Spineward Sectors 03 Admiral's Tribulation

by Luke Sky Wachter

  For a moment, the Caprian Marine stared at the short pole still in his hand that was all that remained of his once potent boarding axe.

  “2nd Battalion,” he screamed, forcing his rifle up with the clear intent of shooting her in the face plate.

  But Akantha was quicker, and jerking her blade back just as quickly, she reversed direction and Bandersnatch lunged straight through his visor, into his skull and out through the back of his helmet.

  Further down the hallway, near what she estimated to be the middle of this Marine formation, came a new Tracto-an battlecry.

  “A-Lyca, A-Lyconese,” bellowed the new warriors. Their arrival was heralded by the sound of plasma grenades going off.

  Akantha’s eyes narrowed and behind her she could hear a rumble of discontent amongst her Honor Guard.

  Worse, all around her Marines started to raise their hands in the air. Not all of them, but unfortunately there were enough of them and the intent was clear.

  “Slay any who fail to surrender,” she instructed imperiously, and strode deeper into the enemy formation. She wanted to defeat more than just one enemy after all the work it had taken to get down here in the first place.

  Chapter 40: Going Down

  “You’re heavy,” Tremblay complained to his limp and lifeless burden, “you really needed to spend less time in the mess hall!”

  Tremblay quirked a smile, “Not that you’re going to have that problem any longer,” he guffawed. Then the sensation of something hot and sticky dripping down his backside could be felt. His smile curdled and he felt sick. For a while he’d been able to forget the exact condition of the burden still around his neck.

  “I don’t know how you do it,” he panted at the dead weight, “but somehow, you manage to ruin everything you touch.”

  Feeling slightly better, his mood was just starting to lighten again when he felt another drip.

  He scowled.

  “This is all your fault,” he continued harshly, “you and that soulless crub from the underworld, your Uncle.” There was another drip, and he had to pause to take a few breaths.

  “And don’t even think about getting the last word while I’m recovering my wind,” he instructed firmly, “you’ve had the last word more times than is good for you already.”

  Tremblay paused to think about the manifest injustice of the world, that it sent not one but two Montagne to plague him. The worst part of his current predicament was the possibility, however unlikely, that Parliament actually was somehow involved in this mess. He shuddered at the thought, which he quickly dismissed from his mind.

  “As everyone and their sister can see from your current condition, sometimes it’s not good to win every single argument each and every time,” he continued. “It’s good to lose every now and then; it gives you character and puts hair on your chest.” He frowned at the elbow of his burden, the only part he could get a good look at that very moment. “I hope you’re taking this lesson to heart,” he said sternly. The elbow flopped from side to side as he adjusted his posture.

  He paused to pant and then glanced over at the control panel, “What’s taking so long,” he said glaring at the panel, “Space gods, you’re heavy! On second thought, forget the hair; you’re heavy enough as it is.”

  Finally, the lift signaled the imminent opening of its doors with a high pitched ding.

  The doors opened to a scene of death and destruction. Dead and wounded littered either side of the corridor leading into medical. Many of them were well-muscled Caprian men who looked like they had only recently been taken out of their power armor, with the rest being general crew. Orderlies in blue and white hurried up and down the corridor, administering sedatives and combat heal.

  Gurneys maneuvered up and down the hall, taking the worst cases directly into Medical. In some cases, the ‘gurney’ was nothing more than a hastily converted grav-cart.

  Stepping carefully, to avoid the possibility of placing his feet on one of the moaning figures stuck outside Medical in the corridor, Trembaly paused.

  Am I really doing Parliament’s work, taking a wounded royal directly into Medical, when there were already so many others outside already? he wondered. Many of these men and women were no doubt members of the common weal; the very people Tremblay had dedicated his life to defend and protect!

  Besides, his load seemed to weigh more with every passing second. It was with mixed feelings. but an overriding sense of physical relief, that the former First Officer and Chief of Staff bent forward until both his head and Jason’s body were leaning against the wall. Maneuvering to shuck his burden for the last time, Tremblay reflected that while he might have chosen a non-standard manner of cleaning up the Admiral’s ready room, he was still technically acting within the bounds of his new orders.

  “Hey, what the blazes you doing with that wounded officer?” snapped an orderly.

  Tremblay looked down his nose at the orderly, “Clean up,” he said shortly, and reaching into his back pocket he pulled out a handkerchief. Pouring a dollop of alcohol sanitizer into his hand, he proceeded to get the worst of the blood off his hands.

  “Corpses go to the port hold,” the Orderly said flatly.

  “Piker was still alive… last time I checked,” Tremblay replied with a shrug, then calling it good, he snapped his handkerchief to remove the worst of the dried blood before folding it in preparation for a return to his back pocket.

  The orderly looked at him suspiciously, “He’s alive?”

  “He had a pulse anyway,” Tremblay hesitated, “at least, he did after I jacked him full of Combat Heal, couldn’t hear much before that.”

  “You save this man’s life, and now you’re just going to abandon him in the middle of a public corridor like this,” the orderly sounded outraged.

  “You’re here, that’s hardly abandoned,” Tremblay pointed out with an eye roll, “and besides, he’s in good company,” he added, sweeping the other wounded with his gaze.

  “That’s inhuman,” the orderly admonished.

  “Carry on, Orderly,” Tremblay said, turning away.

  “Wait, I need help,” called the blue-clad man.

  Ignoring the Orderly, Tremblay started back down the hall.

  “Stop, Junior Lieutenant,” snapped the orderly.

  “Get one of the walking wounded, I’ve more important things to deal with right now,” the Parliamentarian Officer said shortly.

  Tremblay just shook his head as he retraced his steps to the transportation lift. Since he was no longer on the command track, he decided it was time to return to his roots, pulling out a pair of black gloves. Matters on this ship stank to high heaven, and it was his duty as an Intelligence Officer to discover what that stench purported.

  The way these new officers and, more importantly their Captain, were throwing themselves all over that Pirate Montagne, he might actually be the last real Parliamentarian left onboard the ship! That overeager, no-good piece of insubordinate trash Oleander hardly counted. That klutz had done more to set back the elected cause than any dozen royalist bootlickers put together, as far as Tremblay was concerned.

  The way the man had fallen all over himself helping Captain Heppner with this new scheme, which now that he was thinking about it, Tremblay was calling ‘out with the incompetent, egotistical Montagne and in with the treasonous Montagne pirate.’ No, Oleander was right out.

  He was going to need help but where was he going to turn with the ship back under the control of a group of supposedly true-blue parliamentarians.

  A grim smile crept over his face. If he couldn’t find real loyalists, or rely on them if he found them, then he was just going to have to sink his hooks into the next best thing. Yes, Jason Montagne might not have been good for much in his insistence of getting them all killed far from home, but in this specific instance his cult of personality should serve Tremblay well. They’d have nowhere else to turn…literally.

  Stepping into the lift, he slapped the button destined t
o take this lift to the one place on the ship where he could be certain of finding the very sort of people most inclined to help him. He was going to the Brig.

  Chapter 41: Guarding the Murphy Gate

  Nikomedes stood stiffly at attention. On the outside he appeared blank-faced and impervious to all the little insults that had come his way since the first moment he set foot onboard the ship, but on the inside he was quietly furious.

  The others didn’t want him as a battle-brother, which was their loss and one they’d discover sooner or later. That they didn’t trust him had been made completely and totally obvious by this point in the cruise. But to refuse him a place in the boarding action, and suggesting he transfer to a Lyconese Company if he wanted Glory and Battle Honors?! That was almost more than he could bear.

  When had he acted without honor? His actions had always had the best interests of Argos, his home polis, at heart. There was no cause for such an insult. Him with the Lyconese, he would rather rot on board this ship, and that, in all fairness, was exactly what was happening. Jason Montagne may have accepted him into the ship’s Lancer Contingent, but so far he was the only one. So while just about every other Lancer, not guarding the Warlord or the Bridge, went off the ship in search of battle honors, here he was, stuck in Main Engineering.

  He could not complain about his assignment. Of course he wanted to, more than anyone outside his head would ever know, but in fairness someone had to stand guard over Murphy’s Portal. As the tale was relayed to him, the last time someone left this portal unattended, the Demon Murphy had tried to come out of it and destroy the ship. Only the Wizard Spalding had been powerful enough to beard him in his lair and seal the rift before the Demon destroyed the ship.

  So now, since they had lost the Chief Engineer, a Lancer stood guard outside the entrance to the Gate, named Fusion 3 by the Starborn, and guarded it with their lives. Their orders were simple: never again.

  Never again would Murphy use this Fusion Generator as his play tool for endangering the ship. If it looked like that was about to happen, he had been trained in what to do.

  He heard the sound of a crash which came from towards the front of Main Engineering.

  Stoically, he maintained position. There was no way they were going to trick him away from his duty.

  “What’s the meaning of this,” said the voice of Lieutenant Commander Burgundy.

  “This is your one chance to stand aside,” said a cold voice with just the barest hint of gravel in it.

  “What have you done with the Guards outside the blast doors? This is a Confederation warship in the middle of battle,” shouted the Lieutenant Commander.

  “Your loss,” said the cold, gravelly voice. The sound of a sword being drawn and then buried in someone’s flesh came clear through Engineering.

  Hearing the Lieutenant Commander gurgling on his own blood, until the cold voice sighed and there came the sound of the sword being withdrawn, quickly followed by another strike as something the size of a football hit the deck, which convinced Nikomedes that this was no drill.

  His own sword already clasped in both hands and pointed down toward the floor, it was the work of a moment to crouch and bring his vibro-blade into a ready position.

  “Anyone else feel the same way as the former Lieutenant Commander,” asked the cold voice, “anybody? Speak up, ‘cause I won’t be asking again. I’ll just cut your miserable heads right off your two-bit bodies.”

  Nikomedes’ lip curled, and moving slowly so as not to give away his position with a sudden whine from his power-assisted joints, he crept around the edge of the fusion generator.

  “What are your orders, Armsman Tuttle,” asked one of the new officers, the ones they were supposed to keep an eye on. He had been told something about a Parliamentary Faction, whatever they stood for, trying to take control of the ship. Suddenly Nikomedes was wishing he’d paid a little bit more attention during the briefing.

  As he recalled, it was something or other about hating Warlord Jason because of his Family name.

  “I am the Prince’s Armsman, this is the Prince’s Battleship,” the cold, gravelly voice loudly proclaimed, “The Lucky Clover is no longer part of any Confederation Fleet, it has been recalled into the Caprian SDF. Anyone who has issues with these new orders can take them up with Commodore Jean Luc Montagne or Captain Heppner at the appropriate time and place, which this very much is not it!”

  “Of course, Armsman,” replied the Parliamentarian Officer. “You heard the man, get back to your stations and keep your heads down!”

  “I guarantee if you are so foolish as to try and take the matter up with me,” continued this Armsman Tuttle, “it will be the last thing you ever do.”

  Seeing a quad of men in battlesuits, what must be some of those disloyal Marine Jacks there had been so much speculation about heading toward his position, Nikomedes smiled savagely.

  Whoever said being stuck on the ship would deprive him of his chance at battle honors had clearly been wrong.

  Pulling back several feet, he listened until the clomp of battle-armored feet were almost on him.

  Taking several quick steps, Nikomedes came around the corner of Fusion Generator 3 and into main engineering with his old-style Caprian vibro-blade already in motion.

  Before the Marines could react, his sword shattered the visor and half his first foe’s helmet. Drawing back his blade, Nikomedes roared forward.

  “Argos,” he screamed at the top of his lungs, batting away a boarding axe and a blaster rifle with one mighty heave of his blade and then spun into a new maneuver he’d learned here in the Lucky Clover, bringing one of his power-armored legs up in a strike so powerful it folded the fourth marine in the quad over his knee.

  Bringing the hilt of his sword down onto the helmet of the marine still bent over his knee with such strength that sparks flew from its pommel and the sword stopped vibrating. He watched with satisfaction as the Marine helmet stove in from the force of his blow.

  “Jason Montagne,” Nikomedes roared with rage as he lay about him with the very much no longer vibrating vibro-blade. When his vibro-blade snapped against the boarding axe, a front kick sent the puny Starborn staggering back.

  A stream of blaster bolts striking the back plates of his armor caused the Tracto-an to bellow with surprise, and without looking he stabbed behind him with his broken vibro-blade.

  Something shattered from his strike and an electrical surge shot up his arm, but the blaster bolts stopped.

  “Argos for a Warlord,” he bellowed, forcing his fingers to release the shattered vibro-weapon, “a-Warlord Montagne,” he raged, taking a pair of quick running steps and then mimicking a maneuver taught to him personally by the Warlord, he jumped forward both feet in the air.

  The Marine with the boarding axe had just raised it when Nikomedes crashed feet first into him and the Starborn went flying.

  Seeing the boarding axe clatter to the side, he fell into a roll and snatched it up. Half back on his feet, he raised the boarding axe high and brought it down with such force it clove right through the breastplate armor and into the chest of the marine. A jerk filled with the entire strength of his Tracto-an frame failed to release it, and Nikomedes gave it up in disgust.

  Striding over to one of the fallen Marines, he relieved the dead man of his no longer needed sword.

  “Nikomedes Minos,” he snarled, raising his arms to the sky, “Minos!” He had once again laid claim to his desired second name; his warrior name, which he had surrendered after suffering defeat at his new warlord’s hands back in Argos.

  The sound of slow clapping brought him back to himself.

  Nikomedes turned with slitted eyes on the source of the clapping.

  “Taking down a quad of battlesuited Marines alone… quite an accomplishment,” a short man in stylish black armor, holding a wicked-looking blade said with a quirk of his mouth. He had the same, cold voice with the hint of gravel in it as the man who had murdered the Lieutenant Com
mander.

  Nikomedes leveled his sword at the taunting Starborn.

  “Of course, it would have been much better if you had done so minus the power armor and without the theatrics,” the little man continued with a dismissive flick of his blade, “now that… that might have been a feat almost worthy of myself.”

  “Your mouth yaps a lot for such a little man with his little sword,” Nikomedes grunted. “I don’t like little yappers.”

  “I like to play with my food a little too much sometimes,” the little man admitted with a shrug of his narrow shoulders, “it’s a character flaw.”

  Up on the catwalk, Nikomedes saw movement out of the corner of his eye. “Spalding would want us to try and save Engineering,” he heard a furiously whispered voice.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to cut this tet-a-tet short,” said little man with the cold voice, “it seems that when the cat’s away, the mice will try to play.”

  “What are you three doing,” demanded an officious voice from up above, “hey wait... Stop!”

  There was the sound of a human body being struck with a wrench.

  “You got him,” said a gleeful sounding Starborn voice, “You got that pompous Shift Supervisor.”

  “Parliamentary this and parliamentary that, elected blah blah blah, don’t they get that we’re out here saving the Sector from pirates,” the first voice protested, sounding incredulous, “We need the Little Admiral at the helm if this is going to work!”

  “Are you okay up there,” Nikomedes asked, never taking his eye off the little man with the sword.

  “You watch out for yourself down there, Lancer boy. Us engineers have you covered up on the catwalk,” said a boastful voice from up above.

  “We’re not Engineers,” furiously whispered the second voice, “we’re just a couple of low-level repair technicians.”