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

by Luke Sky Wachter

  When it came to Tracto, and my mom’s organization—which meant Elaine and Akantha—on the surface, at least, my duty was clear. If I couldn’t deal with them myself, then I should tell the galaxy at large about them and just stand back to better watch the enemy battle-fleets appear. Tracto would be occupied or, more likely—considering their insane ground combat power—orbitally bombarded, and my wife and mother would stand trial for treason against the human race.

  My power base would be crippled, of course, but this went way beyond me. Besides, I didn’t think that after turning on everyone I was close to like a rabid wolf, I could allow myself to stay in power. Turning on everyone around you, even family, was the path of Jean Luc—and I refused to be like him.

  “I know you have a lot of things to think about; I’ll go and leave you in peace for a while,” Elaine said, standing up and heading toward the door.

  After she left, the door swished shut and then a few seconds later it swished back open again before closing a second time.

  Footsteps approached where I was sitting. I glanced up to see Duncan Tuttle, the closest thing I’d had to a father and a mentor growing up in the Palace, step over next to me.

  Looking away, I stared at the metal case still lying on my bed.

  Duncan placed a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t know everything that was said in here, but you should understand something: your mother loves you very much,” he said, giving my shoulder a paternal squeeze before letting go and stepping back, “remember that.”

  Duncan stood there for several minutes and, seeing that I clearly didn’t want to talk, he nodded and walked out of the room.

  My mind was a maelstrom as I continued to stare at the walls of the room. Once again, the universe turned out to be entirely different than what I’d expected. I darkly wondered what kind of naïve fool I was, that I couldn’t even see my own mother for who she was—let alone everything else out there.

  I silently ticked off the list of world-altering things I’d come to know in just a short time, all thanks to my vitriolic, hate-filled sister.

  Larry One had been an AI infiltrator who’d suborned my world, preparing Capria for absorption by an AI network, and when that hadn’t worked he had formed the Royal House as a front for an AI-sympathizers network. Parliament had been working behind the scenes for centuries, using every underhanded—and, yes, despicable—tactic they could lay their hands on in order to stop the AI supporters and free our government from its control, even going so far as to ally with another AI faction group in order to orbitally bombard the Summer Palace.

  The Empire—far from being the Empire of Man (as in humans)—was instead the brazen supporter of the Multi-Access Network and its leaders, or at least some very powerful few members of it were secret supporters of the fallen AI network. Logically that meant that, just like my own mother’s organization, they were no doubt trying to pursue a similar agenda of bringing back their peculiar, fallen, data god.

  The Confederation which should have known all of this, if a mere provincial prince and half-arsed Admiral like me could winkle it out. But it had, instead of opposing them, opened their arms and effectively turned control over humanity to the Empire of a fallen AI. This had ostensibly been done so that they could pursue an enhanced standard of living and put more of their budget into social welfare programs, rather than local defense budgets, for the betterment of their citizens.

  Here I was, out on the border of known space with one life-or-death struggle after another, after another, after a-blasted-nother—with nothing to show for it but the dead bodies of those unfortunates who trusted me to keep them safe and alive—and I didn’t have the first clue what was really going on.

  How deeply was Capria’s government infiltrated by these AI supporters? I didn’t know. How much of the Imperial Government was controlled by this type of insane fanatics? Again, I didn’t know. Was the Confederation infiltrated as well? And if not, then where was our blasted support when droids—droids!—were rampaging through two Sectors of human space?!

  Why were we—why was I—the only one seemingly doing anything out in the Spine and trying to hold back the tide?

  I didn’t know. I didn’t bloody well know one blasted thing!. I didn’t even know my own mother was a closet AI-supremacist. I knew nothing, and anyone who relied on a fool like me was an even greater fool themselves.

  I even had to ask if the Spine—the seven Spineward Sectors—had been abandoned because of some long-range, incomprehensibly deep, AI-supremacist plot? Because, more and more, the idea that the Rim Fleet had withdrawn to fight the Gorgons on the other side of the galaxy seem farcical.

  Two years ago, I’d been patting myself on the back for seeing through the Empire’s bigoted humans only propaganda but it seemed the joke was on me. What a great cover. Of course, we’re not AI supporters; we’re the most bigoted, humanist, anti-alien, anti-genetic uplifted, anti-everything-you-can-imagine. Well, that arm that had been perpetually patting its attached back had just been broken.

  I’d officially reached my limit. My mother had picked my sister over me, and my sister wanted me dead. Both were AI supporters, and the official sentence for that particular persuasion was death. Parliament seemingly had every right to persecute not just the Royal Montagne House, but me personally, since I was the genetic reincarnation of an AI infiltrator model.

  If I hadn’t been living in these very shoes myself, I wouldn’t have trusted another me as far as I could spit, much less have left me alive. Moreover, both Capria and the Empire of Man were, or had been in the past, directly controlled by AI supremacists—and the verdict was still out on the Confederation and local Sector governments.

  It was too much. I couldn’t take it anymore. My willpower was crumbling faster than the speed of light, so I reached over and flipped open the clasps of the metal container sitting on my bed. I leaned forward and took a deep whiff of the faintly woody smell wafting out from the box.

  “A pox on it all—and on the rest of known space, too,” I said, setting the auto-lock on my door to Fortress Mode and closing all my com-channels with my personal codes, which were the highest overrides in the fleet. They were going to have to break down my door with explosives to get in here, as I was now officially done with this world.

  Reaching into the case, I pulled out the long-stemmed item secreted within. This was just like the last time the world had revealed I was nothing but a fool who couldn’t get anything right. Only this time, people died left and right with a wave of my hand. I was well and truly finished with all of it.

  So, after adjusting the tension and grabbing the pick, I took a deep breath. My life had officially reached the point that it was very dubious if it was still worth living, which was why I took another deep breath of that woody, varnished smell and then ran the pick over the strings.

  There was only one thing left to do:

  It was time to play the guitar.

  Strumming the instrument and clearing my throat, my unpracticed fingers fumbling the cords, I lifted up a warbly voice and started to sing.

  Even if it took a month of Sundays, I wasn’t coming out of this room until the world felt better and if it never did that meant that if it never did I was just staying inside here.

  “A long, long time ago, in a galaxy far away; there lived a young and stupid boy…” I began. I was never going to be a pop- star, but that reality was perfectly acceptable.

  The rest of it…wasn’t.

  Chapter Thirty-two: Surveying the Clover

  A pair of suited figures, wearing heavy construction work-rigs, burned their control jets drifting around the barebones skeleton of the ship nestled inside the enormous zero-gee construction cradle.

  “She looks good; definitely has potential,” said the old man on the left.

  “Not much to look at just yet,” the less elderly—but still old, by most measures—woman with salt and pepper hair said with markedly lower level of enthusiasm. “I heard the Admiral loc
ked himself in his room and hasn’t come out yet,” she said leadingly.

  “I’m sure he’ll be fine in time,” the old man said dismissively.

  “And if he isn’t?” pressed the woman. “What if he’s had some kind of mental breakdown?”

  “All the more reason for us to be out here, if’n that’s so,” the old man replied stoutly.

  “I don’t follow,” the woman said, clearly perplexed.

  “As soon as she’s finished—or almost so, at any rate—just one look at the girl will be enough to cure whatever malaise of the mind ails him,” the old man said with conviction.

  “That will take years,” the woman exclaimed, sounding a combination of angry, upset and out of patience, “and besides, not everything is all about the Lucky Clover, all the time, Spalding!”

  “Baldwin, my love, your words hurt me,” said the old Engineer, sounding wounded.

  “You’ll hurt a lot more with my boot up your backside,” she cursed, “I’m not your love, and this could be serious; enough playing around.”

  “The Little Admiral’s tougher than you give him credit for,” the old Engineer said, grudgingly doing as she suggested and turning serious.

  “Word’s going to start to spreading throughout the Fleet that something’s wrong,” Baldwin complained.

  “I’m sure whatever he’s doing in there is important, and if it goes on for too long then…well, that’s what Murphy let us invent plasma torches for. We’ll just cut our way in and drag him out,” Spalding said firmly. “But until then the most important thing we’ve got is this baby right down here,” he finished, staring down at the skeleton of the new ship like a mother taking her first look at a newborn.

  “Not for me,” Baldwin said in absolute rejection, “you keep making moon eyes at that big abortion of a ship all you want. Me, I’ve got actual battleships in repair docks that will see the other side of cold space again in months—not years, if I’ve got anything to do with it. Besides, I don’t care what you say or what cockamamie plans you’ve pulled out of the archives; you’ll never be able to power her for proper combat loads. She’ll blow up first—and that’s assuming you even get that far.”

  “Blow up, will she?” huffed the old Engineer with genuine outrage, “Just you wait and see; the Clover lives! And she’ll be the Queen of the battlefield once again. Every piece, every fragment, right down to her backbone will be used. She’ll be the same ship, only better—just you wait and see!”

  “I hate to break it to you, but not only is that a pipe dream; just dismantling a ship and re-using as many parts as you can in a brand new construction, of an entirely different design, is not an upgrade. It’s building an entirely new ship!” Baldwin retorted.

  “Maybe for someone of little faith, and a brain the size of a pea,” Spalding barked, “but no matter how much you malign her, it’ll be the same ship with the same soul inside her. You just mark my words: she’ll fly and be the terror of the space-ways for as long as she lives.”

  “Did you just call me a ‘pea-brain’?” Baldwin snapped.

  “The soul of a Queen, she has, and don’t you forget it when you’re talking about her,” Spalding repeated angrily.

  “You know what? It’s a good thing I’m not actually the love of your life, because it’d sure as Murphy mess up my machines if I dumped the tired old carcass of any man who cared more for his ship than me,” Baldwin said bluntly.

  “Now, that’s not fair,” Spalding protested with heat, “my love for each of you is incomparable to the other. They’re two entirely different things, lass.”

  “Yeah, right,” huffed the female engineer.

  It was a tense and strained silence for the remainder of the survey.

  ****************************************************

  Sitting at the table in the mess area Spalding, poked at the Jiggle-O on his plate trying desperately to remember something. It was just outside of his reach if he could only just recall.

  Then, with a flash, it came to him: ballistics jelly that was the solution to the lander problem!

  “Glenda, it just came to me!” the old Engineer shouted.

  “Are we talking again?” the Yard Manager sniffed, looking away.

  “The solution to the acceleration problem with the Lander: it’s ballistics jelly,” he said, triumphantly pointing at the yellowish Jiggl-O still warbling on his plate.

  “What do you mean ‘lander problem’?” Glenda stared at him skeptically.

  “I mean,” he began impatiently, “that to keep the excessive gravities generated by that kind of acceleration from killing the lander’s crew, the solution is improved grav-plates and ballistics jelly! I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before; I have to head down to the Intelligence half-deck and work on it right away,” he declared, bubbling up with excitement and starting to stand.

  Baldwin’s hand snaked out and grabbed the old Engineer on the arm, arresting his movement before he could clear his legs from beneath the table.

  “You mean the half-deck on the Phoenix, and the lander you built for the Battle for Elysium?” she asked with what seemed like genuine surprise.

  “Yes, exactly,” he agreed with resolve, “I’ve got to get her ready for the battle; I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before!”

  “The battle?” she asked with what seemed like some sort of unfounded concern. “Why do you need to go over there now? We’re on Gambit, and the utility shuttle isn’t free to leave for another half-hour to finish your food. Besides, didn’t you tell me how you already installed that ballistics jelly in the lander and used it for another one of your hair-raising stunts?”

  “What…” Spalding stopped, his head feeling like it had just been hit by a poleaxe. “Yes…of course, I, er…already used the lander and installed it.” For a long moment he looked lost, and then blushed, “Er, what I meant to say was that I needed to make sure her tanks were refilled, and the lander given a proper tune-up—in case we need it again,” he said, trying to cover up his gaff.

  “Uh-huh,” she said, concern turning to worry before being quickly covered up, “you know what, maybe it’s time you and me headed on over to medical for a routine checkup? I was looking at your file and it says you haven’t seen a doctor since you left the medical facility when they saved your life and,” she waved a hand at his mechanical appendages, “borged you up—much less performed a routine physical.”

  Spalding drew back with alarm. “I’ll put myself under the care of those butchers what took my arms and my legs, and left me with metal parts—squeaky parts, at that!—the next time the primary in this system goes supernova,” he refused forcefully. “I’ve just been working a few too many hours is all. A good night’s rest and I’ll be fit as a fiddle.”

  “Are you sure? Because I really think…’ she said, clearly trying to convince him but Spalding was adamant.

  No matter how much she poked and prodded, he planned to die before willingly going back into the care of that quack Presbyter and his team of second-rate butchers. Why, if some part of his new parts malfunctioned, he was better equipped than the lot of those medical morons in fixing it himself!

  Eventually, they separated and went their own ways.

  Chapter Thirty-three: Tiberius Revoked

  Stepping out of the interrogation chamber Lieutenant Terrance Tiberius Spalding felt as if his bones were wobbling loose from their joints, and his head was stuffed with cotton.

  He’d been pumped for 72 hours straight. First he had turned in his written report. Then he’d been verbally questioned. After that, the interrogation had begun and when they hadn’t liked his answers they’d pumped him full of chemical agents and questioned him to within an inch of his life.

  However, other than being a Parliamentary Officer who believed in democracy first and always, in a newly Royal-ized SDF he hadn’t actually done anything wrong. Not that that would save him if they were really looking for a scape-goat, of course.

  He o
nly realized that a pair of marine guards was on either side of him after the corporal cleared his throat.

  “Another interrogation?” Tiberius asked with despair. “Who is it that wants a piece of me this time, the inspector general of stores and consumables?”

  “This way, Lieutenant,” the Marine Corporal said, pointedly failing to answer the question.

  “I serve at the pleasure of the SDF,” Tiberius said faintly. He only hoped that this day that never ended would be over soon. Blast it, all he’d done was try to defend his ship and keep her out of the hands of Jason Montagne and that pirate-princess of his. He’d done nothing wrong!

  He was ushered into the office of Admiral Pierre T. Anjou, Commander of the System Defense Fleet.

  Because his head still felt stuffed full of interrogation drugs—even though they’d been officially cleared from his system—it took Tiberius a belated moment to remember to salute.

  “Lieutenant Terrance Tiberius Spalding, Caprian SDF, reporting for duty, Admiral,” Tiberius said, dragging himself up into an attention posture through sheer force of will, “and can I say it’s good to be back.”

  “Lieutenant,” acknowledged the Admiral, indicating a chair with a short wave of his hand.

  Tiberius gratefully collapsed into it with an involuntary groan.

  The Admiral frowned. “While I’m grateful for the intel you’ve provided our intelligence services, I am confused about one thing, Lieutenant,” Admiral Anjou said, “maybe you could help me clear that up.”

  Giving himself a shake, the engineer did his best to straighten up.

  “What is it, Sir?” he asked as cautiously as a man who felt like he belonged in a bed—or the grave, and he wasn’t feeling particularly choosy—could manage right at that moment.

  “I’m curious as to just exactly why you took it upon yourself to return to Capria?” said the Admiral.