“Oh aye, and what do you want,” he snapped at the medical man.
“I thought I heard something fall down,” the orderly glanced around the room, his eyes snagging on the data slates against the wall.
“I just learned some terrible new,” Spalding glowered.
“Well we wouldn’t want you to get over excited,” the orderly said firmly, then moved over to snap up those fallen slates like a billy-goat snatching a clump of grass on the run. Then just as nimbly as that intemperate brand of herbivore, the orderly was back out the door.
“Now isn’t that a fine kettle of fish,” the Engineer said, leaning his head back on the pillow and thinking. The orderly could have the slates, since he’d learned everything he needed to know already: this committee was a bigger bunch of space-fools than even a seasoned engineer like Spalding had been prepared for.
“All the more reason to shut them down now,” he grumped, but the sad and sorry facts of an operation run by committee for the past several months meant everything they’d built was a compromise, except for this blasted medical complex!
“It’s too small for a properly sized ship,” he fumed in the mental direction of the Strike Cruiser and the miserable excuse of a Space Dock they’d constructed, “and it’s not built to handle the kind load stresses we’d need to fix her up right!”
Of all the civilian cost-cutting measures! The military didn’t need the cheapest job from the lowest bidder; they’d already conscripted top of the line equipment, in the form of the Multiplex! The last thing they needed, including the Clover, the Fleet and anyone in this secret base, was a blasted Refiner! Not when they had a bloody big Constructor around to handle the job. A refinery was for after they put the Strike Cruiser back together and built a Hard Repair Slip or Fixed Form Space Dock, one large enough to handle a proper sized warship, not this flexible abortion they’d constructed instead.
It was all about saving time and money with civvies, as he was only too well aware from his time back on Capria.
How was he supposed to build a hardened space dock and fix up that fancy Imperial Ship properly in what little time remained to him? He didn’t stop to think that they’d been out here months already and might have just as many in the future. As far as he was concerned, the clock was ticking and the Clover could need him back at any moment.
“It’d take a Miracle!” he exclaimed, abruptly striking out and punching the wall hard enough to jar his new reinforced shoulder, “a flexible dock made out of duralloy can’t handle the load for what will need to be done!”
Oh, it might work well enough for a simple patch and repair job, the kind this Glenda had been advocating in her proposals, along with everyone else, from what he could read.
For the kind of job he was imagining, taking that newfangled Imperial tinker toy, smoothing down the rough edges and building her back up better than ever, the only kind of flexible dock he’d ever heard of, that could handle that kind of job, belonged to the Imperials.
“We simply can’t make mono-Locsium in those kind of quantities, even with a high-end Constructor like the Admiral pirated,” he sighed. If only the Imperials hadn’t suppressed…
He bolted upright in his bed. It couldn’t possibly be that simple, he thought, reaching over for his com-unit and activating it.
“Parkiny here, what do you need, Gants,” said the other man, no doubt misidentifying the Chief, since he was using the head of Armory’s pocket-com.
“This is Chief Engineer Spalding,” he scowled at the mix up.
“Lieutenant Spalding! No one said you were back on your feet yet, the rumor all over the deck is you were still in recovery,” the Engineering rating said gruffly.
“Never you mind all that now, Parkiny,” the Engineering Officer wagged his finger at the miniature image on little com-link, “there’s more important things than the hack job these quacks have done on me.”
“Yes, Sir,” Parkiny replied professionally, “what can I do for you, Lieutenant?”
“I need me pair of reliable men,” the older man said with a gleam in his eye.
“Just give the word and I’ll—” Parkiny started, only to be cut off by Spalding’s upraised hands.
“Its System Analysts I need, lad” the old Engineer interrupted, “men who live and breathe little ones and zeros, not honest Engineers, however willin’. Our time will come later,” he assured him with a hard edged smile.
Parkiny halted in surprise and then considered the Engineering Officer's request. “I think I know a couple of reliable sorts,” he said cautiously, “although I can’t say as I understand why, but you’re the Chief, Lieutenant Spalding. If you tell me to do it, then me and the boys, we’ll get it done even if it means chumming up to a bunch of eggheads!”
“Good Lad, Parkiny,” he growled and started to flip off the pocket comm. before deciding the Engineering rating maybe deserved just a hint of his new plan.
“You’ve been in the SDF for a while now,” Spalding grunted, and on the tiny screen Parkiny nodded his head.
“I’m eight years into a ten year stretch and plan to re-up,” the rating replied proudly.
“Excellent news!” Spalding congratulated. “Do you remember what is it we always used to say back in the Yard, when a support beam was too weak to handle the load and we could never get our hands on enough mono-Locsium because the Imperials refused to sell it?” he inquired conspiratorially.
Parkiny looked at him quizzically and then his face cleared slightly.
“It’s too bad the Imperials suppressed the formula for Duralloy II,” Parkiny said hesitantly, “if we had a few beams of that stuff we could fix this up in a right jiff…and then we’d just got and patch it back together as best we could with plain old regular duralloy.”
Spalding smiled benignly, and Parkiny looked at the elderly engineer questioningly.
“Everyone knows Duralloy II’s a myth. It’s just used as a way to make a dig at the Imperial’s expense for their high handedness,” the rating said warily, “no one actually believes…”
“Oh Lad,” the ancient Engineer groaned, feeling his bad eye give a kick and suddenly shift into the infra-red spectrum, “that’s something I aim to find out for myself.”
“Those Analysts are for cracking into the Imperial Database on the Little Gift,” Parkiny breathed.
“Who knows what we’ll find if we look around in there long enough…the engineering secrets we could discover,” Spalding wondered aloud, his mind racing through the possibilities.
“I don’t pay that much attention, but I understand over the past several months our Analysts have cracked the main File Directory. They said something about each individual file has its own encryption key, so it could take decades to unlock them all and by that time,” Parkiny explained doubtfully.
“By then everything would be out of date, I hear you,” Spalding agreed aloud, “but in this case, all they have to do is crack one specific file.”
Chapter 60: ROS!
“Hold,” shouted Colonel Wainwright.
“We can take them, Sir,” someone said eagerly over the command channel.
“Hold,” he repeated in a rising voice.
“If we don’t act now, those Lancer boys are going to get chewed up,” insisted the voice of Sergeant Kopenhagen.
“They’re doing just fine,” he barked, then felt compelled to explain, “Hey diddle-diddle, straight up the middle may work for fools and overgrown Lancers in old-style power armor that don’t know any better, but a modern professional fighting force knows when to hold its powder.”
“We don’t even have any chemical projectile weapons issued in the Force you old fossil; the Palace Guard are the only ones who still carry those things,” snapped Sergeant Kopenhagen, clearly eager to get into the fight, “and they’re about to get trapped in a pincer movement!”
“Advance elements of 2nd Regiment, Battalions 2 and 4 are to advance forward one more corridor parallel the Lancer Contingent Companies, and prepare
to mouse trap that pincer movement,” Colonel Wainwright ordered, with a snap of command in his voice. “And Sergeant, it’s an expression,” he explained dryly, “chemical weapons were gone from standard issue long before even I joined the Corps.
He heard something suspiciously like ‘yeah right’ muttered over the mike but he decided to let it pass. It wouldn’t do his grip on command any bit of good if, just as soon as he appointed Kopenhagen and her scratch squad as his personal protective detail, he turned around and broke her from Sergeant right back down to Corporal in the middle of combat.
“Omicron power-armored reinforcements have just arrived in Side Corridor C,” reported an advance scout for the Brigade, on a channel Wainwright had specifically designated, so that he would know the moment those crazy Lancers under Suffic finally stuck their heads out too far.
“As soon as they trip your remote sensors, use the chemical explosives to blow holes in the wall and counter charge,” Wainwright ordered firmly. There was no need to cowboy around damaging perfectly good vibro-blades in macho displays of anatomical measurement with those genetic brutes, especially when his people had a surplus of chemical explosives and plenty of walls to use them on. Professional fighting force, he reminded himself. Just like he’d reminded his Marines when they’d grumbled at the way the Lancers were showing off.
The advance elements of the Omicron’s rapid response force tripped the sensors and had only moments to pile onto the lead Lancer elements when Wainwright’s boys and girls tore into their column like a hot knife through butter.
Expecting to be the tipping point that overwhelmed the Lancers advancing into their Station, the disorganized mass of pirates in their ‘sexed up’ power armor, covered with all sorts of strange designs (predominantly red and black with the occasional real skull attached) clearly intended to intimidate the masses and send their opponents cowering in fear. They were completely unprepared for their little ambushing force to be ambushed in turn.
“Have our Brigade reinforcements from the Royal Rage made the transfer yet,” Wainwright demanded on a side channel, as his two battalions piled on, making short work of the pirates. Those that weren’t killed outright were sent streaming back into the station howling with fear.
They needed to quickly consolidate their gains and post a few squads to guard their flanks as they pressed forward, Wainwright had just started issuing the orders when he was interrupted by Sergeant Kopenhagen.
“There they go again, Sir,” she said sounding outraged.
He glanced at his screen with mounting frustration. They were going to find themselves flanked and surrounded with their lines overstretched and broken if they didn’t slow down.
“Blasted Lancers,” he growled, then switched channels.
“Just what are you playing at Suffic,” he snarled, pounding the wall with his fist in frustration, “we don’t have half the flankers out that we need for this amount of territory, and the ones we do have out aren’t even in position yet!”
“Have to keep them off balance and on the defensive or we’ll be swamped,” Suffic panted.
“Are you in the front line,” Wainwright demanded and when several seconds went by without a response, “you are, aren’t you! You’re a Colonel, man,” he chided, clearly exasperated. “By Murphy’s Short Clip, you’re supposed to be directing the charge not leading it!”
“Saint Murphy’s seen fit to grace us with a plethora of Vibro-Weapons,” Suffic retorted wryly, “we’re not as concerned as you Marines about our ammo supply.”
“Slow it down man and pull your horns in,” Wainwright urged. “I’ve got a battalion and a half due over from the Royal Rage at any time, as well as squads and entire platoons from all over the outside of the Omicron trickling in as we speak. We can push forward as soon as they get here.”
“If you want to dictate how fast this force advances into the Station, then I advise you to get out front and lead,” Suffic said in short temper.
Wainwright stomped the floor so hard he left a dent. “I’ve half a mind to do just that,” he roared.
“It’d be a nice change from your guys hanging back and picking off the outliers as they come streaming in,” Colonel Suffic said pointedly.
“Your ‘charge’,” Wainwright sneered at the over-use of such a simplistic and archaic attack formation when applied to door to door and corridor to corridor station fighting, even if the Lancers somehow seemed to make it work, “would have been broken at least six times by now if not for my covering forces.”
“A little busy right at the moment, hold on,” Suffic interrupted, sounding preoccupied. There was a grunt over the com-link, followed by the sound of something shattering and faintly over the link Wainwright could hear, “Messene! For the Warlord, and Saint Murphy has blessed us with more foes than I can count!” Then the sound of a string of plasma grenades drowned out everything else.
“There’s gung-ho bravery, and then there’s just plain stupid,” he said, shooting a glance at Sergeant Kopenhagen standing behind him but isolated on another channel and oblivious to the words of her commanding officer, “as I should have cause to know. I can tell a damaged visor when I hear it over the link,” he urged, “bring it back Suffic, and let your boys pull flank duty. I’ll carry the drive for the next while. I swear to you, given the chance my Marines will show what they can do!”
“Yeah,” there was a short pause from the other end of the link, “well…I may have ‘accidently’ over motivated my fighting force,” the Lancer Colonel explained sounding embarrassed.
“Saint Murphy’s Smoking Blaster Pistol, how in the world did you manage that,” Wainwright said cocking his head to the side in patent disbelief.
“I may have told them the honor of the Lancer Force rested on reaching this Station’s Control Center before our reinforcements did, and that the Lady was counting on them not to disgrace her,” Suffic explained under his breath as the reports of weapons fire punctuated his voice.
“The only reinforcements we have; are those units spread out behind us and slowly converging on the Armor Prince,” Wainwright swore, “how could you lie to your own men like that,” he asked in a cold deadly disapproving voice.
The lack of response that hung in air pricked Wainwright's suspicious nature. “Are there reinforcements deeper in the station Colonel?” Wainwright demanded.
“I didn’t exactly lie,” Suffic offered blithely.
“There are? How is that possible?" Wainwright’s eyes bulged with sudden hope.
“I didn’t exactly tell the truth, either,” the Lancer Colonel amended hastily.
“You sent another force on a dark jump to the other side of the station,” Wainwright accused, scowling thunderously at the blinking lights on his HUD indicating the still advancing Lancer Companies. “You know the odds of them pushing through from the other side are astronomical. Just how big a force are we talking here? I have a need to know on this, one Colonel to another,” he said firmly.
“I’m unsure exactly how large our potential reinforcements are going to be,” Suffic temporized.
“Don’t give me any of that bunk, man,” Wainwright said sternly, “I’m not one a low ranker who’ll lose hope at the first sign of uncertainty in command, you can give it to me straight. Did they make it or not, or do you even know yet?”
“Our ‘reinforcements’ certainly aren’t going to show up if we don’t drive into this space station deep and hard,” Suffic said, an angry growl in his voice. If it was at the situation or at his fellow Colonel for putting the screws to him, Wainwright couldn’t tell for sure, “just focus on that and let me take care of the rest,” the infuriating former Royal Lancer growled.
“You’re running around like you have some kind of death wish, fighting in the front lines like an amped up junior officer on his first tour,” Wainwright paused, breathing heavily. “Listen Hansel, if you die someone needs to be able to coordinate with these mythical reinforcements. At least give me the Com-link cha
nnel. Just give me that,” he pleaded and hated himself for doing it.
“There are no designated communication channels, this thing is extremely ad-hoc,” Suffic said shortly.
“I don’t believe you,” Wainwright said flatly, “either you don’t trust me or you’re blowing sunshine in my ears like I’m some kind of squirrelly private on his first combat op. Either give me the straight download, or me and my men are pulling back to the Armor Prince.”
“Do your Blasted worst, Marine,” Suffic snapped, “this Op, as you call it, was set up by the Hold Mistress herself, who as you may or may not be aware isn’t the most technically inclined of individuals and she failed to designate a communications channel beforehand!”
Wainwright grunted skeptically, “That has the flavor of something true,” he allowed, “power-armored I hope.”
“All you need to know is they are big, they are hairy and ‘if’ something big and hairy points a weapon at you and ‘if’ it doesn’t fire, then probably it’s one of our hypothetical reinforcements. So help me by all the Blue Blazes, your boys had better not mess it up,” the Lancer Colonel snapped before cutting the connection.
Wainwright stared at his HUD in disbelief for several seconds. “I am surrounded by amateurs and this is one Hades of a way to run an Engagement,” he said coldly, “might as well invite the Demon in on the planning session.”
He activated his link to the rest of the Marine force. For half a moment he was tempted to pull them back to the ship, but seeing the Lancers still advancing into the station he reluctantly decided he had no choice. His boys and girls wouldn’t understand him pulling back now.
‘Bug out now’ Wainwright would be the best new nickname he could possibly earn from his Brigade if he did so at this juncture. ‘Cut and Run’ Alabaster, was much more likely.
With a heavy sigh he got on the Channel and roared, “Marines, I am sick and tired of eating Lancer dust. Second Regiment,” he barked into the link.
“Yes, Colonel,” answered the Second’s Commanding Officer.
Spineward Sectors 03 Admiral's Tribulation Page 35