Spineward Sectors 03 Admiral's Tribulation

by Luke Sky Wachter

  Chapter 84: Picking up the Pieces

  “Here are the casualty figures you asked for, Lady Akantha,” Hecate said stiffly. Akantha ignored her, except to snatch the hand-held data reader from her hands.

  Scrolling quickly through the list of those lost in battle, she came down to the survivors. It was a shorter list than the first. Seeing the figure down at the bottom listing total survivors and broken down into wounded and those still able to fight, she closed her eyes.

  They were too few, even with the marines they were too few, and the marines were not to be relied upon, she decided with a snap judgment. Jason might have welcomed them with open arms, but look where that had gotten him. She was inclined to be much more careful. The marines needed to be recognized for their achievements, but in a way that did not undermine what she needed to do going forward.

  A solution presented itself to her, one she did not care for, but she knew it was important to make the best of a bad situation.

  Once again, she looked down at the total figures, both in Lancers and those crewmembers who had survived the betrayal and loss of the Lucky Clover.

  They were so few, so very, very, terribly few for what she needed to accomplish. It would take a miracle to even attempt what needed to be done, but for the sake of the survivors, for honor’s sake, and for the sake of those here who were dead, she at least had to try.

  A miracle… seemingly of its own volition, her hand crept up to the pouch around her neck. The command crystal had already been taken out — her Protector’s forethought staving off disaster once already. Still inside the pouch was a data chip. In his last words to her, Jason had pressed the pouch containing the Admiral’s Key and this very chip into her hand and told her. He had told her, if ever she needed the makings of a miracle to read the instructions and follow them.

  With less than a thousand Lancers and a similar number of crew — the majority of them survivors off the Gunnery Deck — she needed that miracle. She also needed ships and crews. The first she had, as there were ships a plenty to be had, even after the majority of them were taken by pirates fleeing this station like ticks from a dead animal. True, most of them were heavily damaged, and those that were not, were in poor condition.

  The smaller ships might be repaired here at the Omicron; it was simply a matter of manpower, but the larger ones were impossible to refurbish without more advanced facilities.

  With her mind made up, she decided that when she left, she would take with her any of the smaller ships that were in a good enough condition, as well as any of the big ones that could survive a Jump through Hyper Space. At the very least, if Capria or the Rump came out to observe its handiwork, they would not succeed in taking those out from under her like they had Jason’s Constructor back on Tracto. As for them stealing her new Station, she was less certain. She simply didn’t have the manpower to hold onto everything directly.

  She was less than certain that Wainwright could hold the Station from future pirate attack. She was even less certain that he would be willing. There were threats from pirates unaware of the change in ownership coming here to make port, as well as those who had returned for vengeance. Keeping it out of the hands of his King or the Assembly, she figured was an impossible task to set him.

  The Sundered might come in very useful there, that thought bore definite serious contemplation. The problem was, she wanted, and needed, to take with her those who had proven themselves loyal to both herself, and Jason through good times and bad. She would not risk a rotten apple in the barrel, spoiling the lot yet again.

  It might take a miracle to recover the from this costly battle and come back just as strong, or even stronger than before… but she had been promised one. It was time to see what her Protector had kept from her, and only revealed the existence of near the end. Perhaps, she wondered, he sensed betrayal and was determined to see to her well-being first and foremost?

  It was a nice thought, but she had little time for such pleasant fantasies. For now, she would sleep dreaming of revenge and wake pursing vengeance.

  Grimly, and afraid to get her hopes up, she decided it was time and she inserted the data chip which had hung between her breasts for the past several days.

  The reader she used gave a sharp, metallic beep before a single file popped up on her screen. It had a heading for the file which read.

  -Wizard-

  When she brought it up on the screen, there was a password prompt.

  Enter Password to Continue:_________

  Hint: What is the name of the Wizard?

  Akantha stared at the screen for a long moment, deeply concerned. If this was meant to be some sort of a secret combination, then her Protector had used one so easy to discern that it bordered on the outrageously foolish. The Hold Mistress activated the reader’s keyboard function as she scowled at her former Protector’s stupidity.

  She leaned forward and typed in 8 letters:

  S P A L D I N G

  The Reader gave a high-pitched beep and the screen suddenly turned from blue to entirely black, except for single new file up in the top right corner of the screen marked:

  -Communications Protocol-

  After several seconds, two short lines of text and a series of letters and numbers representing stellar coordinates, which even she could recognize, appeared in the middle of the screen:

  -The Admiral’s Gambit-

  -Coordinates for Gambit Station are as follows-

  -AO-476-94-881

  “Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Hold Mistress,” Akantha whispered under her breath.

  Epilogue: Trouble in the Yards

  He was the very model of a recently upgra— hey! Be careful with that; even Duralloy II has its limits!

  “Just a little more tension on the cables,” Spalding ordered over the appropriate communication channel.

  “You’re putting too much torque on those ribs,” Glenda Baldwin warned.

  “They’re flexible ribs,” he stressed the two words for emphasis, “besides, we’re only taking them to 90-95% of tolerance,”

  “Going up to within five percent of an estimated maximum tolerance for this mythical new substance, is madness on a first attempt,” she huffed over the com-link. “Mark my words: something’s going to give.”

  “That’s why I made sure we have extra bucking cables and spare ribs on standby, just in case of such an unlikely—” his sanctimonious speech was interrupted when one of the new Duralloy II ribs snapped in two on his view screen. Rapidly he switched frequencies. “Release the tension, and replace that rib,” he yelled angrily, “we’re going to have to start over.”

  “You simply can’t bring everything up to maximum tolerance like that,” she scolded him over the link.

  “Blasted woman, I left a good ten percent off the max load for this try,” he scowled. Any engineer ought to know that if you if you want to make an omelet, you have to break a few eggs. You needed to let a man mull over events for a while before trying to dig into his head through his ears like a Tiberian sand mite. “These types of jobs never come off as smooth as they go up on the board,” he chided.

  “Don’t you, ‘blasted woman’ me and try to change the subject! I said five percent, and I meant five percent: it’s too little slack,” she corrected severely. “You, of all people, should have known better.”

  “Oh, so you think you know better than an Engineer with over six decades of experience under his tool-belt, do you,” he sneered in response.

  “It’s not the size of the tool, but how you use it, you old coot,” she sniffed in reply.

  Spalding suppressed a guffaw. “So you think you’ve got the right tool for this particular job, missy,” he chuckled.

  “It’s Ms. Baldwin, Mr. Spalding and although I wouldn’t expect a manner-less mechanic like yourself to remember a little thing that,” she snorted with derision. “But yes, I could handle a simple tension job like this — in my sleep.”

  “Then why don’t you try your hand at i
t, milady Baldwin,” he said in deceptively mild voice. So she wanted to call him a simple minded mechanic did she? Well, he decided, let’s see how well she did when harping and complaining about the way he ran things was no longer an option.

  “Just like a man to go hard charging into the china house, breaking things left and right because he has too much pride to slow down or ask for direction—” she continued angrily before grinding to a halt. “What did you say,” she demanded, sounding surprised.

  “I said, go ahead and take over, if you think you’re woman enough for the job,” he scoffed just to get under her skin. “It’s time to put up or shut up, girl. No more of this Monday morning smash-ball quarterbacking!”

  “All you military types know how to use is your specialty hardware,” she snapped at him, and then started barking orders over the link. “Take that away and you’re lost, like little boys in the big bad forest, when it comes time for a general building job,” she growled at him after issuing her first set of instructions over the link. “Your type can’t see the trees from the woods.”

  For his part, Spalding knew they had enough ribs to survive a few mistakes. Besides, the lass had some definite talent, or else why would he enjoy twitting her as much as he did? “Oh, aye,” he said agreeably as a pair of bucking cables promptly snapped. “That’s me to a treat: a veritable bull among the delicate porcelain. You most certainly have the full measure of me, milady Baldwin.” Several more bucking cables snapped and the entire frame of the Space Dock swayed slightly before settling down and Spalding suppressed a grin.

  Baldwin growled. “The refinery needs to work on its quality control,” Glenda said stiffly, “your mythical substance may be stronger than regular duralloy, but clearly there are a few kinks that still need working out.”

  “Of course, let’s blame the refinery your Space Committee decided to build on the cheap,” Spalding agreed scornfully.

  “You are just about the most infuriating man I’ve ever had the displeasure of working with, Mr. Spalding,” she snapped.

  Spalding was just glad his space helmet hid his growing grin. A lady never liked to see a man laughing at her, after all. So thinking, he flipped off his link and chuckled to himself.

  Despite the setbacks, he knew they would get this job done… one way or another.

  The End

  A Sneak Peak at Book Four: Admiral’s Trial

  Chapter 1: In the Brig

  There was a loud, snapping sound and I awoke with a gasp, with a sharp, bitter smell in my nostrils. It filled my nose and bit all the way down into my chest, like some kind of ravenous knife. The next thing I knew, my lungs had seized up just like the time my mom had sprayed me all over with some expensive cologne every time we went to a mandatory royal function.

  I was too young to realize what was wrong at the time. All I knew back then was that I hated and couldn’t stand the stuff, just like my peas, and spinach, and non-crunchy meats… looking back, I realize that I was a pretty picky eater.

  As I got older, I came to the realization that I didn’t like the stuff because my lungs seized up in an asthma attack every time I smelled it!

  Whatever this stuff was, it had the same effect. I jerked and heaved, but couldn’t get more than a few quickly cut off mini-breaths of air.

  “Greetings, Mr. Vekna,” said a shadowy figure leaning over me.

  I wish I could say I glared, or spat, or shook my fist in a ‘we won’t take this anymore’ fashion, but if you’ve ever tried to do any of that stuff while having a respiratory arrest, you understand the relative difficulty involved. The mind might be willing, but the simply body isn’t able.

  “My name is Commander Justin P. Suddian,” he said, my eyes blinked enough to temporarily un-blur my vision and I could see a man in a Caprian SDF uniform and wearing a black hat. Ship’s security, I wondered? Then I saw that his black-gloved hands held a large syringe. Parliamentary Intelligence Service I wondered in confusion? He worked the plunger sending a squirt of grey viscous fluid shooting out the end.

  I stared up at him helplessly, my lungs able to take in a fractionally larger amount of air than when I first woke up. I blinked and everything went blurry again. I could tell this was because my eyes were poorly lubricated from being asleep for so long, and not because I was about to pass out, or anything of that nature.

  There was a sudden motion in my field of vision, and a shock of pain exploded in the thigh of my left leg.

  “And I’d like to have a little chat,” said the man, and I felt an abrupt increase in the pressure on my leg and then a feeling like fire and lighting all mixed rolled up and missed into one exploded throughout my leg.

  By now, whatever they’d done to simultaneously wake me up and incapacitate me, was wearing off enough that I could wheeze out a single word.

  “Wh-what,” I gasped, my eyes watering from the pain. This had the fringe benefit of letting me rapidly blink clear whatever filmy by product of too much sleep had blurred my vision. Looking up at a pair of stone-faced and presumably parliamentarian officers from my hospital bed wasn’t necessarily an improvement I quickly decided. Perhaps I had been better off not being able to see clearly?

  The thrill of fear and dread that shot through my gut and clenched my bowels up tight was awful, but it was nothing compared to the sudden, severe pain that shot through my mouth and throat when I tried to swallow.

  Then the one with Commander’s patched on his shoulder smiled, and I was certain I’d been better off before.

  “Why don’t we start with a simple little chemical interrogation,” he suggested, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. In fairness, I suppose that for a murderous, mutinous, and let’s not forget soon-to-be-torturing-parliamentary-scum-bucket like it him, it probably was.

  “Why,” I wheezed in a voice that for all harsh and raspy, seemed unusually faint to me.

  The Commander snapped his fingers.

  “John Henry, this simply won’t do. Mr. Vekna needs his throat well lubricated before we begin,” Suddian said impatiently.

  “I prefer Mr. Eden, Sir,” the other man deadpanned as he brought over a foul tasting, pale green concoction so thick that it barely slid out of the cup when he held it to my lips.

  It was almost as foul as I’d imagined, which was saying something. However, it had the fringe benefit of reducing some of the raspy pain in my throat… almost like someone had cleaned it with sandpaper.

  The Commander just smiled at him until I had drunk my fill, because after all, what was I going to do? Refuse until they forced it down my throat with a funnel? I’d seen that happen on one of the holo-dramas, and I didn’t want to go through the experience.

  “That’s quite enough, John Henry,” he said indulgently to his assistant.

  “Yes, Sir,” the other man sighed.

  “A chemical interrogation, huh,” I asked. What the heck, I figured there was nothing I could do to stop them, and besides, there wasn’t too much that I’d done or knew that they didn’t already have the files on anyway.

  “Well,” I said and then left it at that. I was going to say that this was pretty light stuff for the loser of a ship coup to have to go through… at least compared to all sorts of other things my mind could imagine. But for once, I wisely held my tongue, figuring what was the point of giving the man ideas.

  “Before we begin, I’d like to make one thing absolutely clear,” the Commander said, his mouth twisting as a slightly crazed look briefly crossed his face. I was certain his smiling mask had been dropped solely for my ‘benefit.’ I jerked instinctively before realizing that my hands and legs were tied to the bed.

  I wish I could say I laughed in the face of danger, but when you are essentially powerless and at the mercy of your childhood boogeyman come to real and actual life, there’s really nothing to laugh about. I did manage to keep from jumping and crying out in terror, or breaking down and begging right then and there.

  See, I was supposed to be a big toug
h Admiral or at least a hardened rebel. I needed to make it at least a half hour before giving up, just so they’d believe me when I told them I had finally given, up.

  “Your Uncle has given strict orders that you are not to be touched,” he said.

  “That doesn’t sound too bad,” I grudged, not prepared to be very charitable towards my murdering, pirate uncle, the same one that had just tried to kill me.

  The Commander’s smile never wavered as he reached for something on his belt. I heard the sound of a clip being unlatched.

  Something dropped to the floor and there was another click, followed by a faint, crackling thrum, as something was activated.

  “Normally, I would prefer to save this for later on in our… discussion, but just so we’re clear,” he paused ominously, and then continued in a darker, vastly more malignant tone of voice, “I don’t take orders from a Montagne, any Montagne, and certainly not as it relates to the pampering and treatment of other treacherous, bloody-handed, rebel Montagne scum.”

  “Okay, that doesn’t sound too good. Maybe we got off on the wrong foot,” I said quickly as the Commander slowly cocked his hand back, “you started off calling me Mr. Vekna how about we go back to—”

  The Commander’s hand snapped forward, causing a cracking sound, and pain flooded my body. I’m sad to say that it was the worst pain I had ever experienced. It was worse than being shot in the neck by my uncle, a little factoid that I remembered only as my whole body clenched and something in my neck felt like it tore open. It was worse than being stomped on by Oleander and then plasma grenaded while boiling hot, dripping Bug ichor burned the hair off my head. It was even worse than losing my hand on Tracto, during my introduction to Akantha’s family. In short: it was the worst sensation I’d felt in my entire life

  Sad to say, I didn’t make the goal of a half hour. In less than five minutes, I was screaming like a little girl.