When the Armsmaster went to turn me over, he got the barrel of my pistol in his face for his efforts. “I’m not dead yet, but you and your buffoon might soon be,” I whispered in a deathly voice. It turned out when I tried to shout, a whisper was all I could manage after being shot point blank with a sonic rifle.
“Admiral,” the Armsmaster rasped carefully, “this wasn’t meant to happen. It was an accident caused by poor discipline.”
“And when my own ‘lack of discipline’ results in your man’s face getting ‘accidentally’ blown off, we can call it even?” I asked carefully.
With a sudden move, the Armsmaster slapped my blaster to the side before I could pull the trigger, sending a bolt into the ceiling. Before I realized what was happening, he had the blaster pistol pointed in my face.
The man had a hard glint in his eye, and I was pretty sure in the next instant I was going to die. When he flipped the pistol around so the butt was sticking in my face and then thrust it point first through his belt, I was surprised.
“Come on, Admiral, let’s get you up and over to sickbay for evaluation,” the Armsmaster said.
“Alright,” I said in surprise, and when he extended his arm, I grasped it and allowed him to pull me up.
“This here is an unregistered weapon, Sir,” the Armsmaster said carefully.
“Why, so it is, Armsmaster Atkins,” I said, feigning surprise as best I was able while still drooped over the other man with my arm around his shoulder.
“I’m so sorry, Admiral,” the guard came over wringing his hands, “I thought you were part of the drill!”
“You are a dead man,” I said in a kindly voice.
My world suddenly tilted and I fell face first into the joint between the wall and the floor.
“Are you threatening a member of my Armory team?” the Armsmaster asked in a deadly voice.
“Did one of your team just shoot me?” my voice was muffled by being pressed face first into the wall. Feebly, I started to roll myself over.
What felt like a metal vice grabbed me by the collar bone on my right side and hauled me up until I was staring into the hard face of the Armsmaster.
“People who threaten my team don’t last long,” the Armsmaster rasped, a steely glint in his eye.
“People who shoot their Admiral for trying to enter the armory could be charged with mutiny,” I spat back defiantly. I wasn’t really going to shoot the guy. I mean, before I calmed down I might have tagged him in the leg as payback for shooting me center mass in the chest with his rifle, but I wasn’t about to kill the guy. However, the Armsmaster was more than a little intimidating—not that I was about to let him know that—and I felt I had to make a stand.
“Don’t make me do something we’ll all regret; this is not a hanging offence, so don’t try to make it one,” the Armsmaster growled in a deadly voice. “The boy will be reprimanded and serve his time in the brig for discharging his weapon into a member of this crew without cause, as is proper, and he’ll have daily drills to improve his trigger discipline. But I won’t see someone killed over an officer’s pride.”
“Pride?” I demanded, feeling genuinely offended; the last thing on my mind was pride! This was as much about loyalty as it was about discipline; while the crew was displaying improved ability, I was far from convinced that I could trust my entire command structure. How was I supposed to run this fleet if crewmen felt they could shoot me—even accidentally!—any time they felt like? No, this had nothing to do with pride; this was about military discipline, pure and simple.
“I know pride when I see it,” the Armsmaster said, his fingers digging in so deeply it was all I could do not to cry out with pain.
“Oh you do, do you,” I snapped though clenched teeth, suddenly infuriated. “If I wasn’t down from being shot—”
“You’d what, try and take back your peashooter and go on a rampage?” the Armsmaster said grimly. “Sorry, but this unregistered weapon and that power armor we issued you will be going back to the Armory until sometime after you’ve had time to calm down and fully recover.”
“You’d leave me defenseless against my enemies,” I gasped, my shoulder starting to cramp.
“There are no enemies here, Sir, not unless you make them,”’ the Armsmaster said in a no nonsense voice.
“That’s what I thought with my last ship—I was wrong,” I said when I finally thought I could say it without crying.
The Armsmaster held my gaze but said nothing.
“Fine, you discipline your man however you see fit,” I said finally. This being slowly tortured while I was weak was for the dogs.
“Your word on that, as an Officer,” the Armsmaster released me, and finding my legs under me I leaned against the wall for support.
“My word as a Prince, an Officer, and a Montagne,” I said as stiffly as I could, which honestly came out more breathlessly than anything.
“Good enough,” the Armsmaster said, turning away as if dismissing me.
That’s the last straw, I seethed. I realized later that he was reaching for the first aid kit on the side of the grav-cart holding the battle-suit, but at the time all I could see was red at this latest slight. Who was I that this man thought he could brace me against the wall and extract concessions under pain and threat of worse?!
“However, both your battle-suit and your man here have failed me. So while as the Department head I leave the disciplining of the man to you…” I said drawing myself up as best I could.
The Armsmaster stiffened and turned around with narrowed eyes.
“I will have to see to your disciplining and that of the entire Armory department, personally,” I grated. This man’s standing by his wayward rating was admirable—his taking the matter into the realm of personal insults was not.
“This isn’t a palace, and I ain’t no servant. You come at Armsmaster Eugene Hardy Atkins straight, or you don’t come at him at all,” the head of the Armory Department said.
“I came at you straight when I tried to blow your head off,” I drawled dispassionately, “and being a ‘straight through the front door’ type of guy myself, I’m saying your words offend me.”
“Well, we can’t have that, now can we? What are your intentions, Sir?” the Armsmaster rasped, tossing his head like some kind of enraged goat, his words turning the honorific into a slur. “Going to throw the book at me?”
“Oh, you got me all wrong, bucky me-boy-o,” I said, mimicking a similar line I’d heard uttered by Chief Engineer Spalding, “you and me—on the mats. Bring your whole department.”
“If how you handle your fists are as good as how you handle your assassin’s sneak weapon, I ain’t a-feared,” the Armsmaster grinned. “Although if you need witnesses, I’d have thought you’d bring some of those softy bridge types to make sure it’s a clean fight.”
“I’m not looking for clean; I’ve just been shot by your guard here and I’ll be bringing my own department.” I bared my teeth in return, “And I assure you that it won’t be the bridge crew.”
“Whatever you say, Admiral,” the Armsmaster said lazily.
“Oh, and Department Head,” I grinned as the other man turned back to me, “I said I would see to disciplining both you and your Department. It’s clear to me that your men need more training, so have them come wearing their sparring gear. I guarantee mine will.”
“I like an Officer who’s not afraid to get his hands dirty,” the Armsmaster said, looking pleased. “Although I’ll still break you over my knee before we’re done, I promise to still try and make it an…educational experience.”
“Good,” I said, feeling a thrill of trepidation slide down my back, “first prison and then riding a command chair; I’m terribly out of shape and could use the training.” I could, too, especially if we ever went back Tracto and my beloved wife decided it was time for the hubby to come down and visit with the relatives again.
The Armsmaster laughed as he headed back into the armory, and I deci
ded to deal with my malfunctioning battle-suit later.
Turning on my heel, I staggered off down the hall making a bee-line for the nearest marine company. I had some Lancers to speak with and a ‘training exercise’ to set up. The Armsmaster might break me over his knee, but my Lancers were going to tear the rest of his Department apart—literally, if I let them have their heads.
Let’s see if he still has anyone to stand guard over his door and shoot me down the next time I drop by for a little informal visit, I thought with a savage thrill.
My bet was they were all going to be in sickbay.
I also planned to get my blaster pistol back. I idly wondered how McCruise and her little squadron were making out.
Chapter 35: Nikomedes:The Building of a Legend
“Mister Nikomedes,” Colonel Wainwright said as soon as the Tracto-an had activated his hand held communication devise, “I assume that’s a proper way to address you? Or did I miss a last name somewhere?”
“Warrior or Lancer with my name is good enough,” Nikomedes replied, staring at the Marine Officer, “what do you need, Colonel? I’ve been here for months and this is the first you’ve called me directly.”
Wainwright’s face tightened. “You’ve been left here to liaise with the Uplifts and observe, but the rank you hold is only that of a basic Lancer and nothing you’ve brought to our attention has been mission critical,” he said flatly. “I’m sorry if you think my Marine Officers have been less than courteous, but I’ve been too busy reorganizing my men and holding this Station together to start holding hands.”
“I wasn’t asking for special treatment,” Nikomedes said after a pause, “simply pointing out a conclusion. You’ve never called before, so I thought it must be important. If pointing this out somehow makes for a complaint with your people, then I stand corrected and ashamed.”
Wainwright drew a breath in through his nostrils.
“We’re about to have some visitors,” the Marine Colonel said and then paused, “from Sector Central,” he added finally, almost as if the words were dragged out of him.
“Come to call upon the hospitality of the Hold Mistress’s newest possession, perhaps?” Nikomedes asked, his mind racing.
“They haven’t done anything more than squawk their ship ident,” the Colonel said, giving the Tracto-an a hard look. “But one of the ships is definitely the Flagship of Admiral Yagar and the Sector Guard. They expect to dock on this Station, and I intend to let them—not that we have the firepower to stop them if we wanted too.”
“The Sundered say they could man enough of the Station’s defensive weapons to hold off a battleship,” Nikomedes said, his brow wrinkling.
“I don’t want any trouble,” Wainwright said grimly, “so whatever issues you have with them, I want you to bury them for the good of the station. They’ve brought a small fleet—three warships and a dedicated troop transport—and we could desperately use the support.”
“Let us hope that they have come to see for themselves the falseness of their claims against my Warlord,” Nikomedes said evenly.
“And if they haven’t?” Wainwright demanded. “Do I need to have my marines sit on you and confine you to quarters?”
Nikomedes hesitated; he didn’t think it would be as easy as the Colonel thought to confine him to his quarters. He had spent his time over the past months building up his rapport with the Demons of this station while acting as a liaison—Demons who owed fealty to the Hold Mistress of his Warlord, the lovely Lady Akantha, and tended to think of the Omicron as belonging to them after some fashion.
“On your assurance of good behavior,” Nikomedes finally agreed, “I am willing to extend Guest Rights the same as if they were the Kith of my Mistress, or Kin of my Warlord. To provide them with hospitality and protection within these walls from any foe, within or without, who would seek to assail them,” he said, the words tasting like ashes on his mouth.
“I’m going to hold you to those words, Lancer, not that I’m giving you any such assurances. If there are problems, I’ll be the one to deal with them,” Wainwright said direly, before adding, “obey your orders and do your job, Lancer. Don’t start any trouble you can’t finish because I’ll finish you before I let this station blow up in my face,” the old Marine’s finger slashed down, cutting the signal.
Nikomedes stared at the now blank screen with a hard expression on his face for several, long minutes. Then he reached out and reactivated it. Scrolling through the directory, he found the link address of one particular Sundered Leader. He was looking for an Elder named ‘Puko.’
“Greeting, Proxy,” Puko of the Sundered Demon creatures said, peering into the com-screen.
“My task is to protect and hold the Omicron against all comers, for the greater glory of Mistress Akantha and her future daughters by way of my Warlord,” Nikomedes corrected seriously, “I am not a proxy, simply a warrior.”
“Your people are strange, enhanced-stock,” Puko popped his lip, “you are warrior of the Hold Mother, but not Primarch among the warriors here. You are to speak for the Mother with her voice, but are not a proxy. It is all very strange, and not the custom,” the older yet still large and powerful Sundered glowered at him.
“A proxy for the Lady Akantha should be a woman,” Nikomedes explained, “among my people there is only one…or perhaps two ways for a man to be a proxy. First,” he said lifting a finger, “a Protector speaks with his Mistress’s authority unless told otherwise, second,” the Lancer paused in consideration before shrugging, “a brother or a father could be given such authority. It is not customary, but it has been done before. However, I am not family or a sword-giver, merely a warrior with a task.”
“Enough word dancing,” Puko chuffed, “tell why you called an old male like me?”
“An old adversary of my Warlord comes to call on our hospitality. He brings space-warriors and warships to our doorstep, in the name of his government,” Nikomedes paused to give his words emphasis. The experienced old Demon frowned and took the bait.
“Our agreement was with the Mother of your people,” Puko growled, “we have little faith in the lies of Sector Governors, and even less trust!”
“He is not a Governor,” Nikomedes hid his desire to grin by dragging a hand across his face thoughtfully, “his name is Yagar; he claims to be an Admiral and thinks to somehow rival my sworn master with big talk, a title, and his small, rodent-like ships.”
“We can destroy ships, even small warships,” Puko said dismissively. “Our people will female the station weapon mounts; this ‘Yagar’ won’t survive to dock with this place.”
“You would have the women take your battle glory?” Nikomedes was completely taken aback.
Puko grunted derisively. “The weapon seats on a hoo-man station are too small for a fully grown male,” he said sourly, slapping the floor and wall of his room in a rapid one-two motion before brightening. “But do not worry, our wives are very good shots, so these interlopers will not get very far. Why, I have two daughters who have won the sub-clan marksman contest,” the older demon male’s chest swelled to even more massive size. “Two champions from different wives,” Puko continued pointedly, “that is how you know they come from superior sire-stock. Someday, when you have children yourself, this is how you will know it.”
Nikomedes blinked, his brow wrinkled, and then decided to forgo another cultural comparison with the old male of Demon spawn—it was time to get this talk back on track.
“Man your weapons—,” he said only to be interrupted.
“Female,” Puke interjected.
Nikomedes froze and then frowned. “Female your weapons, then,” he said finally, “but at Colonel Wainwright’s request, we are to extend Guest Rights to this ‘Yagar’.”
“From what you have told me, this man is no guest; he is a threat to the Hold Mother and to the Clan! He should be crushed, not fed from the fat of the people. How can you be making such a man a guest?” Puko demanded, drawing himself
up with what Nikomedes was certain was disapproval.
“Calm yourself, Demon,” Nikomedes said calmly.
The Old Sundered male blinked at him. “Careful with your insults, enhanced stock,” the Elder growled, “I am no more a demon than you are a genie.”
“Your pardon, but am I not a genie?” Nikomedes asked, and then wondering if it would help, he extended an olive branch. “You may call me a ‘genie’ as you like without fear of insult, or not, as you desire, but I did not mean to give offense.”
The Elder, Puko, grunted before baring his teeth and looking to the side. Taking this as forgiveness or the next best thing to it, the Tracto-an Warrior frowned at himself. He should have known better than to address the creature like it actually was. For some reason, the Demons were particularly sensitive to their origins. After being informed by the Sundered about what a genie was, he had not objected to being called one. He had requested they not use it when dealing with other Tracto-an’s they might encounter, until they had been given time to explain it to the others first, but there was no shame in being labeled as what you were. Labels enabled, after all, and what warrior would want to reject a fearsome, terrorizing label like that of ‘genie’—especially when it was both accurate and true!
The God had forged well when it pounded the old DNA-chains with its new data-hammer before quenching them in the amino-acid baths necessary to create his people.
“Do not kill Yagar and his band before they have a chance to prove themselves, please,” Nikomedes urged.
“I will not welcome an enemy into the arms of the Sundered,” Puko snorted, thumping his chest for emphasis, “unless it is to crush him!”
“A guest who attacks his hostess sacrifices both his rights and protections, and anything which is his can be legally taken by the Hostess and her guard,” Nikomedes said with a fearsome smile. “I say let us prepare a greeting such as his masters will never forget!”
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