Admiral's War Part One

by Wachter, Luke Sky

  “I didn’t call you here to listen to you parrot my words,” Wessex said sharply.

  “I wasn’t aware you sent for me. I was already calling you on other business,” replied Bruneswitch.

  “You’re a hairs-breath from a charge of insubordination, Commodore!” Wessex snarled.

  “While I deny and refute any such assumptions, I will also say that I’d like to see you make any such charges stick. This is not a battle site and I am not Captain Jenner,” Bruneswitch said calmly.

  “How many ships do you have fit for duty, Commodore?” the Admiral snapped.

  “Ten fit for duty…Sir,” he said pausing deliberately to show his lack of respect for Wessex’s rank. “With another three barely hyper-capable. In short, we were gutted in the last battle.”

  “Which wouldn’t have happened if you had done your job properly,” Wessex said absently.

  Bruneswitch turned deathly pale. “We’d have twice that number if we hadn’t run, Sir,” Bruneswitch said forcefully. “We had a number of ships and crews who were fully recoverable before you—”

  “Spilt milk, Commodore,” Wessex cut him off, “I’m assigning you and the other ten Destroyers that can still do their duty to shadow the enemy fleet. Find them and follow them, then report back their position to the High Admiral. You should copy anything you send to him to me for as long as I am the commander of Task Force 3.” The Commodore’s lip curled but he nodded and silently cut his connection.

  He’d arrived at the ambush with 78 warships to his name and by his current count, including Bruneswitch’s thirteen, he now had a total of 28 warships. Not counting the Admiral’s Cutter. But then, who counted a glorified shuttle when tallying proper warships?

  Three Battleships, twelve Cruisers, and thirteen Destroyers—minus, of course, the ten he’d just sent out with Bruneswitch to shadow the locals, and no victory to his name was little enough to return back to the High Admiral with.

  He’d be lucky if he kept his head attached after Arnold Janeski was done with him. But at least when he one day stood before his god and predecessors, he could say he stood tall and did his best.

  The thought wasn’t very comforting, but it was the best he had. Just because his subordinates had attempted to sabotage his command at every turn didn’t mean that, as a Wessex, he wasn’t expected to rise above it all. His only slim consolation was that hopefully in the commission of his duties, Bruneswitch would face that same fate as the late Flag Captain Jenner.

  It was petty of him but there it was. Wessex might have to suffer his humiliation in silence but at least those two would receive a tithe of what they owed him for destroying the Task Force with their incompetence.

  Curse line officers and their universal arrogance everywhere.

  With that last quasi-comforting thought, there was no more reason to delay. Half his Cruisers and all of his Battleships were significantly damaged, and three of his Destroyers were barely functional.

  It was time to point their nose toward Task Force 1 and fire up the long range array.

  It was time to report to the High Admiral.

  With a gulp, he squared his shoulders and proceeded to record a message to go along with the hard data. His only hope now was that Janeski saw how he was undermined at every turn and spared his life.

  Mining ice in an uninhabited system was no longer as unattractive as it had once seemed even just a few days earlier.

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

  Janeski crumpled the polymer report print-out in his hand. It listed the ships and personnel lost in the lone, glaring disaster that marred an otherwise perfectly run campaign and what a mistake it was.

  “Damn him,” he swore with real rage twisting his face, “damn that man!”

  “Sir?” his Flag Lieutenant asked, sticking his head through the open door.

  “The North Hampton, Victorious Alignment, Pyramid,

  Norfolk and the Liberation of Persecution…fifty warships lost just like that, with five more so heavily-damaged they’re good for nothing but the dry dock.” He reached down, and with a heave, overturned the desk in his ready room which fell with a crash.

  The Lieutenant scurried out of the doorway like his life depended on it.

  “Wessex! Give me back my men and ships!” he yelled and then stood there breathing heavily as his thoughts swirled into an amorphous rage. He had served with just about every man who had risen to command rank within the Reclamation Initiative. The loss of so many fine officers—men and women he’d served with personally—was like a blow to the body.

  “Trouble?” asked Captain Goddard, the commanding officer of the Invictus Rising, Janeski’s Command Carrier and personal flagship.

  Admiral Janeski turned and glared at him. “You know, whatever he’s done, you can always remove the man from command,” Goddard said dispassionately, meeting his eyes.

  “Wessex is an incompetent bungler, and although I rue the day I was fool enough to place him in command, I knew him for the simpleton that he is. He is not the problem,” Arnold Janeski snapped. “Never again will I allow external politics to drive command assignments. Cornwallis and the entire Reclamation Initiative can go howl first!”

  The Flag Captain cocked his head with surprise. “I’m sure that—” he started.

  “Wessex is a fool,” he said dismissively, “it’s that blasted Governor again. He plagues me like a lapdog nipping at the heels demanding that someone—anyone—take it seriously. One good swift kick and that purulent little growth of a long-corrupted bloodline would be ended. Yet, like a dog, he continues to stay at range and urinate all over the carpet!” “So which is he: a rabid little toy dog, or one that makes a mess in the house?” Goddard asked solicitously.

  Janeski turned red and then shook his head. A moment later a quickly suppressed chuckle sounded. “You’re right, Captain. I give the little boil too much of my time and emotion. I appreciate the reminder.”

  “Happy I could be of assistance,” Captain Goddard said, looking down at the fallen table.

  The Admiral followed his gaze, as if just now realizing his ready room was in disarray. He waved dismissively, “Housekeeping can clean it up.”

  “Alright,” said Goddard.

  “In the meantime, toy dog or incipient carpet-peer, it doesn’t matter. We stick with the plan. A Task Force has been repulsed short of its target and taken serious losses. Protocol says the Sector is finally rallying against us. It’s time to reconsolidate the Fleet and smash these local forces,” the High Admiral said with complete and utter certainty. “Once we take this Sector, it’s all downhill. Send out the recall orders via the FTL network and cut all external usage. It’s time our enemies became deaf and blind, as well as dumb. They can go back to an information relay that crawls across the Sector at the speed of courier ship.”

  “We’ve already isolated the relays within transmission range of any of our ships in the Sector. We can cut all external usage…however,” Goddard said looking concerned, “several of the relays in this Sector, and in Sector 24, are not responding to our pings for automatic update. We can still send and receive but seem to have lost master control.”

  “Send a few of the Corvettes from our closer garrison worlds with a repair team to regain control,” Janeski said uncaringly. “I want full and total control over what they can hear—and who they can call for help.”

  “It will be as you command,” said Goddard.

  “It’s time to end this,” Janeski growled after the Flag Captain had left the room, his eyes finding and lingering on the crumpled reports which had recently fouled his mood.

  Chapter Twenty-seven: Rapid Repairs

  Arc welders flashed, molecular rebounders buzzed, and servos whined. Yet despite the various crashes, bumps and bellows, the engineer continued to work on the job order in front of him.

  The sub-relay for the data network must have been cross wired with the secondary power network somehow, because all the test
s came back fine but as soon as they put a power load into the area the relay blew. It was the third time in two days, and it was starting to get a trifle annoying.

  “That’s what you get when you allow robots to run cable,” he grumped, deciding that the man who ordered machines instead of ratings had been completely off his rocker.

  Of course, seeing as he was the man who had ordered that particular bit of corner-cutting, time-saving measures, there was no one to blame but the crazy loon that was himself.

  “Bah,” he grumbled, scooting in closer and attacking a secondary scanner unit to the cable.

  “Chief?” asked a voice out of nowhere, causing the old man to jerk and bang his head against the tight metal confines of the service access he had his head stuck inside.

  “What in all the confounded blazes?” he bellowed, shoving himself back out of the access panel by sheer force of upper body strength. That was something of an achievement, considering that most of his lower half was still made entirely of metal. Of course, on the other side of the equation, both of his arms were enhanced with synthetic hardware as well so that sort of balanced things out.

  The other man stepped back to give him room. “Parkiney?” he asked, giving the other man the squint eye.

  “The one and only, Chief,” said the Petty Officer.

  “Well if you’re here to shoot the breeze, get out; as you can see I’m more than a little busy. If, on the other hand, you’ve got some actual business for me then spit it out!” Spalding growled.

  “Word is we’re supposed to start getting a group of new captures in the yard—at least that was the plan before we stopped receiving updates,” Parkiney said.

  “Good thing we’re not in the yard then; there’ll be no disruption of the schedule,” the old Engineer grunted.

  “They should be here within days,” said the Petty Officer.

  “They’re not here yet?” Spalding clarified, bending down to peer back into the access panel and then cursed as a mess of long, uncut, sweaty hair flopped onto his forehead.

  He was glad his hair was starting to grow back after the last time he involuntarily went back under the knife in that pit of horrors they called ‘Medical.’ But right now all it did was serve to remind him of that terrible place. Maybe after his once great ‘do really grew back, it would start bringing back pleasant memories instead.

  “Why are we talking about this anyway?” he asked after shaking his head to clear his thoughts. “I thought you had something important to discuss.”

  “Blast it, Sir. They’re going to have Battleships, and Cruisers, and everything in orbit of the core in need of repair. The yard’s going to need all hands on deck,” Parkiney protested.

  “Listen up, buddy,” Spalding said, straightening back up and giving the other man the hairy eyeball. “You want to jump ship, just give the word and I’ll let you out. Otherwise we stay the course—no switching horses midstream. This project is too important for that sort of nonsense.”

  “Scuttlebutt is they’re facing an Imperial fleet out there, sir. Every ship we can get out there could be the difference between someone coming home and the whole fleet getting massacred,” Parkiney said seriously. “And they’re going to have Battleships coming back as well. How can we stand by, working on this, while the rest of the yard is helping the fleet?”

  “First off, I’ve looked at the repair estimates. It’ll take at least six months to get any of those ships minimally functional after all the internal and external damage they took,” Spalding frowned as he felt his temper rising. “As for another, we’re not standing by with our thumbs up our keesters while everyone else is working a bloody wrench. We’re pulling eighteen hour days in here, lad, but if you think the pressure’s too much for you then just say the word and you’re out! I don’t need no blasted slackers gumming up the work with their can’t do attitudes.”

  “Slacker? Can’t do attitude?” Parkiney repeated, anger appearing on his face for the first time. “I work harder than any two men. And what’s more, those Battleships might take six months but this skeleton needs at least another year before she’s ready to roll out—and that’s assuming you have some scheme to power her. I don’t know if it’s even possible but since it’s you, if you tell me you’ve got a way then I’ll believe you. But tell me I’m not wrong and it’s not going to take a year. Tell me! Because even if we can’t get a Battleship out of the yard, this work crew could sure as Hades pump out a couple of Destroyers—maybe even a Cruiser, and in far less than half that time!”

  “This blasted ship is the pride of the fleet—or she’s going to be, I tell you,” Spalding bellowed. “And yes, blight it, it might take her a year to finish out all the bells and whistles along with the trimmings but mark my words, son: we’ll have her rollin’ out of the yard in less than two months.”

  “Two months is impossible—even for you—and I say that knowing full well what a genius like you is capable of,” Parkiney cried.

  “I’ve already got the antimatter for two generators from the droid wreckage off Elysium. I just need to test the design to see if it’s stable like I believe. If that works, all that’s left is the new particle accelerator and the new specially-built grav-plates, and shielded control runs are already being installed as fast as the production facility can spit them out,” Spalding explained, his good eye turning red while the little veins and capillaries stood out further and further as he gazed off into the distance at something only he could see.

  “The main gun’s one thing, Sir. It’s just a scaled-up version of an older tech we’re all familiar with. But Antimatter generators? Commander, we haven’t even finished the internal structures—let alone armored her up,” Parkiney exclaimed. “Two months won’t even let us finish all that up or allow for safety testing. I’m sure you’re familiar with the track history of antimatter use in warships, so if you say you can get the generators to run on it then, again, I’ll believe you…at least until I see otherwise. But, sir, this is untested technology and you’re not allowing any margin for error!”

  “Have I ever steered you wrong?” Spalding barked.

  “Even if the accelerator and the generators are in and running, she’ll be a skeleton. She’ll be of no use in combat, our people need us now—or at least in a few days’ time,” said Parkiney. “Besides with just the inner hull beams and support, she’ll be open to space and liable to break apart.

  “Well, have I?!” Spalding repeated the question furiously.

  “Never,” said Parkiney.

  “Then believe in me now, lad,” Spalding roared, pointing a finger to the side and shaking it at the wall as if lecturing to an entire class. “When I say the Clover will be ready for what she’s needed for, and within two months, she’ll blasted bloody well be ready. We don’t need no stinkin’ armor. We don’t even need a full set of generators to run what we have yet to install. All we need is that particle accelerator and a hyper drive. After that, my boy, and only after that will her enemies once against begin to shake with mortal terror at the mere mention of the name Lucky Clover. They will soil themselves with fear upon entering the same star system as the greatest ship that ever lived—or my name isn’t Terrence P. Spalding!”

  Parkiney slowly nodded. “You’ve saved my life too many times—all of our lives—if you say you’ve got a plan then pass or fail, I’m with you,” he said finally.

  “Good lad,” the Chief Engineer said, clouting the Petty Officer on the shoulder hard enough to stagger him. “Now get back to work.”

  “Aye, sir,” said the Crew Chief.

  “And don’t you worry none about the support beams; they’re made of the new Duralloy. They’ll hold,” he assured Parkiney.

  The Petty Officer nodded and then turned to go.

  Looking back down at the access panel, the old Engineer finally shook his head and pulled out a data slate instead. Pulling up the work queue, he decided to give the project up for a lost cause and assign the work order to someone e
lse. A young up-and-coming engineer hot for a new project could handle this sort of thing just fine.

  He was sure everything would be fine but, just in case, he’d better go back over the figures again. There was no point in pulling the Clover out of space dock only to have the ship’s dual-purpose main engine twist everything out of alignment and toss half a year’s worth of hard work right down the drain.

  Meandering his way up and into the Clover’s new bridge—which, after it was finished, was slated to look amazingly like the ship’s previous one. It should, after all, since he was taking the old consoles and equipment and reinstalling them. He started punching up data and re-running the numbers.

  An Engineer’s work was never done.

  Chapter Twenty-eight: Arriving in Easy Haven

  We were one jump out from Easy Haven and the Wolf-9 Starbase and so far, other than a few sensor ghosts, there had been no sign of the enemy’s main fleet.

  We’d seen neither hide nor hair of the enemy, which should have been a good thing. Except for during that shortly after the battle with Reclamation Fleet Task Force 3, our entire ComStat network—which had been working intermittently before that—had suddenly gone dark.

  No matter how far away we jumped, we had been unable to successfully ping another FTL buoy.

  Now we were past the point-of-no-return on our hyper drive, ready to jump into what should have been the second or third safest star system we could have possibly gone to, and all I could think about was the growing pit in the middle of my stomach.

  This information deficit was deadly. Back before I’d had access to the ComStat network it hadn’t been so bad, just me an Admiral and his battleship with maybe a few other ships in the fleet around me. Even going to Sector 24 hadn’t been so bad. Sure, there had been information gaps but I’d always been able to relay a message home.

  Now we were facing our greatest threat ever—an enemy fleet with Imperial officers and warships refitted with Imperial tech—and, like a switch had been hit, I was back in the dark. It was more than unsettling and all I could think about were all the things that could have possibly gone wrong.