Spineward Sectors 03 Admiral's Tribulation

by Luke Sky Wachter

  He drew himself up short. Unclenching his hand from around the pistol grip, he leaned back in the chair — his chair — and waved airily with his free hand.

  “Yes, Jim,” he acknowledged evenly. It was best to get this over with quickly, if it had to be done at all.

  “I didn’t want to appear to argue with you in front of the men, Sir,” Heppner began stiffly.

  “You seem willing to do so in here, so go on,” Jean Luc prompted lightly.

  “It’s about the Armor Prince,” the middle-aged Captain said stiffly.

  “That old saw? You’re still going on about that,” Jean Luc said in surprise, lifting his finger from the trigger of his weapon as he loosened his hand on its grip.

  “I know you have your reasons, but it seems a simple matter to at least deny that ship to those Confederals,” Heppner argued, looking him in the eye and refusing to back down.

  It was this very quality that had been the whole reason a much younger Jean Luc Montagne had come to appreciate this man. As it was, he had to suppress a flare of instinctive anger. Living life as pirate did not generally allow one the luxury of being questioned.

  Jean Luc knew he was going to have to decide if the old ways from before his exile were best, or if he should gradually fall back on the habits that had kept him alive these past fifty years. Regardless, at that moment, he needed this man and answering his question, tiresome as it may be, was a small price to pay.

  “I have denied it to them,” the eye patch-wearing Montagne said mildly, determined to act more like the younger version of himself, “it’s set to self destruct in,” he glanced at the chrono, “an hour and half.”

  “Still,” said Heppner, “we could have added it to our growing fleet or pounded it with our broadside on the way out.”

  “If the self-destruct mysteriously goes awry,” Jean Luc allowed, “I’m sure the Pirates of Omicron will be more than happy to add my old ship to their fleet. If my former associates can retake her afterward, we may yet see that ship returned to this little fleet of ours.”

  “And the Royal Rage,” continued Heppner, his chin jutting out.

  “That piece of junk,” Jean Luc asked in surprise. “They’re welcome to it! We stripped most of the useful parts off of it decades ago, to keep the other two up and running. They aren’t going anywhere on that hulk.”

  Heppner looked unconvinced and Jean Luc sighed. It seemed he was going to need to let the man in on a slightly larger portion of his main plan than he had hoped.

  “Forget the Armor Prince and that other junker,” he leaned forward in his chair, “even if they took both ships and the Omicron, impossible as that is, there’s no way they can derail our plans. By the time they’ve secured that battleship, it will have been shot to pieces inside and out, and if the Omicron had the ability to fully repair either of them, I wouldn’t have scrapped the Rage in the first place! No, they’re either dead or they’re stuck,” Jean Luc said with finality before glancing about the room appreciatively. “The Armor Prince in her prime never held a candle to the Lucky Clover. On the whole, the chance to finish off the last of the Confederation holdouts, versus the possibility of them surviving to run the board, is well worth the price.”

  “The Clover and Prince are ships of the same class, however damaged the Prince may be,” Heppner disagreed. “The time taken to finish them off would have been measured in minutes, or a half hour at most.”

  “And if the Vineyard had a full, loyal crew, or the Lucky Clover wasn’t missing one of her two main Shield Generators,” Jean Luc held up a single finger on his left hand, and a trio of fingers on his right, “three of her five Fusion Generators, and was still filled with mutinous crew needing to be neutralized, I probably would have done so,” he rebuked in a rising voice.

  Both men took a few deep breaths.

  “Look, Number One,” Jean Luc began with a sigh, mostly at himself for letting the situation escalate as it had. He was just too out of practice with bouncing ideas around, and keeping the subordinates mostly informed. “In my view, the risk of damage to this ship was too great a risk.”

  Captain Heppner’s face wrinkled. “That’s what we’re here for, Sir: to take risks. None of us joined the SDF and accepted assignment out here because a pension was our number one priority,” he cried passionately.

  “Extreme measures needed to be, and in fact were taken to restore the Vineyard and Lucky Clover to Caprian Service. That goes for you and the old crew as well as for myself,” the one-eyed pirate lord tried attempting a consoling demeanor. “They may have been pirates, but I’d known and fought alongside many of those men for years or decades at Parliament’s behest. Don’t think no bonds were formed in the midst of combat,” Jean Luc said pointedly, deliberately playing on the other man’s natural sympathies.

  Heppner hesitated, “You did the right thing, Sir. You have to believe that.”

  Jean Luc cleared his throat, hoping he wasn’t over doing it, “I couldn’t risk damage to this ship; not only is it the last of the old Dreadnaught class ships set up to coordinate fleets as a Flag Ship, but I’m afraid that even my old Number One was never privy to all of her secrets…things I could not risk being destroyed.”

  “Secrets, Sir,” Heppner asked, looking intrigued and slightly skeptical, “surely it couldn’t have been anything too important. The Clover hadn’t had a serious upgrade for decades, not until Janeski put her back into working order.”

  “The Clover was extensively refitted during the Royalist re-installment,” Jean Luc explained with a cruel smile, “certain…components were known only to the Defense Minister and the Captain of the Ship,” he pointed a thumb at himself. “Sadly, the Defense Minister was unable to pass along those secrets to the new regime when Cornwallis leveled the Old Palace.”

  “And you were sent way out here,” Heppner sucked in a deep breath.

  “I was supposed to take my old ship — this ship — from the bone yard with me,” Jean Luc said direly, “it was all put to paper with a very firm Parliamentary Seal in place, guaranteeing its delivery. Alas, as with so many of its Elected promises, my promotion to Admiral along with my old ship mysteriously failed to materialize. The Royal Rage came in place of my old Lucky Larry, and you yourself only now delivered me a blasted Commodore’s Pennant. It seems it is no longer politic to leave me withering on the vine,” Jean Luc said dryly. “Parliament finds I am once again in a position critical to their long term survival, and old promises suddenly require vigorous lip service.”

  “You can’t blame Parliament as an institution, Sir; the old Members-in-Exile had to stand a new election once victory was declared, and a rising wave of anti-Montagne sentiment was sweeping the planet. In many cases, the members who wrote your promise were impeached or even swept from power,” Heppner Said stiffly.

  “I don’t blame the Institution, Jim,” Jean Luc lied without skipping a beat, “but even if I did, that old grudge is rapidly becoming irrelevant.”

  “I fear you’re a better man than I, Sir,” Heppner said with a nod.

  “Let us just pray that Parliament doesn’t become as irrelevant as that old grudge,” Jean Luc smiled.

  “If there’s anything I can do to make things right, just give the word Commodore. You can rely on me,” said the ship’s Captain.

  Jean Luc waved a hand. “Just keep the Morale Officer away from my nephew. I doubt that breed has changed since my last encounter with such animals, and I need the little blighter to survive — unharmed if possible — until he can be handed over to those bureaucrats at Central. They don’t even control the Sector yet, and already they issue orders and directives, as if they’re the old Confederation reborn,” he said disgustedly.

  Heppner looked troubled. “By unharmed, I assume you mean no new damage,” said the Captain hesitantly.

  “Quite,” Jean Luc agreed, quirking his lips at the pleasant little memory of putting the upstart in his place.

  “You may have asked for the one th
ing I cannot give,” Heppner said heavily. “Morale Officers are nearly a province unto themselves. If it was a member of the loyal crew that would be a different matter, but the ‘False Admiral’ as the Commander is now calling him isn’t just a royalist; he’s a true blue Montagne Royal. One who very publicly seized power.”

  “Parliament put me in power,” Jean Luc struck the desk with an extended finger, “relay my orders, Captain. The Morale Officer crosses the will of Parliament, as manifest through me at his direct and personal peril.”

  “The orders of a Montagne, even a loyalist like you, are unlikely to sway him from what he believes is best,” Heppner warned. He was no doubt remembering the steps taken by the old Jean Luc when the then Captain Montagne had moved to protect his old crew during the reinstatement.

  “I’ll not say it again, Captain,” Jean Luc said, turning his chair away, signaling that the interview was over.

  Chapter 65: It’s Just Not Big Enough!

  He was the very model of a recently upgraded Space Engineer.

  “This will never work,” Spalding said shaking his head sadly.

  “Exactly which of the various proposals on the table are you referring to, Mr. Spalding,” asked a top engineer from the Constructor.

  Throwing his arms wide, the old man pointed out the viewport, “Too small, too small, far too small,” he complained. “How do you imagine you can fit anything inside this-this little mouse trap, masquerading as a full service space dock? Full service, you say? Ha!”

  “Lieutenant Spalding, we’re not here to discuss the Orbital Space Dock, which I would be remiss if I didn’t point out has already been constructed, and self-evidently does currently fit something quite substantial inside it,” protested Construction Manager Glenda Baldwin. “To wit, and with your own eye, you can see docked within it is an Imperial Strike Cruiser — more than 450 meters long — and in fact, is the very ship that we are supposed to be formulating a plan to repair!”

  “You call that a blooming space dock, Glenda,” the Chief Engineer scoffed, pointing at the holo-image rotating above the design table.

  “Construction Manager, or Ms. Baldwin please, Mr. Spalding,” the Construction Manager said hotly. “And do try to stay focused on the repair plans we are supposed to be making, not the fully functional Space Dock we are going to be using to make those repairs.”

  “Talk? Plans?” Spalding asked incredulously as he reached up to pull on his hair, only to remember his once handsome ‘do had been lost along with his limbs. He only remembered the missing hair when his untrustworthy new hands made contact with the balding chrome dome that Gambit Station’s medical staff (in the form of that dumb quack who had followed him from the Clover like some kind of vile plague) called an adequately repaired, and fully functional head.

  “Yes, plans, Lieutenant. Please do try to stay focused on the task at hand,” retorted Glenda Baldwin, her face turning red.

  “I’ve already drawn up the necessary plans for re-outfitting that Imperial abortion they call a top of the line warship with fully redundant systems, my young lass,” Spalding said dismissively. “No-no-no,” the aged engineer continued, “that’s the easy part; it’s this bloomin’ space dock that’s going to be the hold-up here.” He made no attempt to keep from sneering down at the image suspended above the design table.

  “Are you space-crazed?” blurted Glenda. “Was it the gray hair, the photo with my 16 great grandchildren, or the Murphy-cursed radiation bath you took that convinced you I’m a ‘young lass,’ and that we need to ‘fix up’ a Space Dock which is clearly oversized by at least 20% the maximum requirements, you crazy old space coot!”

  “Oversized,” he barked, “can you believe the cheek on this one, Gants? Oversized, my balding old chrome dome; and 20% too big?! Why, it’s more than 20% too small, says I!”

  Gants coughed and hastily raised a hand to cover his mouth before clearing his throat. “We made sure to overbuild the design specifications by an additional 10% over the standard needed size. It is 20% larger than is needed for the job, Chief,” he insisted, meeting the Chief’s disbelieving eyes, “the yard is rated for ships up to 500 meters in length, without a stretch.”

  “Well, there you hear it, deary,” declared Spalding triumphantly, as he rounded on the Construction Manager. “From the mouth of babes: 500 meters, meaning you could shoe horn in, at most, another 50 or 60 meters on a full-sized capital ship repair job!”

  “So you’re agreeing with us. Finally!” she exclaimed, “now about those plans for the warship—”

  “Agree with you,” the Chief Engineer asked in disbelief. “If I’m ever tempted to agree with you on this, it’s because of your great beauty, Glenda, not because your last statement has any bearing or basis in reality itself!”

  “Why, I never,” snapped the Construction Manager, “did you all just hear what I did? Does the word ‘harassment’ have any meaning in your personal, insane lexicon? A space dock with a 560 meters capacity is too bleeping small for a 450 meter Medium Cruiser, my oversized rump!”

  “It's all right, lass,” he said with a grandfatherly smile, “the only time I’m feeling harassed is when I am forced to disagree with one such as yourself,” he explained condescendingly.

  “Outrageous,” seethed the Construction Manager, rising out of her chair.

  He leveled his finger at her. “Now sit down lass, because I’m only going to say this once,” he roared, meeting her hot and angry gaze with one of his own.

  “You’ve been in charge of fixing that ship for the past three months, and you’ve yet to close the deal,” he waggled a finger at her when she went to open her mouth. “You, and this abortion of a space committee you have trying to run things around here, have failed. So, if you dislike my comments on your beauty instead of your natural skill as an engineer and all around general Yard Dog,” he graciously used the nickname ‘Yard Dog,’ commonly given to hard working ship yard and space dock workers around the galaxy, “then next time, don’t take apart a blasted warship and leave her in pieces for the better part of three bloomin’ months!”

  “My plan would have had her fixed up three weeks ago. if I wasn’t thwarted at every turn by military second guessing,” Glenda Baldwin snarled in response. “Not to mention all my efforts being hamstrung by the need to build that fancy new medical facility which patched you up, just in time to return and plague us with your insipient insanity.”

  “Well, I’m in charge now,” Spalding snapped.

  Sweeping the table with the gaze of a man who had spit in the eye of the Demon himself and lived to tell the tale, he silently dared anyone else to contest this claim. “We’re going with my plan, and anyone who wants to argue, or get in my blasted way — be he a military moron or civilian supermodel — will soon find him or herself in the bloody brig, if I have to drag them there and build a ruddy cage around them with my own two hands!”

  “And what’s your plan, you outdated, ornery old space engineer? Build a brand spanking new space dock so we can get started months from now and finish job in half the time I’ve estimated? You-you-you senile old space goat,” she sneered in response. Around the table, heads nodded in absolute (albeit silent) agreement.

  Spalding purpled before taking a few deep breaths. “Why lass, I thought you’d never ask,” he said giving her a wink, deliberately aiming to incite her, “like any well-heeled lady who’s been through more than her fair share of trials and tribulation in this short life given to us, what our fine lass here on this fancy new design table needs, is…” He paused, drawing out the tension before bestowing on the assembled Engineering and Constructor officers and managers a beatific smile, “quite frankly, what she needs is a space girdle.”

  “You’ve gone too far this time, Spalding,” snapped the owner of the Constructor, followed by a number of vocal sounds of agreement around the table, including from several of the engineering staff from the Confederation side of the team. “Insulting my staff with thinly-veiled s
mears, disgusting barbs and innuendo….” he trailed off, shaking his head in disbelief.

  The Construction Manager, on the other hand, was slowly shaking her head as her eyes flicked back and forth, clearly performing silent calculations. “A flexible space dock like the one we have here is simply not large enough to put a girdle on a ship that large, you…” she muttered before realizing what she had just said. “Oh, no you don’t,” she started with alarm as her eyes widened.

  Spalding beamed at her. “Smart lass,” he said quite happily, before turning to Gants, “I told you she was a right beaut’.”

  “You need a full-sized, fixed state Space Dock; one purpose-built for a task of that magnitude at the very least,” she said severely, “which completely ignores the fact that I’ve never even heard of a ship larger than a destroyer having an armor girdle put on her!”

  Around the table, the former protesters stopped defending her honor, and started gaping at the pair of them.

  Spalding shrugged. “You’re coming at things from the civilian side, lass, so it’s not surprising you’ve never heard of anything larger having one placed. Why, I once saw a light cruiser undergo this very same procedure with my own two eyes. We’ll just scale the process up a might.” The old Engineer grinned. “Fear not, papa Spalding’ll make it right for that fine young lass stuck in our space hanger,” he assured her with a wink.

  “A flexible dock simply can’t handle that kind of stress load,” she insisted, shaking her head fiercely, “not with duralloy struts and girders. You’d need to build them out of mono-Locsium, which is outside of our production capacity, at least in that kind of quantity.”

  “A valid point,” Spalding nodded in agreement, “that’s why, in addition to expanding the dock to take ships over 600 meters, we’re going to replace all those pesky little struts and girders with new ones… made out of Duralloy II,” he grinned.

  “Impossible,” insisted the Owner of the Constructor, “Duralloy II is a myth, plain and simple, and anyone who claims otherwise is nothing more than a conspiracy nut, who would have us believe the Imperials have suppressed all knowledge of this mythical substance, that is both cheaper and nearly as strong as mono-Locsium!”