“So, ah, wha’s tha Zeta Protocol, again?” Redbeard asked sheepishly. He settled himself into the XO’s command chair.
Cass stopped short of taking her own seat, fixing him with an incredulous look. “You seriously don’t remember?”
Redbeard shifted uncomfortably and glanced over his shoulder to Kitt, who was quietly seated at the science console, looking anything but calm. Pupils dilated, every last bit of fur stood on end, giving her a decidedly frazzled appearance.
“Uh…” Redbeard said. “Yeah. Details are a bit … er, fuzzy.”
Cass rolled her eyes, but it was Spiner who provided the answer for her.
“In the event that Zeta Protocol is enacted,” the android quoted, “a previously identified crew will be responsible for searching out and locating a suitable venue for reestablishment of the Haven colony.”
“Precisely,” Cass said.
“Ah. I knew tha’...” Redbeard muttered. “But … wha’s tha’ mean, ‘previously identified’?”
Cass threw herself into her command chair. “Captains are assigned the duty on rotation, every ten years, whether or not the Zeta Protocol has been enacted. Just to keep things variable and unpredictable. If the protocol is enacted during their tenure, they’re the ones responsible for finding a new colony location.”
Redbeard’s bushy red eyebrows lifted. “Ah.”
And of course, because I don’t have enough problems on my plate, this one happened to go off during my watch. Cass sighed heavily. “Computer, get us out of here, would you?” She left off his name on purpose. Node was still on probation, as far as she was concerned.
It seemed the AI knew it, because he didn’t even bother with making a snide comment in return. “Sure,” he answered glumly. “The engines are almost ready.”
Cass tapped her fingers against the arm of her chair, wondering if they had any time to spare.
“Incoming transmission, Captain,” Spiner spoke up. “It’s being broadcast to the whole system. Shall I put it on-screen?”
Cass glanced to Redbeard, who met her gaze and shrugged.
Last time she’d opted to receive a system-wide message, it had been that insufferable blowhard, Rear Admiral Hawke, wanting to meet for a chat over tea. Which had eventually led to the mission to retrieve the so-called ‘Nose of Truth’ from the Federation’s flagship. Which had led to those terrible, unbearable hours in which she’d had to fake a desire to return to the Federation … and worse … wear a formal gown to a ridiculous dinner party.
Cass sank down a little into her chair, bracing herself. “All right. Put it on.”
The view of Haven’s chaotic docking bay was replaced by the gloating face of—wait, what?—the so-called Grand COG, of all people, and Cass had to physically restrain her urge to gag.
By choice, she’d avoided any sight of him, much less any interaction with him, as much as one might avoid contracting the Niffian Plague (an especially horrific virus, native, of course, to Niff). To see his smug, bloated, beady-eyed visage now, looming as large as her ship’s viewscreen, was enough to make her feel sick.
Kitt hissed from her station, and even Redbeard cringed at the sight.
“This is the Grand Center-of-the-Galaxy,” the portly man boomed, attempting his most authoritative tone, though he couldn’t hide the tell-tale thread of a childish whine that underscored his infamous orations. “I am here by mandate of the Council of Concerned Citizens, on behalf of the United Federation of Mankind. You are hereby ordered to surrender immediately, and turn over the pirate leader known as Tone E Robbins.”
Redbeard let out an amused snort. “Pah! Fat chance a’ tha’!”
“There’s another incoming message, Captain, also system-wide,” Spiner said.
Cass waved her hand, curiosity piqued. “Play it.”
This time the Big T’s face splashed up on the viewscreen, and Cass was relieved that the Grand COG’s countenance had to be downsized in order to accommodate a second person. Tone E had a look about him Cass hadn’t seen very often. He looked angry. But not the kind of passing, surface angry he was prone to now and then.
No, this was a deeper, darker kind of angry, his strong facial features set with fierce determination. Like a captain ready to go down fighting.
“You have no standing here,” Tone E Robbins barked in his rough, gravelly voice. “We are outside of Federation space. Go away.”
The Grand COG scoffed, leaning toward his screen, bulbous nose first, which made all the pirates on the bridge of the SS Bray reflexively lean away. “Nonsense!” he sneered back. “Fake News! All of space is Federation space! I am the Grand COG … the Center of the Galaxy! Wherever I go, the whole galaxy follows!”
“That’s not true,” the Big T shot back. “It’s just a title, words on paper. If you would actually read the damn Constitution—”
“I am the Constitution!” the Grand COG shouted.
“Are not!” Tone E countered, his own voice raising now. “See, this is your problem. You think you’re above the law. You are not above the law, do you understand? The true power lies with the people! They gave you your power and they can take it away!”
Spiner interrupted the scene, thankfully. “Captain, the enemy ships are closing in. What is presumably the Grand COG’s ship appears to have a notable armory. We may already be within range of its weapons.”
“Computer,” Cass said, letting the Grand COG and Tone E bicker on about the finer points of democracy, “let’s go, already!”
“Very good plan, Captain,” Node muttered.
The SS Bray groaned and shuddered, then lifted off the floor of the docking bay, while on the viewscreen, Tone E and the Grand COG continued to argue.
9
Anasua
“Vice Admiral, why aren’t we firing, already?” Anasua asked, barely able to contain her mounting frustration at her so-called betters. As if it weren’t bad enough she couldn’t rub this triumphant moment in Bambi Casuarius’s face by leading the assault in Bambi’s sleek little pirate ship, prissily named SS Girlboss. That had been the vision Anasua had been holding onto, after all, ever since her string of humiliating defeats at the hands of those blasted pirates. And they’d denied her that one pleasure, these idiot men. Her, the new Rear Admiral, designated front-line commander of the Federation Navy!
Nooooo … instead, His Goldenness the Grand COG had wanted to lead the assault himself. Moron. Imbecile! And had the Vice Admiral backed her up? No. Instead, not only had he dismissed her requests out of hand, he’d made her impound Bambi’s damnable ship. How was Anasua supposed to personalize this moment of glorious revenge?
Looking out across the digitized screen of tiny blips in the system, she couldn’t even tell which ship that traitorous deserter was in. This whole assault had been her idea, and instead of being her capstone moment of glory, it felt exactly the same as any other assault. A man—a golden ass—was stealing her credit, stealing her stage, and just to rub it in, making a complete disaster of the entire affair. This time, she didn’t even have her own ship to try and rectify things herself.
She felt her self-control slipping as she raised her voice. “Can’t you see, they’re getting away!”
“Enough.” Doyle spared her a sharp warning glance, then leaned into her personal space while the Grand COG continued spewing his nonsense at the front of the bridge.
“You weak fool,” he shouted at the wrap-around screen. “No one says that about my mother!”
“What?” the pirate leader Tone E Robbins taunted. “That she must’ve died from shame or embarrassment? In no way am I doing dishonor to your mo—”
The Grand COG sprayed spittle everywhere. “Silence,” he roared. “I gave you a chance to surrender, but clearly you prefer to die...” His legs were shaking, his neck covered in newly formed rashes that looked quite painful. “I’ll be more than happy to give you that satisfaction!”
“About time,” Anasua muttered.
“Acting Rear
Admiral,” Doyle warned. “Need I remind you where we are? Who we are with?”
Anasua stiffened, squared her shoulders. “I was under the impression that I was to lead this assault.” Otherwise, what was the whole point of displacing Hawke? What was the point of climbing the ranks, if there was always someone with more power ahead of you? This whole pirate business had been going on for years—years longer than she would have ever let continue, if she were the one in charge. And here, yet again, was incompetent leadership flagrantly flexing its ego, whilst scores of “inconsequential” pirate ships were already fleeing the system ahead of their assault.
The Grand COG’s scream of rage interrupted her thoughts, and she couldn’t help but look up.
Tone E frowned down his nose at their leader, clearly feeling superior. Clearly was the superior, if Anasua could admit such a thing. He had the air of easy confidence and command that was prototypical to the position atop the Federation. Almost as if he’d had practice … in fact he had had practice, many years ago.
Tone E Robbins, aka Antonio E Pluribus Unum, the 33rd Grand Center of the Galaxy of the United Federation of Mankind. The only Grand COG to ever walk away from the position in his prime. The only Grand COG to ever walk away, in fact, from the Federation itself.
Small wonder, then, that the present Grand COG, aka Donald Harvey Mudd, was so obsessed with the man. Perhaps the raging twat still felt like he was number two? Goodness me, thought Anasua, chiding herself, I really am losing control of my emotions. She eyed Doyle appraisingly. If she wanted his job, all she needed was a little patience.
“You can’t destroy me,” taunted Tone E, his gravelly voice grating on her nerves. “You can’t destroy Haven.”
“Can too!” spluttered the Grand COG.
“In doing so, you can only make us stronger.”
“Ridiculous! I’ll only make you more dead!” The Grand COG turned to glare at Anasua and Doyle, his ugly, twisted face likely sufficient to give her nightmares later. “Vice Admiral, prepare the Golden Shaft for fire!”
10
Cass
“Vice Admiral, prepare the Golden Shaft for fire,” said the unwatchable train-wreck of a galactic leader from the viewscreen.
Cass shook her head, hoping that Tone E had done the smart thing and re-routed his comms from his ship to the Haven colony. With any luck, he was already preparing to jump out of the system. With any luck, the Grand COG’s ridiculous performance would have bought time for everyone to make it out.
She could barely make out the response from the man in the background. “Charging Golden Shaft now. Ready for discharge in 10 … 9 …” She squinted. Was that Commodore Corvus beside him?
The image on the viewscreen cut off, replaced by a text message:
Go, now. -T
“Detecting a large energy surge on the lead ship,” said Spiner.
A knot twisted in Cass’s gut. “Put it on-screen.”
A giant, golden ship in the shape of a … gear of some sort? … filled the view. It looked almost like a golden donut, with the hole presently glowing and crackling with a mounting surge of energy. Some kind of super-weapon. It was flanked by a small armada of Federation destroyers, which were breaking away from the pack and … veering off to pursue the pirate ships. In fact, a pair of glowing objects looked like they were streaking straight at—
“Evasive maneuvers!” Cass barked.
The ship immediately jerked sideways, and something in the engines groaned as the thrusters kicked into full-burn. Another jerk and the ship rattled violently, almost throwing her out of her chair. Looking around, she could see that Redbeard had, in fact, tumbled to the ground.
“Strap in!” she shouted, then quickly clicked into her own harness.
They’d lingered around too long.
Kitt growled, low in her throat. “They’re firing.”
On the viewscreen, the glowing center of the golden … cog? … belched out an alarmingly thick, blueish-white beam of energy, straight into the midsection of the Haven space station. It splintered immediately, erupting into violent bursts of color as it shattered apart under the sustained assault. How long can it keep that up? she wondered about the weapon, feeling suddenly nauseous.
“Blimey!” Redbeard shouted, then started uttering a loud string of curses as he scrambled back into his chair and buckled up.
No point in sticking around to see what else it could do.
Cass searched for her voice, suddenly feeling drained of vigor. “Computer, initiate a series of random jumps. Get us the hell out of here.”
“Jumping now.”
Her stomach flip-flopped and light-headedness overcame her. Years of training and practice had left her mostly acclimated to the effects of hyperspace jumps, but the events of the past several minutes had stripped her of her equilibrium. One moment they were testifying against Djerke, the next on the run ... the only real home she knew, destroyed.
The weight of the Zeta Protocol came crashing down on her shoulders.
“Cap’n?” Redbeard muttered. Then, louder. “Cap’n?”
Cass blinked. “What?”
“Where to?” he asked.
A reasonable question. If only she had a reasonable answer. “I don’t know.”
11
Hawke
Former Rear Admiral Eilhard Hawke hunched over the bar at the Golden Lion, the most popular pub on Star Station Alpha—okay, the only pub—and swallowed back his second shot of Rumple Minz. The strong minty flavor cleared out his sinuses and left a cold chill in his mouth that matched the cold chill he was still feeling after his forced resignation.
He didn’t notice the buzz of other conversation or activity throughout the pub; he only barely noticed the chatter in the earpiece he wore that was still connected to the Federation comms. He was sure that if the Grand COG’s golden-armored lackeys, or the Vice Admiral, for that matter, had known he still had the earpiece, they would have confiscated it, but he hadn’t even known he’d still had it, so it had been spared.
After the Grand COG’s shuttle had dropped him off here, on the civilian levels, very unceremoniously (in fact they’d pretty much bodily thrown him off the vehicle, leaving him with nothing but the clothes on his back), he’d found the little device in his old locker, in the pocket of an old jacket. He hadn’t expected it to work, being an older model. But he still knew what channels to dial into, and so he’d been listening in while the Grand COG and Vice Admiral Doyle and Commodore—no, acting Rear Admiral—Corvus launched their attack on Haven.
He supposed being relieved of his commission and booted out to fend for himself in the cold of the galaxy was better than being shot out an airlock and left to suffocate in the cold of the galaxy. But for some reason, right now, Hawke didn’t feel like his exile was any better than being spaced. At least if he was dead he couldn’t feel this awful shame, this embarrassment that seemed to be eating him up from the inside, twisting up his guts ... well, it was either the shame or the minty beverage.
Guess that’s why His Eminence, The Grand COG, decided on an early retirement rather than execution, after all, right? Better punishment for my failures to live out my days in humiliation than get the mercy of a quick death.
Hawke grumbled and gestured at the bartender for another shot. Maybe if he just drank enough alcohol, he could drown out this misery … the thought of doing something else besides serving in the Federation with the remainder of his life never even once crossed his mind.
“The station of Haven has been completely destroyed, Beloved Leader,” came Vice Admiral Doyle’s voice through Hawke’s earpiece.
Hawke rolled his eyes. Who cared about the pirates? The Outliers were the real threat to the Federation. How could they not see that? Why wouldn’t anyone listen to him?
The bartender poured a third shot, and Hawke considered the small glass of clear liquid. The pub around him was beginning to get a little spinny, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t gotten drunk since his Academy
days. He was entitled this descent into self-pity, wasn’t he?
He was a miserable failure of a man, after all.
Miserable failure of a Rear Admiral.
Lost the Federation flagship and half its fleet.
Lost the Outliers.
And the pirates.
And Bambi.
And his secret weapon.
With another grumble, Hawke threw back the third shot.
“There’s still an active tracker signal, sir,” came another voice. A female’s voice, hard as steel. Commodore Corvus. Acting Rear Admiral Corvus.
Every time he thought that, it was another knife right into his heart.
The Commodore was an excellent sailor, of course, and she deserved a promotion.
Eventually.
But not like this.
Hawke stared sullenly into his empty shot glass.
“An active tracker signal?” Vice Admiral Doyle asked curiously. “How is that possible?”
“Huh? What?” the Grand COG’s surly tones broke into the conversation. “What’s this about a signal?”
“Beloved Leader,” Anasua said, voice tight, “there is still a tracker signal active. It appears to be with one of the pirate ships we allowed to escape.”
Hawke could clearly hear tones of I told you so in her words, but if the Vice Admiral or His Eminence had heard it, they didn’t acknowledge it. They don’t know her like I do.
“It appears to be coming from … the dog,” Anasua said. “Should we follow it?”
Hawke straightened on his bar stool. “My secret weapon!” he blurted.
The bartender turned toward him, eyebrows raised. “‘Scuse me, mister? Don’t be gettin’ all weird n’ pervy, or I’ll cut ya off. Now settle down … ready for another round?”
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