Spineward Sectors 6: Admiral's Spine

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “Port shields down to 43%; starboard generators are still offline but now ready for pre-initialization routine. But I’m not sure we can afford the power drain right now,” Longbottom reported tension in his voice, “we’re experiencing spotting on the port side and the generator is taking all the power I can feed it from the reactors.”

  I opened my mouth to make a snap decision and then paused. Instead I looked over at Captain Laurent and cocked an eyebrow in clear question.

  The Officer muttered something under his breath and his lips thinned. “Focus on maintaining the port shields; they have the priority for now, Ensign,” he said unhappily. “Do whatever you can to get the starboard generators ready to go short of feeding them power.”

  The Shields Ensign hesitated and looked over at the Captain with consternation and then his face smoothed out and he nodded decisively. “Aye, Captain,” he finally replied.

  “Those fission piles they use for power generation are redlining; they’ve squeezed another five percent out of those engines of theirs at least, Admiral,” reported the Tactical Officer.

  “I haven’t noticed them getting closer,” I said looking back at the screen with alarm.

  “We’re pulling away faster than they can catch up with those ineffective little engines of theirs, especially now that we’ve overcome the pull of the moon and our slower initial speed at time of contact, Sir,” DuPont cut into the conversation. “A five percent increase over nothing speed is still not very fast.”

  “The way they’ve kept within range of us, despite the best efforts of our engines and helm, aren’t nothing, Mr. DuPont,” I rebuked the young man.

  “Sorry, sir,” he replied stiffening.

  “Carry on, Helm,” I said, and then winced as the more and more of the enemies light laser bolts continued to hit Phoenix and Longshot.

  “Longshot’s fusion primary generator is going critical!” cried a Sensor Operator.

  “Shields down to 34% with severe spotting,” Ensign Longbottom reported mechanically.

  The ship shuddered. “We’ve been hit!” shouted Tactical.

  “My controls are going funky,” DuPont snapped, “what’s happening to my engines? All I’m seeing are big, flashing lights all over my console.”

  The ship shook from side to side and, my eyes widening, I grabbed a hold of the arms of my chair and held on for dear life.

  “Secondary starboard engine shut down, main and secondary power runs cut by laser fire. Port secondary engine operating at 25% and rapidly overheating; Chief Engineer Tiberius Spalding initiating emergency shutdown procedures on his own authority,” Damage Control Tech Blythe reported.

  “Longshot just ejected her fusion core!” exclaimed the Sensor Operator, cutting in over the roll call of damaged equipment.

  “I don’t know how much more of this she can take,” Laurent said grimly.

  “Us or them?” I asked, as Blythe at Damage Control continued speaking.

  Laurent bared his teeth. “Both,” he said as the Flagship staggered on screen, listing up and to the left while falling out of formation.

  “Mr. DuPont!” Laurent snapped.

  “Compensating,” the Helmsman said tightly.

  Maneuvering thrusters flashed and the main engine flared and we started to get back on course. Then the ship lurched under our feet.

  “Damage to the Primary Engine!” cried Blythe.

  “Saint Murphy, we’re close,” I pleaded, my voice a whisper. Staring at the screen hard enough that my eyes hurt I silently urged our embattled Strike Cruiser forward. As if through sheer willpower I could force her to stay moving away from certain death.

  “Tell Lesner to keep those boats off us or he’s going to be out of a job!” roared Laurent stomping over the Tactical section. “You tell the Chief Gunner if he can’t keep a few droids off us I’ll find myself a new Chief who will!”

  “Gunnery!” raged Eastwood, shouting into his new microphone relaying the Captain’s orders. Then, apparently disliking the answer he received, he picked up the microphone with both hands and broke it over the corner of his table.

  “Half the secondary plasma coolant lines on the Main Engine have been interrupted and can’t be repaired until we can get some men out on the hull,” the Damage Control stander said in a loud, carrying voice as she continued to sound off what could very well be the death knell of the ship.

  “Just a few more minutes and we’re in the clear,” DuPont said tightly.

  “Engine temperature is redlining,” said Blythe, looking over at the Helmsman directly.

  “I need more power,” DuPont shot back irritably, “tell Engineering to stop overriding me and to take off the lockout.”

  “The Chief Engineer says that’s unadvisable,” Damage Control replied her face tightening, “we have to back it off to 75% or—”

  “Increase power to the engines or we’re all dead!” DuPont said angrily. “And tell him to stop throttling me down!”

  Adrienne Blythe spoke urgently into her ear mike and then stared off into space as she received the reply.

  “Another hit to the engine housing,” reported Tactical who gave Longbottom a harsh look, “do something about the shields over the engines, Ensign.”

  “Shields are down to 20% and porous as the Demon Murphy’s own space cheese; what do you want to me to do?” Longbottom riposted.

  “I want you to do your job,” the Tactical Officer snapped.

  “Control yourselves, men,” Laurent said, stepping between the two men’s lines of sight, “and confine yourselves each running your departments.”

  “Engine damage is negligible to the housing,” Blythe reported and then turned to the Helm, “the Chief Engineer will have something for you shortly.”

  “Shortly? Shortly and we’ll all be dead!” DuPont snarled, slapping the screen of his console repeatedly as if trying to punch in an order that just wouldn’t stick.

  “That’s the best I can do,” the Damage Control stander replied tensely, “I don’t control the Chief Engineer!”

  “Does that Parliamentary fool even understand—” started DuPont fiercely.

  I closed my eyes and tuned out the voices for just a second. Shields were down, or all but; the engines were damaged; and right behind us was the horde to end all hordes of enemy gunboats. If they caught up to us we were dead, there was no two ways about it. Either we pulled away or we were fried in Murphy’s flaming plasma torch.

  I could feel the crew starting to fracture at the seams as everything started to come apart. There was nothing I could do to fix our problems, no more gambits or last minute saves came to mind. It was up to the men and women of this crew to fight the ship, and I could do nothing to help.

  But just because there was nothing I could do, didn’t mean there was nothing to do. That’s what being a leader is all about, after all.

  Stiffening my spine into my best posture and straightening my uniform, I strode down from my chair into the center of the bridge.

  Eyes that should have been focused on their screens turned toward me, and voices which had been raised against one another fell silent and were muted. I had to make this short and I had to make it fast so I could get everyone pulling together in harness again or we were all doomed.

  “Men and women of the MSP, Officers and crew; fellow travelers through adversity. Friends,” I said, digging deep and finding my most oratory self, “the moment we turn on ourselves we do the Demon’s work for him. Worse yet, we stop fighting the droids and that is when we betray the sacred trust of every innocent civilian in this star system,” I paused to sweep the bridge with my eyes. Under the weight of my stare, faces that had been red with anger looked down—and a few that had been pale with fear and cast to the floor looked up. “We may win, we might even lose. The Space Gods themselves have witnessed that I haven’t won every battle. But we will not fight amongst ourselves while millions of lives are on the line.”

  I stopped and turned in a full circle
sweeping everyone with my gaze.

  “I believe in you. I believe in us,” I said, as the ship shuddered once again under my feet and I hid a grimace. While I was speechifying, our ship was getting shot up even further; I needed to end this now and, fortunately, I could feel the crew of the bridge all but in the palm of my hand. Clenching my fist, I lifted it high, “Through treachery and deceit, through chaos and carnage, and against perpetually superior numbers, the officers and crew of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet have never wavered in their appointed tasks. Do not waver now. Believe in me, but more importantly: believe in your fellows. We will get through this and be the stronger for it.”

  Once again I swept the bridge with my eyes and I could see renewed resolve and a few shame faces. Good, I thought with a sharp nod.

  “Now get back to your stations and fight this ship!” I bellowed.

  There was silence…followed by more silence. Just when I was about to wither with the realization that I’d reached deep down into my well of false leadership—and finally exposed myself to these people I was leading for the fraud I was—several of the bridge crew clenched their fists and, with a shout, raised them high as they mimicked my own stance.

  “The Little Admiral,” others cried, “we’ll whip these droids yet!”

  “Man your posts, you fools!” shouted Laurent, and within seconds people got control of themselves immediately turned back to their consoles. Hands started slapping the sides or tops of their consoles until the whole bridge was rattling with the sound.

  I started back for my chair, knowing that my work was done. The tank was officially empty.

  Chapter 51: End Run

  “Reroute the secondary exhaust lines,” Tiberius shouted over the din in Main Engineer, “and get a work team ready to go out on the hull.”

  “That’s suicide, sir!” protested a work chief.

  “Suicide would be doing nothing until our engines are so damaged the droids catch up with us and we are destroyed,” the young Chief Engineer rebuked the other man, “gather a work party and make it happen.”

  “I can’t do it—I won’t!” protested the other man. “How can I ask anyone to go out on the hull while we’re still taking laser strikes? Your father—”

  Tiberius whirled around. He grabbed the man and forcibly slammed him against the wall, levering his forearm under the whiner’s chin and up against his throat.

  “My father would what?” he demanded angrily, an outright sneer crossing his face. “Listen to your whining while the ship fell apart around his ears, you whiny, Royalist, dog?!”

  “He’d never ask a man to do something he himself wasn’t brave enough to do you ballot stuffer,” the crew chief glared down at him.

  “No…you’re right,” Tiberius said coldly, “he’d go out on the hull himself, fix the problem, and then come back and gut you like a cutworm with his plasma torch. Well, too bad! I don’t have time to pander to your need for some larger-than-life, mythic ready figure to fix all your troubles for you. Blasted Royalists think that one man is all it takes for your woes to magically disappear. Marines,” he snapped, turning to a pair of Lancers who stomped toward him.

  The head of his ‘protective detail’ looked at him curiously.

  “Take this sniveling coward to the brig,” he said abruptly, “I’ve got no time for a man too afraid to do his duty and too yellow to admit it.”

  “Yellow?!” cried the crew chief. “Why, if your father were here—”

  “He’s cowering in his little den down on the half deck,” snarled the young Chief Engineer, “where he can blasted well stay out of my way and out of trouble. So don’t bother bringing him up. It’s not superheroes with clay feet that are going to save us, but hard work and a willingness to pitch in where we’re needed.” He stopped and turned, “Penny!”

  “Sir!?” Penelope said with a questioning note, pushing her way through a small mass of milling engineers.

  Tiberius looked at her for a long moment and then turned hot and furious eyes on the cowardly naysayer who now had both his arms held by a guard on either side.

  “I need a team out on the hull,” he said flatly, “can I count on you?”

  Her face froze and then she nodded. “You can count on me, Lieutenant,” she said, squaring her shoulders.

  “I need you to take out a team and reroute, bypass, and otherwise repair and work around the secondary exhaust lines on the main engine,” he said.

  “On it,” she replied with a salute and then turned away calling out names as she started to assemble a team.

  He turned back to the Lancers. “Get him out of my sight,” he grated.

  The crew chief opened his mouth, but the Lancers gripped him firmly on the arms and jerked him back, cutting short whatever he’d been about to say.

  “Come along, you,” the Lancer leader said curtly, and they frog marched the other man away.

  “By the time they get out there on the hull we’ll either be out of range of the enemy or we’ll be engine dead, surrounded, and shortly after that, dead,” the young Chief Engineer said, turning to another petty officer.

  “Parkiney, is it?” he asked peering at the name inscribed on the other man’s jacket.

  “Yes, sir,” Parkiney replied, “I’ve got me a team fresh from Damage Control; heard you might have another job out on the hull?”

  Tiberius frowned, “Another team? I heard the last team we sent out didn’t make it back.”

  “Didn’t except for me,” Parkiney said, his face darkening.

  Tiberius grunted. “My condolences,” he said shortly, “but, no, the extra hull work has already been allocated to another team.”

  The petty officer frowned.

  “You can help me with the port secondary,” the young Chief Engineer said, turning and walking away at speed.

  “Thought we shut that engine down, sir?” he said.

  “I did,” the Chief Engineer said abruptly, “now we need to light her back up. And right now I couldn’t care less if we burn her out. At this point we finish getting out of range and give our team on the hull the time they need to work on the primary engine, or we might as well give up now.”

  “As you say, Lieutenant,” Parkiney said, “just point us in the right direction.”

  “We’re going to bypass the safety lockouts, which will require manual control,” Tiberius said. “Think your men can handle it?”

  “Burn out an engine, Lieutenant?” Parkiney scoffed. “I think we can manage.”

  “Yes, well the important part,” Tiberius said, resisting the tug of a grin at the edge of his mouth, “is giving us enough burn to finish getting out of range of these infernal machines on our tails.”

  “I reckon we can manage that too, sir,” Parkiney said with a crooked smile.

  Tiberius shook his head. “You’d better be right, crew chief…for all our sakes.”

  Chapter 52: Akantha’s Inferno

  “Is he deliberately trying to keep us out of combat?” she swore, leaning forward and glaring around the room daring anyone to meet her gaze.

  Few chose to take up that challenge.

  The Lancers were in one of the central points within the ship and, more specifically, that central point most nearest to a shuttle bay just in case Admiral Montagne her Protector decided a ship needed boarding. However, it seemed that despite her best plans and preparations the ‘Little Admiral’ had no intention of sharing his glory with those who actually fought their foes hand to hand.

  Underneath her feet, she could feel the faintest of shuddering and hear a faint, repeated, thumping sound from the rapid firing of the newly installed plasma cannons.

  “Has he lost his battle sense, his daring, or is the fact I have decided to produce a Messene heir sometime in the near future that has him in some kind of overprotective male haze?” she hissed, glaring up at the ceiling and in the general direction of the Phoenix’s bridge.

  “From all I have heard and you have told me, this Warlord of
yours sounds like a sound leader,” her past and once again guard said beside her. “I doubt such a man would allow your still only impending condition to be the single deciding factor.”

  Akantha frowned at him, feeling the urge to ask whose side he thought he was on. Instead she gave him an icy, disapproving look and turned away.

  Shaking her head, she gripped the hilt of her sword. They had been waiting for hours already. When were they going to have some action? She needed to blow off some steam! If all she’d been interested in was sitting or standing around, unable to take meaningful action, she could have at least done so on the bridge—where the view was better than it was down here.

  Settling back down to wait she suppressed sigh as a very unladylike utterance. As a Hold Mistress and ruler over an entire state of people, she needed to set a good example after all. It wouldn’t do for the citizens to hear their sovereign Lady was less than in control at all times.

  Especially when she wasn’t.

  **************************************************

  Lasers flared and arced while cannons chugged and plasma balls spewed out into the void surrounding the Furious Phoenix and not incidentally taking out dozens of droid gunboats, sometimes one after another and at others half a dozen at a time.

  Shattered wrecks of the small vessels—small, at least, relative to the size of the Strike Cruiser—drifted in an arc surrounding the rear half of the ship, only to be overtaken by new and undamaged boats eager to get their chance.

  Unnoticed by the targeting sensors because it had been severely damaged by a pair of laser strikes and a plasma ball that clipped the port side a damaged gunboat close to the ship flickered and suddenly lurched toward the ship.

  Slipping through a hole in the shields the wobbling gunboat with a pair of holes in one side and missing almost a third of the little ship on the other due to plasma burnout lit its engines and spun about just in time for a near crash landing as it latched onto the hull.