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

by Luke Sky Wachter

  The functionary aide looked appalled.

  “Oh well, your Highness for certain and at least temporarily,” Isaak mouth worked like he’d tasted something sour. “I’m afraid there’s no way around it at this point,” the Governor finished with a sigh.

  “I know I work in the Foreign Office, but I’m afraid the people won’t stand for aligning ourselves with the Tyrant of Cold Space, Mr. President,” Butters shook his head.

  “All that work for nothing, it seems, and now it comes around to bite us at the most inopportune time. Still, that is the price of opportunistic attacks: if they don’t pay off immediately, they tend to have a way of blowing up in your face,” Isaak scowled and then waved a hand in the air as if to disperse a bad smell. “At least Prometheus won’t have any trouble accepting a Royal—especially one still styled a Prince—as a new Warleader they need to follow, what with their storied history of War Princes. And there are others who have hereditary or constitutional royalty to balance out those like the Representative from Pacifica and her Block in the Sector Assembly. As for the people…I assure you: with the proper rehabilitation, they’ll swallow whatever line we need to feed them.”

  “But…why do we need him, Mr. President?” Mr. Beaumont, the military aide asked, thoroughly appalled, “he’s on the Sector’s most wanted list—shoot on sight!”

  “I have to agree with my colleague, Sir,” Butters said tremulously, “what possible reason could this Administration have for aligning itself with a man and organization that cut off the head of an Admiral of the Sector Guard?”

  “Reports from the hidden ComStat network—a network which the Imperials were kind enough to leave us with, Mr. Butters. Unwillingly, yes, but they did just leave it lying there for those who knew where to look,” the President of the Security Council said with a vindictive smile, “if Arnold Janeski, or anyone else, wants to try playing both ends against the middle then he had best think twice before doing it in my Sector—or his secret little ComStat network is the least of his assets that I’ll compromise!”

  The silence in the room hung like a curtain of fog as Sir Isaak sat with his finger steepled before his lips, his eyes darting this way and that in silent contemplation while the aides merely looked on.

  “You were saying how these reports factor in with our need for help from the Tyrant, Governor,” the military attaché said when it became clear Sir Isaak was becoming lost in thought. “All he has is one outdated battleship.”

  The former ambassador gave himself a shake and nodded. “Battleships in the plural, Mr. Beaumont,” Isaak explained. “It seems a certain Confederal Admiral was seen trailing a host of broken and battered battleships behind him on his way back to Tracto…although he didn’t actually stop at Tracto, according to my sources.”

  “Battleships…” the military aid said, leaning back, “just how many are we talking about—and I assume they’re repairable or else we wouldn’t be talking about them, Sir?”

  “This also goes right to…” he scowled, as though he tasted something bitter, “the public rehabilitation of the Montagne. According to my sources, Jason Montagne led his fleet on a rescue mission to liberate Sectors 23 and 24 from Droid rule and while no one there seems to appreciate his services. His effort seems to have turned out surprisingly profitable for our young idealist Prince; to the tune of three or four captured ships of the wall.”

  Now it was Butters’ turn to look appalled. “Surely you can’t mean….?”

  “I would kiss the foot of an evil space god herself if we were about to be invaded, and she had a squadron of battleships at her beck and call,” Isaak said flatly.

  “With a Montagne, that’s just about exactly what you’ll be doing,” Butters said disapprovingly.

  “Remember your place, Mr. Butters, even you are replaceable,” Isaak said, striking the table loudly.

  “I’m sorry, Sir, I forgot myself,” Butters’ breath hissed out.

  “How did you come upon all this information, Sir? If I might ask,” Mr. Beaumont pressed. “I don’t see how a tramp freighter—no matter how loyal, or with whatever intelligence assets were present—could come up with this information, and this doesn’t sound like the kind of information you can just find floating on the com-waves.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself with such minor little details, Mr. Beaumont,” the President said ,briefly placing the pointer-through-ring fingers of his right hand on the table before brushing off some dust, “there are threads running under many doors, if only one knows where to look.”

  “If you’re sure this is the only way…” Beaumont said disapprovingly.

  “This is the President of the Security Council we’re talking about here,” Butters rebuked, sounding offended at the military aide’s lack of support.

  “There’s only one thing that’s important in this kind of situation, you two, and I assure you it is not Jason Montagne,” Isaak laughed bitterly. “The Little Admiral, as he is known amongst his men, is only a temporary stumbling block—an ally of convenience. After we have weathered the storm that this former Imperial Rear Admiral brings, we can most assuredly deal with an uppity little would-be Confederation admiral no matter what his pedigree.”

  “Your confidence gives me confidence, Sir,” Butters said, backing away and soon followed by his fellow from the military side of things.

  “I’m sure it does,” Isaak muttered.

  Chapter Thirty-seven: Imperial Recon and the Raiding Force

  In the dark of space, well beyond the border of the Star System of Prometheus, five destroyers and a lone cruiser patiently lay in wait. Their cohort, an armed freighter—the Imperial spy ship, Brilliant Cargo Gem—slowly trundled its way over the edge of the hyper limit. When it crossed the threshold, the spy ship charged its engines and jumped to the predetermined coordinates for its rendezvous with the Imperial raiding force.

  Until they received the anticipated download, all they had to go off of was the stealthy recon drone platforms—which they had scattered around the Star System.

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

  2 days later

  “What have we got, team?” the Commodore asked, sitting down at the cramped briefing room.

  “We just finished collating the last of the Brilliant Cargo Gem’s data dump with the information we’ve been pulling continuously off the recon drones,” reported Sensors.

  Serge’s eyes cut toward his ship and thus de facto squadron Tactical Officer.

  “The activity of local freighters and of SDF patrols are well within expected parameters. Just the usual, fat, dumb and happy provincial star system, waiting to be plucked,” said Tactical. “The patrols don’t go too far out from the border, and a large minority of the shipping heads out beyond easy sensor range of the System Sensor Platforms in order to disguise its exact jump route from the competition.”

  The Commodore nodded. “Recommendations?” he asked.

  Sensors sat back and looked at Tactical, and the ship’s Executive Officer motioned to Tactical to go first.

  “We work in pairs; modified Panther attacks,” Tactical said decisively.

  “Normally, Panther attacks are singleton missions. But pairs require a commander and a subordinate; Destroyer skippers are notoriously independent minded. They aren’t going to like having another layer of command extended over half the force,” Serge pointed out.

  “That’s why I say ‘modified’,” said Tactical. “We pre-designate a member of each pair as a long claw and a short claw. The short claw micro-jumps on top of the freighter and disables the engines, boards it, and either scuttles it or sends it along with a prize crew back to Tau Ceti. The long claw only goes into action if the freighter escapes, jumping out along its most likely path and giving us a second chance to catch them. The two skippers in each pair won’t have to coordinate much, if at all; they’ll just need to keep to their own assignments and react according to their directives.”

  “In-system a
nd out-system pursuit, with clearly defined responsibilities and a reduced chance to step on any toes,” the Commodore nodded approvingly, “I like it. Afterward, once the SDF starts to get its head out of its rear, we can consolidate and wolf-pack up. We’ll use the five Destroyers as the main strike force, to herd them in, and we’ll eliminate with the Cruiser held in reserve for if the pack bites off more than it can chew.”

  “Yes, sir,” agreed Tactical.

  “I like it,” said the Commodore looking at the young Tactical Officer, “let’s do it. Draw up an operational plan, and have it vetted and on my desk by 0800 tomorrow.”

  “Me, sir?” the Tactical Officer looked surprised.

  “You’re the one who came up with the plan,” the Commodore said, one corner of his mouth turning up.

  The Tactical Officer’s brow furrowed. “Only because I was the first one to speak; I’m sure you or the XO were thinking the same thing or even something better,” protested the Officer.

  “But then we’d have to write up the report,” said the XO with a knowing grin.

  “Never underestimate the amount of paperwork that goes along with authoring an operational plan—especially when after all that work there is no guarantee your commanding officer will use it and not just toss it into the trash bin,” the Commodore agreed. “No more discussion: write up that report, Lieutenant.”

  “Aye, sir,” said the Tactical Officer before standing up, saluting, and hurrying out of the room.

  “He can handle it,” said the XO.

  “Good,” Serge said reaching over and patting the wall of the conference room, “because I sense Warlock’s starting to get a little impatient with all this waiting. It’ll be good to get the old girl out there doing what she does best: killing things.”

  “You humanize the ship too much,” his XO said disapprovingly.

  “A Ship Commander’s prerogative, Commander Curtis,” Serge said, smiling tightly. “When you’ve been in Man’s navy as long as I have, if that’s the worst peccadillo your commander has, you can consider yourself blessed.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight: Return of Tiberius; partings are such sweet sorrow

  The transport deposited Tiberius and the survivors of the Parliamentary Power’s crew—those crew who had been aboard the battleship when it had been illegally seized by Adonia Akantha Zosime—onto the main Space Station in the Tracto Star System and then moved to depart the System as fast as its drives could move it.

  For the men and women with him—each of whom was facing mutiny charges within the MSP Fleet—it was understandably harrowing.

  It really emphasized that they had been not just sacrificed, but actually forgotten by their home world. Tiberius had always prepared himself to die for his planet, if that’s what was needed, but to realize just how little his sacrifice was worth to the people in charge hurt.

  “Chin up, Lieutenant,” said Penelope, the small power-room tech beside him in an upbeat voice, “we’ve been through tougher times than this.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Tiberius replied, not wanting to tell her that they were all just as good as dead for coming back within reach of Jason Montagne’s Fleet.

  “Hope?” she said with patent disapproval. “Don’t you mean, ‘Penelope—you goddess among women, you—of course you’re as right as usual? Or should that be ‘as always’?” she mused putting her hand under her chin and rubbing it as she thought.

  Tiberius laughed, unable to help himself. “Penelope, what am I going to do with you?” he chuckled.

  “Aw, you like it,” she grinned.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but there was a disturbance on the concourse ahead. “If you would just allow me to explain what I need, I promise I’ll be out of your hair in a few minutes, Major,” protested a woman in a Confederation uniform as she hurried alongside a man in an old, Caprian Ground Forces uniform—who was, in turn, being followed by two quads of power-armored Lancers.

  “No, you cannot, Lieutenant Commander,” the Major said cutting her off.

  “But, sir!” she said.

  “Let me guess: you, like every other ship in this star system, wants crew,” he said, causing the female officer to open her mouth in protest—and him to chop his hand through the air, cutting her off again. “No, let me rephrase that: desperately needs crew—trained crew, to be specific, not the uneducated grounders my office referred to you previously. I know this because, while we have several hundred new recruits, there is a decided dearth of trained spacers going around at the moment.”

  “All I need are fifty trained personnel: techs, engineers, and watch standers,” the Lieutenant Commander with the perfectly-poised blonde ponytail said quickly. “I’m more than willing to round out the rest of the crew with unskilled personnel.”

  “Sorry, McKnight, but I really must be going,” the Major said sharply his eyes latching onto Tiberius and his fellow Caprians. “I’m in the middle of serving an arrest warrant. So, if you don’t mind,” he gestured for her to step off, which she reluctantly did, and then stalked toward Tiberius.

  “Ship’s Company, attention,” Tiberius snapped, dropping his bag and drawing himself up into the very pose he had commanded his fellows to assume.

  “How about the brig?” the Lieutenant Commander said desperately. “If they’re trained I’ll take him, her, or it. Even just twenty experienced hands and I can cadre the last ship in the squadron.”

  “For the last time: no! Not only would you need special permissions—” began the Major, turning to face her with a thunderous expression.

  “I have the blanket authority to take any and all volunteers. That includes, but isn’t limited to, those serving time in the brig, a ground-based prison, or even a penal colony. This is a special task force,” the Lieutenant Commander urged, “we made it here but only on back-to-back shifts; we don’t have enough hands to run a ship on patrol long-term.”

  Shaking his head and ignoring the increasingly agitated Lieutenant Commander, he stepped up in front of Tiberius.

  “Senior Lieutenant Terrance Tiberius Spalding,” the Major said, drawing himself up while the Lancers behind him came to attention.

  “That’s me,” Tiberius acknowledged, holding himself at attention.

  “I am Major Geoffry Lafiet. You and your men are hereby placed under arrest for the crime of mutiny in cold space,” the Major informed him.

  ““I don’t ask leniency for myself, but I would request that it be taken into account that my crew was only following my orders,” Tiberius said stiffly.

  “I’ve reviewed your file and I have to say that, if it were up to me, the whole lot of you would be spaced out an airlock in the time it took me to march you from here to the nearest one,” Major Lafiet said dispassionately. “But unfortunately I’m just a Major, and I don’t get to make these calls.”

  “I understand,” Tiberius said levelly. He wasn’t going to collapse into a puddle of goo at the prospect of execution; he had already made his peace with his fate.

  “Rest assured that you’ll get your day in court and, so I’m told, you won’t even be spaced if convicted,” the Major said, leaning in closer. “I don’t know what kind of juice you have, but it’s well-connected pukes like you who caused me to emigrate from Capria. Back in my day, we only had one punishment for mutiny.”

  “I-I don’t,” Tiberius was taken aback by the man’s vehemence. It, combined with the idea that he was a well-connected noble of some kind, had him stammering.

  “A penal colony, you say?” the pushy Lieutenant Commander said, shouldering her way forward past the marine quad. “Are these people trained spacers?”

  “This is not your concern, McKnight!” the Major shouted, finally losing his cool as he rounded on the Fleet Officer.

  “I asked if they were trained spacers, and I’ll do so again; I’m authorized to take former pirates and sweep the penal colonies for trained hands to further my mission,” the Commander shot back, not giving so much as an inch to the
power-armored marine.

  “They haven’t even been tried yet; they’re not eligible,” the Major snapped, giving a twirl of his hand with one finger extended, sending the marines—make that, Lancers—swarming around Tiberius and his people with restraining cuffs ready to be placed about their wrists.

  “That still doesn’t answer my question,” McKnight growled, glaring at the Major before looking at Tiberius and cocking her eyebrow as if to ask him the question. Tiberius felt his heart-rate start to rise at the possibility of avoiding a life sentence on an inhospitable dirtball.

  “Yes,” Tiberius said neutrally, ruthlessly suppressing his surging hope. Because that’s all it was: hope. Maybe if he was lucky, that hope would turn into a chance of some kind, “Most of us are trained engineers, to be exact, but there are a few former shore patrol mixed in.”

  “I’ll take them,” McKnight declared as soon as he had finished.

  “As I said before: they haven’t received their fair trial yet,” the Major growled. “Until that time, they belong to me—and as long as I have them they’ll do nothing but rot in prison.”

  At the Major’s order, the Lancers started to move Tiberius and his men along.

  “What if they stipulate to the charges and file a ‘no contest’ motion?” the Lieutenant Commander called out after them as the Major began to lead the mess of them down the gangway. “Then I could take them and you could get back to your business.”

  “Why in the blazes would you want a bunch of…” he looked down at the data slate, “seventy eight mutineers, to be precise?” Lafiet stopped and turned to stare at the other officer incredulously. “I mean, honestly, McKnight; what’s your angle here?”

  “You let me worry about that. We’ve taken in malcontents, political dissidents, and former pirates along with regular crewmembers. Like I said,” she said pointedly, clearly mimicking the Major’s previous tone as she slapped a computer chip into his hand, “this is a critical mission and my squadron is part of a special recon group. That’s my authorization chip from the Little Admiral himself; you can verify its contents if you’d like.”