Admiral's Challenge (A Spineward Sectors Novel: Book 8)

by Luke Sky Wachter

  My face hardened as I realized that if there was one thing to take away from the Droid Campaign, it was this: the way this Fleet was treated by the galactic community was going to change. Thanks to the Battle for Elysium, we now had the firepower—or at least we would after our battered, crippled new battleships were repaired, and thankfully we now had the crew. We still lacked the horde of bodies required to man our relatively outdated ships—although we had a few more of those every day, too. No, it was something much more intangible but, after a couple years in the big chair, I knew what we had gained was vastly more important than simple numbers: we now had genuine members of the Confederation Fleet. True, they’d been listed as missing or presumed dead but that was only because their ships had been shot out from under them patrolling and protecting the border of known space. What’s more, Leonora Hammer was right.

  “We’ve done the time, we’ve got the firepower, or will shortly, and we now have genuine confederation personnel in this Confederation Fleet,” I muttered under my breath. And as far as I was concerned that last one said it all. The lie had become reality. We were no longer a Confederation Fleet that existed solely on paper. Some of the Confederation survivors had even been the Captains or Executive Officers of their warships, and when all our new prizes were repaired I was determined that this fleet was going to have actual Confederation Captains with Confederation Crews inside the Confederation’s Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet.

  As for my part, I’d just saved two Sectors of human space. Not all by myself, of course, but without me the Droids would be exterminating entire planetary populations at this point. If that didn’t legitimize the paper commission I’d received then nothing would, and either way I was done worrying about it. The time to quietly standby and take grief because we weren’t legitimate was over. The MSP was here and it was here to stay, and woe betide the blighters who thought they could mess with Admiral Jason Montagne and the MSP.

  Such deep and dire thoughts accompanied me until after we were deep in system.

  “We’re being hailed by the Belters and the Planet, Captain, and it’s addressed to the Admiral and the Fleet,” reported Lieutenant Steiner.

  “Then by all means, put it on,” Captain Hammer said with a professional nod.

  “Welcome back to Tracto, and it looks like you’ve brought back extras. From the inhabitants of this Star System: you’ve been missed. End message,” said Steiner.

  “It’s good to be back,” I said, a faint smile plucking at the corners of my mouth.

  Seeing me smiling, the crew of the bridge took that as an excuse and burst out into cheers.

  Yes, we were definitely home.

  Chapter Twelve: Some Rest and Reorganization

  “This supply list looks surprisingly good,” I commented with surprise, “there’s definitely more here than I expected.”

  The thin-boned man in front of me swelled with surprise.

  “Made most of that ourselves,” he boasted and then looked at me seriously, “well, between ourselves and the colony planet side we did. Of course, mining in space is a heavy industry without as much wiggle room as you’d think for extras. But since we’re hard-loading Trillium here, there’s more slop than you’d think. It’s harder on the men, women, and equipment but the margins don’t even compare; that’s why we can get the extra stuff and built up a supply dump.”

  “Even so, the military supplies…not to mention enough vacuum-packed meals to feed a fleet…” I whistled through my teeth.

  “With the military supplies we can’t always make those ourselves, except as one-offs here and there for damaged parts. Not full-on production runs,” he explained with a wink, “so I might’ve talked that hidden yard of yours into running over a couple freighter loads of materials just in case you came back here first—like you did—and were in need of repairs and spare parts. Which,” he added proudly, “it seems you are. Just made common sense to me is all. Couldn’t hurt and might help I say.”

  “It helps a great deal, Station Master!” I said with a grin spreading across my face. “In truth, we can use everything you can spare. I’m afraid after this is over, that your supply dump of extra supplies is going to be emptied out. This Fleet needs a lot more than just supplies and spare parts but, I’m not going to lie, this is a really pleasant surprise. Well done.”

  “I’m just a rock-jockey at heart,” the Belter Station Master and the man in charge of both running Tracto’s main—previously only—orbital space station and coordinating the mining efforts of an entire star system demurred.

  “In fact, you’ve done so well I’m thinking about leaving behind a few lighter warships to fill out those nice new repair slips you’ve built up while we’ve been gone. They can help supplement the Tracto-an Defense Force while we’re gone,” I said with a decisive nod, and then slid over the data slate I’d prepared in advance, with the expectation that this meeting would turn out how it had. “I mean after they’re repaired, of course. It’ll also let us shuffle around the crews a bit and give a few of the more deserving a chance at some extended R&R with their families.”

  “I think we can handle a few light warships in our repair slips, if you’re of a mind for it, Protector Montagne,” the Belter said cautiously, stopping to look down at the list I’d just handed him as the invisible gears behind his eyes churned for a while before he finally gave a decisive nod and looked back up at me with certainty in his face. “We can do it.”

  “Good man,” I said, leaning back in my chair and about ready to wrap things up. I had another meeting, this one with the head of the Tracto-an recruitment and personnel offices.

  The Station Master coughed to regain my attention.

  “Yes?” I asked, drawing out the word as I looked back with a blink.

  “Seven corvettes and three cutters is a bit of a load, and frankly we don’t have the slips unless we queue them up,” the Station Master explained, his worries about repair times clear.

  “Every little bit helps. The fact is we’re not going to have the time, the slips, or the work crews to get everything done back at Gambit,” I said easily. “Plus, as I understand it, several of the ships we’ll be leaving are write-offs which you can use for spare parts or whatever serves best. Just look at the files and check with Chief Engineer, Commander Terrence Spalding—not the son, Tiberius—before breaking any of them down. I’m not expecting miracles here, but however fast or slow you can work is going to be faster than we could do if we were hauling them back to the yards with us. These new battleships of ours, don’t you know,” I finished with the expression of a cat who got the cream, and I knew it, but still wasn’t able to stop myself. When this was all said and done, I was going to have two squadrons of battleships—or as close to it as made no difference to me. After those ships were in harness, back up and running, the rest of this Sector—and anyone in the Spine who wanted to cause trouble—had better watch out!

  “Like I said, Protector; we’re a lot better at cracking rocks open and taking ships apart, but we’ll do our best,” the Station Master took a deep breath. “I hope that you’ll let us spread out the work some with those new arrivals in geo- on the other side of the planet.”

  “Geo-?” I said momentarily stumped until I looked at the sensor feed of Tracto and realized he was talking about the new Orbital Factory that had moved into ‘geosynchronous orbit’ over on the other side of Tracto Prime.

  The Station Master paused to pick up his coffee and take a chug.

  I splayed my hands “Ah, you mean the Sundered Complex…” I paused for a second and then shrugged, “Actually, a couple of the ships I was planning to leave here are Sundered Corvettes, so I’m pretty sure they’ll prefer working with their own people unless they need help. So, by all means, utilize them whenever you can. I’m hoping you can manage to work closely with them and speed up the repair schedule.”

  “I’ll work on it, Protector,” said the Belter with an expressionless face. “I’m sure we can work somethin
g out with the Uplifts.”

  “In fact…now that you mention it,” I said, rubbing my chin as I thought intently, “I think I’ll just turn over one of the captured corvettes to them directly.”

  The Station Master grunted and I looked over and pierced him with my eyes. I didn’t have time to play any ‘anti-Uplift’ games.

  “The Sundered under Commander Glue are stalwart allies who sacrificed one of their three warships in the cause of our campaign to save the people of Sectors 23 and 24. So while I can’t bring back the personnel, I’m more than happy to replace the lost hardware. Their sacrifices for the common good will be respected. Do you understand what I’m saying?” I demanded in a tight, but measured voice as I looked at the Belter levelly.

  “I’ve no problem with them’s as look funny,” the Station Master said raising his hand, “when you’re out in the black, mining in the cold of space, it’s not what a man looks like that matters—it’s what he does when there’s trouble. Out here, we don’t have time for grounder politics. The stories I could tell you…” he said with a dark look before shaking his head. “Anyway, the way I see it is that we all need air to breath, and the blood that comes out in a decompression event is the same color no matter what a person looks like on the outside. Might even be a few rock-jockeys’ve been modified for zero-g or low-atmo conditions, ourselves,” the Belter said cautiously.

  “Well that’s good…very pragmatic of you, even,” I said, pleased with what I was hearing because it didn’t sound like the leader of the Belters—whatever the space population in general really thought—was going to be making any waves. Of course, that didn’t mean the next thing I needed to say wasn’t going to lodge sideways in his craw.

  But before I could get to the inconvenient truth of the Droids that were about to take up residence in Tracto, the Station Master interrupted.

  “By the way, Sir,” he hazarded, “what do you want to do about all the new recruits and those extra ships? We’ve got a couple thousand recruits hot-bunking up here on the station, as some of the freighters were on a tight schedule and couldn’t stick around but even more of them are quartered down on the planet if they aren’t still on the freighters up here in orbit.”

  “Why aren’t the recruits at Gambit?” I asked.

  “Some of them say they’re here to join the Confederation Fleet, and others are supposed to be part of some Border Alliance Space Guard or something of that nature, but they all agree they’re here because they want to protect their home worlds.”

  I frowned. I’d known about the freighters and a couple of corvettes sent by worlds of the Border Worlds Alliance—assuming the Delegates could ever get around to finishing their draft of the Alliance Charter—but thousands of recruits both up here and down on the surface hadn’t been included in the brief yet.

  “Ah, of course,” I said to cover for my earlier lack of knowledge, “we’ll probably be taking them with us, or at least some of them. Give them a shakedown cruise….” I trailed off, wondering if the delegates were going to cause more trouble or disregarding them, what kind of trouble a bunch of green space hands could do on a bunch of rickety run down, battered ships. Maybe it would be wiser to bring them over by freighter and let them work up on ships that weren’t moving and thus had a lower chance of blowing up because some greenhorn pulled the wrong lever?

  “Just so long as we can offload them; it’s not that we can’t manage, but the strain on environmental isn’t something to sniff at either,” said the Station Master.

  Looking at him, and deciding to head off any searching questions about actual schedules and timeframes on taking those recruits off his hands, I decided to bite the bullet and change the subject.

  “By the way,” I coughed into my fist, “when we were on campaign, we ran into a few problems and had to secure some help and new…allies. They’ll be staying here after we leave…or, at least, some of them will.”

  “Okay…” the Belter said cautiously after I ground to halt wondering exactly how to put this.

  Deciding to throw caution to the wind and just say it straight, I made the firm resolution to blame Akantha as much as I could and just struggle through it.

  “So. Anyway. the price of their help in shooting up the Droid Tribes invading Sectors 23 and 24 was an asteroid or planetoid of some size still to be determined, and a protected zone within Tracto to set up a colony…or, erm, whatever they call it. They’ve got a few ships—warships, of course—in addition to freighters and that big Constructor that came here with us,” I explained firmly and the Belter nodded along, to show he followed so far.

  “We’ll do the best we can to find them a right spot and coordinate so the mining isn’t slowed up any,” the Station Master said cautiously.

  “Excellent,” I said with relief, even though I knew he didn’t have the slightest clue what he was agreeing too, “anyway, like I said, they’ve signed a treaty with Hold Mistress Akantha, and agreed to her office’s settling any disputes. So since they’re her allies…or vassals…or whatever they’re called, I want you to make sure these Droids are treated well while minimizing any potential points of conflict from our naturally distrustful human population.”

  The Belter was nodding along in understanding until suddenly he wasn’t and his jaw dropped.

  “Droids?” he asked dumbfounded.

  “’United Sentient Assembly,’ I believe they’re called,” I said helpfully, as if I didn’t know for a fact just about everything we could determine about our new allies. “Anyway, since the Lady’s brought them in under her auspices and they’ve been nothing but helpful, I don’t see what we can do other than follow along with her wishes,” I finished, throwing my wife under the bus as quickly and efficiently as possible in order to save myself. Unimportant factoids—like me sending out ambassadors to try and paralyze the U.S.A. participation in the invasion and that I’d suggested they make a deal with Akantha because I couldn’t as a Confederation Officer—didn’t.

  “The Hold Mistress,” the Station Master said as if in a daze, “but…but…Droids? Here—in Tracto?!”

  “Like I said,” I repeated, rising to my feet and gathering up my things, “if you have any issues or concerns that need to be resolved, make sure to take them up with her ladyship or her personal representatives directly,” I finished, beating a hasty—if measured—retreat out of the conference room.

  “Admiral, wait!” he called out just as the door cycled closed.

  Not wanting to wait around to answer any number of his quite reasonable questions about the new arrangement I beat feet toward the nearest turbo-lift, my quad of power-armored guards close behind.

  I was tired of being the person who always had to deal with headaches. This seemed like a good issue to pawn off on my wife and, what’s more, it was potentially something that could even help keep her out of trouble—read; forcing her to do something that, unlike sword fights and gun battles, wouldn’t directly threaten to harm the babies growing inside her.

  Whistling a merry tune, I headed off to my next meeting.

  Chapter Thirteen: New Men, New Ships, Old Spalding

  “So, in short, we’ve got another three thousand would-be Lancers but only about two thousand from the professional warrior class on planet,” explained the Personnel Officer, a retired Caprian officer who’d headed out to colonize a new world and ended up on Tracto instead—and with more trouble than he’d bargained for in the process. “The rest are from the servants or workers, and most of them aren’t as well-fed or educated…although it’s not like you could call any of the ‘trained warriors’ educated, but at least they’re skilled in other ways. So what I’m thinking is we shift a few of them around to other departments at need, and the non-warrior caste ones wouldn’t complain too loudly. Just dangle the chance to join the Lancers at a later date and most of them will jump at the chance.”

  “I see,” I grunted noncommittally.

  The aging Recruitment Officer heaved a deep breath. “
As for the other recruits floating around this star system, I’ve got more on my plate than I can handle and that’s the space gods honest truth. They’re coming out of our ears over here. I’ll be real glad when I can hand them off to you, Sir,” the formerly retired Major Geoffry Lafiet said with relief—which was, of course, unsurprising since it was always preferable when you could hand off your problems to someone else. “Almost makes me wish I was working commission-based, don-cha know?”

  “I do indeed,” I allowed with a smirk at the idea of paying a head hunting bounty on thousands and thousands of new recruits for the Star Fleet. It almost sounded like a better job than this Admirals gig I seemed to be stuck with except for one little inconvenient detail. I probably wouldn’t like working under the orders of someone else.

  “Well, I’m happy enough being able to ferry up and down at will. Two weeks on and one week off makes it just about so the missus is happy to see me coming and just as happy to see me going, if you catch my drift,” Major Lafiet explained.

  Pulling up his tablet, he tapped away and then nodded with satisfaction, pulling a file with charts and number details and putting it up on the conference room screen.

  “As you can see, we’ve got 2,237 likely boys and girls hot-bunking up here on the station, thanks to the Station Master. They’ve been sorted for priority skills and training so that if the young master,” he nodded to me, “happened to need manpower at the hurry, the best and brightest of the recruits would be available for immediate use.”