Admiral's Revenge (A Spineward Sectors Novel:)

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “We’ve knocked out their shield generator,” crowed Tactical, “now it’s just a matter of time.”’

  “Status on Destroyer B; what’s going on over there,” McCruise demanded, pointing to that part of the main screen that showed the other side of the convoy, where a pair of Cutters were fight a Light Destroyer all on their own. “I ordered the Cutters to assist the Corvette against B, not taker her by themselves head-on.”

  “Drive failure, Captain—make that, Commodore…the pirates got in a lucky shot,” reported Tactical after a moment.

  “Not good enough, Tactical,” McCruise snapped as one of the Cutters, now leaking atmosphere, rammed into the side of the enemy Light Destroyer, “raise the Corvette.”

  “The Captain says he’s sorry, Commodore, but his ship was hit in a critical relay and it caused a power surge. It’s going to take time to get back into the fight,” reported the Comm. Officer.

  “Sorry,” McCruise said with blood in her eye, “I’m sorry, too. I’m sorry that because his ship’s a piece of refurbished pirate junk and he couldn’t keep her combat active that people died. Including,” her eyes were riveted on the main screen as a massive secondary explosion completely destroyed the remains of one of the Cutters and caused major damage to the pirate escort, “one of our ships!”

  “The Captain is offering his resignation, Sir,” the Comm. Officer winced at whatever he was hearing over his head set.

  “Cut the channel,” McCruise growled, “I don’t have time to hold hands.” She rounded on her bridge crew. “Helm, go to full speed and bring us around the starboard side of A. Tactical, tell Gunnery to rapid fire their weapons until the focusing arrays over heat and the crystals fracture. I want Destroyer A out of the action, and I mean now!” McCruise snapped, then waited until the ship began to move before continuing, “After we come around their back side and get a few shots up the kilt at their engines, Helm, I want you to bring us around to Destroyer B—we can’t let a Cutter face a Light Destroyer all by itself!”

  Medium and heavy lasers lashed out, pummeling the hull of Destroyer A and punishing the pirates for the actions of their kin on the other side of the convoy.

  “I’m reading heavy air venting on Destroyer A,” Sensor’s reported right before their own ship was rocked by a hull-penetrating laser strike which saw the lights dim slightly.

  “Shields are spotting on the port side and I can’t transfer power fast enough to compensate, Captain; recommend we roll,” called Shields.”

  “No,” McCruise said flatly, knowing that if they saved themselves from damage now, they were going certain to lose the other little Cutter. “Steady as she goes, Helm. Shields, you’re just going to have to do your best.”

  “Aye, Sir,” they chorused in response.

  Gunning its engines, their Heavy Destroyer took the hits and gave worse than it got as it spun around Destroyer A. Air streamed out of both ships from rents on their respective hulls, but the pirate ship was by far the worst of the two.

  Then the Heavy Destroyer came around for a pass on the Light Destroyer’s engines. Realizing its plight, the pirate Destroyer gunned its engines and tried to spin away from primary arcs of McCruise’s weapons.

  “You’re only going to have a short time on target,” said the Helmsman in a rising voice, “they’re just too fast.”

  “We’ve got this,” the Tactical Officer snapped in a cold voice before clicking on her microphone, “Gunnery is to fire the moment a shot becomes available—target those engines, boys, and make it count!”

  Captain McCruise crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair. It was time to do that hardest thing in a commander’s lexicon: stand back and let her command team fight the ship, which meant doing absolutely nothing.

  As the Heavy Destroyer finally gained their firing angle, the pirate Light Destroyer tried a desperate roll of their ship. Such a maneuver wouldn’t keep the stern of the ship out of range of their weapons, but it would make a precision shot that much harder for McCruise’s gunners.

  Seconds later, heavy and medium lasers speared out almost as one to strike the newly-presented stern of the Pirate ship.

  “Smoke one pirate!” said the Tactical Officer with satisfaction, and McCruise cracked a smile as one of the enemy destroyers two main engines—the engines that gave her superior speed and tactical maneuvering ability, compared to the tougher, Confederation vessel of McCruise—guttered and died as they were hammered by Confederation weapons.

  “Good job, team,” McCruise said loudly.

  “Commodore, if we come around for just one more pass, they’ll be out of the fight for good. Then we can finish with the other one,” Tactical Officer Malaria said urgently.

  McCruise hesitated, feeling torn. She hated to sacrifice another Cutter…blast that Corvette, anyway!

  “One more pass,” she said reluctantly, feeling as if a claw had grabbed her heart in its sharpened grip, as she mentally sacrificed the second Cutter to the greater good.

  “Commodore,” the Comm. Officer said in a hurried voice, “I have the Captain of Destroyer A on the link—she’s begging for terms!”

  “Her?” McCruise said, temporarily taken aback that the Captain actually was another woman. Generally speaking, the feminine half of the species was smarter than to fall to piracy, but relief passed through her like a wave, “accept her surrender on the condition that she eject one of her fusion cores and powers down everything else! Tell her if she complies they’ll get life on a penal world—otherwise, it’s out the airlock when our marines storm her ship!”

  The Comm. Officer hurriedly spoke into the miniature microphone next to his mouth, and the rest of the bridge crew watched with bated breath as he turned back to Captain McCruise.

  “They agree!” he cried.

  “Helm,” McCruise said urgently, “as soon as they dump their cores, we head for the remaining Destroyer.” She rounded back on the Comm. Officer, “Tell that pirate witch that she either dumps her core now, or we come back for another pass!”

  “Aye, Captain,” the com-tech said with a sharp nod and focused once again on his transmitter. Moments later, one of the pirate’s fusion cores was ejected into space.

  “Setting course for Destroyer B,” the Helm reported as the icon on the main screen went to full thrust and changed its heading.

  McCruise just hoped they weren’t too late.

  Chapter 40: The Silent Strike!

  “We’ve hit them good, Captain,” the Weapon’s Officer shouted, “but their shields are starting to reform.”

  “Blast,” growled Archibald.

  “Sir, we have to withdraw,” exclaimed his XO, placing a hand on his shoulder.

  “No, the Horn Toad and her crew sacrificed too much,” Archibald declared adamantly, feeling close to tears.

  “If we die then the Toad’s sacrifice won’t mean spit,” she retorted angrily, “get us out of here, Captain; we can’t take much more of this.”

  Captain Archibald’s mouth twisted and he reluctantly opened it to give the order she wanted. But his resolve hardened before he could do so, and he changed his mind.

  “No, Auntie, we won’t retreat,” he said, ignoring the look of outrage that flashed across her face at the title. “Besides,” he grinned, “who’s to say we’d make it out? No, we’re not withdrawing—we’re going in.”

  “That’s suicide, Captain,” the Senior Chief Petty Officer said.

  “Her shields are starting to stabilize, Captain,” reported the Weapon’s Officer.

  “We’ll last a lot longer in tight with that destroyer than we will out here,” he said with a decisive nod before turning to the Helmsman. “Pilot, take us over to that Destroyer—we’re going to board her before her shields rebuild!”

  “Hold on to your backsides,” the Helmsman acknowledged after an audible gulp, and the Silent Strike lunged toward the Light Destroyer like a lapdog pursuing a pit-bull.

  Archibald leaned back in his chair, his own eyes wide
with horror at his brief, likely ill-advised audacity. He thought he finally knew what it was like to be the Admiral on one of his death rides heading straight down an enemy’s broadside.

  Chapter 41: Conflict Resolution 101

  Atkins came in with an overhand right that clipped me behind the ear and had me seeing stars. I had tried to duck, but obviously hadn’t succeeded. A left popped me in the nose before another right went straight to the gut.

  It was the first match of the evening, and if I’m being perfectly honest, I was getting my butt kicked. Give me a warship, or a power-suit, or even a stupid sword and blaster and I’d hold my own, but this fisticuffs business was for the dogs. Fighting the urge to double over, I swayed to the side and only realized after the Armsmaster’s fist whiffed past my nose that I had unknowingly avoided another blow.

  “Had enough, Your Majesty?” asked the Armsmaster, his teeth bared in a smug grin. He didn’t even look winded!

  There was no way I was walking out of this one on my own two feet, and the Armsmaster had all but humiliated me with his boxing skills. It was time to mix things up—if I was going down, it would be on my own terms, not being picked apart in the middle of the combat circle playing someone else’s game.

  “No time for dancing and recovery during combat, Sir,” the other man mocked, making a come hither motion with his hands. “Trust me, you don’t want to make me chase after you.”

  Baring my teeth—blood-streaked as they no doubt where—I pulled back my right hand and launched myself forward. Atkins bobbed to the side and I missed, whiffing through the air once again as you’d expect, but this time the fist was only a decoy—I really meant to grapple.

  He rabbit punched me in the side, and from the pain I experienced I could no longer deny that the time away from Akantha had made me weak. He then kicked me in the leg—hard. I hadn’t been inspired to exercise in order to save my life, and it was finally clear that I’d let myself go.

  I brought an illegal elbow to the back of his head, and finally I’d managed to land a glancing blow. It wasn’t my first hit, but it was the first blow I’d launched with a real chance of doing some damage. Encouraged, I leaned forward with my arms reaching for purchase.

  With a one-two combination, the Armsmaster vented his reaction to my action with the savage force of a pair of body blows. It hurt and took more than a little out of me, but it also let me in close. Grabbing the back of his head, I brought up a knee, seeking to strike his chin with a knockout blow. But I wasn’t quite as limber as I could have been, and although I got that knee up to chin level, he managed to jerk back just enough that I only grazed him on the cheekbone.

  “Blighter,” he cursed, trying to muscle free and when he couldn’t do so, he smashed forward with a head-butt. I’m certain a greater man, with a more noble bearing would have almost certainly had a broken nose after a hit like that, but to my continued shame my nose was not—and never would be—described as great. Flat and wide, certainly unintimidating, the only way people would sing odes to that nose would be if I paid them hard credits to do so.

  Even though my nose hurt so bad tears threatened to pour from my eyes, nothing was broken and I should have been counting my lucky stars. Instead, I got distracted with the insane idea that I would have exchanged a broken nose for a magical change to a prominent, noble nose in a heartbeat and took a blow to my inner thigh—the Armsmaster was going for a crippling blow!

  Snapping back to reality, I focused back on the clinch and when the Armsmaster tried his next move to break free, I put him in a head lock. He rabbit punched me in the side, while I squeezed his neck between my arm and my side.

  “Dirty pool old man?” I gasped at him, knowing I’d started the illegal blows with the elbow. “I like it.” I lied through gritted teeth. It was all I could do to hold onto him, even with a slightly superior position of leverage.

  The Armsmaster growled in response and redoubled his efforts to pound his way into my stomach with his fists through my exposed side.

  When his hand started crawling up my chest and to my face and a finger poked me in the eye, I’d had enough. The next flailing finger went into my mouth and I bit down—hard. It was one thing to fight dirty, but it was another to go after my eyes. I needed those to run the fleet, and this man needed a lesson.

  The Armsmaster screamed, and in his thrashing we went over sideways and crashed to the floor.

  In the scramble, my shoulder was wrenched almost out of its socket and I started to wonder that if there were any lessons to be taught that day, would any of them be taught by me?

  Finding myself behind the Armsmaster, I rolled to my knees and wrapped my good arms around his throat. If I couldn’t win on my feet, maybe I could choke the blighter out.

  I held on grimly as he tried to pummel me by striking out behind him with his fists in the general location of my face. I could hear the cheers of the Tracto-ans and the groans of the Armory team as the Armsmaster rolled and writhed, trying to throw me off. Holding on grimly, I knew that if he got free it would be the end of me.

  A lucky, flailing blow to my face followed by a powerful twist of his body and I felt my grip started to slip. I tried to leverage against my other arm to keep a grip on throat, but the supporting arm was the same one with my wrenched shoulder and I couldn’t put as much power into the motion as I needed.

  An alarm klaxon sounded.

  “Red Alert,” shrieked the overhead speakers, “Red Alert. This is not a drill. All hands, man your battle-stations, I say again—all hands, man your battle-stations!”

  “Saved by the bell,” I gasped at the Armsmaster as I released my hold. I would like to say I instantly sprang to my feet and got up, but sad to say that even with a red alert blaring in my ears overhead, I couldn’t muster the strength.

  “Rematch,” demanded the Armsmaster.

  I closed my eyes. “Of course,” I snapped. I couldn’t let any hint that I wasn’t up for another beating pass my lips or cross my face while my Lancers were present.

  The Armsmaster extended a hand and, the tired fool that I was I knew I couldn’t get up on my feet otherwise, so I took it.

  After he helped me up to my feet, the Armsmaster leaned in close and whispered.

  “You’ve got potential, but you’re too hesitant to go for the low blows,” he said into my disbelieving ears, “need to work on that.”

  I stared at him in disbelief and then snorted. A snort turned into a laugh, and my ribs and various bruises on my body gave vent to their displeasure causing me to wince.

  “Now that’s an accusation I haven’t heard before,” I spluttered, as a pair of Tracto-ans in power armor hurried over to escort me to the bridge. In all honesty, I could use the exercise slash training, but getting my face beat on wasn’t how I enjoyed spending my evening. Whoever said a stressful day of watching for Bugs should be capped off by having your face beat in was probably insane—or a Tracto-an.

  Chapter 42: Bugs, Bugs, Bugs

  “Report,” I snapped the moment the blast doors leading to the bridge slid open. I wasn’t even through the doors when I started barking out orders, and I didn’t care. We were on the tail end of 2nd shift, and it was almost my usual sleep time. I’d been beat up by the Armsmaster, and now we were about to be attacked—all in all, probably not a great way to go into a battle.

  Not that I expected the enemy to do anything but inconvenience me as much as they possibly could. That’s why they were called the enemy, even if they were questionably sentient/non-sentient Bugs.

  “We’ve got a Large Harvester and what look like two dozen assorted Regular and Marauder class Bug Scouts,” Officer Eastwood drawled in response.

  I looked around the bridge, as it didn’t seem like Captain Laurent had made his way up here yet. Since I’d not been the fastest of responders due to being down in the training facilities doing what passed for my evening calisthenics, this was cause for some concern.

  “And us with only a pair each of Cut
ters Corvettes,” I muttered, not adding that our Heavy Cruiser had already been damaged during the last several engagements with the Bugs. I grimaced when I saw the 2nd shift bridge crew glance at me. I needed to keep up a confident front, so I cocked an eyebrow and went for my most arrogant expression, “Too bad they only sent one Harvester, eh?”

  Officer Eastwood looked at me decidedly nonplussed and grunted. “If you say so, Admiral, but I’d prefer less of them. Still, any dead Bug is a good Bug, as far as I’m concerned…so the more, the merrier, I guess,” said the Easy Haven transferee.

  “Cheer up, man,” I scoffed, “and if you can’t, then at least look on the bright side.”

  Eastwood frowned at me questioningly and I smirked in response. “At least you’ll be able to break another microphone on the altar of Bug combat,” Eastwood flushed a bright, scarlet red that started at the top of his chest and went all the way up to his hair line, “I hope you had Tactical stock a few spares during our latest recess.”

  “Sorry, Sir, I’ll try to contain myself this time,” he said stiffly, and then seemed to draw himself up. “Does the Admiral plan to engage this group also, or let them go?”

  “The Admiral,” I said with a blast of heavy irony in my voice, “intends to blast every Bug heading for Tracto to the Demon’s pits.”

  “Very good, Sir,” Eastwood said, his tone implying as far as he was concerned the opposite was true.

  “What word from the other captains, Comm.?” I asked turning stiffly to the communication’s section.

  “The other ships of the fleet report that they are ready and awaiting your orders, Admiral,” the Comm. Officer reported.

  “Good,” I said decisively and then quirked a smile, “although, we’re hardly big enough to be termed a ‘fleet,’ I think.”

  “The Admiral is here personally, along with multiple warships bearing the Confederation Flag,” Eastwood broke into the conversation pointedly.