Retribution (The Federation Reborn Book 3)

by Chris Hechtl

  Star Mauler had been a plum assignment, emphasis on had. He hadn't expected deployment so soon, nor so many problems within weeks of leaving the home star system. Teething problems he'd expected. After all, as a Reaper class dreadnaught, Star Mauler hadn't flown her lights in hyper for centuries, but this was beyond that sort of headache.

  He like a few of his counterparts had gone through the brief spurt of fear when they'd first entered hyper. After all, there was no telling if something went wrong … and if it did and was catastrophic enough, there was a great risk of the ship being destroyed with all hands, including mama Riker's darling little tinker.

  He snorted. His mother had been damn proud when he'd gone navy, but he knew she'd been scared as a Neo in the games for the first time. He also knew she'd sighed a sense of relief that he would no longer be in her hair tearing things apart just to see how they worked. A soft fond smile briefly hit his lips before it was banished by the scowl that replaced it.

  When they'd exited the initial jump to Garth, he'd sighed a hearty sigh of relief. Apparently Murphy had been listening. The bastard had sent his gremlins to make sure the engineer learned his lesson.

  Lessons plural he thought as he supervised the parts being ground smooth and then lifted with jacks into place. He turned back to his own project and studied the long crack. Every ship had problems with more cracks in the structure of their ships. It was inevitable given the ship's age and how they'd found them. When his people had first found them, he'd gone over the records to see if some idiot had deliberately overlooked the problem. He hadn't found anything or anyone to point a finger at.

  Which meant it was squarely on his shoulders. At least the skipper was holding off on the boiling oil until he got the job fixed. He'd raked Floyd over the coals several times. It might have let the skipper vent but it hadn't done the chief's temper any good either or his anxiety quotient—nor his ability to get the job done.

  It wasn't fair, he thought, running a hand over his sweaty face. He took a linen handkerchief out and used it to wipe the sweat off and then he stuffed it back into his pocket. It really wasn't fair his errant mind grumbled again. He'd inherited the mess! Besides, it wasn't like he could have seen through the layers of paint to see the damn problem! He shook his head.

  It didn't matter. What mattered now was he was in charge of fixing it. Lucky him.

  One of the great things he'd thought when he'd taken the exalted position was that he didn't hold down a regular shift. The senior officers were supposed to be supervised. He technically was supposed to be off duty since he'd already worked a twenty-four, but the skipper, XO, and chief engineer were floaters. They were always on duty, especially when there was trouble like this he thought. He shook his head and exhaled when he realized there was no way he was going to get to bed anytime soon. Perhaps not until they got into subspace and maybe not even then. The skipper and admiral might want a complete survey of every ship followed by repairs.

  One thing at a time he thought as he picked up an angle grinder. He needed to get the crack's seams ground beveled and the entire work area cleaned of scabs before they tried the weld. Behind him a team was working on setting up a cable and turnbuckle to try to tighten the frame members together. It wasn't a permanent fix, just a bush fix he'd heard about. But it was all they could do for the moment short of a full-yard overhaul.

  He flipped down his welding helmet and got to work, being careful to move the grinder around and not heat up any one section too much.

  :::{)(}:::

  Commander Berney Yashanka did his best to put the stresses and frustration of the past several weeks behind him. It wasn't easy. The engineering issues had been a constant headache; they'd forced them revisions to the schedule several times. The admiral's desire to press their pace had put him between a rock and a hard place.

  But the anxiety was fading as the prospect for battle took its place. He was certain they had enough fire power to do the job. Riding beside Executioner, their Reaper class dreadnaught flagship was her sister ship Star Mauler. Arrayed around them was the First Battle Cruiser Squadron. Six battle cruisers of various makes. Arrayed in an outer layer beyond that were Cruerons 2 and 5, forming a sixteen-mixed cruiser class shell. And out on point was the screen, DD Squadrons 6, 7.

  Behind the main fleet was the fleet carrier Nimitz, with DD Squadron 8 screening the fleet train of twelve supporting ships and acting as the rear guard.

  If the fleet train could get Nevada and Massachusetts halfway decent, they'd add them to their number along with any other ships in Nuevo Madrid that the admiral could get his hands on, if they still existed. That damn Prowler's appearance put that into doubt.

  They could have been scouting before a mission, he reminded himself. See what is near and then hit Nuevo Madrid? Or were they there now? It would be nice to jump them! To smash anything they had before it hit Nuevo Madrid, perform their own timely rescue! Surely the gods of space owed them that much!

  He shook his head at such thoughts.

  Admiral Cyrano De Gaulte was an old dinosaur; he'd heard the talk in the fleet and home political circles in and out of the navy. He was one of, if not the best, strategist of the empire than the best in the field, he thought in his humble opinion. If anyone could make bricks without a lot of straw, it was him. However, there remained that lingering unknown. He was also aware that the admiral's lack of desire to play the political game, to stay as he said, above politics was a hindrance. And it wasn't like it had worked in the end anyway; they'd been saddled with three of the royal family and several children of prominent families! He had to look out for them despite the admiral's desire to treat them as the officer they were.

  Such a silly concept, to treat royalty as normal everyday officers. He shook his head. And if that officer should die or stub their toe? He knew it would come back to haunt the admiral and by extension, his own ass. No, he had to keep an eye on them. Fortunately, Catherine was a good sort and riding alongside him in Executioner. Once they smashed the federation's offensive sword, they would be able to sweep in and take back what they had rightfully conquered, then move on to the rest of the federation. The royals would garner a great deal of the glory he thought briefly. Hell, they'd probably end up fighting over it at some point.

  But not right away, at least he hoped not. The admiral might be eager but the realization that their ships weren't quite shipshape and combat ready was an indicator that they might have more problems down the road. The engineers certainly thought so after all.

  And then there was the threat of battle … and with it, battle damage. Would their current engineering problems be compounded? Could they be a fatal weakness? He hoped not.

  Either way, they were going to find out shortly he reminded himself.

  :::{)(}:::

  Lieutenant Commander Sedrick Lovato dismissed the rating who'd handed him the latest report. He glanced at it and then tossed it onto the table. It was all GIGO, garbage in, garbage Out. Drivel, make work. Until they had fresh INTEL, they were just rehashing the same points over and over. Sure, the admiral hoped they'd tease some sort of revelation, some weakness to exploit or some hidden threat they couldn't ignore, but they were going in anyway.

  He'd get enough INTEL, more up-to-date INTEL to process once they were in Nuevo Madrid. He knew it was bad; how bad he wasn't certain. He checked the clock then grunted. The make work did serve a purpose; it kept people busy. Kept them occupied and on task.

  The admiral's staff like the crew of the flagship and other ships in the fleet were anxious, some nervous. The thrill of excitement was gone; the threat of meeting a real reaper angel stalked their hindbrains.

  It was the first real fleet deployment of Battle Fleet. The Gather Fleet's attempts had been disastrous failures, but then again, considering the source material … He shook his head.

  It was obvious that this new federation was just getting onto their feet. They had the full tech database and skillset based on the reports he'd read
. He'd certainly stressed that often enough to the admiral! He was certain that his boss understood the threat.

  So far though they hadn't deployed any capital ships. So, the time to hit them was now, to nip this rebellion in the bud. To take what they'd built or smash it. Taking it was important, but making certain they would never again threaten the empire and its ambitions for the galactic stage was equally important.

  He was certain it would be a hammerfest. He glanced at the clock again as his hand picked up the tablet once more. He could use the distraction, he thought with a grimace.

  :::{)(}:::

  Admiral De Gaulte sat in his wardroom in his favorite chair and stared out the window. Well, not window technically he thought, watching the stars zip by in a blur. Actually an LCD made to look like a window he thought absently as he took a sip of his drink. It was a wonder of technology and on a warship a necessity. Not only did it give him a look at the outside world, something his hindbrain apparently craved from time to time, but it also gave him a massive screen to view far more than just the outside world on it. With a flick of his hand to the remote he could have it call up a preprogrammed image of Horath, or a video he'd saved in his video vault.

  It didn't matter now, he enjoyed the view even if it was a bit brooding he thought. Appropriate given how he'd been thinking about the future. He had no idea what was on the other side of the jump point. He wondered absently how many of his staff had opening night jitters. Probably everyone he thought, examining his glass with a critical eye before he set it down on the end table nearby. Including him he thought with a brief mental snort of disdain for all his efforts to hide it. He could do a good job of hiding it from his staff but not from himself he thought. For all his bluster and years of being in the Battle Fleet, this would be his first taste of the furnace once combat was joined. With the enemy ship's speed advantage, they may very well be walking into a trap. A trap but one he would turn on the enemy he thought. He was a predator, the monster that would tear up their pitiful fleet.

  His first taste of combat he thought. If not in B-97A, then most likely in B-95a3 he thought.

  Hopefully not his last he thought. He might take the Praetorship from the Cartwrights if he played his cards right. More importantly, the deeper he got, the more damage he inflicted … and the less the enemy would have to use against his people later. He knew his part was not just a mace but also a delaying tactic; he was the roadblock the empire badly needed at this critical junction he thought. They needed time: time to get the El Dorado shipyards producing, time to finish retooling the home shipyards, time to finish retraining the fleet and refitting it to modern standards. Time—it seemed it was all about time.

  They were expending lives and his fleet to buy the empire that time if he couldn't win the day outright. He scrunched his aging eyelids shut for a brief moment. “Please let me get this right,” he murmured under his breath.

  When he opened his eyes, it was like nothing had happened. No divine sign from the gods … not that he'd expected one. It was just as well, he thought.

  :::{)(}:::

  Commodore Harold Eichmann shook his head as he ran through the last tactical exercises. Daring was good; he had to give Red that much credit. The Viking might have transferred in from the Gather Fleet but he ran a tight ship. But the rest of Sixth Squadron still had issues.

  Integrating the new ships from Dead Drop wasn't helping. He'd been saddled with a pair, but he knew Evan had one orphan to deal with as well. Getting those crews up to speed was something of a challenge that ate up a lot of his time. Fortunately, his flag captain could look after himself and even take on some of the squadron's load.

  Now, if he could get the Viking's pride and arrogance under control, he'd go from good to outstanding. But unfortunately getting humbled in exercises wasn't doing the trick. He was half tempted, half afraid to dump the job on the big man and let him sink or swim. If he sank it might do the trick … but if he swam and showed his boss up in the process? He shook his head mentally. The man would be insufferable.

  Can't have that.

  “I think we've got enough time for another sim if you're up for it,” Commodore Evan Bloodbeard offered, smiling a feral smile. Her statement broke through his errant thoughts and brought him back to the here and now.

  He didn't like how her eyes glittered, nor how she'd trumped him in the last round. He glanced at the clock and then shook his head. “Regretfully no, beautiful lady, I'll have to take a rain check. I need to sleep.”

  “Sure you do,” the woman drawled saucily.

  “Of course, if you want a playmate, I'm certain Rear Admiral Adkin would love to have a go. If he's still awake,” he said with a challenging grin.

  “Vale?” she immediately shook her head. “Potemkin is too far away. Besides, she's a battle cruiser; the odds are just a little bit in his favor,” she replied.

  “Don't think he'd reduce his ship to your level to make it an even fight?” Harold asked.

  She snorted. “No, I think he would, but he's got those powerful computers and bigger staff to back him up. You know the old rule about if you're not cheating you're not trying hard enough,” she replied.

  Harold snorted. “Yes, you've got me there. I'm still smarting from your last trick,” he said. He held up a finger as her saucy smile returned. “Mind you, I'm going to get my payback eventually, young lady,” he warned.

  “Sure you are,” she teased. “But you better have better excuses than needing sleep if you want to have a roll with me sailor!” she finished as she closed the circuit.

  Despite his normal self-discipline, Harold let off a bark of laughter. The rumble changed to a chuckle as he shook his head and logged out. Tomorrow was another day, one day closer to battle … and the start of his path to glory.

  :::{)(}:::

  Princess Catherine Ramichov, Commander, kicked her leg out and then crossed it on top of her left one in a pose before she relaxed back in the chair. It was after hours; she didn't have much to do except read and wait.

  She sat in her room but instead of relaxing and catching up on paperwork her thoughts strayed to those about the situation she was in, not just politically, but strategically. She realized the threat of dying, of really meeting the god of death was her primary concern. She was not happy about that, not at all. There was a real possibility of death hovering over the fleet, and on the flagship more than other places, even though it was a vaunted dreadnaught. A dreadnaught yes, but it would be a primary target, and since it was the flagship, it would be doubly important for the enemy to take her out as soon as possible.

  Not pleasant she thought. Her brothers might have the better positions she thought wryly. She miscalculated slightly.

  As the admiral's OPS officer, she had the greatest view of the potential for danger. Sure, the brainstorm session might have thrown a spook into her. That was good; she was starting to appreciate fear. There was a reason for it, a warning, a means to induce caution so one didn't walk blindly into a trap. But you couldn't overthink it, and you definitely didn't want it to make you stop what you were doing. Being a warrior was about taking risks.

  Some were riskier than others. Like her brother Adam. Adam was a commander, the XO of Archangel. Her twin was also married to Marina Stuart. She might look young, sweet, a bit goth with the pale skin and black nails and lips, but she didn't have her sister-in-law fooled—not for a minute. Behind that charm was the Stuart vicious streak. The woman took great pleasure in hiding her vicious sadistic tendencies. She knew that the woman was highly motivated to become empress so she knew she had to play ball with her brother and keep him content.

  She also had her twin wrapped around her finger. She wasn't certain which of them had put off having a family. It might have been a joint decision, one to keep Adam alive and Marina happy. After all, as long as they didn't have a child, Adam wouldn't become redundant and therefore expendable.

  And if something did happen to him, there went Marina's chance at
the number two slot. And with her loss would be that of the Stuart family. That was why they were so fiercely protective of their investment.

  She realized she'd distracted herself long enough so she glanced at the clock hovering in her vision. Above it was a countdown, and it was down to nine hours before they emerged in B-97A space. Were they going to find the enemy there waiting?

  She wasn't sure. Either way, they were about to find out soon enough.

  :::{)(}:::

  “It looks like we missed a party,” Captain Antony Picket said dryly as Admiral von Berk came out of the head. He looked over his shoulder as the flag officer came onto the bridge, brushing past the marine stationed at the door.

  The brusque walk-in wasn't unexpected, but it was rude. But the lieutenant commander and ship captain didn't expect anything less of a flag officer. After all, they were only a few steps away from the gods of space.

  “What was that, Captain?” the admiral asked, looking around the room and then settling his attention on the captain.

  Ma Duece's captain indicated the plot of the B-97C star system and the growing markings CIC was placing on it. “According to CIC we missed some big ship movement, Admiral.”

  The admiral frowned as he peered at the plot. He glanced at Mara who was floating in the tank and then over to the captain. “Do you believe they moved out faster than we did?” he asked, pointing to the water dweller. “Or do you believe they sent a second force?” he asked.

  Captain Picket frowned thoughtfully. “If you are asking if Dead Drop is now a dead end, Admiral, my answer is no,” he said slowly. “Perhaps you missed this,” he said, highlighting one of the ion tracks. He brought it up with magnification until the notations could be read, including the direction. “Based on these readings, a fleet moved here from Dead Drop through this system and then jumped to B-97A a few weeks ago. CIC is running the decay ratios down, but you know they hedge a lot there.”