by Chris Hechtl
She had initially thought of it as an exile. Arnold had disabused her of that notion. Admiral Rico was going to need the support; their initial assessments of Pyrax had been low. If the two flag officers hadn't already moved in to attack Pyrax and the so-called naval force there, the two Derfflingers and their support ships would be a welcome addition to the force.
The navy was changing and evolving rapidly. It had started over a decade ago when some genius had broken through the manufacturing barriers and created industrial workarounds to get around the replicator lock outs. That had finally had the sleeping phoenix crack an eye. But the discovery of El Dorado had been the clarion call to arms.
With the El Dorado, they no longer needed to play as pirates. All the megatons of equipment, ships, and other material carefully arranged in the mothball yards and dozens of orbital warehouse complexes had finally found their true purpose. The shipyards in the home star system were alive and full of terrible purpose. Horath would be the beacon, the shining light to restore order to the galaxy. They would cleanse it of the filth of alien presence once and for all to keep her law abiding subjects safe and secure.
Her ship, like Massachusetts, had been salvaged over a century ago she thought to herself as she stroked a wood bezel around a console. She'd barely limped to the home system with a cobbled-together civilian hyperdrive her salvagers had pulled from a massive bulk super freighter. The engineers at the time had not signed off on her being used again due to her age and cobbled-together repairs.
She had been mothballed like so many of their other collected ships, a sleeping dragon until the genius Leonardo had taught them how to go back to basics and build the parts they needed to refit her. It was a pity the old fool had killed himself and done so much damage. But El Dorado had been the catalyst needed to not only restore the ships to full Federation standards but to also jump-start the growth of the empire, to turn it into a force to be reckoned with.
She had a sterling career to her credit. She had worked her way up through what was considered a man's profession in the tactical track before she had served as the XO on Reprisal. After she had brought in a string of prizes, the lords in the admiralty … her lips quivered a bit in a not quite smile at that turn of thought. They had given her own first command, a gunship in home fleet. She'd hung in there despite what some considered an implied insult, and after doing her duty, she'd been reassigned to a string of hypercapable commands.
The “entertainment and support ship” Sexy Margarita, followed by the frigate Blood, Sex, & Tears, the destroyer Bloody Mary, and then her beloved heavy cruiser Lizzy Borden. She'd assumed someone in the brass had been having a bit of fun at her expense with all the ship names. But she'd gotten to her present position by sheer force of will. Will and talent she thought with a slight preen. Her fingertips traced her collar sensuously for a moment, then unbuttoned the top two buttons. She caught Trisha's look and just shrugged it off. Okay, and maybe a bit of sex here and there, but for a woman that was how the game was played in the empire's navy.
Not that she had to spread her legs anymore. Heaven help any male in equal or lower rank who even hinted about it; she'd castrate them. They'd be lucky to survive an evening as her “guest.”
She knew she was good at her job; she'd racked up a dozen fat juicy prizes on Bloody Mary and Lizzy Borden while patrolling the Sigma sector. Her insistence on sticking to the tactical and command track and not allowing herself to be diverted had paid off; she had plenty of prize money invested in various accounts and businesses.
Those who thought she'd favor her own gender were in for a rude awakening she thought, glancing at Trisha once more. The JTO was good; she had to admit that. But she still needed some fine tuning before she was up to Commander Esenly or her level, a lot of fine tuning. But since her captain excelled in war games, she'd found to her dismay that she'd had to work her pretty little tail off more than she'd expected.
“Ready for another round, Lieutenant?” the captain asked, smiling devilishly at the woman.
“At your command, ma'am,” the young woman replied, doing her curly long blond hair up in a ponytail. She'd expected more women on the Nevada. There were a few in various roles but not many. And of course there were the galley slaves and sex slaves the ships had. Most were beaten down wrecks though, submissive. She pursed her lips. She'd found out the hard way that she couldn't coast on board. She'd also found that the skipper meant for her to exercise her authority regularly with both the enlisted and her junior officers. That she was still working on. The cajoling batting eyes act she'd perfected to get her way just didn't work with them. They had to respect her. In some cases fear her.
Fear was a problem though; the bitch of a captain didn't tack with having a dungeon. Nor did she allow the slaves or any prisoners the ship picked up to be abused. She wasn't certain how to fix that.
Sleeping with the men was also out. Oh, the captain didn't care as long as they weren't enlisted or in her chain of command. But the one time she'd strayed a little too close to home, the skipper had threatened to lock a chastity belt on her. She'd been a lot more selective with her playmates after that.
She surveyed the ship's status board. They were in hyper on their way to SNHH so they couldn't call on the other ships to do some virtual war games. That made everything internal, which meant she was the captain's target.
“I think we'll …,” the captain played with her lip as she ran through a selection of scenarios on her number two screen. “Okay, how about some real fighting since we may run into some Pyrax ships one day. I'll give you a tin can. I'll take … um, I'll take a scout cruiser. We'll see who wins.”
“Yes, ma'am,” Trisha replied, sighing in resignation. Even if the positions had been in reverse, she knew she would have been outclassed. The scenario came up on her repeater boards. She nodded to the noncoms in her department then keyed the sequence alerting them that her station was going into tactical simulator mode. “I'm ready, ma'am,” she said, settling herself.
“Take a moment to get familiar with the surroundings, Lieutenant.”
“Something tells me I'm not going to enjoy this,” the young woman murmured as she scanned the field of battle. The skipper had selected the Pyrax system and had loaded the latest intel they had on the star system. She immediately started to pick out various asteroids to use as fallback cover. Maybe if she got into stealth and used the sun at her back to blind the skipper? She hummed thoughtfully as she came up with a tentative plan.
---<>---<>---
Commander Emilio scowled as he watched the maintenance team tear into the fighters. He hated the F-32 Raptors. If ever the home office had to build a fighter from the ground up, why that one? Sure it was simple, easy to use, and yeah, they had put it into mass production. But the craft was a dog. The maintenance crews loved it since it was easy to tear apart; he crossed his arms as he watched them at work. They had a panel up on the starboard side while two engineers took parts of the engine out and checked them over carefully. Something was gumming up the works in the fuel lines, of that he was certain. Either that or it was another software bug.
He had three squadrons of fighters on his ship and another three on Nevada under Lieutenant Commander Smith. Smith was okay, but he was green. He'd just come up from shuttles. He sighed. At least the senior officers and squadron commanders had the better fighters he thought, looking over to his Emperor class fighter. She was big, twice as big as a Raptor, which was one reason they had fewer fighters on board.
If every fighter had been a Raptor like Captain Post had originally insisted, they could have squeezed five squadrons into each ship. All of the five boat bays made for great room for the fighters. But he'd convinced the skipper to give him his head and let him keep the more advanced fighters. They were tricky to fly and keep running, but he knew their worth. A single exercise with one against an entire squadron of Raptors had proved his point. There had been no contest.
No, what really bugged him was the
squadron of assault shuttles they had in the keel boat bay. That sucked. They sucked up space, time … he scowled. The skipper and maintenance crews might bitch about the Fragmacs, Sabres, Executors, and his lone Emperor, but the shuttles and their crews took up the most room, them and their ordinance and parts. So much room they only had the basic shuttle and cutter compliment, not the AWACS and other craft he had wanted. Not even the specialized Search and Rescue shuttles, or the refuel and rearm boats … he frowned again.
“Something wrong, CAG?”
“Just thinking,” the commander replied. He shook himself. “Woolgathering again I guess. How is it?”
“A fuel line is crimped. At least we think that's the problem,” the deck boss said, holding up a red line. He pointed to the fitting that had been over tightened. “See? And here at the elbow bend?”
The commander took the part and examined it carefully. He saw the crimp but didn't really understand if it was as bad as they said it was. Finally he grunted and handed the part back. “Okay, so do we have a spare?”
“We've got spares, plus spare tube we can bend. We're going to check it before we install it,” the deck boss said.
“Of course. Good man. Keep me posted.”
“Yes, sir. Will do.”
Emilio patted him on the shoulder and then went off to the offices. Each boat bay had its own LSO, Landing Systems Operator, plus an office where the LSO worked from. They didn't have a launch system like a true carrier; craft floated out and then when they were clear of the ship cut in their engines and went on their way. The process ate up fuel though and was hell if they needed to scramble in a hurry.
He'd wanted a real posting on a real carrier, but those were hard to come by in the Empire Navy. Sure, he could have waited, cooled his heels waiting for one of the new carriers to be finished, but he was a pilot. He belonged in the cockpit not behind some damned desk, which was why he'd let the brass talk him into this posting.
Now see he thought with a pang as a rating handed him a tablet. If he'd known it would have been filled with so many damn meetings and paperwork, he would never have allowed himself to get beyond squadron commander. But here he was he thought. He knew that eventually he wouldn't be able to fly anymore. If his eyes didn't bench him, his health eventually would.
He scanned the report, then scribbled his signature and pressed his thumb to the box. After a moment it turned green. He hit send copy to his inbox.
“Sir, are you going to the dinner tonight?” the LSO asked.
“Yes,” he replied, looking up. “If I don't get buried in paperwork first,” he said as the rating departed.
“The fleet runs on paperwork more and more, sir,” Jerry replied with a grin.
“That it does. That it definitely does,” the CAG replied with a grimace. “I knew they should never have promoted me off Star Ravager,” he growled. He couldn't go back either. He'd helped the skipper kick his old ship's ass in the last war game. They were probably waiting for him. Undoubtedly, he had people waiting in the bushes with clubs if he fracked up badly enough. Which meant, he just had to keep his damn nose clean and his pilots trained and on their toes.
“I want the hot wash on the latest sim tonight. Have it in my inbox,” he growled to the LSO.
Jerry grimaced. He was a squadron commander; he did the LSO gig as a side job when he wasn't flying. He nodded.
“Make sure everyone is up on their PT. I'll be spot checking during the week. I want to see the fitness evals bumped up during the next cycle or I'll make everyone miserable.”
“Yes, sir,” Jerry replied dutifully.
---<>---<>---
Captain Arnold Post checked in with the bridge and then nodded to a passing crewman. He was on his way to the officer's wardroom for his regular evening dinner with his senior staff. Unlike many in the navy, he, like Mueller, was a new breed. They didn't casually delve into sadism and sloppiness. Slackness he thought, eying a smudge on a wall. He made a mental note to take the crewman on cleanup duty to task for that. He didn't tolerate it. Nor should he.
The empire was changing, sometimes every day. He'd heard about the patents of nobility. He'd thought he had earned one but apparently not. They were going to the families of those who had served the empire loyally for generations first and foremost. He could understand that. But they had set up a glass ceiling; one that was horribly hard to pierce. In his naive youth, he'd expected to be an admiral now, not still a ship's captain.
Oh sure, Massachusetts was a powerful ship. She'd slaughter just about anything the opposition had; of that he was certain. But he wished, oh how he wished, that she was just a bit faster. Her last series of refits had helped a great deal, but he knew she had a long ways to go before she was up to the former Federation's standards. Some of their advances had been due to the inventor Leonardo, but more had come from a different source. The last round of refits was all due to the cornucopia of material coming from the El Dorado system. He'd heard whispers of it. But it was classified, and the penalties for breaching the security were severe.
He frowned thoughtfully. He'd almost, almost, gotten in. He'd considered an assignment with the fleet protecting that star system and its valuable assets therein. Next to the home system, that was the most valuable in the growing empire. Instead he'd taken on Massachusetts with an eye for the empire war games and eventual combat in Pyrax.
He couldn't help but smile a shark-like smile. It may not have been politically prudent to take down Star Ravenger or Star Warrior in the games, but it had gone a long way to showing his talent. Both ships’ crews would remember the drubbing he and Mueller had given them. No doubt they'd be looking for revenge during the next time they clashed. He was actually looking forward to it.
He hoped Rico and Cartwright hadn't mopped up the Federation star system yet. He had banked on being there, on gaining some of the credit and combat points he would need to continue his rise through the ranks. He frowned thoughtfully.
They were supposed to do a one-month layover in the SNHH star system and then head on up to Nuevo Madrid. Show the flag along the way his orders said. Show the locals what the empire was, what they had achieved, and what they were capable of. That man could again rise from the ashes to greatness under the guiding hand of the emperor. He snorted in disgust. Oh sure, the wedge-shaped behemoths would cow any peasant on the ground if they saw it in the skies above. But he had no intention of lingering that long.
They really should rename the star system. Shit Nothing Happens Here was a mouthful, and the self-pity was pathetic. Something more … majestic he thought. His lips twitched as he toyed with a few ideas before he set the distracting train of thought aside.
A week he thought. Just a week. Long enough to refuel, to show off, and to get his command in order. He had his division: four destroyers, four frigates, one tanker, and the two transports of fresh troops. After all, they were needed at the front. He pursed his lips as he thought of the exact wording he would put in his report. He was fairly confident that Admiral Rico would understand and support his accelerated arrival.
He nodded to the marine sentry outside the wardroom and then entered.
Chapter 11
“Showtime,” Amadeus said softly, rubbing his hands in anticipation as TF22 exited hyper in neat formation. Marshall looked at him from the holo repeater and then away to other things.
The yard dogs had wanted to add a second command chair on to the already crowded bridge. Instead, the small captain's office adjacent to the bridge had been refitted into a small flag bridge for the Admiral instead. The Admiral sat there in that chamber, watching his own repeaters with his flag lieutenant, Jig Jojo Pwaulli. They had a direct line to the captain, AI, CIC, and communication lines to each of the other ships as well as the holographic plot built into the captain's desk.
“Secure from hyper-translation, sir,” the navigator reported. “Sensors are still distorted.”
“I'm trying to compensate for the gravitational lens effect n
ow,” Marshall stated.
“Recon drones are programmed, sir,” the TACO reported.
“Then launch,” the captain said before the admiral could order it, “and the Alert Five fighters when local space is safe. Don't wait for my order, Tactical,” he ordered.
“Aye aye, sir,” the TACO replied with a dutiful nod. He sent out the orders to the boat bay. “Flight 1 recon drones away. Flight 2 is prepped. Alert Five fighters away.”
The admiral nodded. The captain had things under control locally as it should be. He turned his attention to the enemy. His forces were outnumbered in destroyers; they had a Nelson as expected. This could get ugly he thought.
As expected there were four destroyers, two frigates, and five freighters in orbit of the supine planet. Two of the freighters were medium size; the other three were large freighters. One was a Clydesdale that Marshall estimated with a 60 percent probability as the Moldy Crow.
According to Marshall and Jojo's take on their incomplete Horathian war book Naval Intelligence had assembled, the Cutlass class destroyer was the Corsair. That designation was fairly obvious since there weren't that many Cutlass class destroyers left in the area, and all but one were in enemy hands. The Antelope class fast attack destroyer was possibly the McRae, the Tameichi Hara, or the Battle of Samar.
The Nelson had been identified as the Buchaneer's Breath from the gold lettering along her flanks.
Identifying the Arboth class was nearly as impossible as the Antelope. They had narrowed it down to five possible ships: Akatsuki, Porter, Daring, Jean Bart, or Fisher. All five ships had been listed in the empire's home fleet or in the Rho sector and may have gotten to Protodon since their intel was out of date. Marshall had even suggested some of the ships might be new construction. That hadn't been a pleasant thought to consider but one they had to contend with. Plus its implications.