those fighters should be there in another three minutes,” reported Tactical.

“Instruct our fighters and bombers to ignore the other ships and finish that cannon platform,” ordered Janeski. He paused for a moment and then nodded, “And set all power to recharge the main cannon. That plasma cannon of theirs is the biggest threat to this flagship in the entire star system—it must be destroyed.”

“For what we’re about to receive—” started one of the staffers on the bridge as the plasma round slammed into the stern of the ship.

For the longest moment it looked like the evasive maneuvers had worked, and the Command Carrier was going to slip by the rapidly moving enemy attack.

But contrary to the Imperials’ assumption, the plasma jet was not, in fact, a ‘ball,’—and, contrary to Commander Spalding’s vocal protestations, neither was it entirely made of plasma. The front edge of the peculiar projectile was indeed plasma—but the bulk of this particularly huge projectile’s mass was locked up in a semisolid core which trailed just a few seconds behind the tip of the ‘projectile.’

When the plasma tip of the projectile struck the extreme starboard rear of the ship, the massive Command Carrier—the mightiest battle platform ever constructed and deployed by humans—actually shuddered. Her crew exchanged nervous glances as the Invictus Rising rocked gently beneath their feet. Then, just a few seconds after the initial impact, the vessel gave a violent lurch as the nearly light-second-long stream of semisolid material slammed into—and through—the peerless warship’s shields like a geyser of lava splashing against a pane of ordinary window glass.

The entire bridge lost gravity for a pair of seconds before the backup generators came back online. “We’ve been hit,” reported Damage Control frantically, “damage to engine housing!”

“Starboard shields down to 20%! We have punch-through,” reported the Shields Officer.

“Something’s wrong…I don’t care how powerful it is, we shouldn’t been hit that hard by a plasma round,” reported Tactical.

“Helm, use thrusters to compensate and roll this ship!” commanded Captain Goddard. “What the blazes was that?” barked Captain Goddard as the Command Carrier abruptly lost main engine thrust, two of the three engines were down and the third was flickering badly as the Carrier went into a majestic, ponderous spin under the tremendous force of the blow.

“Engines one and two are down! Engine three is out of control; Engineering is trying to shut it down before it tears itself apart, but Main Engineering has been hit and has massive casualties,” Damage Control continued rattling off the litany of broken and damaged things onboard the Command Carrier.

“This is the most powerful class of warship in existence, with the absolute best armor and shields in the galaxy. I refuse to believe that a half-built freighter with a plasma cannon and a crew of yokels can cause this kind of damage,” roared the Supreme Admiral. “Captain, ignore the pests around us and use the thrusters to turn toward that buzzing little bee. I will have that warship destroyed. Do you hear me? Destroyed! If the fighters can’t handle the job, we’ll use the main cannon to finish that scrap heap off with one shot!”

“Aye aye, Sir,” replied Goddard.

On the hull of the ship was a sixty meter-wide area of crushed and pulverized mono-locsium, with flames and air still belching out of it as the internal blast doors tried to compensate and stem the bleeding.

“This is impossible. Mono-locsium is specifically designed to be almost twice as strong and twice as resistant to laser and plasma fire as duralloy,” protested the Tactical Officer. “Just what kind of plasma weapon are they using?”

Chapter One hundred twelve: The Tide Turns

“Ha! Hahahaha!” Spalding danced around the bridge with glee and pumped his fist in the air. “Take that, you Imperial tyrants! Thought you could withdraw from your treaty obligations just like that?” he asked, snapping his fingers in the air. “Well I have news for you: all are equal under the law—Spalding’s law of rapid acceleration, that is!”

“How is that possible? How can this funky plasma cannon you built do this much damage?” Baldwin breathed with surprise as the extent of the damage to the Command Carrier came to light. “You just took out their main engines with one hit…you just one-shotted an Imperial Command Carrier!?”

“Fortune and glory, love,” Spalding said, avoiding a direct explanation. It was all a matter of acceleration. Mono-locsium was strong—incredibly strong, especially against lasers—but it was brittle too, at least against kinetic impacts. The rounds he was firing, when fired fast enough, turned to flaming plasma—but if you increased the size of the round, made a small adjustment to the acceleration coil running from one end of the ship to the other, and sprinkled in a few strange particles…

Well, it still looked like a plasma ball—at least to whoever was being fired at—but unlike its lightweight brethren, the bunker buster had a molten metal core trailing it. And, as was clearly shown just now, mono-locsium wasn’t nearly as good against solid shot as it was against beam weapons.

“Fortune and glory,” he repeated.

They thought that they could make the laws. Banning this weapon system, suppressing this or that (duralloy II for instance) and outlawing anything that might put a dent in their nice and shiny crystal-hulled warships.

Well Terrence P. Spalding wasn’t on the same page. They should have thought about what an engineer with a shipyard, a dream, and a burning fire in his belly was capable of doing back when they were pulling out of the Spine and letting it—his home—fall into chaos and disaster.

“Welcome to Spalding’s house of horrors. Imperials can enter but they can’t go back,” he muttered as the Command Carrier continued to spin, finally regaining attitude control with thrusters before beginning a lumbering turn to point its nose at the Lucky Clover.

“If you want a war…I’ll give you war, Admiral!” Spalding coldly vowed, remotely racking the next round into his HPC.

On the screen. over one hundred fighters were almost within weapons range. It was far too many for the Clover to deal with on her own—at least too many in her current state. Although someday, once she was finished—if she was finished….

“Signal the Phoenix and tell them we’re going to need some help keeping those fighters off us unless they want us to eject our antimatter generators,” barked Spalding, “in which case, they’ll have to finish up with the Imperials on their own.”

“Message sent,” reported the com-tech after a few seconds.

Chapter One hundred thirteen: The Furious Phoenix

“Alright, it’s our turn now,” Captain Laurent said, looking at the disposition of enemy forces.

There was a hungry growl throughout the bridge.

The decimated gunboat forces had done the best they could to stop the fighters, but from a grand force of over three hundred boats there were, as of this latest clash, only 78 survivors. The heroic little boats had done their best to thin out a good fifty fighters before the fleet Imperial fighters had gone too far, being too fast to be caught. That left a force of one hundred strike fighters barreling straight at them

“If they know what’s good for them, they’ll be heading straight for the Lucky Clover 2.0,” Laurent said with a hint of a growl in his voice, “that’s why it’s going to be our job to stop them. Communications, get on the horn with the North Hampton. We’re going to need to coordinate our point defense fire with the Battleship. Helm, push us out ahead of the 2.0 and then turn our broadside to those fighters. Tactical, get with Gunnery—let’s make those fighters bleed,” he paused and then clapped his hands together. “Let’s go, people!”

“Aye aye, Sir,” said his Executive Officer, turning around to growl orders at the rest of the bridge.

As the fighter moved into range, the Furious Phoenix—belatedly followed by the much more lumbering squadron mate, the Battleship North Hampton—smoothly turned to present its port broadside.

“Gunnery is to fire at will, Mr. Huffington,” instructed Laurent.

“Fire at will, aye aye, Sir,” replied Senior Lieutenant Huffington from his post at Tactical. He picked up the microphone down to the gun deck and began to relay orders and fighter approach vectors down to the deck.

Like a horde of angry hornets, the Imperial fighters rushed the squadron of reinforcements from Gambit.

The gun deck of the Furious Phoenix spat laser fire in response.

Ten seconds later, the North Hampton followed with a ragged volley.

Like moths to a flame, the Imperial fighters jinked and dodged but ultimately kept coming closer and closer. In ones and twos and threes, fighters were swept by medium and light lasers, disappearing in flashes and puffs of shattered metal. But not enough fell—never enough.

“Twenty five enemy fighters confirmed destroyed. Recommend we roll the ship,” said the ship’s XO.

“Make it so, Helm,” Captain Laurent nodded toward the helmsman.

The Battleship continued to fire on the fighters with, Laurent noted, much less accuracy than his own still-green gun deck. He felt a flash of pride at how well the extra training, in all departments, but in this case specifically gunnery, was working out and showing results as the Furious Phoenix completed its roll and got back into the action.

“Enemy fighters on close approach,” reported Tactical.

“Take them down,” Laurent instructed.

“I bet you’re wishing you hadn’t ripped out all those plasma cannons the first chance you got, right about now,” remarked his XO, “excellent anti-fighter defenses, those.”

“Bite your tongue, Senior Lieutenant,” Captain Laurent growled, “Commander Spalding transferred those plasma cannons to up-gun the Royal Rage.”

“Which you were only too happy to—” started the other man, even as the North Hampton began its own roll.

“And!” Laurent said, lifting a finger to cut the other man short. “It’s not like we don’t have any plasma cannons whatsoever. I kept a reasonable amount in our broadside in case they were needed for anti-fighter duty.”

“Only because it was impossible to fully arm up the Royal Rage with just the plasma cannons in our broadside…unless you’re now trying to say that you think our currently ‘reasonable’ compliment is going to be enough,” said the XO with a mocking lilt to his smile.

“Alright, so maybe I should have been more aggressive in keeping the short ranged, ineffective-against-pretty-much-anything-but-fighters, things,” he said with a sigh. “Live and learn, I guess.”

“There’s a reason the Little Admiral put the things on us,” the XO said sagely.

“It was Commander Spalding who’d put them on, but enough of that,” Laurent said as the first of the fighters screamed into short range just as the North Hampton completed its roll and opened fire on the fighters at point blank range with a fully-charged gun deck. At the same time, the Furious Phoenix opened up with their close-range plasma cannons.

“Look at them burn!” chortled the XO as an entire swath of fighters was burned out of space while the others bobbed and weaved for their lives.

Despite the incredible damage, other than a pair of fighters who may have lost engine control and slammed into the Phoenix’s shields, the rest of the Imperial strike fighters swarmed down and around the Battleship and Medium Cruiser.

“They’re going after the Clover,” reported Tactical in a clinical voice, “messaging the starboard gun deck to prioritize them as they come around the other side of the ship.”

“I’m sensing a major power buildup,” reported Sensors.

“Yes, the Clover should be ready to fire again in another two minutes,” nodded Laurent, glad for the reminder to keep his ship away from the front of the 2.0 but not really—

“No, I meant the Invictus Rising, Sir. She’ll be ready to fire in another minute and fifteen seconds,”’ corrected the Sensor Pit Boss.

Laurent went rigid.

“What’s the time until the Lucky Clover is ready to fire?” he demanded.

The other man ran the calculations and then turned pale. “The Rising will fire at least thirty seconds before the 2.0,” he reported urgently.

“Quick—notify the other ships!” Laurent shouted at the comm. section.

The bridge flew into furious action.

Chapter One hundred fourteen: Heroic Measures

“Is it confirmed?” I asked tightly.

“Unless they pull out a miracle, the Invictus Rising is going to fire before the Lucky Clover 2.0 can recharge her main plasma cannon,” Lieutenant Hart reported worriedly.

“Blast,” I said with a sinking sensation in my gut.

“Sorry, Admiral,” Hart sounded regretful.

“It’s not your fault, Lieutenant,” I said, turning to the com-pit, “message the other ships and the Marines. It’s now or never—if they’ve got anything up their sleeves, this is the time,” I then turned back to see Captain Hammer. “Take us in as close as you can manage Captain. It’s balls-to-the-walls time.”

“We’ll manage it, Admiral—even those of us without the, ah, particular protuberances,” Hammer said seriously and then started barking orders at her bridge, causing me to smirk.

I wasn’t smirking when a trio of Cruisers smashed our last engine and sent us into a tailspin as they pounded us with laser fire while our thrusters desperately attempted to compensate.

“Take us in,” I said, impotently furious at the Cruisers for stopping us.

“We’re doing our best but we’re not going to be going anywhere fast,” Hammer said as the Cruisers hammered our outer hull.

“I have movement! It’s the Metal Titan, Captain,” reported a sensor operator down on the main bridge. I only heard through the open channel to the Captain’s command chair.

“What’s she doing?” asked Hammer.

Not waiting to hear the response, I pulled up an image of the Titan on my personal screen. It was currently shedding escape pods and on a collision course with the Invictus Rising.

Belatedly, all but one of the Cruisers currently pounding us into attempted submission turned away from the Royal Rage to chase the Metal Titan.

The shield strength of the area of overlapping shields facing the Metal Titan started to strengthen and the entire broadside, as well as every other ship within range, started firing on Rampage’s Battleship.

Another sudden flurry of escape pods flew out and the Battleship’s engines flared before being struck by the full force and fury of half a dozen Cruisers—each of which now had a clear up-the-kilt shot. The engines flickered and died, but the Battleship was still falling toward the Invictus Rising.

“The Command Carrier will be able to shoot her main cannon before the Titan can get to her,” shouted Brightenbauc from his console at navigation where he’d been running the numbers.

“I’m reading a charge from the Lucky Clover but I don’t think she’ll be able to fire before the Rising,” reported Sensors.

“Come on!” I glared at the screen, toggling the zoom function first to look at the Imperial Command Carrier and then at the half built Lucky Clover 2.0.

The Imperial ship, despite its heavy engine damage, looked just like you’d expect: large, powerful, majestic, and—above all—incredibly deadly. Apart from the pair of impacts Spalding had managed, the rest of the Command Carrier was seemingly untouched by everything that the Sector 25 fleet had thrown at it.

“I have movement in front of the Clover!” cried a Sensor Operator with the sound of excitement and disbelief entwined in her voice.

At first all I saw were fighters moving around, their fire raking the half-built warship. Damage and small explosions caused by the fighter’s missiles wracked the lumbering vessel’s hull and then, as if in unison, both of her accompanying warships moved.

The Furious Phoenix fell back in a spiral maneuver as she picked off Imperial Strike fighters with an unending spray of point defense and plasma cannon fire. At the same time, the North Hampton lit off a single drive at less than half power and moved directly in front of the Lucky Clover, totally occluding her line of fire—and, at the same time, blocking the Invictus Rising’s shot with the only thing she had available: her own hull, and the bodies of her entire crew.

“What is she doing?” Steiner whispered, looking at the North Hampton with disbelief. Hammer and I shared a short, but meaningful look.

“The North Hampton’s shields facing the enemy have risen back to maximum,” reported the Sensor Chief from his station down in the sensor pit.

“Any sign they’re releasing escape pods?” I asked, closing my eyes. I knew what I’d see: absolutely nothing.

“No, Admiral. No sign,” reported Hammer her voice detached as her fingers tapped on a data interface, “Records indicate records indicate the current captain, a Charlie McBride, formerly the XO on an Alliance Cutter.

“Where they probably didn’t have escape pods,” I finished. We had a green captain, with a green crew scraped up from the bottom of the barrel back at Gambit Station. And the worst of it was that while I wished that they’d use the escape pods to save who they could, even more I wished that even if it took the sacrifice of every single person onboard the North Hampton they just might save—

“The Rising just fired,” Lieutenant Hart reported in a steady voice.

I opened my eyes, fearing what I’d see.

In a flash, the main cannon of the Imperial Warship fired. That terrible, white beam—which had completely destroyed the heavily armed, armored and shielded Wolf-9’s Starbase—once again lanced out and scoured the space between the mighty, titanic warships.

Oh, how I wished I had such a weapon. At the same time, an undeniable hate for it grew within my belly. The Imperials could smash everything in their path with that monstrous weapon, and so far nothing we had could stand against it—certainly not a Battleship or a half-built titan, in my opinion.

Right before the Imperial cannon hit, the North Hampton started a roll. Her captain had already shown his bravery and mettle by interposing his ship between the Imperial Command Carrier and our side’s only hope of defeating it. But, despite the failure to send his crew to the pods, the sudden roll showed that he might not be entirely lacking in normal thought and the potential for intelligent action.

“We’re receiving a transmission from the North Hampton,” reported Lieutenant Steiner, her voice barely emerging from the background noise. Because, at that moment and on the main-screen for all to see, the Imperial weapon struck the North Hampton.

Shields flared, and then failed entirely as the North Hampton’s shield generator overloaded. The overload destroyed the generator in a spectacular explosion—but it was one that didn’t hold a candle to the main show as the beam scourged the Battleship’s hull.

After punching through the shields, the white beam slammed into the hull and tunneled through her heavy armor and straight into the guts of the North Hampton and, as I watched, punched right out the other side!

The North Hampton was wracked with internal damage and explosive decompression from both sides of her hull—but the Imperial beam wasn’t yet done. It had originally been aimed at Spalding and the Lucky Clover and it was not yet completely expended.

The Imperials’ attack was weakened, but not yet done as it stuck the half-built titan in front of her head-on.

“The Lucky Clover’s shields—“ started Hart as the Clover’s forward facing shields proved to be much stronger, only to fall silent as they flared majestically and the white beam of death sheared through them.

“Someone started trying to maneuver the ship a few seconds before the beam attack hit the North Hampton,” reported the Sensor Chief in an unsteady voice as the beam struck the thick forward facing armor of the Lucky Clover, the only part of the ship that seemed to be ‘mostly’ completed being the face of its front end.

“Too little, too late,” remarked Hammer as the North Hampton’s roll caused the beam to flicker briefly, and then there was an explosion on the starboard bow of the 2.0.

“Punch-through,” Hart reported steadily as the sensor feed flickered due to the new damage.

“Blast,” muttered the ship’s XO, and for a long moment even the Imperial fighters seemed to pause in their attack and perform a victory roll away from the ship—and the potentially lethal deadly beam—instead of continuing the attack.

Then the sensors started cleared and the pit in my stomach seemed to grow in size until it was the size of a rock. There was a hole in the front of the 2.0—or make that two holes, counting the forward-facing opening of the 2.0’s plasma cannon.

A groan seemed to echo throughout the ship as the image of the damage came in. There was now a giant, gaping hole that started from what would have been a person’s nose and exited out through the side or what would have been the equivalent of the ears, if the ship’s bow had been a human face.

“The 2.0 still appears to have helm control. She’s…adjusting her position with maneuver thrusters. She’s turning back up to face the Invictus Rising with her plasma cannon, Admiral!” the Sensor Chief cried with disbelief.

“What?” demanded Captain Hammer before turning to her bridge. “Verify that reading, Bridge!”

“And sensors show her energy banks are continuing to build to a critical charge!” reported the Sensor Chief as the now-powerless derelict that was the North Hampton continued to roll and slowly tumbled past the 2.0, its hull still wracked with explosions as it drifted clear of the 2.0’s firing arc.

The Imperial Fighters suddenly swarmed back toward the 2.0, and belatedly the escape pods started coming off the North Hampton.

I felt a sense of relief so powerful that I literally swayed, and it was at that moment I knew just how far I’d fallen because I didn’t care that the North Hampton was for all intents and purposes gone—I only cared that the 2.0 and its big cannon had been saved. I realized in that moment, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that I was a terrible person.

Then, like a growing thunder, the bridge broke out into spontaneous cheers.

“Will she survive if she fires again?” I asked, forced to yell the question over the clamor that was one part relief and two parts pure, savage desire for revenge—revenge over what we and the rest of Sector 25’s Amalgamated Fleet had been forced to endure for the past day as the Imperials had ground us down.

Hammer looked even more concerned that I did. The Imperial Beam had, in spacer terms, struck right beside plasma cannon’s barrel. It was anyone’s guess if it could fire again, or at least whether it could do so without tearing the entire front end of the ship to pieces!

“Unknown, Admiral,” she said seriously. The rest of the bridge cheered and, as the 2.0 lined back up ponderously for another attack, I felt a chill run up and down my spine.

Chapter One hundred fifteen: He was the very model of an old, outdated space engineer

“There’s too much damage to the bow, Spalding. We must withdraw—at least until we’ve had the chance to get eyes on it and assess the damage,” urged Baldwin.

“I’m afraid she’s right, Sir. We need to get a team out to the front end of the ship pronto,” agreed Brence.

Spalding’s eyes shot over to Parkiney, and the crew chief reluctantly nodded his agreement.

The Commander’s eyes hardened. “So you’ve all turned against me,” he said to the instant disagreement of two voices—voices which he ignored—as he pulled up the schematics and peered at the affected areas.

“Sir—” started Brence.

“No time, lad. I understand what you’re saying, but there’s literally no time. It’d take at least half an hour to get a team up there and then assess the damage. From the recharge rate on that Carrier, it’ll take less than twenty for her to fire again. No,” Spalding shook his head mulishly, “this ship is over-engineered. She’s been made right. When they say ‘they don’t make them like they used to anymore,’ this, boys, is how they used to make them! She can handle it.”

“She’s half-built, Spalding,” the Construction Manager interjected, her voice pleading, “even if she’s designed to handle it, she’s not done yet. You…we took her into battle half-ready. If you honestly can’t get to and assess the damage before they attack again then…”

“Then lass?” Spalding prompted with a frown.

“You have to get all hands to the escape pods,” she said finally, “we did our best. It was a great effort—a better one than I even thought possible, but…”

“And let that oversized particle cannon—that white beam of death, belched from the Demon’s own guts—destroy the Lucky Clover without lifting so much as a finger in response?” he asked with disbelief, which quickly turned to anger as he asked the question and got his own internal answer. “Not just ‘no,’ but Hades no, Glenda! This is not the civilian freighter fleet that you’re used to—this is a warship. She’s sworn to defend the space ways against any enemy foreign or domestic. She’ll not withdraw. She’ll fight! Frankly I’m more worried about those fighters outside than I am the damage we took. But either way, we’ll go down with all hands willing if that’s what it takes to stop the Empire cold. In the name of the Sweet Saint himself, I say enough and no more,” he made a chopping gesture with his hands, “it’s time to show the Empire what we’re made of out here in the Spineward Sectors!”

“Grit and determination,” Parkiney took the moment to chime in.

“And we are chock full of that, man!” Spalding agreed.

“At least use one of the lighter rounds,” she urged.

Spalding shook his head. “And give them an even better chance to survive than they already have? They’ve taken two shots from the cannon already. I give them another one, we’ll be as good as dead then wouldn’t we?” he asked rhetorically and then turned to Tactical.

“What’s your order, Sir?” asked Brence from where he now stood, having moved while Spalding wasn’t looking, a hand placed on the shoulder of the skittish looking ensign manning the console.

Spalding nodded again. He was a good lad—despite the tendency toward squeamishness.

“Reload!” he cried, stomping over to the captain’s chair his metal feet clanking as he moved. This wasn’t a matter of calculations anymore. It was a matter of belief and, even half-finished, he believed in the Lucky Clover more than he did any other ship built by human hands.

“Size, sir?” Brence asked, his hands squeezing the Ensigns shoulder.

“We’re going to give those Imperials the surprise of their lives. We’ll use another bunker buster,” he ordered. It was time to lay it on the line, go all-in, and let it all hang out.

It took half a minute to finish running a diagnostic on the HCP, which came back clean.

Spalding looked over at Glenda and raised his brows. “What,” he asked, “no calls to be put off the ship on an escape pod?”

“I’ll see it through,” she said shortly and then, after a moment, added less stiffly, “I want these Imperials dead and gone just as much as you do. I just objected to doing it in a ship that still belongs in a construction slip, with a crew that deserves to still be at the academy learning their jobs instead of out here risking their lives.”

Spalding nodded. He understood completely. “Remind me to tell you someday about Grandfather, Old Reliable’s, training cruise,” he said, turning back to look at the Imperials one last time before giving the order. “Are you sure you have her locked in, Tactical?”

“She’s ready, Commander,” said Brence.

“Good lad,” Spalding said absently then took a breath and drew himself up. “Then by all means—fire!”

At Brence’s nod, the Ensign pressed the firing button on his console.

The entire ship seemed to shudder and then, with a crash that threw everyone forward in their seats, the bridge went as dark as a black hole.

Chapter One hundred sixteen: The Metal Titan

“This is Captain Charlie McBride. I just wanted to say that every person on this ship decided to stay at our posts and make sure the Lucky Clover had another chance at that Imperial Carrier. We made a conscious choice to stay at our posts and do our darnedest to stop the Empire, Little Admiral,” said the woman on the screen from her seat in the captain’s chair before the message suddenly ended.

“Who was that?” I asked, feeling a hint of admiration for their brave—and, maybe, ultimately stupid actions, but brave nonetheless.

“Captain McBride, Sir,” Hammer said, looking at me head cocked.

“I thought Charlie McBride was a man!” I said, feeling my face coloring with a hint of redness.

“Learn something new every day, don’t we, Admiral?” she asked jokingly, to help take our minds off the North Hampton and what the Metal Titan was about to do, “You know, I’ve known Charlie’s, Sam’s and even one Bob—short for Roberta. Tried to get her to go by Berta while onboard, but she insisted that everyone back home just called her Bob and she was used to it. Heck, I even knew a guy in security named Sue—meanest, toughest bar fighter I ever knew. Just goes to show you can’t judge a spacer on first name’s alone.”

“The Clover 2.0 just fired,” reported Hart.

“Does the Metal Titan have enough time?” Hammer asked with concern.

“It’s going to be tight, Captain,” reported the Lieutenant, “running the numbers now.”

“Someone warn the Marines to hunker down and secure themselves to the hull. They’re going to have a bumpy ride,” I said with a pang at the thought that more of our own people were going to die today thanks to the efforts of their own side.

“On it,” said Lieutenant Steiner.

Despite everything the Carrier and her Cruisers could do, the Metal Titan continued on its collision course with the Command Carrier. The enemy had tried to delay her, but…

Hart looked back up and shook his head, causing me to wince. Hopefully they didn’t mess up the targeting solution for the 2.0’s plasma round.

As we watched, the Metal Titan slammed into the rear of the Invictus Rising and I actually shuddered. I could only hope the Titan’s heroic efforts wouldn’t let the Demon into the Clover’s firing solution.

Shields flared, crumpling the nose of the Metal Titan, and then the beleaguered MSP Battleship showed exactly why she was considered armor-heavy while the now defunct Messene’s Shield had been a shield-heavy ship. Taking a blow that would have folded the Shield in half—if the Shield hadn’t already been in two pieces, the Metal Titan continued on. Her nose had been pushed to the side so, instead of ramming point-on to the side of the Invictus Rising, the Titan slammed into the rear of the Imperial Warship.

Battered, dented, and now with her port side crushed into the rest of the ship, the Titan careened away. She was now totally dead in space, adrift with what little remained of her inertia.

Captain Rampage had done his job better than even I could have asked from him, but despite all of that, other than some crushed and fractured hull crystal, the Carrier looked like it had survived. Unfortunately, considering the current state of the Invictus Rising’s engine and thruster status, the nose of the Imperial warship turned from the force of the blow and kept going.

“What’s the status on the Clover’s strike—will it still hit?” I queried urgently.

But there was no time for anyone to answer as the plasma round streaked across the intervening space between the Clover and the Command Carrier. In a way, I guess I wouldn’t have wanted to know the answer anyway.

I wanted to close my eyes and have someone wake me up when it was over, but I was the ‘Little Admiral’—I didn’t have the choice of looking away.

Then the plasma round arrived and struck the Invictus Rising amidships, seeming to push her back towards us by the sheer force of the blow, and a fiery eruption seemed to wrap around the side of the titanic Carrier which faced the 2.0.

For a moment I thought she was done for. Then the fires faded, and as the side of the Carrier that was hit slowly rotated into view I saw a great, gaping hole in her flank.

“Why won’t she just go and die?” I swore, pounding the arm of my command chair, heedless of how it looked or what it did for or to morale. “When can the 2.0 fire again?” I demanded eagerly.

“She seems to have temporarily lost power. Only a couple of lasers seem to be on local control, and of course the Furious Phoenix is still firing on the fighters attacking her, Sir,” reported Sensors.

“No,” I said with disbelief. We’d come so close. So very close and…now this.

“Sir, I’m receiving a hail request from the Invictus Rising,” said Lisa Steiner.

“Tell me the moment the Clover comes back online,” I said.

“Will do, Sir,” said the Sensor Chief down in the pit.

I felt numb. We’d given it our best. The North Hampton, the Metal Titan and the Lucky Clover had all given their best and given everything they had—not to mention dozens and dozens of warships before them—and yet, here we were. The 3rd Battle for Easy Haven was slipping through our grasp, and there seemed to be nothing I could do about it.

“Sir?” prompted Lisa Steiner.

My face twisted into a rictus. “Prepare to ram,” I said furiously.

“Sir, we don’t have engine power,” said Hammer.

“I don’t care if all we have are two thrusters! Better men then us have given their all; how can we do any less?”” I snarled.

“The ship literally can’t do it, Sir,” Hammer said.

I took a deep breath, “Fine. I can accept reality when it smacks me in the face. Have the crew get into their skin suits. We’ll go over and join the Marines. Maybe sheer weight of numbers will make a difference that training and armor alone couldn’t.”

“We won’t even make it to the Carrier, Jason,” Hammer said, “without grav-boards, and considering their point defense…” she trailed off.

“The Rising is still signaling,” reported Steiner.

“Put the bastard on,” I said furiously, my shoulders slumping. I’d never felt so impotent. There was literally nothing I could do but spit defiance and die like a man. The Easy Haven yard was wrecked. Our Battleships were outnumbered, failing one by one, on the verge of total defeat both here and back in the swirling Battleship-on-Battleship confrontation. With the 2.0 out of commission, we were done.

While the Furious Phoenix desperately tried to defend the 2.0 and the Imperial Cruisers turned on the Armor Prince, all I could do was drift in the Royal Rage, reflect on my failure as a leader, and prepare to spit defiance at the enemy.

At least I could do that. Talking trash to the enemy had never been a weakness. I just wished there was more I could do.

Chapter One hundred seventeen: Rivals Rage Redux

Admiral Janeski appeared on screen and glared at me.

“Janeski,” I said, my voice twisting the word into a sneer.

The Imperial Admiral spit, a trail of red blood trailing down the image on the main-screen.

“I see you’ve already felt the Spineward Sectors resolve,” I said with hot satisfaction at the sight of a well-and-truly bloodied enemy. We might not have killed him, but Arnold Janeski would remember the price of his victory today.

“You may think you’ve won, but your last shot failed. You had your chance and failed to hit the mark,” Janeski said with triumph. “Now your people will know the futility of putting a civilian in command of a navy fleet, Governor.”

“A civilian who did good enough to wreck your Command Carrier,” I shot back. “I don’t know why you won’t acknowledge the truth that, after these three years, I am just as much an Admiral and military officer as you are.”

Janeski’s features twisted with rage. “You aren’t half the man that the greenest Ensign in my fleet is. Face the truth: you’ll never be more than a pampered princeling who got a lot of good men and women killed—killed for nothing!” he said, as if his words were some kind of knife that was supposed to twist and hurt me. “You can’t stop this. You can’t stop us. The Empire will reclaim these Sectors despite everything you can do. If you think that bringing your fleet to the brink of defeat twice somehow earns you my respect, you only show why you’ll never be a real officer!” he roared.

“Let’s see what the Empire has to say after you bring back a battered wreck of a Command Carrier into space-dock for repairs. We’ll see if they think I’m just as much a fool as you do. The Spine doesn’t have the tech to repair that much mono-locsium even if it wanted to, Rear Admiral,” I said mockingly. Saying I wasn’t a real officer no longer hurt. What hurt was, just like he said, getting a lot of good men and women killed for nothing.

“I vow before Man that I will destroy you here today if it’s the last thing I do!” raged Janeski. “You haven’t won and yet, instead of pleading for leniency for your people like a real officer, you still mock me with your impudence you silver spooned little bastard. Even now, you fail as an Admiral!”

“Would you have pled if the roles had been reversed?” I asked, genuinely curious.

Admiral Janeski sneered. “Man’s Empire will never let you win,” he sneered dismissively, “you’ve already lost and you’re still are too stupid to realize you’re already dead, your cause lost.”

“Realize?” I asked archly. “Despite what Imperials like you would wish, we’re not dead yet. It’s just a matter of time until my big gun shoots again and ends this once and for all.”

“That powerless wreck?” Arnold Janeski threw back his head and laughed. “You really don’t get it, do you? You’ve lost, but even if you had by some miracle won today you would have still lost. If it’s not me then another, and another, and another will come until we realize what we came for, you pumpernickel!” he mocked almost gleefully. “Man’s Empire will not be denied its rightful due—certainly not by a silver-spoon-sucking civilian leech on society like you.”

“Better a social leech than a man that orbitally bombarded a helpless world, turned around and betrayed his oath to defend the Spine, and then tried to conquer it, Rear Admiral!” I cried.

“You can thank yourself for what I’ll do after I leave here today in victory. No one can stop the tsunami you have unleashed upon your people, upon the Spine, and upon that stain on the galaxy that is Capria itself. I will do what I should have done the first time: wipe your home world from existence as an example to the rest of Sector 25 about the price of resistance,” Janeski said harshly. “When children look back in the history books, they will shudder and weep and curse the name Jason Montagne. Man’s Empire will drown you in our own blood if we have to, but we will have what we came for! Total and complete surrender. The Empire will have what Man demands of you: your total, unconditional, complete surrender!”

“Eat a moldy potato and die, you genocidal bastard!” I shouted at the screen.

Off the screen, I could hear the voice of an Imperial officer say that one of their engines was back online so long as they used minimal power.

I felt despair.

“In a way, I have to thank you,” Janeski said with a hard smile, “the Empire of Man will be reborn in the forge of the Spineward Sectors until she once again becomes what she always should have been: the Empire of all Mankind!”

I shook my head. We were finished.

“Bring the ship about!” ordered Janeski.

“Fire everything we have at the Invictus Rising,” I said, determined at least to go down shooting.

“Enemy Carrier is coming about,” reported Hammer.

“I’m going to enjoy this more than I should probably,” said the Imperial Admiral. Then, unthinkably, his ship seemed to bend in the middle—and chaos erupted on the Imperial Bridge before the signal was abruptly cut.

“What??” I asked, blinking in surprise as the Invictus Rising abruptly cut engine power.

Crystal continued to break and shatter all around the center of the ship on the opposite side from where the last plasma strike had landed.

“The Imperials seem to be using their forward thrusters to try to stop their momentum and contain the damage,” Adrienne Blythe said, a gleeful note in her voice.

“What?” I repeated, hoping against hope that I wasn’t dreaming and the Imperials had failed to save their ship. But either way, it was looking like the Command Carrier was wrecked. I threw back my head and laughed. Then, jumping out of my chair, I danced a jig like a madman.

Finally, despite the best efforts of their thrusters—or maybe because of them—the front half of the ship seemed to twist and then completely broke in half. The bow section continued to move side-on toward the Royal Rage while the stern kept moving away from us.

“Apparently the 2.0 did a lot more damage than we thought…than even the Imperials must have realized,” Hammer sounded shocked, as if she couldn’t realize what had happened.

If this was a dream, I hoped I never woke up.

There was a stir in the sensor pit and I paused in my insane dance. The Sensor Chief looked around wildly until his eyes landed on me. “Sir! It’s the 2.0…” he seemed to lose his voice.

“What is it, man?!” I shouted looking back toward that ship.

“She’s powering back up, Admiral!” shouted the Chief.

I pumped a fist in the air and howled a rather undignified series of epithets, jubilations, and outright nonsensical words which had no proper place in the annals of history.

Someone decided to zoom in the screen and not only was the Clover powering back up but our gunboats had belatedly arrived on the scene and reengaged the Imperial Fighters.

Between them and the Phoenix’s short ranged anti-fighter plasma cannons, the 2.0 now had a genuine chance to survive.

Walking over to the throne, I unsteadily sat down in my chair.

I’d been so sure I was about to die…yet here I was—still alive.

“How much combat threat do the remaining halves of that carrier have?” I asked.

Hammer shook her head. “The bow section is completely out of commission, with only local emergency backups providing any power. The stern….” she paused, “is ejecting fusion cores. It looks like the engine they got back up scrammed during the break-up. So long as we stay out of range, it’s only a matter of time.”

I tried to cope with the idea that we’d won. We’d actually defeated the Command Carrier. We might not be in any condition to do much of anything else, but we’d done it. The Invictus Rising and that death laser of hers was gone. Dead and defunct. Kaput.

“Sir,” she prompted me.

“What?” I asked, still basking in the realization that I wasn’t just still alive, but that Janeski was dead—or soon would be.

“Your orders, Sir?” she asked and moments later Lieutenant Steiner got a call and turned my way.

“Sir, the Lucky Clover is asking for targeting instructions. They want to know who to go after next,” she said.

“Tell them to start charging their weapon—if it’ll actually fire—and wait for my instructions,” I said to the Comm. Officer.

She nodded and relayed that then looked back to me.

“And put me on a general transmission to everyone in this star system,” I instructed her.

She worked her board and then gave me the go signal.

“Reclamation Fleet warships inside the Easy Haven Star System, this is Confederation Admiral Jason Montagne of the 25th Sector Amalgamated Fleet. We have killed your Admiral and destroyed his Command Carrier. No matter what choice you make here today, Arnold Janeski’s reign of terror is over for good.”

I paused to take a deep breath.

“As such, I am willing to offer a general amnesty to any and all Reclamation Fleet warships whose officers or crews overthrow their minders, throw off the Imperial jackboot, and retake your warships! Anyone who wants to leave this star system under their own power can do so with my blessing, and anyone who worries about their reception back home will be free to sign up with Tracto and the Confederation war fleet. Think carefully: do you want to follow the orders of a dead man for the greater glory of an Empire that threw us all into darkness and despair, and who sent our protectors to invade us, or do you want to be free?!” I decided to finish on that resounding note and gestured sharply.

Steiner cut the connection.

“Signal the Clover they are to pick a target and fire on the Cruisers attacking the Armor Prince,” I instructed.

“Yes sir,” said Steiner then after sending the message looked back at me, “do you think anyone will chose to go home?”

I shrugged. “I can’t imagine that everyone on those warships is an Imperial. Most of them were local make, other than a few Destroyers, their Carrier, and those blasted fighters. Even if they had the officers, where did they get the crew for all those Battleships?” I asked rhetorically.

Steiner looked at me as if she was disappointed I couldn’t guarantee results.

But what could I do? It was up to the Reclamation Fleet survivors to see if they continued to attack or pulled back, now that their leader—and most powerful warship—was out of action.

Chapter One hundred eighteen: Hard Decisions

Over the next half hour, the Furious Phoenix and our gunboats fought off the Imperial Fighters buzzing the Lucky Clover 2.0. While that happened, half of the Reclamation Battleships decided to either switch sides or declare independence and fight their way free of the battle, throwing the Imperial Battleship lines into confusion.

The Lucky Clover picked off three Cruisers, with four shots—three outright kills and one clean miss—before the remainder turned tail and ran. The surviving Destroyers reluctantly pulled back to join Cruisers.

Despite seeing the that the relief fleet which had been following the Clover were still coming, I instructed the Clover to move to the relief of Dark Matter and our still actively-engaged Battleships.

The odds may have changed in our favor due to the defections, but as far as I could see that had only brought the odds back up to even. We needed something to tip things over the top.

“We’ve received orders to engage the enemy Battleships near the Wolf-9 Yard,” reported the com-tech.

Spalding rubbed his chin.

“We’ve taken damage to the stern,” Brence said uneasily.

“We’ve taken damage everywhere,” retorted Spalding, “but those fighters did tear up a lot of our supporting struts and girders. I just hope they can take the impact of reversing the HPC’s grav-coil and lighting back up the main engine.

“It’s a miracle they didn’t set off our antimatter generators,” the Yard Manager muttered, and Spalding shot her a glare before she raised her voice, “look at it this way: if the structure couldn’t take the use of the grav-coil we’d have already broke apart. There’s some risk in reversing it, but no more so than firing the blasted thing in the first place. You might as well try it.”

“Glenda, I’m surprised…I didn’t think you had it in you,” Spalding said with genuine approval.

“What, that I can take a calculated risk sometimes? That’s not my fault—that’s yours!” she said hotly. “Most of the time your calculations are off into lala ‘I don’t want to hear it’ crazy land!”

“Hey, I got us this far didn’t I?” Spalding protested angrily. “Maybe I just have a better idea of how far the equipment can go than the rest of you overly conservative types!”

“Says the man who walked into a fusion generator…twice!” she cried while thrusting a pair of fingers in his direction.

“Hey, now, I only went in myself once!” he shouted defensively. “The second time I used a contraption my son came up with and just sent in a suit on autopilot.”

“I rest my case,” Baldwin rolled her eyes.

“Infernal woman,” Spalding growled, turning to the helm, “get ready to engage the engine.

It only took the Lucky Clover two shots to down a pair of Battleships, one of them by mistake. The targeted Battleship had moved, and another enemy Battleship behind it was clipped in the stern. After the second went down, the rest of the Battleships decided the only way to survive was to light off their engines and throw off the Clover’s long-range firing solution.

Close range would be a different matter, but unlike lasers that moved at the speed of light, the HPC took a while to get to its longer range targets.

Unfortunately, the Imperials’ relief fleet was still on its way in.

“How long until the enemy’s reserve joins the battle?” I asked with concern. They knew I was in charge and could have diverted over to kill me in revenge for the loss of Admiral Janeski. But instead they’d made the smart play and locked onto the Lucky Clover. If they got within range…

“Another ten minutes until they’re within range of the 2.0,” Hart said with concern. “More than two hundred fighters will be there in five. It looks like it’s going to be a coordinated strike.”

Hart’s concern was one I shared, because right now only the Phoenix and the surviving fifty gunboats were around to defend the Clover. A number of Battleships were on their way to assist in the defense of our most important Super Battleship platform, but they wouldn’t arrive in anything approaching a timely fashion.

Defending the Clover was vital…but I just didn’t see any way to do it.

“What’s the latest count on the Battleships of the main force?” Admiral Norfolk asked, his voice flat.

“Eight survivors are now moving to link up with us, with another two outright destroyed and two with dead engines who can’t make it out. The remainder have either joined with the locals or are on the run for the hyper limit,” reported his Staff Intelligence Officer.

“Cowards or mutineers, the lot of them,” Norfolk said coldly, referring to the ships that fled or joined the enemies.

“We can take them, Admiral,” his Flag Captain said angrily, eager for combat and not abashed at showing it, “after what they did to the Supreme Admiral, it’s our duty to do so.”

“Is it confirmed that Arnold Janeski is dead?” Admiral Norfolk asked ignoring the statement.

His intelligence officer nodded gravely. “An emergency repair team finally made it into the flag bridge. The entire compartment was crushed when the ship snapped like a twig,” she said.

Norfolk winced. “We have six Battleships, more than three times that in Cruisers, and another two squadrons of Battleships on course to join us—as well as main fleet’s Cruisers and Destroyers,” shot back his Flag Captain. “And furthermore, a little respect for the dead—of both ships and Admirals—from Intelligence would be appreciated,” the Captain growled, his nostrils flaring.

“Fourteen Battleships against…what do they still, have sixteen? And that’s if you don’t count the two around the remains of the Carrier, or the abortions they’re using as gunboat carriers. They’re built on Battleship platforms, so who knows what they can dish out, and they’re moving to join their fifteen hundred meter cannon platform—whatever they’re calling it.”

“Enough,” Norfolk said cutting through the growing tension, “enough dancing around the elephant in the room. The problem isn’t their blasted battle-damaged Battleships or the traitors and mutineers who’ve joined up them. We may only have six Battleships in this task force, but every warship here is fresh. The problems is that infernal, cursed weapons platform they’ve somehow shoehorned onto a warship.”

“Scans and our engineers’ studies of them have shown that they didn’t shoe horn anything. They couldn’t have; to build what we think they’re using, they’d have had lay the keel up around it, and even then we’re questioning how they’re managing to meet the intense power requirements for a monster like that,” said the Intelligence Officer. “I mean…a plasma cannon that can cut apart Command Carriers? Even if it took three or four shots, the numbers just don’t add up.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the Flag Captain cut in hotly, “she’s half-built and already damaged. We can take her.”

Both Officers paused and looked over at him.

“What’s the maximum fire rate before we get within range, Intel?” Norfolk asked finally.

“Our best guess, based on previous fire rates, are three to four shots,” she replied evenly.

“And then we’d destroy her, Sir. We can win this battle and take the star system,” said the Flag Captain.

“At what cost?” Admiral Norfolk wearily ran a hand over his face. “If we lose three to four Battleships, that would bring us down to, worst case scenario, eleven Battleships left to deal with their sixteen to eighteen, depending on what those Carriers out there are capable of. An almost two to one disadvantage, with all but two or three of our ‘fresh’ Battleships knocked out of the fight. Even if we win, can we still carry out our mission with fewer than two squadrons of surviving Battleships?”

“I hate to be the one to say it, but the mission was lost when the Command Carrier was destroyed and half our Battleships defected to the enemy,” the Flag Captain said, his face hard. “We’ve taken steps to stop a mutiny among the task force and passed orders to the other taskforces, but there’s no reason to think we might not lose more ships to mutiny among the main fleet’s surviving Cruisers and Destroyers—not unless we avenge the Admiral and crush the provincials here!”

“We’re not here to destroy the Spineward Sectors and send them back into the dark ages, which is all we’d be left in a position to do if we followed your course. We’re here to prepare them for induction into the Empire as productive member provinces,” Norfolk said wearily.

“If our mission is a failure, or at least delayed, this could also be our best and only chance to destroy that mobile plasma cannon of theirs and save Imperial lives in the future,” pointed out his intelligence Officer. “If it’s giving us this much trouble when it should still be in a builder’s yard, just think: how difficult will it be to take it out after it’s finished?”

“You’re certain that they built it?” Norfolk asked.

“85% certainty, Sir,” said Intel.

“Then if they’re building the flaming things, what’s the likelihood that even if we destroy it they won’t simply build more?” he asked.

She paused, obviously thinking before speaking again.

“It’s got to be at least a two year build time to make another one, and if they had any already completed why would they bring out this half-built one?” she mused.

“That’s if they have others. This could be the only one, Admiral. I still say we finish them right here, right now,” urged the Flag Captain.

“I’ve heard all of your advice. If we go in, we gut the taskforce to get that ‘thing’ of theirs, but we’d definitely get it,” he looked over at her and the Intelligence Officer nodded with certainty. “However, even if we won, it would be the ultimate pyrrhic victory. Not only would we fail in our mission, but most everyone would be dead—even if we continued on to take this system as originally intended.”

“That’s right,” she agreed.

“All right…give me a minute,” said Admiral Norfolk as he ruminated. As a naval officer, he was born and bred for combat. The thought of dying didn’t worry him. But that was when he was dying for something. Dying for nothing, on the other hand, did bother him—immensely.

“There is another possibility,” his Flag Captain interrupted him after several moments.

Norfolk looked up at him crossly for being interrupted when he’d specifically said otherwise. “Go on,” he said with an edge to his voice.

“There are still more than three hundred fighters out there. More than enough to soften up and destroy a warship whose main weapon can only target one thing at a time,” said the Captain, “we can’t take all of them with us. Well,” he paused, “I suppose we could strap them to the hulls of our larger warships and at least save the pilots, and maybe the fighters too. But what if, instead, we sent them to take out that fifteen hundred meter mobile platform without risking any of our Battleships in the process? We might have still failed our mission, but with that platform dead or disabled the heart goes out of the enemy and we get a boost—not to mention the chance to end this campaign on a victory. Even if it’s ultimately a big picture defeat, we finish it with our heads held high.”

“And if the fighters fail?” the Admiral asked rhetorically. It was rhetorical because, frankly, he liked this plan. He made a snap decision. “Let’s do it. Tell the fighters to continue the attack run but,” he raised a finger, “order the Taskforce and all other remaining forces in the area to steer clear of that thing. I’m not going to lose another ship due to inattention.”

“Aye aye, Admiral,” growled the Captain.

Chapter One hundred nineteen: A simple engineering problem

“Commander, the enemy relief fleet has slowed down and diverted course slightly. But those fighters are still on the way here, sir,” reported Sensors.

“They want to soften us up with the fighters before committing,” Spalding said.

“And, to my mind, they’ll succeed,” said Baldwin.

Spalding glanced at her.

“Oh the Phoenix will do its best, and so will the gunboats, but there are a lot more fighters—and ones armed with missiles—than there were in the last batch,” she said evenly. “Even if they don’t destroy us, one good hit to the grav-coil and we’re out of commission. You did notice that we don’t have armor over a significant portion of the hull, right?”

“What kind of formation are the fighters using?” asked Spalding, wondering just how far they were spread out.

“You actually think you can fight the whole world and win,” Glenda said, her words abrupt but there was a faint look of appreciation in her eyes.

“Oh, ye of little faith,” Spalding scoffed, “I’m not saying we can handle six Battleships and more than twenty Cruisers. But a few fighters,” he rolled his eyes, “that’s just a simple engineering problem. Nothing more.”

“Tell that to a warship captain the next time you’re running a tactical simulation,” she laughed.

“Oh, and maybe I will,” Spalding said with false effrontery.

“This I’d like to see,” she said with a sniff.

“And maybe I’ll do that, too,” he grumbled, walking over to the engineering station on the bridge.

“I’d think you’d be over at Tactical or the coms,” Glenda Baldwin said, following him over.

“And you’d be wrong—as usual. I told you: this is an engineering problem,” he chuckled.

“’As usual,’ is it,” she said peering over his shoulder. “Hey, what in the name of Murphy are you doing?”

“Ejecting a generator, of course,” he grunted, putting in half a dozen override codes before activating a recorder and clearing his throat. “This is Commander Spalding. Acting in my capacity as the acting Chief Engineer of this ship, I’m declaring a ship-wide emergency and, under Provision 984-2, ejecting Generator 2 for the safety and security of all onboard.”

Glenda gasped. “That provision is for genuine reactor emergencies!” she declared with a hint of outrage.

“This is an emergency,” Spalding huffed angrily. “Why, I’m a-feared for my life, woman!” He then put on a pious look, “I’m just a tired old man who spotted a suspicious wave form in Antimatter 2. Maybe like yer all fond of sayin’: I’m long in the tooth, jumping at shadows, and my nerve finally broke due to a combination of a holy head and battle stress,” he said, placing a hand across his chest as if pledging allegiance to the flag. “But I’m genuinely afraid that if that generator stays onboard this ship one minute longer, we’re all going to die!” he finished with a sniffle and then straightened up. “And let me assure you that the fact that those fighters would probably kill this ship if I don’t has nothing to do with this decision. I’m a trained professional don’t-ya-know?”

“You crazy old man,” she glared, “you’re actually going to blow it up. That wasn’t hyperbole?”

“I’m a man of me word, girl, and it hurts when you question me like this,” he declared uprightly, trying to sound wounded.

“Unless you know something I don’t, we won’t clear the blast radius,” she pointed out, sounding as if she was fighting for calm. “An antimatter generator with that much fuel can’t possibly be ejected far enough away in our current state—meaning we’re all about die, not just the fighters, so I hope this wasn’t your plan to impress me, Commander.”

“I know a lot of things you don’t,” Spalding said shortly, “starting with the fact that I’m not an idiot. I was prepared from the beginning for the need to get an unstable antimatter generator as far away from this ship as possible in as short a time as possible. I’ll admit that I wasn’t planning to use one as a poor man’s…” he cut himself short and coughed, “er, you know what I mean. But anyway, it should still work…”

“I’m just going to sit over here and watch. I’ll laugh if you blow us all up, mind you, but I’m not going to interfere,” she said with a sigh.

“That’s good enough for me,” he said with a grin. Then the generator finally accepted his command, a section of hull metal was shot away by explosive bolts, and the generator started to move away from the ship under its own power.

“How is it changing course?” asked Glenda.

“Needed a lot of grav-plates to keep the matter and antimatter apart,” he snorted looking at the screen, “now I’m using them to move the thing toward those fighters.”

“If the plates are being used to move the generator then what’s keeping the thing from blowing up!” she exclaimed.

Spalding just laughed even harder. That’s what redundancy was for, but he wasn’t going to tell her that.

Flipping a switch, he opened an emergency com-channel.

“Hail, hail, hail: this is the Lucky Clover declaring an engineering emergency. We’re giving a warn-off to all space craft in the area. I say again: all ships and small craft are advised to steer clear of the Super Battleship for your own safety. I say again: this is the Lucky Clover broadcasting in the clear. We are currently experiencing a dangerous and gen-you-wine engineering emergency and advise all hostile warships and small craft to steer clear of the Clover for the duration of the emergency—for their own safety, of course. Stay back or we cannot guarantee your survival. That will be all,” he said, cutting the channel and then leaning back in his temporary chair.

“There,” he said with satisfaction, “that should keep us covered under interstellar law. Always a good idea to take care of the legal ends of things!” he chortled.

“Why aren’t they firing?” asked Admiral Norfolk.

“The cannon platform is identifying itself as the Lucky Clover, a Super Battleship—whatever that is—and declaring an engineering emergency. They’re giving us an official warn-off,” his Flag Captain said with disbelief.

Norfolk’s brows rose.

“I’ve heard of desperate ploys, but this has to be one for the books,” he shook his head.

“Unless they are experiencing a genuine emergency, Sir,” the Captain pointed out playing devil’s advocate.

“Anything on the sensors?” asked the Admiral with a frown.

“Just some debris and movement on the gravity sensors consistent with a stealthed missile…or possibly a torpedo,” the Captain said wryly.

“A nice try, but did they really think we’d fall for such a puny gambit?” snorted Norfolk before shaking his head. “Inform the fighters of the risk; they can detail a pair of squadrons to go and deal with it while the rest of the wings continue the attack.”

“Aye aye, Sir,” said the Flag Captain.

With cold, assessing eyes Admiral Norfolk and the flag staff of the reserve task force watched the final moments of the half-built ‘Super Battleship’—the very ship that had killed their supreme Admiral, destroyed the supposedly invincible Command Carrier, and in one fell swoop derailed an entire multi-year plan.

Everything they’d sacrificed for so long was now under threat. The least they could do was repay the favor and share some of the Reclamation Fleet’s pain.

“Fighters entering close approach,” reported Tactical as the fighters broke into three groups.

By far, the smallest group continued straight on ahead of the others to take out the stealthed torpedo, or missile, or mine, or whatever it was while the second and third groups split just about equally, with half diverting slightly to deal with the protective gunboats and Medium Cruiser with its infernally effective, normal-sized, ant-fighter plasma cannons. The remainder continued slightly behind the first group and straight on toward the oversized Super Battleship and its spinally-mounted, ridiculously gigantic plasma cannon.

“Enemy fighters have divided their formation, Commander,” reported Tactical. “It looks like they are sending forward two squadrons of fighters to investigate the antimatter generator.”

Spalding frowned.

“Let me take a look, Ensign,” he said, pulling up the exact distances on his screen. His frown increased.

“Problem?” asked Glenda.

“Looking at the distances, we’ll still catch most of them in the blast wave,” he scowled unhappily.

“Do you want to have the Furious Phoenix open fire with their long-ranged weaponry to scare them away, sir?” suggested the Ensign.

“We start firing and they’ll smell fresh blood in the water and avoid it for sure!” Spalding said with disapproval.

The Ensign hunched his shoulders. “Or we could send the gunboats out to drive them off?” he said weakly.

“And risk them getting caught and destroyed by our own attack?!” Spalding exclaimed hotly and then throttled himself back. “Look, I’m not going to sacrifice our own people. And furthermore—” he started raising a finger. This was a prime teachable moment, after all.

“Well you’ve got to do something,” Glenda declared, stepping between him and the hapless ensign, “unless you want to see if they can set it off with fighter blaster fire?”

Spalding coughed with embarrassment and then glared at the Yard Manager. “To every problem there is an engineering solution,” he said gruffly, his finger now pointing at Glenda instead of the Ensign. He then hurried over to the engineering console, quipping over his shoulder, “And a proper engineer is always prepared!”

A few taps of the buttons on the console and he nodded with satisfaction.

“That should fix it,” he nodded sagely.

Behind him, Baldwin rolled her eyes.

Seconds later, just as the advanced group had entered attack range, the torpedo took off like a rocket straight toward them.

“Fusion-fired space flames—what is that!?” exclaimed Norfolk’s chief of staff, Commodore Dietweiler.

“Ever since that thing took off, I’m reading high level power fluctuations, Admiral,” reported Sensors in a rising voice. “These readings are off the chart.”

“Fighters are firing,” reported Tactical.

At first it was just the advanced force of fighters that opened fire, but shortly afterward the main fighter force joined them.

Then a stray shot from the advanced force struck the ‘torpedo’ and a massive explosion caused the screen to fuzz. The entire region of space comprising both the provincial warships and the Imperial strike fighters was affected, temporarily turning everything into time-delayed yellow, indicating last known positions and projected courses.

“What the blazes just happened?” snapped Admiral Norfolk. He could only wonder what mischief the provincials were up to now as he felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach that said he knew exactly what it was.

The Super Battleship shuddered slightly as the antimatter generator self-destructed and the sensor readouts went crazy. In an instant, the Lucky Clover 2.0 lost its entire sensor picture

“Forward shields to full power,” Spalding belatedly and unnecessarily commanded.

“On it,” said the Shield Operator.

When the picture cleared, half the Imperial strike fighters had disappeared completely and the other half, seemingly undamaged, floated powerlessly in space.

“What’s the status on our gunboats?” Spalding asked rapidly.

“They were undamaged from within the shadow of the Phoenix, Commander,” reported Sensors.

“Send in the gunboats to deal with the remaining fighters,” he commanded.

After receiving the message, the little gunboats arrived on scene and confirmed that something on the order of one hundred and sixty Imperial strike fighters had been knocked out, their computers sent into automatic shutdown and half their electronics fried. The other half appeared to have been completely annihilated.

The bridge of the Lucky Clover broke out in spontaneous cheers.

“We can confirm it?” Norfolk asked bitterly.

“Yes, Admiral. We just punched a two way com-channel out to one of the pilots at the rear of the formation who still had com’s available. The entire fighter force is gone. Half dead and the other half neutralized,” the Task Force Communication’s Officer said heavily.

“What did they hit us with?” the Admiral asked.

There was visible hesitation as Sensors, Tactical and Engineering shared a look before the Engineering watch stander on the bridge cleared his throat and stepped forward.

“All of the sensor readings appear to be consistent with…” he paused, still visibly hesitating.

“Just spit it out, Lieutenant,” growled Norfolk, “we’re all adults here. We can handle it.”

“Although we cannot confirm it with our current sensor suite and distance from the event site, it appears to have been an antimatter explosion. In other words, a bomb of some kind,” he said.

Breaths were sucked in around the bridge. “Those blighters!” screamed the Flag Captain, looking like he wished he could wrap his hands around the neck of one of their provincial counter parts and squeeze until his—or her—head popped off.

“Technically that’s a war crime, Sir,” Norfolk’s head snapped around, “the use of antimatter weapons has been banned by every major—and most minor—powers throughout Human space.”

The engineer tentatively raised his hand. “What is it Frank?” Admiral Norfolk glared, not so much mad at the engineer as he was at the whole situation. The interruption was just more fuel to the fire.

“Technically it wasn’t…sir,” said the Engineer.

“Wasn’t what?” snapped the Chief of Staff.

“Wasn’t a violation of the antimatter weapons statutes, Commodore,” said the Engineer, looking like he wished he could crawl under a rock.

“You’re taking their side!” roared the Captain. “They attacked us with a banned weapon. I will not allow quizzlers to—!”

“No, Sir. I agree with you, but…” he stuttered.

“What are you blathering about, Engineer?” roared the Flag Captain. “This was clearly an attack using weapons of mass destruction on the banned weapons list! The whole galaxy will be up in arms after they hear of this.”

Norfolk raised a hand.

“No, let him speak, Captain” he said, giving the Engineering Lieutenant a nod. “Just make it quick, engineer.”

The engineer appeared very nervous. “Thank you, sir,” the engineer said, wiping his forehead with sweat, “I agree that it was a premeditated attack. However, they declared an engineering emergency prior to our people entering engagement range and gave us an official warn-off.”

“The fact they warned us off makes no difference,” Norfolk said dismissively and turned away, “even if we no longer have the forces available to take the Spine under the original Reclamation plan, they’ve just handed the Empire the perfect pretext to get directly involved. A premeditated attack with an antimatter bomb? Once the Senate gets a hold of this—piracy, droids and rogue governments running rampant, attacking Imperial warships with banned weapons—this will be a clear case of a failed state requiring Imperial action to return order to—”

“Not if they claim it was an out-of-control antimatter generator they warned us off from before we engaged them in combat!” the Engineer said desperately. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. They gave us a legal warn-off regarding an out-of-control generator. If they send the records to the Confederation Assembly, we won’t have the sensor records to say they’re wrong—we’re still too far away!”

“Man’s sake…” muttered Norfolk.

“You know…if it was an antimatter generator, it would explain how they were powering that giant abortion of a ship. Even the Empire had to do some pretty tricky power logistics to get a Command Carrier running at full power. If they just lost one…they might not have the power to fire again,” pointed out the Commodore.

“Send in a pair of Cruisers,” instructed the Admiral, instantly seizing on the Commodore’s meaning.

A minute later, the Cruiser entered attack range of the Super Battleship. The staff of the flag bridge started to breathe a sigh of relief.

“Prepare to take in the Task Force,” Norfolk seethed as he felt a triumphant thrill run down his body. “Even though they died doing it, the fighters’ sacrifice—”

“Power spike!” cried Sensors.

“Enemy plasma cannon platform tentatively identified as the Super Battleship Lucky Clover has just fired,” said Tactical moments before the rapidly-moving, super-powered plasma ball slammed into the Cruiser, slicing it in half.

“So much for the fighters having pulled their teeth,” Norfolk said bitterly, sinking back into his chair.

“The loss of a generator could have extended the timing between their shots. Their ability to fire—and thus our losses—could have been cut down to as much as half or more,” the Flag Captain said desperately.

“No, Captain,” Norfolk said curtly, “Janeski’s dead, the Command Carrier is gone, and we’ve lost our bid to control the Spine. I refuse to see any more good men or women die today because I wanted to engage in some kind of self-vindicating orgy of death and destruction for a lost cause. It’s over, Captain.”

“Three years! Three years bloody years we destabilized the Spine, invited in the wolf at the door and watched as entire worlds went dark. Doing nothing! It hasn’t all been for nothing, Sir. It can’t have all been for nothing—I won’t let it!” the Captain shouted, reaching for his sidearm and aiming it at Norfolk. “First, these provincials are going to die exactly as planned. Then we’re going to continue on our mission exactly the same as before. Maybe we’ll win and maybe we’ll lose. But if you don’t have the stomach for it any more, I certainly do. My honor—and the honor of the Empire—will not allow the thousands of sacrifices lost aboard our ships, and millions on helpless worlds of this region of space, to all be for nothing or for some political calcu—”

“Master-at-arms,” Norfolk said coldly.

“Sir,” said the warrant officer, and moments later two blaster bolts fired almost simultaneously.

Admiral Norfolk staggered, clutching his arm while the Captain fell over backward with a steaming hole in his forehead.

It took the Admiral a few deep, hunched-over breaths to steady himself before he stood up straight again.

“Mutiny will not be tolerated in this fleet,” he said flatly, “the Captain was overwrought, and if that had been all I would have let it pass with a stern warning. But if you draw a weapon upon your superior officer, you will be shot,” he turned to the Master-at-arms, “good work, Warrant.”

“Thank you, Sir,” acknowledged the Master-at-arms.

“Despite what the Captain was saying, neither our honor nor the Empire’s has ever been at stake. We’ve followed orders and done our duty to humanity—indeed, to all of Mankind—and we will continue to do so to the best of our abilities. However, our mission, as it stands, is currently compromised and can no longer be accomplished. Now carry out my orders and signal the rest of the fleet,” said the Admiral.

“Yes, sir,” several officers jumped, as if stung, and still others looked spooked.

Norfolk knew that the Captain wasn’t going to be the only Imperial with an issue with what a number of hotheads would view as giving up and going home. Not to mention how the largely provincial crews onboard his ships were going to view this loss.

The last thing they needed right now was to be fighting a dug-in and dogged enemy while worrying if the lower decks were going to break out in a spontaneous mutiny.

They were going to have to fall back and hold what they could until they received direction from higher up—which might necessitate a full withdrawal from Sector 26 all the way back to the 28th Provisional. Hopefully they could hold their lines somewhere in the 26th or 27th, but only time would tell.

That was if they weren’t called back home or completely disavowed before that. Only time would tell on that front.

He was already trying to work out how to salvage as much as he could out of this. The one thing he was clear on, however, was that he was going to need as many Imperial officers and crew as possible to stay loyal while he figured that out.

“Open a channel to the enemy fleet commander. Ask if he’s amenable to a prisoner exchange. If so, tell him I’m willing to hand over all native personnel captured in this Sector if he’ll guarantee the safe treatment of our people lost here until the exchange,” said Admiral Norfolk.

“You don’t want to speak to him directly?” asked the Comm. Officer.

Norfolk shook his head. “What’s the point?” he asked.

“One question, sir: where are we to make the exchange?” asked Commodore Dietweiler, acting in his role as a good Chief of Staff.

Chapter One hundred twenty: Is it Victory?

“New Tau Ceti??!” I couldn’t help but exclaim as every single remaining Imperial warship in Easy Haven turned tail and ran for the hyper limit.

Lieutenant Steiner nodded, “That’s what the message says, Admiral.”

“This makes no sense,” I reiterated, turning to Navigation, “are you sure they’re actually heading out of the system?”

“That’s the course they are on, Admiral,” Brightenbauc sniffed, “whether that’s really their intention, I leave that up to you.”

“You think this is a ploy?” asked Captain Hammer.

“Why would they just up and leave when their victory was all but assured?” I asked her. “The 2.0 is down a generator and, in any case, they could destroy it in one pass. The Battleships near the Starbase took heavy engine damage, and although the numbers are closer to even thanks to those mutinies within their fleet, almost all of our ships are heavily damaged. They’d have the advantage in numbers and undamaged warships.”

“Maybe that’s exactly it…they’re worried about further mutinies now that we’ve gutted their fleet? Or maybe they don’t realize how badly damaged we are? Or they could be expecting us to have yet another ace up our sleeves, possibly at the Starbase,” she said.

“Their fighters pretty much demolished everything Commodore LeGodat and the Reserve Squadron have built these past years. The complex is even worse now than then, because they shot up everything else that was here before too. Somehow I doubt they think we held something back there,” I said slumping back in my chair. I’d been expecting a final fight to the death and now…this?

“Maybe they’re engaged in some kind of deception, we can’t know that until they either leave…” she took a deep breath. “However, the question before you right now is: are you going to agree to the prisoner exchange or not?”

“And risk enraging them to the point they decide to come back and finish us off?” I asked bitterly. Was this a victory? Because if so, I wanted no part of it.

“Your call, Admiral,” she said, emphasizing my rank and reminding me that the buck stopped with me. It was her not-so-subtle hint that it was time I got my head out of my hind end and did my job.

“Fine. Assuming they actually leave, I’ll agree,” I said bitterly. “It’s not like I’d have much of a choice, even if they didn’t have us over a barrel. They have the officers and crew of the Parliamentary Power.” I paused and then looked over at Steiner, “Remind them that they have the crew of one of our warships and tell them we’ll need time to round up everyone here and prepare them for transport. Then ask when they would like to set up the prisoner exchange.”

“On it,” she said.

“In the meantime, get engineering on emergency repairs—both on the Royal Rage and around the fleet—just in case my untrusting nature proves out,” I said.

“Will do,” said Adrianne Blythe, and Captain Hammer also nodded.

I ran a hand across my face. “Then I suppose we need to consolidate the fleet and begin emergency rescue services with our remaining shuttles…and I need to find out if I still have a wife. Not to mention a Lancer force, Marine brigade, and whatever other Space Commandos and such were over there engaged in trying to disable Invictus Rising before Spalding and the 2.0 blew it to kingdom come,” I said eventually.

“Yes, we should find that out,” agreed Captain Hammer, looking at me with concern after the point I reminded her that my wife had been on the Imperial Command Carrier at the point it broke in half. “I’ll let you know as soon as we have something,” she said.

“Please do,” I said, my built-in manners coming back to the fro now that the action had—at least temporarily—abated.

As those ships that could move got underway, and shuttles started flying this way and that picking up stranded spacers, the survivors of the Imperial Reclamation Fleet got further and further away. Finally, they went and actually jumped out of Easy Haven entirely.

Red-eyed and hands shaking from a lack of sleep, I put my face into my trembling hands. I was still unable to believe that I’d done it. Somehow I’d won. Either we broke the will of the enemy commander with our spirited defense, the threat of internal mutiny, or some other factor—like the fact they would have been wrecked after the win—had caused them to run away.

Despite the taste of sour grapes in my mouth, until now the fact that they’d left and we’d won—at least the battle for the Star System if not the entire Sector—finally penetrated my sleep-deprived mind and I allowed myself to gingerly taste the sweetness of victory.

More like a drink about to turn to vinegar than any kind of fine wine, it was still a victory drink. And for all its bitterness, it was still the sweetest thing imaginable.

We’d been beaten but we hadn’t lost.

We.

Hadn’t.

Lost.

The Sector was saved. Janeski was dead, and after everything we lived on to fight another day. Moreover, after everything was cleaned up and repaired, we’d come back out swinging and stronger than ever.

For a moment Janeski’s last words—literally spoken moments before he died—came back like a ghostly voice to haunt me, but I firmly pushed it back down.

Either he’d been lying to break my will or the Empire was still going to come after us. Not that this was anything new. Pulling up a galactic map, I cast a worried look at Imperial territory.

Thankfully, we had most of the old Confederation heartland territory—not to mention the Overton Expanse—between us and the Empire proper. Not that that would stop them, of course. If the Empire was coming for us, they would keep coming—and there was nothing we could do about it.

Nothing the now-proven-toothless Old Confederation would do to stop them either. They might even laud and applaud them for their ‘humanitarian’ efforts, as they did what the Confederation was too gutless, toothless, or disinterested in doing anything to stop them.

Giving myself a shake, I pulled back up the map Easy Haven. My eye caught on the battered and broken-in-half Wolf-9 Starbase, surrounded by decimated repair slips. I then scanned back over to all the battered, broken, and in dire need of repair Battleships and other warships scattered throughout the system.

I was going to need to get a Constructor ship back over here first thing, and not just for the broken Starbase—which was going to cost a fortune in time, labor and materials to put right…if it even could be repaired.

I didn’t have time to worry about whatever Janeski had been raving about. The Empire, Imperial-held territories here in the Spine, and even the remainder of the Reclamation Fleet were just going to have to wait.

I needed to get some shut-eye.

Chapter One hundred twenty-one: Survivors

“Don’t worry, Bush, we’ve got you,” came the most infuriating voice in recent memory. and Oleander’s eyes snapped back open. Or at least they tried to. Unfortunately, they were glued shut thanks to a scalp wound when he’d struck his head on the edge of a table after the ship had been hit by what felt like a pocket nuke or high-velocity kinetic round.

He knew that it felt exactly like that, because he’d been in close proximity to a series of kinetic strikes the last time the Empire had felt the need to help settle the internal dispute on Capria in the elected government’s favor. Back then, he’d been a spotter for the land strikes and…well, none of that was relevant right now, and he shook himself to improve his focus.

“I must be more shook up than I thought,” he groaned.

“A couple of Lancers said you got the fear and lit off like a deer in the headlights for the inside of the ship. Everyone thought you were dead but I knew that a shifty smuggler type like my newest favorite shuttle pilot wouldn’t just up and die that easily—not while I still had a use for him,” said the ornery old royalist, who thought he’d shanghaied Oleander into trying to land a platoon of power armor on the Command Carrier.

“Why are you still alive?” demanded Oleander, reaching up with the one hand that responded and forcibly opening his right eye—which promptly glared at the senior chief.

“Is that anyway to talk to your superior officer?” asked the Chief PO.

“And here I thought you worked for a living,” scoffed Oleander. Then, looking over to the side, he saw his data slate with the intel intercept laying on the floor. He reached for it.

“Now what have we got here?” the Senior Chief chortled as he reached down and snatched up the data slate before Oleander could grab hold of it.

“Hey, that’s mine,” snapped Oleander, “private property!”

“Private smuggler property, Bush,” sneered the Senior Chief.

Oleander glared death at the old royalist.

“You think you can just run off during the middle of combat, and then when I find you locked into an office with your slate hooked into an Imperial computer, that an old salt like me can’t figure out what’s going on here?” said the Petty Officer.

Waving the data slate back and forth in his hand, he turned away still snickering.

“I’m sure that, being the patriotic sort you are, you’ll have no problem sharing whatever it is on this data slate that you thought was so space-gods-awful important you couldn’t share it with your old CPO,” said the Chief. “Of course, whatever it is, you can have it back just after ship intelligence has a chance to make a copy.”

“I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this, Chief. Why is it that Royalists always make so much fuss over the smallest of things,” Oleander sighed, pulling out a hold out blaster pistol and firing it into the back of CPO. “Well, that was a lie,” he admitted, “I’ve actually been…”

He trailed off as the CPO whirled around, his back still smoking, and kicked Oleander’s blaster pistol out of his hand.

“I knew I smelled the stink of Parliament on you the moment I laid my eyes on you!” barked the CPO, bringing his foot up and then down on Oleander’s hand with crushing force, pausing only to grind the heel once it was on his hand. “Confederation Security—you have the right to resist arrest and get a right proper beating for it!”

“Agh!” Oleander cried, involuntarily curling up around his mashed hand.

“Typical Parliamentary backstabber,” the CPO roared, stomping his foot up and down repeatedly until he heard the sharp crack of a bone breaking, “ever since I was shot in the back during the reconstruction by a spineless little ass-weasel like you, I’ve carried a metal plate specially inserted into my skin suit. Six months in traction and on a heart bypass while they regrew my spine and rebuilt my ticker—and here I thought you were just a smuggler? Time to say ‘good night, old Tove’!”

“Get stoked!” Oleander roared, stomping his foot on the floor and then stabbing the other man right in the thigh with his foot knife.

“Son of a—” the CPO bellowed like a stuck pig and, using his other leg, drew back his foot and kicked Oleander right square in the head.

Everything went dark, and that was the last thing Oleander saw or heard.

His mission was a failure.

Chapter One hundred twenty-two: Counting the Cost and Tallying the Gains

“How are the interrogations going?” I asked a week later. Hard as it had been to believe initially we had won the 3rd Battle for Easy Haven, I intended to squeeze every advantage we could out of it.

“Most of the crew are Spineward locals and most of them will tell us anything we want to know. Not that that helps us very much. There’s a limit to how much a junior deckhand can tell you; even a Chief Petty Officer only knows so much,” Duncan shrugged.

“And the Imperials?” I asked, leaning forward with a hunting gaze.

“Name, rank, and serial number for the most part,” the Armsman-my-mother-was-going-out-with grimaced.

“I want answers, Duncan,” I said flatly.

“Torture, Jason?” he asked, going completely still.

“Use chemical interrogation, blast death metal at them 24/7, or water-board them for all I care. I don’t want you chopping off limbs but, if the Empire’s really gunning for us and this wasn’t just some rogue operation headed up by one Arnold Janeski, I want to know about it and for that I need to get them talking.”

“You can’t trust what a man will say under duress,” warned Duncan.

“We’re running out of time,” I said heartlessly, “and we didn’t start this. They did. They invaded us. Rim Fleet swore to defend the Spine and then turned around and invaded it under their top Imperial Admiral. Blast it, Duncan, they were a part of the Confederated Empire! They had a sworn duty to defend us, and if this isn’t very definition of treason then that’s only because they were technically pirates and didn’t actually work for the Empire!”

“We can corroborate some things via the willing enlisted personnel, but as for the rest all I can promise you is that we’ll find out what they think we’ll believe when they lie to us,” Duncan said grimly.

“I heard they orbitally bombarded a few worlds as examples to break the will of the remainder. If it will make you feel better, limit the enhanced interrogation to war criminals,” I said after a moment.

“Are you sure you want to go down this route?” asked Duncan.

I looked at him evenly. “Let’s table the discussion over just how far I’m willing to go with people that are either self-admitted pirates—pirates who seized and plundered three Sectors’ worth of worlds, which has to be some kind of ‘pirate’ record—or secret traitors in the pay of the Empire,” I said finally.

“I know that, in spirit, you’re right. It was treason. But technically the Confederated Empire was dissolved in the Spine. Technically speaking, it was an invasion by rogue Imperial forces,” Duncan said.

I met his eyes frostily. “Many of the Imperials we have captured were nominally under my command back when I was a mere figurehead. The databanks cloned from the Lucky Clover…the original Clover,” I clarified, “confirm this. So pirates, traitors, invaders, rogue actors or whatever you want to call it—I’m not going to take it lying down.”

“No one’s asking you to,” Duncan said with a wince.

I stopped to allow enough moments to pass to cool the tension before continuing. “I’m not foolish enough to ignore a trusted advisor,” I said finally, “so I’ll think on this. We want to be better than the enemy, yes…but it could be argued that even if we went with the enhanced interrogation route, we’d still be head and shoulders over these invaders.”

I held up a hand when he went to speak.

“Enough. I know we don’t have much time before the deadline, so go and see to the prisoners. Get what you can in the meantime,” I said.

“Yes, Highness,” he said, stiffening to attention and walking out the room.

I eyed the door for a long moment, remembering how Dr. Presbyter hadn’t protested enhanced interrogations until I was the one ordering it—and I remembered just how far Dr. Torgeson, a former Special Forces or black ops doctor, had shown himself willing to go.

“Too bad we don’t have telepaths who can just listen in to their thoughts as we ask questions,” I muttered, sending the signal to let the next group scheduled to meet me inside.

The door swished open and my favorite cyborg came in.

“Spalding,” I said with real pleasure, “it’s so good to see you again.”

“We had a right rough patch there, didn’t we, Sir? But all’s well that ends well, as they say,” the old reprobate said with a toothy grin.

“I don’t know how we’d have managed without you,” I lied, very much sure about just exactly how things would have gone if he hadn’t rode into the fray against direct orders—yet again.

“Oh, I’m sure you’d have got along somehow,” he replied.

“Somehow I doubt it, Terrence,” I demurred, “thanks again. You and the…2.0 really saved our bacon. I don’t know if I can say it enough. That plasma cannon of yours…” I trailed off in appreciation.

Spalding coughed and looked away before meeting my eyes. “Well, now…I couldn’t just leave the Fleet’s ‘Little Admiral’ in the lurch, now could I?” he asked and then continued brusquely. “And, as you know, the Clover’s a fightin’ ship. It would have been a right shame to leave her in space dock simply because a few parts and pieces were missing. The old girl might have gotten a wee bit persnickety,” he said with real appreciation in his voice.

I eyed him. “Right,” I said, not wanting to get into the old man’s apparent ship confusion over how a ship that wasn’t even fully built could be an ‘old girl.’ And, well, even if he was a little…blurred on the issue, I had to say he’d earned every bit of latitude he’d been given—or, in some cases, that he’d taken without permission.

“How is the Lady?” asked Spalding.

I winced. “She was trapped in a compartment and pinned under a falling structural support beam. It’s a miracle she’s still alive,” I explained, “she’s back in our quarters and finally healing. I really need to put my foot down on the boarding action business. I don’t want our children to grow up without a mother.”

“You’ve got a real firecracker with that one. Best of luck with that,” Spalding chortled.

“So…do you happen to have the final count?” I asked sourly changing the subject.

“Sure thing, Admiral,” Spalding said with a wink before finally then turned serious, “we picked up half a dozen Battleship from the defections. The Praxis flagship is a total loss, those traitors…” he added with a growl. “But the other two are engine down and weapons disabled, less than 10% of their broadside has been brought back online. If we want them and they won’t surrender, they’re ripe for the taking.”

“I’m not sure just how much of a smack in the face we want to give the Praxis Provincial Government,” I said with a frown. “After all, we did kill the Admiral they sent before the battle got underway. And even though it wasn’t any of our people that did the deed, I don’t expect them to believe it.”

“Cowards and traitors, the lot of them,” Spalding growled, “I’d expect a government as quisling as that lot to believe whatever’s in their best interest to believe. Cut and run without orders during the middle of a battle? I don’t care if you’re ‘at will’—it’s out the airlock as far as I’m concerned.”

“It’s something to keep in mind,” I said contemplatively.

“Of the two Battleships that they had to leave behind thanks to engine damage, one of the crews has taken over from their officers and just wants to go home. There might be an angle in there, as they aren’t too clear about just how they’re to get transported back,” Spalding said with a wink, “as for the other one, the Imps and about half the crew are under arrest in place. They’re just waiting for us to arrange transport back to their fleet,” at this he scowled but continued on, “we have Lancers onboard to keep an eye on things but we’re pretty stretched right now.”

I nodded.

“My advice, Admiral? Claim both the Imperial Battleships that surrendered and try to convince as many of that half-dozen as can be persuaded to swing our way,” said Spalding.

“I’ve got feelers out, but it’s a process,” I said. It was a process made harder because a couple of the ships seemed to be run by committee—and getting a committee to do anything in unison was like riding a three legged horse. Even if you did get anywhere, it wouldn’t be fast or smooth.

“As for the Cruisers and Destroyers, it’s still too early to tell. Frankly, we’re still pulling people off ships that went Dutchman and are headed for interstellar space without a jump drive,” Spalding said, a hint of concern for hapless spacers—both ours and theirs—bleeding through for the moment. He loudly cleared his throat and then picked up a glass of water for a drink. “Anyways, both Messene’s Shield and Metal Titan are complete losses. Better we strip anything valuable off them that we can and then feed them into an industrial furnace…I mean, as soon as the Multiplex gets here and we can build a furnace that can break them down,” he sighed.

“ComStat jamming hasn’t changed, so we’re back to moving at the speed of courier. But the message has been sent,” I assured him, “as for the Shield and the Titan, blast it all…those were good ships.” The Titan was a bigger loss than the Shield, but still. I was going to miss them in our wall of battle.

“The Jumbles can use them, strip the fusions off them and—” started Spalding, and when you let him wax poetic about ship repair everything else ground to a halt.

“Do as you see fit there; I don’t need to know about it. Just don’t ruffle any feathers among the survivors,” I said hastily.

“I’ll do it,” he said with satisfaction.

“Anything else?” I asked.

“I’ve got shuttles and tugs out and about, hauling everything they can back to the Starbase…former Starbase,” clarified the Chief Engineer.

“Former…and she will be again if we have the time and I have anything to say about it,” I said, thumping my desk. We had lost too much to surrender Wolf-9 and the Easy Haven Star System just because of a little thing like ‘everything was currently wrecked.’ Besides, it was looking more and more like we were going to have to worry about external factors like the Empire—or possibly the old Confederation. It would be nice to have a speed bump like Wolf-9 still around to give them indigestion when they came back our way. “Well, everything depends on getting our manufacturing capacity get back up and running. Speaking of which, how about the factories?”

“A total loss without a Constructor,” Spalding said with finality, “those fighters made sure to take it all out. Maybe if I had a year, undivided attention, and no interruptions I could do something with it. But…”

I sighed. The preliminary reports had been grim, but I’d hoped that after the Commander had taken a look at them personally something might have changed. It had apparently been a false hope, because if Spalding said there was no hope then there wasn’t.

“On the bright side, they managed to evacuate everyone so we’ll have the workers for when it does get back into action,” said the Commander.

“Yeah, but they were shorthanded before the battle. So while that’s good news, I’m not sure how much it helps,” I said feeling depressed.

“It’s worth quite a bit, Sir,” Spalding slapped the table, “first, those crews are alive. And second, they’ll be ready to go as soon as they have something to go on. If the numbers are short then it’s up to us to launch another recruiting drive.”

I held my hands up in surrender. “I am appropriately chastised,” I said with a smile to take any sting out of the words and show my sincerity.

“Good then,” he replied gruffly.

I took a deep breath, knowing I really wasn’t going to enjoy this next part.

“Let’s take a look at the casualty list,” I said, releasing the breath in one big whoosh.

Spalding’s face turned a bit dour as he pulled out his slate.

“Do you want to start ship-by-ship, or look at the overall numbers and work your way down by rank?” he asked.

“Let’s take it from the top. Totals and then the holes in our chain of command,” I said unhappily, “we can worry about individual ship rosters later.”

“Alright then, starting off we’ve lost…” Spalding started to go over the most painful part of any operation.

The lives lost.

Unfortunately, it was up to me to make those losses matter. Me, and no one else. Certainly not the Sector Governor, who hadn’t even bothered to show up for the battle, and who I was all but certain would take as much credit for our victory as he could.

Well, he would just have to watch out. The whole galaxy had better watch out.

If they thought they could just cut off the fringes of the galaxy, send fleets to oppress us any time they felt, and eat popcorn while they watched the results on the holo-vid, then they had a rude awakening in store.

War had come to the Spine. And if they didn’t wise up soon and learn to leave us alone, war would come right back out of the Spine.

An Admiral’s War.

The End

Read on for a sneak peek at Christopher G. Nuttall’s novel: Fear God and Dread Naught!

Fear God and Dread Naught Product Description

Out Now From Christopher G. Nuttall!

On her last cruise, HMS Vanguard - the most powerful battleship in the Royal Navy - barely survived her encounter with a deadly new enemy. Now, with her commanding officer accused of everything from mutiny to dereliction of duty and her crew under a cloud, the Royal Navy doesn't quite know what to do with her.

But there’s still a war on. And Vanguard must return to the front lines.

Assigned to a task force heading to assist humanity’s alien allies, Vanguard and her crew find themselves caught in a deadly alien trap. Can they survive to turn the tables on their enigmatic foe ...

... Or will their next encounter with the new enemies be their last?

Prologue

Published In British Space Review, 2216

Sir.

In their recent letters, the Honourable Gordon Cameron and General Sir David Anilines (ret) both asserted that Britain - and humanity - has no legal obligation to go to the aid of the Tadpoles, even though human ships were attacked and destroyed during the Battle of UXS-469. They claim that we can pull back and allow the Tadpoles to face the newcomers on their own.

I could not disagree more.

The blunt truth is that the newcomers attacked a joint task force composed of ships belonging to both ourselves and the Tadpoles. They made no attempt to open communications; they merely opened fire (which is, in itself, a form of communication). Their attack came alarmingly close to capturing or destroying over thirty warships from five different nations, including the Tadpoles. They followed up by invading a number of Tadpole-held star systems, culminating with a thrust at a major colony that would, if captured, have opened up access to tramlines leading towards Tadpole Prime. Those are not the actions of the innocent victims of unthinking aggression. They are the actions of an aggressor.

We do not know - we have no way to know - what our new opponents are thinking. They may be so xenophobic that an immediate offensive is their only possible response to any alien contact, although the proof that we are in fact facing two unknown races seems to render this unlikely. Or they may merely be an aggressive, expansionist race taking advantage of the contact to snatch as much territory as possible. Given their technical advantages, we dare not assume that the whole affair is a simple misunderstanding. Nor do we dare assume that communications have merely been poorly handled and the matter will be solved through simple negotiation. We are at war.

From a cold-blooded perspective, fighting the war well away from the Human Sphere has a great deal to recommend it. Human colonies and populations will not be at risk. We can and we will trade space for time, if necessary; there will certainly be no messy political repercussions from military missteps so far from Earth. Keeping the war as far from our major worlds as possible cannot do anything, but work in our favour.

But there is another point - one of honour. We gave our word to the Tadpoles that we would uphold the Alien Contact Treaty. Are we now to welsh on the treaty we proposed and drafted? Are we now to confirm to the Tadpole Factions that humans are truly untrustworthy? And should we write off the deaths of over thirty thousand human spacers we can ill afford to lose? Their deaths cry out to be avenged.

No one would be more relieved than I, should we find a way to communicate with our unknown foes. But I have seen nothing that suggests that communication - meaningful communication - is possible. We may be dealing with a mentality that will refuse to negotiate until they are given a convincing reason to negotiate or we may be dealing with a race that we cannot talk to, whatever we do. The only way to guarantee the safety and security of the Human Sphere is to assist our allies and make it clear, to our new foes, that human lives don’t come cheap. And if we are unable to convince them to talk to us, then we must carry the offensive forward and strike deep into their territory.

The galaxy is a big place. But it may not be big enough for both of us.

Admiral Sir Tristan Bellwether, Second Space Lord (ret).

Chapter One

“Henry,” the First Space Lord said. He rose to his feet as Henry was shown into his office and held out a hand in greeting. “It’s been a long time.”

“Longer for you than for me,” Ambassador Henry Windsor said. He hadn't visited Nelson Base since the endless series of debriefings, after he returned from Tadpole space. “It’s been quite some time since we served together on Ark Royal.”

“True,” the First Space Lord agreed. He shook Henry’s hand, then motioned him to take a comfortable chair. “I remember when you were just a fledgling fighter pilot.”

“And I remember when you were a mere captain,” Henry said. He smiled, rather tiredly, as he took his seat. “It's definitely been a very long time.”

He studied his former commanding officer thoughtfully as the First Space Lord ordered tea and biscuits. Admiral Sir James Montrose Fitzwilliam had been a dark-haired young man - some would say an overambitious young man - when he’d talked his way into the XO slot on HMS Ark Royal. His dark hair had shaded to grey and there were new lines on his face, but Henry still had no trouble seeing the face of the man he’d liked and respected, even when he'd been called out on the carpet for hiding his true identity from his lover. And yet, there was a strain there that Henry found somewhat disconcerting. Admiral Fitzwilliam had commanded the task force that had recovered the Pegasus System and defeated the Indians seven years ago, but it had been too long since he’d stood on a command deck.

“You’ve been back on Earth for a month,” the First Space Lord said. “How are the kids?”

“Safe on my estate,” Henry said, bluntly. “They’re complaining about being prisoners, but at least they’re safe from the parasites outside the walls.”

“The media,” the First Space Lord agreed. “And to think I thought the King intended to welcome them at court.”

Henry shook his head. “Over my dead body,” he said. “None of the girls are going to grow up in a goldfish bowl, certainly not without any real reward at the far end.”

“A commendable attitude,” the First Space Lord said. “But what are you going to do about their education?”

“I’ll hire tutors,” Henry said. He looked up as the aide reappeared, carrying a tray laden with tea and biscuits. “They’re certainly not going to boarding school.”

He sighed inwardly as the aide poured them both a cup of tea then retreated, as silently as she had come. Paeans had been written to the British Boarding School - he had a sneaky feeling that the people who’d written them had never actually been there - but his three daughters were not going to attend. He didn't remember his school years very fondly and he’d had the advantage of being a strong boy, with unarmed combat training from a couple of his bodyguards. Being sent away from home had left scars that had never truly healed.

And it was worse for my sister, he thought. No wonder she clings so hard to the throne.

He took a sip of his tea - it was excellent, of course - and then leaned forward, resting the cup on the armrest.

“I assume you know why I’m here,” he said. “It certainly took a while to secure an appointment.”

The First Space Lord didn't bother to dissemble. “Susan Onarina.”

“Correct,” Henry said. He met the older man's eyes, reminding himself - sharply - that they were no longer senior officer and junior officer. “My contacts inform me that no final decision has been reached on her case.”

“That is correct,” the First Space Lord said. He shifted, uncomfortably. “There have been issues ...”

“It’s been a month,” Henry interrupted.

“Collecting evidence for the Board of Inquiry can sometimes take much longer, as you well know,” the First Space Lord said. “This is a question of mutiny in the face of the enemy.”

“Bullshit,” Henry said.

The First Space Lord lifted his eyebrows. “I beg your pardon?”

Henry stared back, evenly. “Should I have said bovine faecal matter?”

He plunged on before the First Space Lord could say a word. “Let us be blunt, Admiral,” he insisted. “Susan Onarina assumed command of HMS Vanguard in the middle of a battle. I do not believe that fact is in dispute. But it is also clear that the battleship’s former commander, Captain Sir Thomas Blake, froze up in the middle of two consecutive combat operations. If she had not taken command, in the manner she did, we would be mourning an additional fifteen thousand spacers.”

“That’s one interpretation of the data,” the First Space Lord said, icily.

“It isn't just my interpretation of the data,” Henry noted. “The Yanks have ... requested ... permission to award her the Navy Cross for her actions, which saved the lives of several thousand American spacers too. Captain Owen Harper - they’ve bumped him up to Rear Admiral now - has considerable reason to be annoyed at her, but his report - which accidentally found its way across my desk - praises her to the skies. You know how touchy the Americans are about placing their ships under outside command.”

He took a breath. “I believe the only other naval officer with that honour, in recent memory, was Theodore Smith.”

Something flickered in the First Space Lord’s eyes. “The Americans do not dictate what we do - or don’t do - with our personnel.”

“No, they don’t,” Henry agreed. “But sooner or later, they’re going to actually want to award her that medal - and it will be pretty fucking embarrassing if we have to explain to the media cockroaches that she’s in Colchester awaiting court martial.”

He picked up one of his biscuits and dunked it in his tea as he spoke. “And, by law, formal court martial proceedings have to be public,” he added. “It will set the government up for a disastrous political catfight at the worst possible time.”

“She does have the option of retiring quietly,” the First Space Lord pointed out.

“Which is as good as an admission that there’s no real case against her,” Henry snapped. “I have the recordings, sir; I have the data records. Blake was a crawling sycophant who should never have been promoted above Midshipman, let alone put in command of our largest and most powerful battleship! He was damn lucky that Admiral Boskone didn't realise just how badly he screwed up during the war games or he would probably have been brutally strangled on his own command deck.”

“Blake was a good officer, once,” the First Space Lord said, quietly.

“He wasn't when he assumed command of Vanguard,” Henry said. He made an effort to moderate his tone. “I’m not going to second-guess the officers who put him in charge, sir, but my reading of the situation is that his former XO was covering for him. It would have taken a toll on anyone. I’m not surprised that he deserted.

“And if that gets out,” he added, “all hell is going to break loose.”

“It may still break loose,” the First Space Lord admitted. “Blake ... had a number of friends in high places.”

Henry groaned. “And they’re the ones pressing for court martial,” he guessed. “Because heaven forbid that such illustrious personages ever make a fucking mistake!”

“You’re an illustrious personage,” the First Space Lord snapped. “You are still first or second in line to the throne ...”

“I took myself out of the line of succession,” Henry said. “And I have never knowingly promoted someone above his level of competence.”

“Neither did they,” the First Space Lord countered. “This was a terrible surprise to them too.”

“So they’re going to destroy an innocent woman, a woman we should be hailing as a hero, to cover their arses,” Henry snarled. “And you are going to let them get away with it.”

He felt anger rising and choked it down, savagely. It was the arrogance of the aristocracy that had driven him away from it, the arrogance of people who knew they held very real power and the will to use it. And he, the Crown Prince of Great Britain and her Colonies, would have inherited nothing, if he’d taken the throne. His role had been to be nothing more than a figurehead. He honestly didn’t know why his father had chosen to stay on the throne for over thirty years. Henry knew he would have gone stir-crazy within the month.

“I have very little choice,” the First Space Lord said. “I ...”

“Bullshit,” Henry said, again. “What happened to you?”

It was a struggle to keep his voice even, but he managed it. “What happened to the commander who saw fit to ignore his instructions and save his superior’s career? What happened to the captain who stood up to his admiral and told him to keep his nose out of command business? What happened to the admiral who plotted the defeat of the Indian Navy and then carried it out?”

The First Space Lord slapped his desk, making the teacups rattle. “I will not be spoken to like this.”

“Then it’s high time you remembered your duty,” Henry said, sharply. “Your duty is to the men and women under your command, the men and women wearing naval uniform and risking their lives in combat. Or have you been behind a desk long enough to forget what is really important?”

He leaned back in his chair, deliberately presenting a relaxed demeanour. “The facts of the whole affair will get out, sir,” he warned. “And when they do, the government will wind up with a shitload of rotten egg on its collective face.”

“I see,” the First Space Lord said. “Is that a threat?”

“Merely a statement,” Henry said. “There isn't a naval force in the Human Sphere that doesn't have copies of the combat records. I’m surprised they haven’t leaked already. And those combat records include statements from Captain Harper and myself. Once they leak ...”

He leaned forward. “Once they leak, everyone will see the government covering its arse at the expense of a genuine naval heroine’s career,” he added. “God damn it, sir; you know how fragile the government’s position is right now. The Opposition will not hesitate to take the whole affair and use it as a stick to beat the government to death. And then we will run the risk of losing the right to promote our own officers without obtaining governmental permission, in triplicate.

“And you, the person who should be defending her, is sitting on the sidelines muttering about politics!”

“I cannot afford to risk my position, not now,” the First Space Lord snapped. “If I ...”

“And what,” Henry asked, “would Admiral Smith think of that?”

The First Space Lord glared at him, his jaw working incoherently. Henry watched him, wondering absently if he was about to be kicked out of the older man’s office. The First Space Lord was no coward, whatever Henry might have implied. His pride might lead him into a damaging political fight with no clear winner - with no possible winner - if he listened to it, rather than Henry.

“I suspect he might have changed, if he’d had to do battle with this job and its excessive paperwork,” the First Space Lord said, rather coldly. He picked up his cup and took a long sip, clearly calming himself. “What do you propose?”

Henry carefully hid his smile. He’d won.

“I assume you know who backed Blake for command of Vanguard,” he said. “Get them up here and explain, as thoroughly as you can, that Blake screwed up twice - and, the second time, he got a great many people killed. There’s no way they can pin it on poor Susan Onarina. They may destroy her career, if they try, but the facts will come out and Blake will be turned into a scapegoat for the entire battle.”

“They may not go for that,” the First Space Lord said.

“A handful of them will be former naval personages themselves,” Henry said. It was traditional for the aristocracy to send at least one or two of their children into the military, normally the Royal Navy. “They’ll understand. And the ones who aren’t will have someone to explain it to them, even if they have to use words of one syllable. They may not grasp the complexities of a naval engagement, but they will understand looming political disaster.”

“I confess I don’t share your faith in their rationality,” the First Space Lord mused.

Henry shrugged. There was no shortage of inbred idiots amongst the British Aristocracy - in his nastier moments, he wondered if his sister had only one or two working brain cells - but the ones who managed to reach high rank tended to be very competent indeed. And they would be ruthless enough to drop Blake like a hot rock, if patronising him raised the spectre of watching helplessly as their own positions were undermined.

“We will see,” he said.

He took a breath. “At that point, you will inform them that the Board of Inquiry has decided that Captain Susan Onarina acted in the finest traditions of the Royal Navy, etcetera, etcetera and that it has recommended that she be confirmed as Vanguard’s commanding officer. You will, of course, accept this recommendation. And when they protest, as they will, you will also tell them that the Board of Inquiry has recommended that Captain Blake be given a medical discharge from the Royal Navy. They will, I am sure, regard it as a way out of the mess they’ve managed to get themselves into.”

“And grab it with both hands,” the First Space Lord observed. “Do you think the Board of Inquiry will cooperate?”

“A fair-minded Board of Inquiry will definitely produce a report that backs my conclusions,” Henry pointed out. “Right now, I suspect they’re worried about the effects on their careers if they produce the wrong report, without actually knowing which one is the wrong report. And if they seem reluctant, you can merely order them to come to the right conclusions.”

“Boards of Inquiry hate being leaned on,” the First Space Lord said.

“But it is a defensible position,” Henry said. “And if it blows up, it will blow up in your face, not theirs.”

“I’m starting to think you don’t like me anymore,” the First Space Lord commented. He smiled, rather thinly. “You’ve changed, Henry.”

“I was an ambassador for over a decade,” Henry said. He bit down the urge to ask just how much respect an admiral who was prepared to throw one of his subordinates under the shuttlecraft deserved. His former commander was caught between two fires. “I still am, technically. And I have learned a great deal about how the universe works in that time.”

The First Space Lord smiled, again. “And what about Blake himself?”

“My impression of him, towards the end of the voyage home, was one of relief,” Henry said, honestly. “I think he will accept his pension and fade into obscurity.”

He sighed, inwardly. Captain Blake hadn't impressed him, but the First Space Lord was right. Blake had been a good officer once, before he’d lost his nerve. Henry would have been sorry for him if he’d been smart enough to request relief before the shit hit the fan, but he understood. No officer would request relief if there was any way it could be avoided, knowing that it meant the near-certainty of never seeing command again.

You wouldn't have done it either, he told himself, dryly. Would you?

He shook his head, dismissing the thought. He’d been a starfighter pilot. Even towards the end of the war, he’d never progressed beyond Squadron Commander ... and only then because everyone above him had been killed. The Admiralty had promoted him to captain when he'd retired, but he’d never commanded a warship and probably never would.

“I will trust that you are right,” the First Space Lord said. He cocked his head. “Might I ask why you chose to beard me in my den?”

“The new aliens attacked us,” Henry said. “They made no attempt to contact us; they made no attempt, either, to sound us out before opening fire. Even the Tadpoles watched us from stealth before the war began. But these new aliens? Their behaviour is insane, which worries me. Either they were waiting for us to enter their system before attacking or they merely attacked us on sight ...”

“That’s nothing new,” the First Space Lord said, sharply.

“No, it isn’t,” Henry agreed. He’d spent most of the last month closeted with the xenospecialists as they struggled to make sense of what few scraps had been recovered from damaged or destroyed alien ships. If politics - damnable politics - hadn't drawn him away, he would be there still. “But we are at war, sir. We need every capable officer we have ...”

He leaned forward. “And destroying a young officer’s career for saving her ship - and a dozen others - is a dangerous mistake,” he added. “What sort of message does that send to the navy? Or have you been off the command deck for too long?”

“Touché,” the First Space Lord said. He nodded, slowly. “It will be done as you suggest, Henry. And I suggest” - his voice hardened - “that you don’t speak to me like that again.”

“Of course, sir,” Henry said. Why would he? He’d won the argument. “It was a pleasure meeting you again.”

“I’m sure it was,” the First Space Lord said. He rose, terminating the meeting. “My aide will show you back to your shuttle, Henry.”

“Thank you,” Henry said. He rose, too. “And you will tell Susan - Captain Onarina - the good news in person?”

“I suppose I should,” the First Space Lord said. The hatch opened; his aide hurried into the chamber. “Be seeing you, Henry.”

“I’m sure you will,” Henry said. He shook his former commander’s hand, then turned to the hatch. “But right now you have a war to fight.”

Chapter Two

The chamber was a prison. A comfortable prison, to be sure, but still a prison.

Susan Onarina - who wasn't sure if she was a captain or a commander or on the verge of being put in front of a court martial board - lay back on the comfortable bed and sighed, heavily. The suite was luxurious, easily more luxurious than her cabin on Vanguard, but there was a lock on the hatch and - she suspected - an armed guard on the far side. She could amuse herself, between debriefings that often became interrogations, by watching hundreds of movies and television episodes stored in the room’s processor, taking long baths with seemingly unlimited water supplies or writing letters she knew would pass through a dozen hands before they reached their destinations, if they ever did. But she couldn't leave.

She sighed again as she tried to force herself to relax. It had been a month, a month when the only human company she’d encountered had been her guards and a number of high-ranking officers, none of whom had bothered to give their names before launching into the same questions, repeated over and over again. She wasn't sure if they were desperately trying to pin something - anything - on her or if they were merely stalling for time, unsure just how to proceed. She’d tried pointing out that regulations entitled her to both a clear statement of her position and legal advice, if she wished it, but they’d ignored her. It suggested that her fate, whatever it would be, wasn't going to be decided on Titan Base.

Giving up on relaxing, she sat upright and swung her legs over the side of the bed, dropping neatly to the deck. Titan’s low gravity had been a shock at first - she wasn't used to working in low-gee environments - but she’d gotten used to it, after a few embarrassing incidents when she’d just arrived. Striding over to the middle of the chamber, she launched herself into a series of calisthenics that - she hoped - would burn up a little energy. She couldn't help feeling flabby after a month of inactivity, even though she’d tried hard to keep up with her exercise routines. Not knowing what was going to happen to her was the worst.

But I would do it again, she told herself, firmly. Whatever the price, I would do it again.

The thought made her scowl. Thanks to the unnamed officers, she’d gone through the whole deployment, from her assignment to Vanguard to her ship’s return to Sol, and she knew she would do the same thing twice, even despite knowing it might see her put in front of a wall and shot. It was hard to be sure how many lives she’d saved, but she knew that Captain Blake - wherever he was now - wouldn't have saved anyone. She wondered, idly, if Captain Blake was currently bad-mouthing her to the Admiralty or if he'd taken advantage of the opportunity to quietly resign. It was what she would have done, in his place.

And he lost a ship to something that might well be termed a mutiny, she thought, darkly. He won’t get another command.

She smiled at the thought as she felt sweat running down her back. Captain Blake hadn't been a monster, not like the legendary Captain Bligh, but she didn't regret her actions. Blake had frozen up in combat, something that could easily have gotten the entire ship destroyed before he recovered himself or his superiors ordered him removed from command. She might have pitied him, once upon a time, if he’d simply resigned when he realised he had a problem, but he’d stayed in the command chair. And his reluctance to admit his own weakness had nearly cost him the ship. It had certainly cost him his command - and any hope of flag rank.

There was a tap on the hatch. Susan straightened up, glanced down at her sweat-stained underwear, then shrugged as she tapped the switch to open the hatch. There was no point in trying to be modest, not in a prison suite. She would have been astonished if there weren't pick-ups scattered all over the compartment, monitoring her every move. She’d rarely had any real privacy since she’d joined the navy - she’d certainly never had a private cabin until she’d been promoted to lieutenant - but it galled her. She was, at base, a prisoner.

The hatch hissed open, revealing a grim-faced military policeman. Susan turned to face him, absently admiring the man’s professionalism. But then, Titan Base had to be heaven when redcaps normally spent their days wrestling drunken squaddies in garrison towns or rooting spacers out of spaceport bars an hour before their shuttles were due to leave. Susan might be in hot water, but she was neither drunk nor dangerous. And even if she did decide to escape, getting off Titan Base would be damn near impossible. No one had escaped since the base had been founded, over a century ago.

“Onarina,” the redcap said. He didn't address her by rank. They never did. “You have been ordered to meet a visitor in thirty minutes. Shit, shower and then knock on the hatch for relief.”

He turned without waiting for an acknowledgement and strode out of the chamber, the hatch hissing closed behind him. Susan frowned, thinking hard. A visitor? The representative she’d requested? Or a government lawyer coming to lay down the law? It was nice to think that her friends or family would be clamouring to see her, but she knew it was extremely unlikely. Her civilian friends - and her father - wouldn't be permitted on Titan Base, while her military friends had probably been advised to have as little contact with her as possible until her fate was decided. She'd done everything she could to ensure that the blame could only fall on her, but she knew - all too well - that others would probably be smeared too. A single person turning on her would have been enough to keep her contingency plan from going into operation.

And it would have killed us, she thought, as she walked into the washroom and turned on the shower, discarding her sweaty underwear in the basket. Captain Blake would have lost the ship to the newcomers.

She pushed the thought aside as she washed herself clean, then dried herself thoroughly before donning her uniform. They hadn't taken those, somewhat to her surprise. She wasn't sure if it was a sign they knew they had no case against her or preparation for tearing off her rank badges and awards before throwing her arse in Colchester. As soon as she was dressed, she glanced in the mirror. The dark-skinned girl looking back at her, eyes tired and old, was almost a stranger. She’d worked hard to claw her way up the ladder by sheer ability, but she might well lose everything, just for doing the right thing. Bitter resentment welled up within her, mingled with quiet relief. She’d saved the ship and much of the Contact Fleet. It was something to remember when Admiralty REMFs tried to pin something - anything - on her.

The hatch hissed open when she tapped it, revealing two redcaps waiting for her. There were no handcuffs, nothing to mark her as a prisoner, but she couldn't help feeling trapped as she fell in between them and walked through a series of unmarked hatches. She’d tried to memorise the interior of the base, when she’d first arrived, but she was starting to think that the entire complex was designed to confuse the inmates. She hadn't seen any other inmates either.

They stopped in front of a hatch, which hissed open. Susan glanced at one of the impassive redcaps, then stepped into the tiny compartment. A large metal table, bolted solidly to the deck, dominated the room; two chairs, one on each side, waited for her. A tea machine and water dispenser sat against the far wall, which was a surprise. She’d been allowed to drink water during the endless debriefings, but they’d always provided her with the water themselves. Did they honestly think someone could kill with a plastic cup of water?

The hatch at the far side of the room hissed open. Susan straightened automatically, even though she suspected it would be pointless. Mutiny and disrespect for senior officers? She’d never get a job with a record like that. And then she saluted, sharply, as she recognised the man stepping into the room. She’d never met the First Space Lord in person - and she doubted he remembered her from his speech at the academy - but he was unmistakable.

“Please, be seated,” the First Space Lord ordered. He glanced past her to the redcaps. “Dismissed, corporal.”

“Sir,” the redcap said.

Susan felt her head spinning as she heard the hatch opening and closing behind her. The First Space Lord in person? What did he want? She sat down, carefully, then fought to keep her astonishment off her face as her superior - her ultimate superior - carefully poured them both a cup of tea. It felt utterly surreal, as if she’d shifted into an alternate universe. Surely he had minions for pouring tea. As the junior, she should be pouring the tea!

“I need to talk bluntly,” the First Space Lord said. He passed her the cup, then sat down facing her, resting his hands on the table. “And you should understand, right now, that this conversation is not to be repeated.”

Susan nodded, curtly. He was going to advise her to retire, she was sure. There would be no need to bother with the performance if they were going to put her in front of a court martial board. No, she’d be told to retire quietly with an unblemished record and be grateful. If nothing else, she'd have a good chance at getting a post on a civilian ship ...

“The Board of Inquiry took longer than I had expected to come to a decision,” the First Space Lord said. His voice was very even, but there was an undertone that bothered her. “On one hand, you are guilty of mutiny against your senior officer; on the other hand, your actions made the difference between life and death for thousands of British and allied personnel. It is fortunate that Captain Blake has foregone the chance to bring charges against you and has, instead, quietly resigned.”

It was hard, very hard, to keep the surprise from her face. Susan’s mind whirled as she considered the implications. There was no way that Blake’s resignation would be seen as a honourable act, not now. It would be seen as an admission of responsibility, a confession that he bore some - perhaps all - of the blame for matters getting out of hand. His patrons had to be stunned, she considered. Or perhaps they’d advised him to jump, hoping to bury the whole affair as quickly as possible. It was what she would have done, if she’d been a patron.

And if Blake had demanded a court martial, she thought, the Admiralty would have found it hard to deny him.

“You therefore pose something of a problem,” the First Space Lord continued. “Mutiny is not something we can condone, but you did save the ship and countless lives. Therefore” - he gave her a frosty smile - “your actions have been retroactively authorised. This is not something I would advise you to bank on in future.”

“Yes, sir,” Susan said, stunned.

“That isn’t the only question over your conduct,” the First Space Lord added, after a long moment. “According to your debriefing, you stated that you were aware of ... issues ... with Captain Blake shortly after you boarded Vanguard. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Susan said.

The First Space Lord eyed her thoughtfully. “Why didn't you bring them to the attention of your superiors?”

Susan met his eyes. “And what would have happened, sir,” she asked sharply, “if I’d done that?”

She pressed on, grimly. “At best, I would have secured Captain Blake’s removal, but my career would have dropped like a stone,” she answered. “No CO worthy of the title would want an XO who’d knifed her previous CO in the back, even if her actions had been officially condoned. I would have been lucky to secure a post on an asteroid mining station in the middle of nowhere. And at worst, Captain Blake would have retained his position and I would be dishonourably dismissed from the navy.”

The bitterness and frustration welled back up, forcing her to pause long enough to gather herself. “I hoped the plan wouldn't be necessary, sir,” she said. “If we hadn't faced a major engagement with unknown enemies, we wouldn't have needed to relieve Captain Blake of command. We would have returned to Earth without anyone ever having to know that the plan had been devised at all.”

“But Blake would have been left in command,” the First Space Lord observed.

“Yes, sir,” Susan confirmed. “What would you have done?”

“My commander nearly fell off the wagon,” the First Space Lord said. It took Susan a moment to realise he was talking about Admiral Smith. “I had written orders authorising me to assume command of the ship, if necessary. And in the end, I chose to help him rather than put a bullet in his career.”

“And if you had,” Susan asked, “what would have happened to your career?”

She scowled. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

“It’s a little late for that,” the First Space Lord noted. “But yes, you may speak freely.”

“I was caught in a no-win situation,” Susan said. “Whatever I did, I risked losing my career - and perhaps my life. There were no good options, sir, and no one sitting on a comfortable chair in a ground-based office can magically pull one from his rear end. Our regulations may claim to protect men and women who blow the whistle, but our culture does not. Betraying one’s superior, even in a good cause, is a bad thing.”

“One might argue that choosing to do so shows significant moral courage,” the First Space Lord said.

“One might also argue that significant moral courage doesn't pay the bills,” Susan pointed out, tartly. “And that, after the accolades are gone, everyone that person works with will remember.”

“One might,” the First Space Lord agreed.

He leaned forward. “As I said, the Board of Inquiry has retroactively authorised your actions on HMS Vanguard,” he stated. “A copy of their final report will be made available to you, if you wish; for the moment, all you need to know is that you are officially in the clear.”

Susan nodded. “What about my crew?”

The First Space Lord looked pained. “Yes, you covered that nicely,” he said. “Just about everyone involved cannot be charged with anything, as you painted yourself as the sole mover behind the ... contingency plan. Given the situation, the Board of Inquiry has quietly decided to drop the issue. I believe they will be advised to try to avoid plotting against their next commanding officer.”

Because there won’t be a second chance, Susan thought.

“You have been formally confirmed as commanding officer of HMS Vanguard, retroactively from the date you assumed command,” the First Space Lord continued. “You’ll take a shuttle from Titan Base to L4, where you will ...”

Susan stared at him. “I’m in command again?”

“Yes,” the First Space Lord said. “Under the circumstances, it was either confirm you as Vanguard’s commanding officer or try to court martial you. The former allows us to bury as much as possible of the affair before the media starts asking too many questions. As far as anyone is concerned - and I suggest you stick with it - you spent the last month in a top-secret military base, assisting the analysts in studying the records from the battle.”

“Understood, sir,” Susan said. She was in command? She hadn't dared to hope she’d be allowed to return to Vanguard - or anything bigger than an asteroid mining base. “Sir ... what is the ship’s condition?”

“Your presumptive XO has also been promoted and will brief you, upon your return to command,” the First Space Lord said. “For now, suffice it to say that we will be sending a major task force to assist the Tadpoles.”

He rose. “The guards will assist you in packing up before you leave this place,” he added, dryly. Clearly, he knew as well as she did that she had nothing to pack. “And one other thing?”

Susan rose, too. “Yes, sir?”

“I understand that you were trapped in a hellish situation,” the First Space Lord said. “And that it had political implications that were not immediately obvious to you. And I do not blame you for the decisions you took.”

“Yes, sir,” Susan said.

“But ... the decisions you took could easily have been seen in a worse light,” the First Space Lord added. “I suggest - very strongly - that you don’t do anything to blot your copybook over the next few years. You’ve made a number of political enemies, Captain, and those enemies will stop at nothing to see your scalp being pinned to their walls.”

“I understand, sir,” Susan said, tiredly. She understood more of the political and naval realities than she cared to admit. She had no patrons of her own, no friends in high places. If someone with a title wanted her gone, it wouldn't be long before they found a suitable excuse to dismiss her from the navy. “It won’t happen again.”

“I should hope not,” the First Space Lord said. “And remember, as far as anyone is concerned, this month never happened. The records are sealed and will remain so until everyone involved is safely dead.”

“Of course, sir,” Susan said. Behind her, the hatch hissed open. “I won’t say a word.”

Read more of Fear God and Dread Naught at Amazon.com!

Continue to the next page for a sneak peek of Lynch’s Legacy, Book 6 in the Spineward Sectors: Middleton’s Pride series!

The following is a preview of Lynch’s Legacy, Book 6 in the Spineward Sectors: Middleton’s Pride series.

Prologue: A Matter of Priority

Commander Lucius Minervini looked out the viewing portal on the seemingly serene, sunless world below. His hands were clasped rigidly behind his back as he stood there, appearing for all intents and purposes to be a statue on the bridge of the latest-generation Special Operations Cutter, the Constans Vigilantia, of which it was both Minervini’s sworn duty and privilege to serve as inaugural commander.

His eyes required the benefit of the viewing portal’s light enhancing features just to see the rocky world over which his ship had taken up residence for the past two days. He imagined the molten magma which his computer analysis confirmed had surged through the planet’s sundered crust just a few short days earlier. The planet’s crust had been fractured by a standard set of subterranean charges not unlike those which Minervini himself had deployed on more than a few occasions as last-ditch control measures for securing sensitive locations from the enemies of humanity.

But the magma was no longer flowing, and even if it had been it would not have been visible even with the assistance of the viewing portal before which he now stood. The molten rock, much like the trail of those who perpetrated the attack against the so-called Beta Site, had cooled far too much for any further clues to be gleaned from such a remove. Though, like the magma had done two days earlier, Minervini’s temper seethed through the micro-fractures in his previously polished veneer.

It cannot end like this, he thought darkly. It must not end like this!

He had reviewed the after-action reports for the disastrous event which had taken place merely a week earlier, and had brought his sleek vessel into orbit before any other Imperial forces had arrived. He had known that Senator Raubach aimed to lift his House far above any station it deserved to occupy, but never in his wildest dreams had he believed the man would be capable of such a monumental failure as actually losing a Core Fragment of MAN.

“Commander,” reported one of the com-techs assigned to the Constans Vigilantia and, by extension, to Commander Minervini’s embedded operation within the so-called Reclamation Fleet commanded by Rear Admiral Arnold Janeski.

“What is it?” the Commander asked over his shoulder, his eyes remaining fixed on the surface of the dark, barren world below.

“A soft-coded message sent in the open, Commander,” the tech replied promptly as Minervini moved to stand over him and his station. “It fails to satisfy security requirements for such a transmission, but…” he hesitated.

“But?” the Commander repeated icily, hoping for the sake of the young man’s career—and his psychological safety—that he had not unduly interrupted him from his ruminations. It was so difficult to train in com-techs on this generation of equipment, and Minervini had little desire to indulge in petty torments which his fellow officers would call ‘enforcing discipline’ when there was serious work to be done.

“Project Archie was clearly referenced, Commander,” the tech finished, steeling his voice. Without a word, the Commander leaned down and accessed the file describing the message. The file contained all connected data, including the route the message had taken, the ident of the operative who had made it, the timestamps for the various p2p transfers required to bring it to him and, naturally, the message itself—which was alarmingly brief.

Project Archie was the codename for a program which had been authorized over a century earlier—and, it should be noted, that program had been the brainchild of House Raubach. The program had, ostensibly, attempted to discover the location of one of the hallowed MAN Core Fragments. ‘Archie’ had become synonymous among the Imperial Intelligence community with this particular Core Fragment.

That Core Fragment, just like its counterparts, was unique in all of the universe. It was the only hope for humanity to reinstate its one, true god. It was, put simply, humanity’s only hope to survive. Without the Data God’s eventual revival and reinstatement at the center of all human affairs, the primitive human species would fall asunder to tribalism—and other, even more repugnant social forces better left to the confines of a zoo than the galactic community—within a few short centuries. As a member of that species, Commander Minervini felt it was his duty—no, it was his life’s purpose—to assist in the recovery and resurrection of their data god however he was able.

In his mind, the window for the human race to return to what it should be was fast closing, and House Raubach might have just slammed it shut forever with their unforgivably negligent stupidity.

But this lead was precisely what Minervini had ordered his team to scour the local data nets for ever since learning of the disastrous loss of the Core Fragment.

Without asking the tech, he confirmed the itinerary of the message himself with a quick examination of the file’s contents. The transmission had originally been picked up by a freighter which unwittingly served as a data gathering unit: a small transceiver which had been surreptitiously installed nine months earlier. The name of the freighter, its crew manifest, cargo, and present location were only a tiny fraction of the information available to Minervini as he perused the transmission.

After being picked up by the freighter, it was forwarded to the first available Imperial vessel. But that been three days since the freighter had first received the transmission, which meant that he was already four days behind. Normally such a delay would have angered him to no end, but the truth was that this was good news; before receiving this message he had been well over a week behind his quarry, and with that interval nearly cut in half he now had an idea where his quarry was headed.

“The Overton Expanse,” he mused, pulling up star charts and transposing his present position—mostly out of habit—while doing the same for the transmission of the message he had just processed.

There really was just one possible destination that made any kind of sense, given the available data, and it had been his intention to go there even before receiving this particular piece of evidence. He would have already done so if Rear Admiral Arnold Janeski had not held such longstanding ties to House Raubach. Ostensibly, House Raubach and House Cornwallis had been at odds for several decades; according to rumor, the last time those Houses had been fully united in purpose had been fifty years earlier.

But Minervini hadn’t lived a century and a half, most of which had been spent in some variation of his current capacity, by taking the bait on such thin rumor and innuendo. More often than not, such rumblings were nothing more than clever attempts by the Great Houses to mislead their rivals into exposing their secrets to their supposed ‘allies.’ And Minervini’s loyalties were most certainly not with either of those Houses.

No, there was the distinct possibility that Arnold Janeski himself had been involved in this travesty. But even if that was the case, the task of bringing him to justice for his complicity would have to fall to another member of the Imperial Intelligence Agency—Minervini had just picked up the scent, and like any tracker he was keen to commence with the hunt.

“Helm,” he turned to his command chair on the minimalistic bridge of his Pulsar class Cutter, which was the epitome of Imperial technology as far as he was concerned, “enable silent running protocols.”

“Silent running engaged, Commander,” his helmsman acknowledged just before Minervini had taken his seat. The lights on the bridge dimmed and several status icons flanking the main viewer were replaced as the ship’s systems shifted over to their second-most stealthy settings.

His mouth quirked, slightly at first, before his leathery lips peeled back in a feral grin, “Take us to the hyper limit…and plot a least-time course for the Conduit.”

He could feel the thrill of anticipation course around the small bridge, causing shoulders to straighten and visages to sharpen as the impact of his order sank in. “Yes, Commander,” his helmsman acknowledged a tick later than was preferable.

His sleek craft easily pulled away from the planet, invisible to all but active sensors as it did so, but it only took six seconds for his com-tech to report, “The Commodore is ordering that we maintain position in the formation, Commander.”

“Let him eat static,” Minervini said coolly, steepling his fingers before his eyes as the least-time jump itinerary appeared on the main viewer. An icon began to flash on the left arm in his command chair, but he ignored it as a series of contingency plans flitted through his mind in a blur.

A moment later his com-tech said, “The Commodore is demanding that you receive his connection, sir.”

“Is it a p2p?” Minervini asked without breaking his focus, knowing full-well that it was not.

“Negative, Commander,” the tech replied, the barest hint of amusement in his voice.

The Commander briefly considered a reprimand, but he and his people had been at the beck and call of these low-brow thugs for far too long. So in a rare display of mercy—one punctuated by the ominous delay in his reply—he allowed the tech to go unpunished this time. “A Special Operations vessel operating under the auspices of the Imperial Intelligence Agency does not respond to broadcasts or unsecured hails while carrying out a Zeta Priority package. Ignore it.”

“Yes, Commander,” the tech replied, his ears turning a pleasant shade of red as he took the unspoken rebuke precisely as Minervini had hoped he would.

He and his people had been compelled to comply with Janeski’s orders, or those of his subordinates, only because until this very moment he had lacked actionable evidence which would permit him to pursue a task more worthy of he and his peoples’ talents.

Within minutes, the sleek craft had successfully cleared the rogue planet’s hyper limit. The hum of the point transfer drives was short-lived as they surrounded the ship with strange particles—particles which permitted the ship to briefly ignore several supposed ‘laws’ of physics, including those governing the movement of matter across the fabric of space-time. With a barely-perceptible flash, the Constans Vigilantia transitioned from the hyper limit of the so-called Beta Site to a point twenty light years closer to the Conduit, which lay on the far side of the Overton Expanse.

It would be a dangerous journey, primarily because there was zero trillium to be found in the Expanse. The Vigilantia’s crew would therefore be required to ‘improvise’ in acquiring a sufficient supply of the precious material prior to undertaking his ultra-secretive mission. Otherwise, assuming their quarry had already laid in a large enough supply of the material, the Vigilantia would not only find itself adrift in the least hospitable portion of this galactic arm, but the thieves who had stolen the Core Fragment might return to the Empire before they could be intercepted.

With luck on their side, the buffoons under Janeski would eventually piece the data together and send a detachment of their own to pursue the vessel. But, for reasons both official and political, Minervini was determined to reach the precious Core Fragment first.

It was time that he and his crew did what they had trained to do, what they yearned to do, and what the far-too-fragile race of humanity demanded them to do—and nothing in the universe could hope to stop them from pursuing their MAN-given purpose.

Not even death.

Chapter I: I Ain’t Your Lord

“Take a load off, Nikomedes,” the enigmatic Lynch instructed, gesturing to the chair opposite his own as he sat himself down on the far side of the metal desk. “Looks like we’ve got some palaverin’ to do.”

Nikomedes deliberately moved to the indicated seat before slowly lowering himself into it. His eyes scanned the room for any warning signs just as he always did when entering a potentially dangerous area. After seeing the Starborn prince do battle with Senator Raubach, Nikomedes knew it would take very little in the way of advantage for the heavily-augmented Lynch to overcome even the mightiest warrior Tracto had to offer.

And it took no pride or vanity on his part to know that’s precisely what Nikomedes was: the mightiest warrior from his planet, at least among the current generation.

He had accomplished things that he suspected would impress even the most legendary heroes of antiquity. From his slaying of the kraken as a stripling of a man, to earning his place as Felix’ second a few short years later, to surviving—and indeed thriving—among the Ice Raiders of Blue Fang Pass, he had accomplished more before the age of twenty than most warriors could claim to have done by fifty.

And all of that was before he had been tasked with a ‘holy quest’ by the god of his people. That quest had taken him to the so-called River of Stars, where he had slowly, quietly, and patiently laid the groundwork for what would have been the greatest victory ever achieved by his countrymen.

“Why’d you lie about your name?” Lynch asked, snapping Nikomedes back to the present.

“I did not lie—“ Nikomedes began, only to be cut off by the dark-skinned Lynch.

“Is that really how you wanna play this?” the other man asked harshly. “Because if it is, I ain’t gonna space you; I’ve got plenty of use for brainless thugs if that’s all you are. But before we begin this little relationship of ours, it’s important you understand something,” he said, leaning across the desk and fixing Nikomedes with the weighty gaze of a man who rarely knew defeat. “Even if you think I’m as stupid as you are, you’d do well to keep it to yourself. I haven’t survived this long by wasting my time with thick-thewed morons who try to play word games. When that’s what’s playin’, I change the channel—and I usually do it with prejudice. Feel me?”

Nikomedes’ eyes narrowed. Lynch had correctly deduced the nature of his protest, and that pleased the Tracto-an. No man who could be so easily manipulated was worth serving. This Lynch was clearly a capable warlord in his own right, but Nikomedes still had much to learn about him.

“My apologies, Lord,” Nikomedes bowed his head fractionally, eliciting a derisive snort from the other man.

“I ain’t your ‘Lord,’ son,” Lynch quipped. “Truth be told, I ain’t never been one to hold peoples’ leashes. It’s too tiresome tryin’ to make people do what they don’t really wanna do,” he made a dismissive gesture before producing a data slate and sliding it across the desk. “I’ve always found allies to be more useful than servants. Of course, that means I only deal with a cut above what most would consider the ‘rank and file.’ Are you?”

Nikomedes briefly looked at the data slate, knowing this was also a test. In the court at Argos, and even on the Omicron station in the River of Stars, he had met with fork-tongued diplomats and negotiators who had insisted on playing word games they had smugly thought would be lost on him. This particular one was familiar to him: Lynch was gauging his mindset by asking an open question. He could either respond to the query ‘are you rank and file?’ or he could respond to the query, ‘are you a cut above the rank and file?’

But, like any opening he saw in a contest, Nikomedes took it without hesitation.

“What I think of myself is unimportant,” he said steadily as he folded his long, powerful arms across his massive chest. “You are testing me, so what you think is all that matters.”

Lynch snickered, “Well played. Guess you ain’t a moron after all…but take a look around you, son. Tell me what you see.”

Nikomedes did not care for the familiarity of the other man’s tone or verbiage, but he grudgingly looked around the compartment. The bulkheads of the ship were all comprised of simple steel which was nearly identical to what he had grown up around—at least, it was similar to the finer quality arms and armor used by the most successful warriors. Rust streaks ran vertically down nearly all of the beams and panels, which suggested the vessel was old and cheaply built by Starborn standards.

“I see old age…I see simplicity,” Nikomedes said before refocusing on the other man, “and I see poor maintenance.”

“Simplicity is hardly ever a bad thing,” Lynch leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the desk while letting his own gaze wander across the compartment’s bulkheads, “and when something’s as old as this ship and, it’s true, has been neglected as badly as this ship has been then it means it was built right in the first place—just like a winning battle plan. Simplicity and old age are partners, Nikomedes; it’s youth that insists on messy trysts with complication.”

Nikomedes was uncertain what Lynch meant by that, but the other man tilted his chin toward the data slate. Nikomedes saw that it was already activated, so he lifted it a few inches until he was able to read its contents. It was a data file—and it was about him. It was far from comprehensive, but the highlights of his life were nearly all there: the Trial of the Deep where he had slain the Kraken; his time with Felix; his life at Blue Fang Pass under the one-eyed warlord Kratos; even much of his life on the Omicron was described in short-hand format on the data slate.

“Tell me how much of that’s off-base,” Lynch said, and when Nikomedes looked up he had a newfound respect for the enigmatic figure sitting across from him. “I’ll take your silence to mean it all hit the mark,” Lynch said with a nod as Nikomedes read the last entry in the file, which described his second defeat at the hands of Jason Montagne. “I’m gonna put my cards on the table, Nikomedes,” the other man said as Nikomedes felt his blood begin to boil at the thought of having twice failed to defeat Montagne, “I need someone I can trust, and that file paints a picture of a man who’s got more in common with me than anyone else I’ve met in this ‘verse. I think you and me can be allies.”

Nikomedes had never responded well to flattery. It had always been followed by an attempted knife in the back, so he gave Lynch a dark look—which only seemed to embolden the other man as a broad grin spread across his lips.

“See, I know what it’s like to lose a name you was born with,” Lynch explained as he pointed at the door through which they had entered a few minutes earlier. “And I know what it’s like to suffer total defeat after puttin’ in years of effort and planning. Like you, I don’t intend to let the past repeat itself—and, like you, I’ve adjusted my sights after realizing I’d been aimin’ at the wrong target all along.”

That last bit grabbed Nikomedes’ attention, but he kept his expression neutral, “What do you mean?”

“I read your poem,” Lynch said, gesturing to the data slate where Nikomedes saw a second file was minimized in the corner of the screen, “it was good stuff. A bit amateurish formulaically and the verbiage wasn’t exactly inspired, but the thrust of it spoke to me.” A quick scan confirmed that Lynch had, indeed, read the poem which Nikomedes had penned just before leaving Tracto forever following his second—and final—defeat at Jason Montagne’s hands. “You realized, Nikomedes, that you’d been hoodwinked by ideas like honor, duty and tradition. Even if it came too late to save you from defeat, you saw the system for what it really was. That’s why you’re here,” Lynch jabbed his finger down onto the desk, “and it’s why you asked if I was gonna kill a Data God. You found your new target—and it happens to be the same one I found back before your granddad was a glimmer in his pappy’s eye.”

Nikomedes’s eyes narrowed in contemplation, “You assume much.”

“Son,” Lynch chuckled, “I’d never make an ass of myself—at least not in public.”

“I am not your son,” Nikomedes said flatly.

“Maybe not,” Lynch shrugged, “but I’ve got a feelin’ you’re gonna take me up on my offer.”

Nikomedes’ eyebrow arched, but in spite of his feigned curiosity he had known since stepping into the room that Lynch had intended to make some sort of proposal. “I must hear your offer before I choose to accept it.”

“This ain’t one of those offers,” Lynch said, his visage suddenly turning stony as he reached down and tapped out a series of commands into the sleek-looking link affixed to his forearm. Nikomedes’ acute hearing detected a subtle, nearly inaudible thrum fill the room when Lynch completed tapping out commands into the device. Such a thrum generally accompanied a powerful suppression field—a field which would render any recording devices useless. “This is the type of offer where you got zero choice in the matter, so let’s not sugar coat it any more than we have to. We’re both men and we both know what it’s like to be betrayed by everything we once fought, bled, and even died for. My offer to you,” he said, leaning forward and lowering his voice fractionally, “is to clue you in so we can work together and avoid that particular outcome repeating itself.”

More than the severity of his words, something in the other man’s voice caused hairs to rise on the back of Nikomedes’ neck. He remained rigidly upright in his chair for several seconds before finally leaning across the table and matching the other man’s tone as he asked one of the simplest questions imaginable, “Who?”

Lynch’s eyes flashed with approval, “If I knew that, I wouldn’t need you. But don’t worry,” he added confidently, “it ain’t nothin’ I’m unprepared for. Now here’s what I need you to do…”

Chapter II: Captain on Deck!

“Captain on deck!” Tiberius Spalding, the ship’s Executive Officer declared, snapping to attention as his Commanding Officer stepped through the door which led onto the archaic vessel’s bridge.

Lieutenant Commander McKnight’s hard, blue eyes scanned the various stations on the massive bridge in turn. Apparently satisfied that all was as it should be—even though no more than a tenth of the stations were manned—she made brief eye contact with Tiberius and nodded, “Thank you, XO. Report?”

“The ship’s jump drive is in a cool-down cycle, ma’am,” Tiberius replied promptly, having just pulled a sixteen hour shift on the bridge after spending another eight hours in Engineering. Between the two of them, they had continuously manned the bridge of the improbably ancient vessel for eight days while pulling double duties in support of their still-forming departments. “Estimated time to the next jump is three hours.”

“I thought the antimatter-driven star drive on this ship allowed for faster jumps than that?” McKnight said, finally broaching the issue after just over a week of letting Tiberius do his best to get a feel for the ship’s laughably outdated systems—laughably outdated, that is, except for its prodigious star drive.

“It allows for a few jumps in rapid succession,” he explained, shaking his head irritably after having failed to fully nail down all of the operating variables of the dangerous FTL system, “but the hull of this ship is crude steel, ma’am. It’s about as permeable as wet tissue to the subatomic particles we collect during transit; it takes the drive’s hull polarization system a bit of time to get rid of the particles. We’ve already missed a few jumps by several light hours, ma’am,” he said seriously, “and, best I can tell, it’s because we were dragging too many of those things around with us.”

McKnight nodded, “What is Engineering’s recommendation?”

Tiberius kept his expression neutral as he fought against the urge to grit his teeth. Penelope was a great power tech, and a fine engineer in her own right, but putting her in charge of a skeleton Engineering crew as her first department-level command, after transferring to a ship that their eight-times-great grandparents would have laughed at as a derelict of a bygone era, was more than any reasonable person could be asked to deal with.

He took his CO’s meaning plainly enough: your duty is to the bridge, Lieutenant Spalding; this ship needs its XO rested more than it needs a little pressure relief for her Engineering department.

“The Chief Engineer recommends a minimum cool-down of four hours between jumps after we’ve cleared the particles from the hull,” he replied professionally, having worked up the numbers with Pen during his last shift in Engineering, “but we should make that interval six hours until we get the particles down to a level the engines are designed to compensate for. By our calculations,” he winced as he realized his verbal slip, which only served to harden his CO’s expression, “we’ll get three or four jumps in rapid succession before the particle build-up becomes dangerous to further jumps. The Chief and I think we should keep the hull as clean as possible to enable quick jumps if we happen to stumble into something we can’t handle, ma’am.”

McKnight nodded slowly, “So your best estimate is that the hull will be back to optimal levels in another eighteen hours?”

“That’s our best bet, ma’am,” Tiberius grimaced, knowing there was no way to pin it down until he had a better handle on the system. “But it could be as many as thirty, depending on the particles we pick up in the next few jumps. We still don’t have a firm handle on predicting the build-up.”

“Good work, XO,” McKnight nodded, her short-cut blond hair hugging her scalp so tightly it failed to move the way her old ponytail had when Tiberius had first met her. Of course, they hadn’t exactly met under optimal circumstances, but McKnight had thankfully looked past the fact that he and his people had been in the process of being clapped in irons on the charge of mutiny at the time. “You’re relieved,” she said, reaching out for the largely symbolic data slate which they had used in lieu of command keys, “get some food and find your bunk for at least four hours of shut-eye—consider that an order,” she added in a steely tone even before his lips had parted to protest.

He forced himself to relax, knowing that Pen was almost certainly falling further and further behind down in Engineering. “Thank you, ma’am,” he said professionally, snapping off a salute which his CO returned, before doing as he had been ordered.

He exited the bridge, passing through the laughably flimsy door—which relied on the rotational forces of the ship’s spinning habitat module in order to close—and wincing as he heard what had to be a leak in the pneumatic cylinder which temporarily pushed the door aside.

Pneumatics on a star ship, he scoffed in muted disbelief, it’s amazing the idiots who built this rusty deathtrap didn’t kill themselves laying the keel up. His lips twisted into a smirk when an unexpected thought flitted through his mind as he made his way down the rust-streaked corridor en route to the galley. In his best impersonation of the old man, he railed, “She’s not old, ye idjit, she’s got character—somethin’ you appear to have as little of as ye have sense rattlin’ around in that malignant waste of flesh and bone atop yer neck!”

Looking around at the rusty walls and fatigued cross-members which bore the brunt of the rotational forces exerted by the spinning hab module, he shook his head piteously.

“No, ‘Captain Moonlight’,” he said scathingly, lowering his voice after hearing the sound of approaching footfalls from what must have been bridge crew reporting for the next shift, “some things really are just old.”

Chapter III: Down in Blue Fang Country

“Next,” Lu Bu called crisply, dabbing the sheen of sweat on her forehead with a rag before discarding the sopping wet cloth well outside the three meter circle. The Tracto-an who had just submitted his application to the ship’s Lancer force cast her a baleful look as he struggled to maintain a somewhat proud posture while exiting the irregular circle she had drawn on the deck an hour earlier.

But after suffering fifteen of her particularly brutal leg kicks, it was all he could do to remain upright as he made way for the next applicant. She snorted, clearing her nose of a half-congealed gobbet of blood—which the previous entrant had given her courtesy of a surprisingly quick jab—as the next applicant approached.

“Name?” she asked as he wisely stripped out of his one-piece, skin-tight jumpsuit. She had successfully subdued three of his fellows in the previous hour by taking advantage of the increased friction the uniforms provided—two of them had submitted to her leg locks rather than suffer catastrophic ligament damage, and the other had woken up in a stupor several minutes after she had choked him unconscious with a deep head-and-arm choke.

“Glaucus,” he replied after doffing his garment and tossing it outside the circle. Like the rest of the entrants—all but two of whom had been male—his musculature was knotted and, if she was being honest, as near perfection as she had seen. The length of his limbs, the breadth of his shoulders and hips, and the thickness of his torso were in what had to be considered the perfect proportions.

That wasn’t to say that they were all identical, but there was something so…perfect about all of them, even those whose limbs were shorter than average or those whose torsos were less robust. Somehow, each of them appeared to have put on the perfect amount of muscle—and they had put it on in all of the correct places, unlike many foolish so-called ‘body-builders’ who focused on largely useless muscle groups simply because they looked impressive—for their frames.

“What is the purpose of your challenge?” she asked almost disinterestedly, having asked the same question of the other twenty applicants which had preceded him. Each of the others had offered some version of ‘I want to take your job,’ which was precisely what she had expected since that had been the challenge she’d issued on the first day of tryouts. Before she inducted any of them into the Lancer corps, she had to establish that she was that unit’s leader and that there was nothing any of them could do to change that.

She had learned faster than most that the only way a Tracto-an would respect you was if you put him on his knees—involuntarily, and preferably several times over. In a way, she almost felt a kinship with these people. That kinship was based on nothing more than their mutual desire to find their place in the universe by defeating every challenge in front of them until they could no longer emerge victorious.

But Glaucus’ answer surprised her, though by now she supposed it should not have.

“I seek to prove myself worthy to become your consort,” he said, flashing a smile with a mouth full of teeth that were perfectly symmetrical and as dazzling as a row of mechanically polished pearls.

She sighed irritably, having received similar overtures no fewer than a dozen times since boarding Lynch’s massive, ancient ship. But there was something about this one which annoyed her more than most of the others had done, and after a moment’s consideration she realized what it was: his picture-perfect teeth.

The corner of her mouth quirked up into a smirk, noting that at least he had the decency not to have completely disrobed prior to entering the circle—still, the form-fitting briefs he wore left little to the imagination. “You have seen what happened to the others who said the same,” she snickered, recalling a particularly gratifying uppercut which had lifted her erstwhile suitor completely off the deck—even if just an inch or two—a few days earlier. “Are you certain that is what you seek?”

He flexed his pectoral muscles, and this gesture only served to sharpen Lu Bu’s focus as she determined to teach this particular specimen a lesson he would never forget. “With all my heart,” he assured her.

“Very well,” she nodded, “the terms are the same: remove me from the circle however you are able, render me unconscious, or make me surrender. There is no time limit,” she said, rolling her neck around and feeling the familiar sensation of pops ripple up and down her cervical spine, “but fail and you must walk the corridors of this ship naked for one week, and you must serve double shifts with the engineers as they patch holes in this ship—also naked unless working in vacuum.” She crouched slightly, her 5’10” frame lowering just a few inches as her would-be consort did likewise. She made a beckoning gesture with her lead, right hand, “Begin.”

He squared with her and circled left, prompting her to mirror his movements. He was lighter on his feet than most of his fellows had been, but his first lunge proved that he relied entirely too much on physical gifts and not enough on finesse.

His hands clasped the air where her torso had been an instant earlier, but she had crouched and rocked back on her left leg. His eyes tracked her the whole way, and in an instant she reacted faster than her conscious mind could process. She faked a leg kick, which he wisely moved to check, but she managed to switch her weight over her hips quickly enough to launch her right shin into the side of his head.

The blow landed flush, but she knew from experience that precious few Tracto-ans went down from just one blow no matter how squarely it had landed. This one was no different, and though his eyes rolled off-target momentarily he launched his own counter kick almost quickly enough to take her in the eyes.

But he was clearly unused to fighting a foe that was a full head shorter than him, and she ducked the few inches necessary to avoid his counter entirely. His groin was briefly exposed to a swift kick, but much as it pained her to do so she refrained from taking advantage of the obvious opening.

She had other plans for this one.

Instead she ducked under his far side and barely brushed against his body before coming to a stop on the opposite side of the circle from where she had started.

Looking mildly annoyed, but crouching a few inches deeper than he had at the match’s outset, Glaucus lowered his hands slightly and circled the other way.

Almost low enough, she thought as she again mirrored his movements.

This time he launched his own set of long, sweeping leg kicks. They were easy enough to dodge, but the circle was so small that doing so would have brought her very nearly out of the circle. It was a clever enough ploy, but it was also one which she had anticipated.

She took two steps back, appearing to commit to a third backpedaling step as he launched another long, sweeping kick toward her shins. But before taking that third step, she kicked her foot back and executed a flying punch aimed directly at his kicking leg.

Clearly surprised by her move, Glaucus had little choice but to plant his leg and accept her mighty, downward punch to the thigh. The wet ‘thwack’ her fist made elicited a chorus of sharp breaths to be drawn by the crowd, and sure enough after she had used her momentum to roll to safety—once again finding herself temporarily behind her foe—she saw his leg briefly fail to obey its owner’s commands as he almost lost balance during his turn to face her.

This time, his posture straightened and he literally shook his leg out. The look of annoyance on his face was long gone, and in its place was something more befitting a would-be Lancer. Unlike most of his cohorts he did not snarl, growl, or otherwise attempt to intimidate her. Neither was there even a trace of fear present in his visage.

No, the only emotion she could read from him—if it could be called an emotion—was single-minded focus. And that was what she had endured the past week of these tiresome ‘challenges’ and, she supposed, ‘courtships’ to find.

“There you are,” she grunted, echoing the words of her long-departed mentor, Walter Joneson when he had reviewed her own ‘application’ to become a Lancer, “nice of you to show up.”

A quizzical look flashed across his face, and she decided now was the time to do what she had been planning since before the bout’s commencement. She launched her body forward like a missile, extending her knee as though she meant to take him in the chin with one of her signature moves. He was wise to the possibility of such an attack, however, and he blocked her knee precisely as she had expected him to block: with criss-crossed arms.

She threw her right arm down against her side, pivoting her weight that way as hard as she could. She extended her leg and barely cleared her left shin above Glaucus’ right arm as she used her genetically-engineered speed and reflexes to perform what she had come to think of as a ‘flying question mark kick.’

Her foot smacked into the side of his head, just behind the ear, with a gratifying crack. But his reflexes were very nearly as good as her own and he somehow managed to trap her leg after flailing up with his arm while his body—briefly robbed of its equilibrium by her perfectly-placed kick—sagged toward the ground.

Acting purely on instinct, she used his grip as leverage and swung her right shin over his head in a flying roundhouse kick. Her shin buried itself against his wrist, and strong though he was—even for a Tracto-an—the power of her strike, combined with his lack of equilibrium, was enough to break her left leg free of his grip hooked grip.

He regained his balance just as she got her feet under her, and as he gathered his feet beneath himself she saw her window closing. Lunging forward, she leapt high in the air and grasped for the back of his neck with both hands. He realized her intention too late, however, as she put her vice-like grip on the rippling muscles of his neck. He stiffened his back, leaning back as hard as he could, and to her surprise he actually lifted her several inches.

But her surprise was short-lived. She curled her arms in toward her ribs and began driving her knees, one after another, into his liver and spleen without losing her iron grip on his neck.

He struggled—valiantly, she would later admit—to shake her off, but her relatively light, one hundred kilo frame actually served to advantage her in this particular exchange. No matter where he turned, or which way he pivoted, she used his own momentum against him to further tighten her grip on his neck while burying her knees repeatedly into his torso. None of her blows were fight-enders, but all it took was a single well-placed shot to the liver to put even the most valiant warrior down for a few seconds.

Eventually, she found the sweet spot just beneath his ribs, and landed a blow to his ribs that saw his body briefly go limp—which was all it took to being her toes to the floor for the briefest of moments.

That was all it took for her to use her unparalleled power-to-weight ratio to launch her left knee into his perfect, pearly white teeth…well, into his previously perfect, pearly white teeth.

He staggered from the blow, allowing her to touch her feet to the deck again, and this time it was her right knee that rearranged the focal point of the man’s vanity. By now he was well-and-truly defeated, but she saw potential in him which had been absent in the other ‘applicants’ of the day.

So when he fell to one knee, clearly addled from her repeated blows to the head, she held him upright and slammed another half dozen blows into his face. The first two were off-target as he vainly struggled to avoid square shots, but after those two it was unlikely he retained any of his senses.

Her work done, she stepped back and saw a trio of teeth—or the better portions of them—fall out of his mouth and clatter to the deck. He then swayed to the side and crashed to the deck, snoring as loudly as any of her babies had done since arriving aboard this new ship, which apparently suited them better than their previous lodgings had done.

She doubted more than a few of his front teeth remained plugged into their original sockets, and she knew she would get an earful from her mother after the man reported to Medical to secure her services to repair or replace the lost members. But it had been the right thing to do for him; he had been only the third recruit to step into the circle thus far that had what it took to join a unit which had essentially been created for her by Walter Joneson himself prior to his death.

Not just anyone could be allowed in, but Glaucus had proven himself worthy of at least a second look. And she fully intended to give him that look—after he got his face fixed, of course.

“Next?” she asked, standing and wiping her brow with a fresh rag which she pulled from her hip pocket. She swept the assemblage, which had thinned out significantly since the start of the affair an hour earlier. In truth, it had been the most challenging day of the tryouts thus far. She was grateful for the exercise, but a glance at a nearby chronometer told her that it was time to wrap things up.

When no one stepped forward to accept her invitation, she scowled and made eye contact with a nearby Tracto-an.

“Take him to Medical,” she said, gesturing to the still-snoring Glaucus before turning on her heel and leaving the circle for the day, “and bring all of his teeth.”

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