Spineward Sectors 03 Admiral's Tribulation

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “Glue has plan for sneak up on Omicron and disable her firepower,” he replied confidently, causing his large chair to creak quite dangerously as he leaned back in it.

  I blinked, then narrowed my eyes.

  “Go ahead,” I gesture with my hand, “dazzle us with your brilliance, where the rest of us have failed so miserably thus far. How does one Battleship take out a station with three times her firepower and another three capital ships in her weight class, along with a whole host of smaller ships?”

  Glue shook his head at me like I was a particularly slow student. “Little Admiral not having just one battleship! In his fleet are also times two armed freighters,” he said simply.

  While I gritted my teeth at the Little Admiral dig, the Primarch proceeded to lay out his grand master plan for how he would take and destroy Omicron Station using only the forces at our disposal; a place which counting its mobile assets had somewhere in the order of six to seven times our firepower and, even more than that in its ability to take a punch.

  When he was done with his ten minute explanation, the gorilla man sat back down with what I assumed was a satisfied expression on his face.

  “Insanity,” exclaimed Tremblay.

  “We’re relying entirely on information provided by a creature that was a pirate himself up until he was caught in the act and captured,” Sputtered Tactical Officer Laurent, “and now we’re expected to go in guns blazing with a plan of its devising. Not just no, but Hades no, Sir,” he exclaimed, shaking his head, “this is insane!”

  For his part, the grey-haired gunner chief stroked his head and nodded, “Insanity pure and simple,” he agreed, “we’d have to all be crazy to even consider it,” agreed the old Chief, sounding more than a little admiring of Glue’s audacious plan.

  I watched as one by one, my officers weighed in against listening to the gorilla man.

  “Does anyone have a better idea,” I asked, “if so, now’s the time to speak up.”

  Most just shook their heads, others looked at the table not offering anything. Tremblay finally gave voice to what no one else was willing to say.

  “Discounting this outrageous bit of fiction dreamed up by the…” he sneered as his eyes slid sideways toward Glue, “Primarch, there’s just no way we can get in and get out, let alone destroy the Omicron, Admiral. It simply can’t be done with what’s available to us. Maybe if we went back to Easy Haven and managed to get our hands on a few more ships…” he trailed off doubtfully.

  “As a former pirate and a gentle-being as interested in saving his own neck as the rest of us, I find Mr. Glue very credible indeed,” I riposted, projecting all confidence all the time.

  “A captured pirate, who is only a ‘former’ pirate because we, of this very ship, put paid to his life of crime and slave taking,” Tremblay trembled with rage and his finger stabbed in Glue’s direction. “He is a treacherous, murderous sentient of the worst order,” Tremblay all but spat, stumbling over the word sentient obviously switching word choices at the last moment.

  I could tell the former First Officer was gaining more support from my command group than I cared for. It was time to call out the big guns.

  “A treacherous, murderous criminal? You don’t say, Chief of Staff,” I said contemplatively, then my face and voice hardened, “perhaps you’re unaware of this little factoid Mr. Tremblay, but I’ve been known to associate with all types of people. Up to, and including men I know for a fact were up to their necks in not one, not two, but several attempts on my life,” I stood up to emphasize this point, slamming a finger down on the table and even though I wasn’t sure of any such thing, Tremblay’s reaction to my accusation (turning pale and starting to sweat) made me more certain than ever that I was actually right on the money. He’d been up to his ears in any number of plots against me, take the ship’s former Security Department as a prime for instance.

  All around us the table went dead silent.

  “As I believe I’ve told you on at least one occasion, Junior Lieutenant Tremblay,” I continued, deliberately emphasizing his most minor rank, “I’d make a deal with a droid if I thought it would save the Border Worlds from this plague of pirates. So no,” I said sweeping the table with a hot and hardened gaze, “I do not automatically discount, out of hand, Primarch Glue’s information or his proposed course of action.” I sat back down in my chair with a plop.

  “In fact,” I said sweeping the table with a glance and then bestowing upon them a knowing look, “I think it’s a plan with an amazing amount of potential for success, with a few minor modifications, of course.”

  No one looked happy with my decision but I wasn’t sensing a lot of rebellious or mutinous intent from my men. At least not if you disregarded my new Chief of Staff, and long time adversary, Officer Trembaly, but then that man was always up to some sort of try against my interests.

  “That said, I’m closing the table to discussion, so if there’s nothing else?” I paused briefly, but no one stuck their neck out or belabored the point that they didn’t like the plan that I’d just embraced, continued, “very well then, meeting adjourned. Tactical Officer Laurent, I’ll expect you to put your head together with the Primarch and see if there is anything extra we might want to add to his plan between now and our arrival in the Omicron System.”

  When no one was quick at getting up from that table, I stood up, “That will be all, gentlemen,” I finished and indicated the door before sitting back down, turning to face the wall with the back of my chair pointed at the door and all my unhappy minions.

  When the last of the footsteps faded away and the door cycled shut I heaved a sigh of relief. I hated feeling like I was grasping at straws and the only one pulling our battleship up a hill called succeed or perish with nothing but his own two hands.

  I steepled my fingers and stared at them. My fingers, just like the rest of me, lacked the wisdom I needed to discern if I was making the right decision. I honestly didn’t know if I was right to trust the Primarch or if I was deliberately putting my head in a pirate noose.

  Realizing my eyes had unfocused I looked down at my fingers again. These were the hands that, like a grand mountebank of olden times, had to produce magic on demand or suffer the wrath of the crowd. The Montagne magic, as my former First Officer and current Chief of Staff had once called it facetiously, but still.

  My ruminations over the need for some genuine magic to help me weather this latest storm were interrupted by the sound of someone clearing her throat.

  I whirled the chair around, surprised and more than a little alarmed that I wasn’t alone. My hand reached up the sleeve of my left arm for the holdout blaster pistol before I turned far enough to recognize the profile of my devoted wife.

  Exactly what she was devoted to, I wasn’t entirely sure, although I knew for a fact that I played a starring role in whatever it was. As a devoted partner or a sacrificial goat, to this day I still couldn’t say. But one thing about my girl you could bank on: whatever she felt, she felt strongly! Unlike most women she preferred to come at you straight, often with sword drawn and prepared to chop you to pieces.

  “You are oddly silent for a man who likes to talk, talk, and then talk even more,” she said, her face the frozen icy mask I’d first encountered on the bug ship. I didn’t like it anymore now than I did then but at least I was starting to get used to it. Much like her penchant for slashing her way through her enemies, it was a part of her I was learning to accept.

  “Just thinking, my dear,” I replied, using my legs to spin the chair around.

  A foot placed on part of the seat not occupied by legs brought my little ride to an end.

  I sighed.

  “Is there something I can do for you, Akantha,” I asked, hoping it was something I could fix and get be back to the very serious business of worrying and replaying every move and minute facial expression I’d seen during the command meeting, parsing it for hidden meaning.

  “You take a great risk with this plan,
Jason,” she said in that cool voice of hers, the one she used when she didn’t approve of what I was doing but I hadn’t yet left the bounds of whatever code she lived her savage life by.

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” I said wearily.

  “I believe in you,” she said simply.

  “You honestly think this plan will work?” my eyebrows rose in shocked surprise.

  She shrugged, “Whenever you stumble, and you do stumble,” she pinned me to my chair with her eyes when she said this, “you find a way to regain your feet and carry the day. If not this plan, then another; if there is anything I have learned from watching you, it is that you always manage to succeed at your chosen task,” she said all of this in accented confederation standard. The days she was relying on the mechanical translator grew fewer and further between.

  “I thank you for the words of encouragement,” I said, both mildly pumped up by this and at the same time even more worried than before, “I just hope this isn’t the time my luck decides to run away and it turns out I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.”

  “It is my hope as well,” she said. Leaning down she planted a kiss on me and I’m not talking one of those chaste little kisses you see in the movies; this was a kiss that made your toes curl. Watching her shapely form as she exited the room left me breathing hard and wanting to get out of my seat and follow her back to wherever she was going.

  More’s the pity that I didn’t. Time was growing short and the fool that I was, I stayed and went back to the serious business of worrying.

  How exactly had a bunch of pirates gotten their hands on a trio of Dreadnaught class knockoff battleships anyway? The answers I came up with did nothing to quiet the uneasy feeling in my gut.

  But I had no choice, I had to keep the new crew and its well-trained officers too busy to even think about moving against me. If my study of Caprian history had taught me anything, it was that focusing the attentions of one’s domestic opponents on a powerful external foe could do wonders for focusing the mind and maintaining internal peace and harmony.

  Let’s just hope my book learning paid dividends in the real world.

  Chapter 4: Go gently into that foul night

  “Point transfer complete,” barked my Navigator. I’d carefully kept Captain Heppner and his bridge team away from the controls, relying instead on men I knew and more importantly, who knew me.

  “Lighting up the secondary engines now,” reported Helmsman DuPont.

  “Take it nice and easy, Helm,” I warned, “the last thing we need is to make a big noisy splash for any waiting sensor nets to pick up on.”

  “Secondaries at 5%,” reported DuPont, “don’t worry Admiral, we’ll break this sump as gently as anyone could ever want. Our emissions profile will be as low as you can possibly get without some kind of super advanced stealth gear,” he said seriously.

  Around us the hull groaned from the increased pressure.

  “Shields still turned off, Admiral,” the main Shield Operator reminded me.

  “Perfect, Shields, I know it’s hard on the hull but if at all possible we’re going to avoid the sort of emissions generated by activating our shielding generators,” I said, knowing even as I said it that everyone was already fully briefed on this part of the operation. In truth, they knew the reality of what we were doing to stay quiet, probably better than I did.

  For a brief moment I missed our former Chief Engineer. If anyone could have rigged this ship up for silent running it was him, and you could be sure that after he was finished everything that could be done had been done, it would have been Spalding. As it was I had to rely on a less excitable but also less knowledgeable (at least as far as all the little quirks and peccadilloes of this particular ship) Engineering staff.

  “We’re starting to pick up some in-system traffic on the passive arrays,” reported the lead Sensor Operator, “but this far out and just using the passives, we’re not able to pick up much in the way of details.”

  “Stick to the plan,” I said severely. “We can survive a little sensor degradation, what we can’t do is let that big goliath of a pirate base know we’re in the area and potentially get the drop on us,”

  “Of course, Admiral,” muttered the Sensor Operator. I could tell from the tone of his response that he thought this last went without saying, so why was I saying it? But I couldn’t help myself.

  At that last thought, I pulled myself upright. Correcting my posture to its regal best, I deliberately leaned back in the Admiral’s Throne. I could do anything I set my mind to, so long as I realized I had to do it, and that included stopping myself from pestering the bridge crew when they had vital duties to perform.

  “Yeoman, a spot of tea,” I said catching the eye of one of the few people on the bridge who was currently without a vital task that could more easily be performed without elbow jogging dissertations from their Admiral about things they already knew by heart.

  All around us the ship creaked and groaned alarmingly.

  “Secondaries now up to 10%,” reported Helmsman DuPont.

  Something popped on the hull. I didn’t like this, not one bit.

  “How’s the hull holding up without the shields,” demanded Tremblay, the first to break and demand an accounting of the outside of the ship.

  “I’m getting reports of minor pressure leaks on multiple decks,” said the Head of Damage Control on the Flag Bridge.

  “I’m getting a call from the Command Bridge,” said a member of the Communication Section.

  “Ignore it,” I instructed.

  “It’s Captain Heppner, Sir. He says it’s still not too late to abort the operation, utilize our shields for a sump slide and come back again when we’ve got sufficient forces for the task, Admiral,” said the Communications Technician.

  I turned a stony gaze on the Technician, “An excellent interpretation of my recent instructions, Technician 1st class,” I rebuked after bestowing a withering look on the uppity technician, “message received. Now hold any and all messages from Captain Heppner and the Command Bridge until we’ve broken free of the inertial sump,” I ordered, turning away from the Communications section.

  “Yes, Admiral,” the Comm Tech replied in a small voice.

  “Maybe the Captain has a point, Admiral,” Tremblay interjected, stepping up near the Throne and speaking in a low voice.

  I suppressed a flash of irritation. This was exactly why I’d instructed the Comm Tech to ignore the Captain, but did anyone ever listen to the mere Admiral in command of this ship?

  “The Captain happens to have a very valid point, Chief of Staff, however we passed the critical decision process for that point several transfers ago,” I said obliquely.

  Tremblay shook his head, “It's still not too late to change your mind and turn around,” he pleaded.

  I looked at him, just looked and nothing more. Dealing with his incessant complaints was more than I could deal with at that moment.

  “Please Admiral, think of the men and women who will die because of this ill-conceived notion. Relying on a genetically-engineered pirate of all things!” he exclaimed, literally wringing his hands.

  “Your input is of great value to me, Raphael,” I said before turning to look at DuPont, “continue as planned, Helmsman,” I ordered in a loud carrying voice.

  “Yes, Admiral,” DuPont confirmed as the ship creaked and groaned around us, “Secondaries up to 20% maximum power and climbing!”

  “Whatever happens from this point forward is on your head and your head alone, Admiral. At least I tried,” Tremblay said all but biting off that last word, my fictitious rank as an Admiral.

  “Isn’t it always, Chief of Staff,” I said bitingly, turning to stab him with hot and angry eyes, “Victory has a thousand fathers but defeat will always be a bastard child of my own unique creation. It’s always on my head, Lieutenant Tremblay, each and every time we win, lose or draw,” I said, before dismissing him as unworthy of my continued consideration. I
focused on the main screen instead, a screen slowly populating with a variety of moving objects.

  “Secondaries at 35%,” reported DuPont and the ship shuddered.

  “What was that,” exclaimed Tremblay.

  “We have major compression leak on deck 12, Sir!” Damage Control exclaimed, “We’re instructing everyone currently on that deck to lock themselves in their cabins and to wait until we’ve cleared the sump and can get Engineering teams in there to seal off the leak.”

  I silently clenched my fists, lowering them down to my thighs to hide this visible sign of my worry from the bridge staff.

  “Shields are standing by, Admiral. Just give us the word, Sir,” cried the lead shield operator.

  “Steady as she goes, Flag Bridge,” I instructed in as level a voice as I could muster, with the ship creaking and groaning all around us.

  “Secondaries up to 50%... and we’re free,” yelped DuPont as the ship shuddered free, “sump slide successfully completed,” reported the Helmsman, reaching up with a quick swipe of his uniformed forearm to wipe the sweat off his brow.

  “That’s surprising,” Science Officer Jones reported.

  “What,” Tremblay asked snidely, “it took longer to break free than you originally projected?” The newly christened Chief of Staff shook his head derisively.

  “No,” Jones said flatly, “we broke free sooner than expected,” from his tone of voice you could all but here the silent, ‘you idiot’ thrown on at the end of the sentence.

  Tremblay turned red around the ears but otherwise ignored the Science Officer as if he had never spoken.

  I suppressed the urge to smile.

  “Course plotted,” said Shepherd the ship’s primary Navigator ever since I assumed command of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet.

  “I’ve got it,” replied DuPont our helmsman, “uploading now.”

  “Monitoring for stray transmissions and shutting down any and all non-critical tasks,” my Tactical Officer said crisply.