Spineward Sectors 03 Admiral's Tribulation

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “No one else can do what I am about to; I have already input the codes, which now links me to the bomb. If I attempted to leave…” he left the rest of the words unsaid. “You are stronger than you think, Lady Akantha. Remember that, when the days ahead get dark. Besides, you still have the new Gun Chief, Mr. Lesner. He seems a stout sort with fire in his belly, and I would ask you not be as hard on the Marine Colonel, as is your usual way. He seems a steady sort, if still loyal to his new King back home.”

  “Hansel! I forbid… I command… You can’t…,” she floundered. The mighty Hold Mistress of Messene, a blooded warrior with many proven kills spanning several star systems and conflicts, broke down into sobs. As she slumped to the floor, the weight of all her losses bore down on her like a mountain of iron. Hands clenched into fists, she placed them over her eyes. “I have lost all but everything today,” she screamed at the ceiling. “How much more do I have left to give?!”

  Grabbing her hair with both hands, she tore great locks from her scalp. She scarcely noticed the pain.

  “My Lady, we are here,” said the remainder of her Guards, who came forward to place their hands on her shoulders.

  For a moment she ignored them, tossing the hair from her hands onto the floor, before shaking off their hands. “Get your hands off me, traitors,” she commanded with a cruel, cutting harshness. “You were to be my Honor Guard, but all you have succeeded in guarding today was my life. From now on, you are only and ever to be my Life Guard!” The Lancers around her jerked as if struck before backing away with shamed and heavy faces.

  “If you were sworn to me, instead of my Protector, I would have you flayed alive for defying me to my face in this manner,” she screamed hoarsely, turning her back to them, ashamed now that they had seen the depths of her grief, which only made her more enraged. Persus would never have disobeyed her so absolutely.

  The thought of her fallen bodyguard made her want to hurt her Guards as much as she was hurting, so she continued her tirade, “I will look for true warriors among the demons and pirates we have fought today, perhaps they will be more obedient to the commands of their sworn Hold Mistress,” she hissed, her hair hanging around her face in wild locks. For the sake of Hansel Suffic and his coming sacrifice, she would consider trying to forgive them their betrayal, but by forcing her hand like this and ensuring the loss of one of the few people in the world she could fully and completely trust, she would never forget.

  Grimly she pulled out the knife on her belt and slashed her cheek, declaring by the traditions of her people that she was in mourning over a great loss. First, for her Protector Jason Montagne, she cut deeply into the right cheek. Then, for the loss of Hansel Suffic, she did likewise to the left. None were proud enough to meet her gaze as she did this, instead choosing to look at the floor.

  The medical science of the Starborn was great, and if by some miracle her Protector still lived, she would consider removing the signs of grief. Unfortunately, she no longer had any hope of that happening.

  “If it is a war to the knife they want, then that is the war I shall give them,” she declared, throwing off her gauntlets and then ritually slashing each arm lightly. “They came in the dark of space, striking from behind in the middle of battle, stabbing with the knife of betrayal.”

  “Oh, Mistress,” Hecate whispered in horror.

  Akantha met her eyes boldly, unashamed of her chosen course. “For the sake of my Protector, I shall gather his mother into my arms first, before I act. But, mark my words— and mark them well: before I am done with them, these Pirates, as well as Capria’s Parliament and her King, shall stand answer for the actions of their minions this day. From Pirate King to Admiral Yagar of the Sector Guard and his puling little Rump Assembly, let them shake with fear at the coming of Akantha of Messene!”

  “We in this room are the only ones to hear you… are you certain you wish to take this path, My Lady,” Isis asked in a small voice, “we could vow to never speak of this if ever again if you are only taken with grief.”

  Akantha turned her icy gaze upon the girl. “My Protector is gone,” she said flatly. “He was kind and forgiving, but I am not so inclined. These fools will realize that when a Hold Mistress loses her Protector, it is not she who has lost her protection, but her enemies! Only the threat posed by the Sky Demons can possibly delay the storm that shall be my vengeance. Today we are at war, and it is a war to the knife!”

  Chapter 80: Suffic’s Last Run L

  Thank Murphy for varnish and interior wall paint, Suffic decided. There was no way he could have changed his armor into something more piratical, at least not while maintaining consciousness. That meant someone would have had to help stuff him into the new set of power armor. Under the circumstances, doing so would have endangered the entire objective of his mission.

  A rating from the gunnery department, one arm in a sling and the opposing leg in a walking splint, applied thick coats of red and black pain in stripes. A few nuts, bolts and empty power cells had been welded to different parts of his armor and a thick coat of varnish applied to them. He had also had some varnish applied to his helmet.

  Appraising himself in the mirror, he looked like a typical run of the mill, down on his luck pirate in power armor. The rent in the side of his armor, along with the damage to his visor, made it clear that the ‘pirate’ Suffic had salvaged the suit and subsequently ‘sexed it up’ to inspire fear, or at least to impress his fellow pirates. That it failed miserably, either to inspire fear or impress, was more than made up for by the desperate feeling it evoked.

  The rest of his scratch team, mainly several volunteer Lancers from the Hold Mistress’s Honor Guard, were not so fortunate. He ordered them to remove their armor and replace it with a series of salvaged pirate suits. The new suits of his men were a mish mash of genuine piratical power armor.

  On the whole, Suffic was more than satisfied with the appearance of his small strike team. Everyone knew this was probably a one-way mission, but they’d volunteered anyway.

  Anything for our boys, he told himself sternly when his mind began to consider the possibility of survival. It was too late for that now, but his hind brain still occasionally scrambled for a way out.

  He knew there was none, at least not for him. Possibly there was for the strike team, but even that was a long shot.

  He was doing this for the Lady, for his family on Tracto, and for all the Lancers and survivors of the Lucky Clover. He was also doing this for the entire border of known space.

  “We’re ready, Sir,” said the senior Lancer of Akantha’s Honor Guard.

  “Let’s go then,” he ordered. If there was any way he could have performed this mission without taking from Akantha so many of her trusted guards, he would have. Unfortunately, there was no way. Everyone else was needed right where they were and the Lady was surrounded by additional regular service Lancers up there on the Bridge to round out her now under-strength protective detail.

  As they set off down the hall, the only thing he had left to complain about was the simple indignity of riding out the remainder of this operation (and his life) on a grav-cart. Sitting beside the control terminal of one of the few anti-mutiny devices ever designed by the Caprian System Defense Forces, on a death ride into a Pirate Space Station was decidedly not how he had envisioned checking out, not even once.

  Sometimes life is funnier than fiction, he mused.

  Feeling like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, and surrounded by men who he had personally trained, he finally felt content. Win or lose, these were some of the finest Lancers he had ever known the pleasure of serving alongside. He knew that there were still a great many important details to be decided, like the exact placement of the anti-mutiny device for maximum effect, but for a moment, just a moment, he could lean back against the device and rest.

  A sudden lurch and the foul coppery taste of blood in his mouth brought him back to semi-consciousness. “Run! Save yourselves,” he muttered, waking f
rom a dream where he was back in the Winter Palace with the soon-to-be Vekna Queen. They were under-strength after a number of the Palace Guard abandoned their post and were being assaulted by parliamentarian shock troops, “I’ll hold them in the Green Room.”

  Of course, he would not succeed in holding them in the Green Room; the future Queen got on the Comm and sued for terms before he got the chance.

  “Hold still, Sir, you’ve lost a lot of blood and cerebral fluid from that eye socket. You really should have been in a Tank hours ago,” said a Medic crouched perilously beside him. The Colonel observed with some detachment that she was a former Promethean, and thus one of the more technically proficient and educated Lancers in the force… no doubt why she got the job as a medic.

  Hansel Suffic shook his head fuzzily. “It’s just a flesh would,” he disagreed, determined if necessary to prove that this was the case, even though he felt weaker and more fatigued than ever before. He sincerely hoped he would not be forced to prove he was still capable of fighting, since for the first time in his life, he doubted he could do so.

  “Of course it is,” she soothed, and Suffic lay back with a dissatisfied grunt. He found he was less than eager to press the matter.

  Then he jerked, levering his elbows underneath him. “We have to select the target before we leave the Armor Prince, we have to—” he started, only to be gently pressed back down beside the mutiny device.

  “It’s all taken care of, Colonel Suffic,” she explained gently, and he felt her hands gently press him back down beside the bomb. “We contacted the Allies through the Bridge before we ever left the Armor Prince. Right now, we are deep within the Station; just lie back and trust us to carry the Fire from here,” the Promethean woman said kindly.

  Suffic’s felt his face relax as he gripped his blaster rifle for the cold comfort only it could provide. “Seems you’ve thought of everything, but what if we’re attacked? I need to be ready to help,” he insisted, once again struggling to get upright.

  “You already slept through two running firefights, but we’re in a lift now and there’s little chance of an ambush inside this metal cube,” she assured him once again, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  He opened his mouth to protest, but she continued, “Hackers from the Sundered are in control of this section of the lift network, and are moving us there at top speed. We’ve got this, Sir,” she said evenly.

  “Sounds like you don’t need a Colonel anymore,” he harrumphed weakly, and even he was surprised at how weak he felt. A clear, strange-tasting fluid dripped into his mouth, and he worked his tongue reflexively. It lacked any real flavor, and while more distasteful than not, he decided it was not as bad as blood.

  “Oh, let me get that,” she said, wiping his face from just under the ragged hole that was his former eye down to his mouth.

  He thought for a moment, then he looked at her, “I don’t want to know do I?”

  She just smiled and said nothing.

  “I didn’t think so,” he sighed, but despite everything, he was unable to let go the reins as easily as all that. “As soon as we get to our destination, you are to push me out the door and turn this lift around,” he said as sternly as he could manage, “no one other than myself need stay with the weapon. It would kill me if more of my Lancers died needlessly.”

  The Medic shot a quick glance at the display he was still pressed against, thanks to a large, horseshoe shaped magnet. Her eyes narrowed, and her lip quivered slightly in response to what she observed. The energy seemed to drain from her face as her eyes met his. “Of course, Colonel, we’ll make it out of here for you,” she agreed, then lowered her eyes to the medical scanner. The metal case of the scanner held within her gauntleted hands crumpled ever so slightly

  Glancing over for himself, Suffic saw that the display was flashing red. His eyes were too blurry to make out the exact numbers, but he knew what it had meant: those panels only flashed red right before an imminent explosion or overload.

  On the Strike Team channel, the Tracto-ans started singing a death chant, something they only did when they expected death.

  “I failed our boys trying to take Station Command, and now I’ve failed you as well,” he apologized, reaching over and gripping her free hand with his.

  “Never, Colonel!” she exclaimed, visibly fighting down her fear, “you and the Admiral saved us. All my aunts and uncles, my cousins and nephews… all that is left of my family after the pirates, still live because you saved us! Never apologize to me, Sir!” she objected defiantly. “I knew the score when I signed up, so don’t you dare go feeling sorry for anyone here.”

  “Alright,” he conceded. In the face of such emotion, even he could pretend to be all right with such turn of events. It would only be for a few minutes, anyway. He could do anything for a few minutes, even lie to one of his men. He listened as the Tracto-ans’ voices rose to a triumphant crescendo, and having nothing better to do, he flipped on the auto-translation device and actually listened to what they were singing.

  “Standing tall before the end, defending the gates of our Fallen Friend.

  “We the last warriors of Tract Two, offer our final blood price all for you.

  “Our Lord, our Master, our Fallen Friend, one last prayer we sing before the end.

  “Into your welcoming arms we call, do not forsake us as we fall.

  “We are brave and strong and true, warriors all designed by you.

  “Take us into the arms of MEN one last time before the end.

  “This prayer we consign into to you, our lineage brave and strong and true.

  “Massively Multi-Parallel Entropic Network, hear our call, we were yours before the Fall.

  “M-E-N!” they cried raining their arms, “M-E-N,” they shouted again, pumping their fists into the air.

  Well, that explains a lot, Suffic thought with no small alarm. He glanced at his shattered display, and without surprise he noted a lack of a comm. link back to the Armor Prince.

  It was too bad that no one back in the Fleet would ever receive his report that the Tracto-ans were not just group genetically engineered primitive humans lost during the Great Fall, but that they were actually the forgotten followers of a long-dead AI.

  “World of Men, receive us,” they cried.

  “Upload!”

  “M-E-N!”

  “Upload!”

  “M-E-N!”

  “Upload!”

  “M-E-N!”

  The Anti-Mutiny Device pulsed, and Suffic had time for one last thought.

  I hope we got close enough to our target, he prayed, remembering the faces of the loved ones he was about to leave behind, most notably his wife and two sons. He felt a tear trickle down his cheek, and he clenched his jaw defiantly as he braced himself for the end.

  Then everything went white in an expanding sphere of energy. When the deadly light finally faded, there were eight suits of power armor surrounding the anti-mutiny device, filled with nothing but a fine, white powder.

  Ever obedient to its final programming, the grav-cart zipped out into the corridor as soon as the lift’s doors finally cycled open, faithfully following its last directive.

  Chapter 81: Station Command

  “Thank the dark Gods of Cold Space we agreed to let those droids trade on the Omicron or these blasted Confederation Jacks would have broken inside here by now,” raged a man so muscular he was almost as thick as he was tall, fire opals lining his ears.

  “The droids are not the issue, Council Leader Tiberius,” said a smaller man, one so short and rapier thin that you might think him to be an easy mark. “They will do anything if the cost/benefit ratio meets with their approval; what is important, is how a Confederation Battleship slipped through our defenses. Had it not done so, there wouldn’t even be any Confederation Jacks on the Omicron!” This smaller man also had fire opals lining his ears.

  A tall, thin figure a hooded robe bearing vestments littered with black opals, stood gracefully.
“We must not waste any more time on recriminations one against the other,” she said in a smooth, ethereal voice, “the answer is obvious. The same individual, who sabotaged our fire control computer networks, throwing us back on local control, also opened a hole in our defenses for the Confederation to exploit, and exploit it, they did.”

  “Who is it, Dark Seer?” demanded Tiberius, clenching his fingers into powerful meaty fists. “Who has betrayed us?”

  “Isn’t it obvious,” interjected a short, gnome-like creature with an angular jaw filled with far too many teeth, his ears also lined with black opals, “there is only one member of the Black Council of Omicron 5 not present. Even now, he speeds away with his Flag Ship and captured Confederation prize.”

  The one known only as the Dark Seer inclined her head towards the gnome.

  “The Delver of Cold Spaces sees with clear vision,” she said approvingly.

  “Black Philip,” hissed the rapier thin man, his voice laced with rage.

  “Space Gods condemn him to a life on the run, living in foulest ports in the known galaxy,” glared the Council Leader.

  “I sense a nexus of events have been set into motion, that if not stopped or successfully diverted soon, will be our undoing. We must stand united through the darkness ahead,” insisted the Dark Seer, her voice urgent.

  The Council Leader, sound skeptical demanded, “What must we do?”

  “Mumbo-jumbo,” the rapier-thin council member scoffed, “the betrayal of the Uplifts was a blow we are only now recovering from, but that’s what you get when you succor the serpent within your bosom.”

  “Serpents such as myself,” the gnome creature hissed, pulling a knife.

  “I clearly referred to the former Slave Race that even now assaults our position,” the razor-thin man spat, unfurling a neural whip attached to his belt.

  “Stand down you two, this is a time we cannot afford to be fighting among ourselves,” Tiberius, the Council Leader thundered, standing between the two feuding members.