Admiral's Fall

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “It’s a good thing that you did not do what you might have done and questioned the actions of our glorious leaders in the assembly,” Rogers said, a very serious expression on his face as he looked at his commander.

  “Glorious Leaders!” Manning scoffed.

  “This is a time of turmoil and our faction has lost power in recent months. A comment like that, if it reached the wrong ears at the wrong time, would be enough to see you replaced as Grand Admiral and sent home in disgrace,” Senior Captain Rogers said bluntly.

  “Then it’s fortunate I have you and the crew of my flagship, all loyal spacers of Elysium, to keep my indiscretions private,” Manning joked.

  “You’re the only one who finds this situation humorous. One misstep and Isaak’s stooge will control the fleet, Sir,” warned Rogers.

  “They wouldn’t dare,” Admiral Manning scoffed, “the only battle-tested fleet commanders they have at their beck and call at the moment are myself and Jason Montagne. And they just burnt that last bridge when they fired the little Admiral. No. They have no choice. Maybe if they’d waited until the Glorious Fleet was defeated…but they didn’t and thus they can’t do anything to me while Old Confederation forces still occupy Aegis and even more are wandering around who knows where in the Spine.”

  “By your own example the politicians currently in charge of the Spineward Sectors don’t know up from down or good from bad, demonstrated by their firing a successful fleet commander before the campaign is over. One major battle and the little Admiral was given the boot. What’s to say another similar outbreak of stupidity won’t occur to you at their earliest convenience?” warned Rogers.

  Manning looked over at him discommoded. “They wouldn’t dare,” he said sternly.

  His Chief of Staff simply looked at him levelly. “Elysium is far away. The Spineward Assembly is close and both of our Sectors are in disarray. By the time word reached home and came back…” Rogers trailed off.

  “Elysium cannot negotiate benefits from a position of weakness,” Manning sighed.

  “Well there is one bright light in all of this,” Rogers finally said. Admiral Manning looked at him questioningly. “Trillium production is starting to recover back home, and I can’t imagine Tracto is going to be so overjoyed by their Little Admiral’s treatment that they’ll open the flood gates and start selling even more trillium,” said the Senior Captain.

  “If anything they’ll increase the price. Which will help us back home,” said Admiral Manning, “I mean that’s if Jason Montagne is petty enough to hike the price while the Old Confederation is still running around in his home Sector.”

  The two men shared a suddenly uneasy look.

  “Only time will tell,” Manning said. He knew if he were as badly maligned in the media as Jason Montagne he wouldn’t be prepared to do anyone any favors.

  “Point Transfer successful,” reported Beecher’s flag navigator.

  “Did we arrive at the designated coordinates?” asked Flag Tactician Monica P. Comet-Buster.

  There was a short pause as the Navigator verified their location.

  “Yes, Lieutenant Commander Comet Buster,” the Navigator informed the female officer respectfully. At five foot three, Monica Comet Buster was an average height, average weight woman with short legs, rounded hips and a mess of wavy auburn hair that was at least four inches longer than regulation.

  Not that anyone on the flag bridge cared overly much about military regulations. On Vice Admiral Beecher’s flagship, the Indigent Bruiser, regulations were considered to be more guidelines than anything else.

  “Thank you. Please give me a ship count as soon as you have it,” instructed the Flag Tactician, pulling her hair back behind her head and tying it together with a scrunchie.

  “Will do, Sir,” said the Navigator.

  “A ship count?” Vice Admiral Beecher asked, finally unable to maintain his silence any longer. “Are you expecting even more of the traitors to have slipped away from the fleet after this jump?”

  “No one wants to bet their lives on a loser, Vice Admiral,” Flag Tactician Monica P Comet Buster said, rolling her eyes,

  It took the Vice Admiral a moment to realize what she was saying and then he flushed. “What in the yellow blazes are you implying, Fleet Tactician?” Beecher exclaimed with anger.

  “I’m not implying anything. I’m outright saying this has nothing to do with me and everything to do with you. This fleet doesn’t know me from Eve,” mocked Monica Comet Buster.

  “It’s one thing to air your personal grievances in private but I’m paying more than enough to expect a little bit of courtesy on the bridge of my own flagship,” Beecher snapped.

  “There it is in a nutshell. The very reason we left from Black Purgatory with 132 warships and after our last jump we went down to 124. We’ve been losing ships each and every point transfer and it wouldn’t surprise me if we’re down to the one hundred and low teens after this last one. All because you have no concept of what it means to serve on a military vessel,” Comet Buster said flatly.

  “Listen up, woman, I may have made a few mistakes along the way but I’ve had it up to here with you using your trained woman’s privilege to talk down to me,” snarled Beecher.

  “My trained woman’s privilege??” Monica Comet-Buster asked with disbelief. “What are you on? It must be something really good because what you’re saying has literally nothing at all to do with our current situation.”

  Admiral Beecher sneered. “If you want to use your traditional binary gender and the fact you’re trained to a professional level to try to talk down to me, think again! Not only am I your superior officer, and I’m also rich,” Beecher preened. “In short, I,” he said with heavy emphasis, “am all privileged up.”

  “And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why the Vice Admiral is still very distressingly single,” Monica Comet Buster said with disgust, “all he can do is whine, say how important he is, and try to hit people with his money stick.”

  “If I didn’t need your particular skills so very badly at this moment, you’d be out of here,” Beecher sneered, “next time I’m going to hire more than one of you.”

  “Best of luck with that,” sniffed Monica Comet Buster.

  She turned back to look over the bridge, and once again verified the task force had jumped far enough away from the star system that it was unlikely anyone in the Hart’s World System had realized there was a fleet of…

  She looked over and checked the verified count. There were now 112 warships under Vice Admiral Beecher’s command and no new ships had arrived for the past several minutes. In her estimation, it was likely the other 12 warships had decided serving under Beecher was a life-shortening option and decided to make their way through the Overton Expanse and back to the Confederation heartland Sectors by themselves.

  Not that she blamed them. Given half a chance, if she were honest, she probably would have joined them. A more useless excuse for an officer—or even just for a man—she’d never had the displeasure of serving with, under, or around. Unfortunately she didn’t have that chance, which meant it was up to her to make sure Beecher’s Task Force survived long enough for its crew to get back home.

  “Alright. Set sensors to passive scans only throughout the fleet and I want to be notified at once the moment the local fleet jumps in. Understand?” she asked sharply before emphasizing, “The moment we have them identified I want to be notified. I don’t care if I’m sleeping, showering or having my way with an Ensign. I want to be on the bridge ASAP.”

  “Will do, Lieutenant Commander,” said the Sensor Officer.

  “Then we’re done here,” Monica Comet Buster said, turning and leaving the bridge.

  “Cheeky,” Beecher muttered under his breath as soon as the blast doors had closed behind the Fleet Tactician. Then he glared at the Fleet Sensor Officer, “Notify the Fleet Tactician but call me first. I’ll want to be here and will need time to change back into my uniform before the battle
starts,” he instructed.

  “You’re the Admiral,” the officer said respectfully.

  Beecher smiled widely. “I am, aren’t I?” he said, popping a grape into his mouth and chewing it before heading off the bridge and back to his private gym. Command was stressful and he needed to put in at least a half hour of swimming each day if he was going to maintain his cardio. Even top of the line Confederation medical treatments only went so far.

  “Point Transfer,” the Navigation Officer reported the moment they arrived outside the hyper limit of Hart’s World.

  “Thank the universe for small favors,” Admiral Manning said with relief.

  He’d fought droids before and commanded a fleet in a battle to the death, but having the fate of seven Sectors resting on his shoulders had worn on him—particularly since just 72 of the 78 relatively undamaged ships in his fleet had also been towing another warship with them through hyperspace.

  Beyond them were another 31 warships considered too heavily damaged to risk jumping through hyperspace with an additional load. The rest of the ships had been too heavily damaged to take home, and were abandoned in place or left in the care of Grand Admiral (suspended) Jason Montagne.

  Not that Manning thought it very likely that if, and presumably when, the Confederation Fleet got back around to retrieving them they’d still be there. Jason Montagne was notorious throughout the Spine for his sticky fingers. Manning wouldn’t put it past the man to jump back in after First Fleet point transferred out and retrieve them.

  With the ‘Little Admiral’ anything was possible.

  Not that any of that mattered now. The important thing was to hand over the ships in his care, both damaged Spineward Sectors warships and captured Old Confederation hulls, to the Hart’s World space yards. Hopefully the New Confederation could learn a few things that would help them in the war effort and even more importantly get those hulls back into service before they were needed again. Though that scenario seemed unlikely to the new top commander of the New Confederation fleet.

  “Set course for Hart’s World. Nice and steady, Helm,” said Manning, more concerned with losing a ship along the way to patchwork-rigged engines than he was with shaving a few minutes off the move in system. They’d waited several days already they could wait a few more hours.

  “Aye aye, Admiral. Nice and steady it is,” said the Helmsman.

  Manning opened a com-channel. “This is the Grand Admiral; form up on the flag and adjust to our course and speed,” he ordered.

  After he received acknowledgment from the rest of the ships in his fleet Manning sat back in his chair.

  He was going to feel a lot more comfortable once this fleet was beyond the hyper limit.

  “They came here just like you predicted, Sir,” Tactical Comet Buster said with a fox-like expression.

  Justin Beecher smirked contentedly, patting the flat tire around his midsection. “All in a day’s work for a superior intellect like myself. Take them out for me, Tactician, and you’ll receive a bonus on the order of a quarter of a million credits,” he urged, eager to incentivize his hired tactician and win this battle quickly.

  Monica Comet Buster turned away but not before a grimace could be seen on her face.

  When she turned back there was only an eager expression on her face.

  “I’ll hold you to that promise, Admiral Beecher,” she warned.

  “Win me this battle and I’ll make enough from my share of the prize values, after they are turned over to the courts, to pay your fee a hundred times over,” Justin Beecher said uncaringly.

  Monica Comet Buster shrugged. It didn’t matter to her who paid her. All she was interested in was the bonus…

  Who was she kidding? No Tactical Officer in her right mind would fail to be eager at a chance to prove her skills on the grand stage of the largest police action the Confederation had engaged in during the past millennium. She knew this was true because when she’d looked it up the last time the Confederation had a similarly-sized police action had been all the way back when the Man not Machine Movement had finally stood on principle.

  Monica Comet Buster knew the destruction of the then pro-slavery league had been just as hard, back in its day, as returning the Spineward Sectors to civilized space was proving to be now. But just as the Old Confederation had stood on principle when they committed a quick, thorough and long past due mechanocide, so too would the Spineward Sectors be returned to the welcoming arms of civilized space after the local space militias had been put thoroughly in their place.

  Well, sooner or later at any rate.

  She grimaced. She had hoped the Imperials would forego the mandatory decades of reeducation they required when uncivilized planets were brought into their empire. After all, even though she didn’t agree with handing the Spineward Sectors over to the Empire, they were still 7 Sectors of civilized space, not some space barbarian’s pocket empire.

  But such considerations were above her pay grade. All she could do was ensure the Spine was brought back into the welcoming arms of known space as quickly and painlessly as possible and to do that she needed to defeat their fleet here and bring just enough pain to their Core Worlds to force a capitulation.

  The latter was beyond her powers, but as for the former... She smiled tightly.

  “It’s time to break out of silent running. Please inform Task Force Beecher it is time we initiated plan Alpha One and spin up the hyper drives, Admiral,” said the Lieutenant Commander.

  “You heard the Fleet Tactician,” Justin Beecher said with a yawn and then, removing his smart looking but slightly itchy Confederation Vice Admiral’s helmet, he waved the bridge a short goodbye. “Communications, you are to relay the Fleet Tactician’s instructions to the rest of the fleet as if they were my own orders. In the meantime,” he paused to stretch his back which had started to cramp after sitting in the Admiral’s chair for too long, “I’m going to go and take a short swim to get the blood flowing. I want to be at my best when it’s time to put the kibosh on the locals.”

  Pulling an apple out of his pocket and taking a satisfying crunch out of the fruit, he headed to the lift. Spinning the apple in the air and catching it with ease, he left the bridge with a spring in his step.

  During the last battle he hadn’t had the time to properly showcase the vast array of talent he’d assembled underneath him. But now that Senator Cornwallis was out of the way it was time for men like himself, Justin Beecher, to show their worth and shine.

  Unaware of the appalled looks shared by the bridge crew behind him, the Vice Admiral was already anticipating the speech he would give and the accolades he would receive the day he came home.

  Reaching the gym, he changed his clothes and dived into the small swimming pool that was a perk of which only the Admiral and certain favored or high ranking officers aboard his flagship could avail.

  With vigorous strokes, he started swimming back and forth.

  “What do you mean he’s not there!” shrieked Melissa March, thrusting a finger at the holo-pick up until she was actually touching the receiver and consequentially darkening much of the screen of the person she was speaking to.

  She was currently on com-channel with Monica Comet Buster, the so-called Fleet Tactician.

  “I’m sorry, Front Admiral, but I really don’t know what to say,” Monica said helplessly. “The Vice Admiral said he had pressing matters to attend and left me in charge while he was busy arranging things.”

  Front Admiral March’s voice had just begun to reach the level of an outraged, yet still very wordless, screech when she suddenly broke off mid high note as if something transformative had just occurred to her.

  “You mean he’s on a conference call with the locals don’t you?” the Front Admiral asked with a cunning look suddenly in her eye.

  Monica Comet Buster was taken aback. “I can neither confirm nor deny any such allegation, Front Admiral,” she finally said in a slow voice, as if she carefully considered each and ever
y word before saying it.

  “There’s nothing else Admiral Beecher could be doing that was important enough for him to vacate his flag bridge mere minutes before we plunge ourselves into combat with a short jump. It has to be secret negotiations” Admiral March said dismissively. She then bestowed a penetrating look upon the Fleet Tactician. “You tell Beecher whatever he’s up to, I want a cut of it. You hear me, Tactician,” she snapped.

  The Lieutenant Commander started to speak, paused and then started over again. “I will relay your message to the Vice Admiral,” Comet Buster said, suppressing a snort.

  “See that you do! And don’t get us killed in the meantime or your appointment won’t mean spit. I’ll take command of the fleet if Beecher takes too long bludgeoning the Spineward idiots in this Sector into submission,” said Melissa March.

  “Again, I can neither confirm or deny but I will pass along your message to the Admiral, Admiral,” she replied.

  Five minutes later, while the Vice Admiral was still in the middle of a vigorous workout, the ship point transferred.

  “Point transfer detected!” cried the head of Manning’s Sensor Department.

  Manning, who had been sitting in his chair doing paperwork, started and dumped his slate onto the floor.

  “Multiple warships just jumped in at close range. Danger close! Danger close! I say again: danger close!” shouted the Flag Tactical Officer before immediately jumping over to his console and holding a hand to his earbud.

  “Chief Gunner, on my authority as the Flag Tactical Officer set Condition Two throughout the gun deck and prepare your crews to fire,” ordered the flag bridge’s tactical officer.

  “Get me a number. I need a position on those warships,” snapped Grand Admiral Manning.

  “Sensors are showing it was a simultaneous jump. I’m reading more than one hundred contacts,” stated the Sensor Officer in a high-pitched voice.