Last Measure of Devotion (TCOTU, Book 5) (This Corner of the Universe)

by Britt Ringel

  Ricot softened his voice and answered, “We’re doing our best, Captain. None of us want to let down our fellow sailors or disappoint Captain Heskan.” The first part of his sentence contained more emotion in it than the last and it was a minor, though growing, source of irritation for him. A month ago, the Seshafian navy was run by Seshafians and led by, perhaps, the greatest Seshafian admiral of all time. Now, although technically Seshafians, Ricot felt as if he, personally, worked for an outlander while his entire navy was run by yet another outlander. He held no prejudices against Hollarans or the Commonwealth but it was a big adjustment, especially when their differences seemed to outweigh their similarities. These new officers’ attitudes, methodologies—even their peculiar accents, were a constant reminder that the old, cherished traditions were eroding away with uncertain consequences.

  “He shouldn’t have to die here,” Vernay confided in a whisper meant only for herself. “Not in these… this place. Not after all we’ve been through.”

  The comment poked at Ricot’s patriotism but he tried to offer support. “Captain, I know Seshafi and Sade aren’t major systems like Hollara and Honos but we call them home just like you do now.”

  Vernay finally faced Ricot. Her blue eyes shimmered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

  Ricot smiled at his captain. “I know, ma’am.” His smile widened a bit more. “And who says that people have to die? These aren’t the bloody battles of attrition that you had to fight against the ‘Vics. In fact, Captain Heskan could always just withdraw the entire casus bellum before hostilities commence. After all, this has always been just a stalling tactic anyway.”

  Ajax’s captain returned Ricot’s smile, although there was a tinge of melancholy to her. “That’s not our way, Sam.”

  Ricot took the final steps to close the distance between them. “Captain, nobody feels like they can say this directly to Captain Heskan but there’s a reason we fight the way we fight. The Hollaran way may have saved us during the last battle but if we actually fight Wallace in Sade as heavily outnumbered as we’re going to be…” Ricot shook his head as he considered the consequences before looking back to Vernay. “Well, Admiral Wallace is a stellar tactician looking for retribution. Just one pass could be catastrophic.”

  Chapter 7

  “We hope these quarters are more than adequate this time, Mr. Fuller,” the petty officer offered through a smile that was a mixture of hope and frustration.

  Chase Fuller looked around the larger compartment and grunted. “You call that a closet? How am I supposed to cram my wardrobe into that?”

  The services petty officer’s face brightened briefly as she considered where to stuff the grating media star’s clothing. “We can offer you additional storage space but, unfortunately, this is the guest compartment with the most space attached to it.”

  The command, control and communications ship dedicated nearly half a deck to hosting the various media members that would cover the skirmishes the ship and her crew were meant to oversee. However, the ship was still technically designed as a combat vessel and engineered toward compartmentalization and survivability. Such a layout had regrettable limitations but the events of the last battle only served to reaffirm the rationale for her warfighting configuration. Had a bomb the size of the one that killed Cooke been detonated inside the bridge of a civilian sloop, the entire ship could have very well been lost. Even with the C-3 ship’s robust design, dockworkers had toiled around the clock to bring it back to life. While the bridge still lacked the refinement she formerly enjoyed, her functionality had been restored enough to perform her job over the coming days.

  Fuller sighed heavily at the restrictions placed upon him. “War is hell,” he stated without a trace of irony. “When will my massage therapist be ready for me?”

  The PO consulted her datapad briefly. “She’s already waiting for you, Mr. Fuller, and we’ve been able to acquire the grape you insisted upon.”

  The news that Chase Fuller would not be forced to endure drinking an unsatisfactory vintage helped reduce his ire. “Well, that’s something, I suppose. I want to be the first one to ask questions when Heskan addresses the media.”

  “You’re in the queue, sir,” the woman stated, intentionally addressing only half of his concern.

  “I better be first in the queue, spaceman!” Fuller insisted while a cruel smile transformed his expression. “I want my questions to resonate through the entire system before he begins negotiations, and I better be seated in the front row during the pre-battle Q-and-A. I want to be the last face Garrett Heskan sees before hostilities commence!”

  “Of course, Mr. Fuller. I’ll see what can be arranged.”

  Fuller shook his head in exasperation. He groped furiously for his datapad and connected to his personal assistant. “Debbie, this spaceman isn’t working out. Get me a new one.”

  * * *

  Heskan’s Seshafian shocksuit felt familiar, having been based on Federation design, just like Brevic suits. He checked each junction of material, ensuring a proper meld formed between the different parts of the combat uniform. Starting from his collar, he inspected every centimeter of his suit for discrepancies. As his eyes drew lower, they tripped over the unusual equipment hanging off his right hip. While permissible under Brevic regulations, Heskan never carried a sidearm while suited up. Seshafian regulations were completely silent in guidance on the matter and the ship’s armorer initially thought Heskan was joking when he asked to be issued a P-52A, light semi-automatic pistol. The 8mm slug-thrower was small and contained only a seven-round magazine, but the weapon was exceptionally streamlined and smooth in its operation. Moreover, it weighed less than three hundred grams. Heskan wished there were an even smaller alternative, feeling ridiculous to be wearing a sidearm on the bridge of his own ship in the first place. When he half-heartedly mentioned the idea to Vernay, he did so knowing she would talk him out of it. Surprisingly, Vernay fully endorsed the notion and spent the next hour at Heskan’s side ensuring there were no Seshafian regulations against it.

  He sighed as his eyes continued to return to the small holster at his hip. This is stupid! He annoyingly grappled with the buckle of the belt. What does wearing a gun on the bridge say about my faith in the crew? He was unfastening the buckle when he heard Dioscuri’s dive chime from the corridor. Just wear it, Garrett. You’ve already gone through the embarrassment of having it issued to you and after a while, people won’t even notice it. A wave of nausea struck at his senses during the second-rate’s transition into normal space. When Heskan was able, he refastened the gun-belt’s buckle. He thought darkly of Cooke’s final moments. Maybe a pistol wouldn’t have made any difference but I’ll be damned if I leave myself completely vulnerable to some corporate back-stabber. With a resolute nod, he looked into the mirror. You have much bigger things to concern yourself with today anyway. The man in the mirror half-smiled. Let’s go wreck some Saden ships.

  Less than a minute later, Heskan entered the bridge of the Seshafian flagship and quietly walked to the captain’s chair to relieve Lieutenant Commander Cottineau. If Cottineau noticed Heskan’s sidearm on his way to his first officer’s station, he gave no hint of it.

  “We’ve arrived at the Sade system, Captain. Confirmed.” Dioscuri’s navigator reflexively moved her hands toward thruster control. The Seshafian fleet had exited the tunnel in good order but there were always minor corrections to be made in terms of position within the fleet. Although Dioscuri was the fleet’s flagship and technically always in the proper position, the lieutenant adjusted the line ship’s heading toward the portion of space the Sadens had designated as the field of battle for the casus bellum.

  “Thank you,” Heskan acknowledged while examining the system plot on the bridge’s main wall screen. Wallace’s forces were waiting for them, nearly 20lm away on the far side of the designated battlefield. The practice of having a delineated battle zone was foreign to Heskan although he could see the value in it. C
ivilians can stay clear of the fight, Heskan thought, and since defenders typically choose the location of the battle anyway, it just makes good business sense. As was typical, Wallace chose a vacant stretch of space roughly 7lm out-system from the Seshafi tunnel point. The expanse was truly empty with no physical features other than a few atoms per cubic centimeter. The only remarkable quality of the region was the considerable civilian traffic around the 10lm containment zone. He gaped at Dioscuri’s wall screen, stupefied by the sheer volume of civilian ships packed along the outer markers.

  “Sixty years ago, we started marking out our skirmish zones to keep our battles from leaking into civilian traffic,” Cottineau stated with a voice thick with sarcasm. “Today, we mark our zones to keep civilian traffic from leaking into our battles.”

  Seventy-one civilian ships crowded the “sidelines” of the battlespace. Ranging in size from tiny, private sloops to enormous chartered schooners, it seemed to Heskan that the entire Federation populace had decided to observe the looming battle. Interspersed among the spectator ships were close to a score of media ships from IaCom and a dozen other galactic media conglomerates. These ships, installed with priceless, high-resolution sensors that would have put Anelace’s SENS section to shame, were purpose-built to archive and broadcast corporate warfare. The reason was twofold. First, an archival account of each battle was to be stowed in the core library in Nessus, home to The Courts, in the event one of the active parties lodged an allegation of fault or foul during a skirmish. Second, media corporations made billions of credits selling the viewing rights to corporate battles in Federation and corporate-world markets. Already, the credits generated from the last Sade-Seshafi conflict surpassed IaCom’s revenue from the last three corporate skirmishes alone. Across the entire Federation, conglomerates were lamenting the missed opportunity in failing to send a media ship to the last event.

  “It looks like the whole LMA is here,” Cottineau said.

  “Well, they’re going to be disappointed, Mike,” Heskan replied. “One pass today. That’s all.” We’re here to try to knock out a couple Saden ships from the next skirmish, not demolish my own fleet. “Helm, once the fleet’s formed up, make way for the skirmish zone.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain. We’re moving out now.”

  Heskan thought about the approaching hours. Ten ships and thousands of lives depended on how well he could maneuver his fleet against an opponent that was nearly a legend in modern corporate warfare tactics. Doubt began to chip away at Heskan’s confidence. Instinctively, he looked to his left. The rugged man wearing the blue shocksuit of the Seshafian navy was very different from the anchor to which Heskan often attached himself during stormy weather. Mike Cottineau had been an excellent first officer to date and Heskan had faith in the Seshafian’s ability to command Dioscuri should that become necessary, but he was not Stacy Vernay. Heskan sighed quietly. Well, at least his first name is familiar. A chime in Heskan’s helmet gently prodded him from the past.

  “Yes, Captain?” It was Vernay’s voice.

  Heskan glanced down and saw his right hand over his communications controls. Did I call her accidentally? He shook his head to clear his thoughts. “Stacy, I want to remind you that your section will get only one chance at this. Depending on how each side maneuvers, you might have to change your target from their main section to their rearguard. I won’t have time to call out your targets so I’m counting on you to determine the best line to hit when the time comes. Whichever you choose, hit them hard.”

  “Aye, sir.” Vernay’s voice seemed tentative.

  “I can’t think of another person in the galaxy that I would rather have leading our main, Stacy. I know I can count on you.”

  Heskan intended his statement to bolster his friend’s confidence; it seemed to have the opposite effect. “Captain, you’re going to be grossly outnumbered and Wallace will want to hit our line ships as hard as he can…” Vernay dropped her voice to nearly a whisper. “You’re taking a huge risk being on Dioscuri. We’ve already accomplished our goal, delaying the resolution of Sade’s casus bellum until after The Courts hear testimony over Cooke’s assassination. We could just quit right now… sir.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Heskan replied nonchalantly in an attempt to ease her fears. “I have some tricks up my sleeve and you know that pinning down a group of ships decisively is a tall order in itself, especially when the other side isn’t seeking a decisive engagement.”

  When it became evident to Heskan that no reply would be forthcoming, he summarized, “Your orders are to determine which section of Saden ships gives you the best opportunity for a strong battle pass. I want one, preferably two ships from said section out of action for at least a couple months. At the same time, you are to minimize the damage your section sustains. Are we clear, Commander?”

  This time, Vernay sounded a bit more optimistic. “We’re clear, sir. Protect yourself, sir. We need you.”

  Heskan smiled inside his helmet. “Will do, Stacy. Happy hunting.”

  As he closed his communication with Vernay, his sensors officer announced, “Incoming message from the Saden command ship to our C-Three, Captain.”

  Heskan rocked back and waited. Nguyen would redirect the message, obviously a greeting from Admiral Wallace, from the Seshafian command ship to Dioscuri. Heskan’s response would likewise take the reverse circuitous route. In planning the skirmish, Heskan begrudgingly agreed that maintaining the appearance that he was on the bridge of the C-3 ship would prevent Wallace from levying undue levels of hostility at the Seshafian second-rate. Like Wallace won’t be gunning for this ship after what we did to his own line ships in Seshafi, Heskan thought with mild irritation. Still, every ship captain in the planning room was insistent on this precaution and part of being a good commander is choosing which fights to make your stand and which ones to let go. He thought back to his time in Task Group 3.1. Did Hayes ever let one go?

  Once Wallace’s message reached Dioscuri, it played on the main wall screen. The Red Admiral looked resplendent. With no need for a shocksuit, the man’s uniform consisted of multiple, golden braids that looped under his shoulders, attached to epaulettes of frilly gold containing an admiral’s rank insignia that sparkled like diamonds. The dazzling medals on his chest filled the entire field of the red coat down to his third button. Wallace would see a close-up view of Heskan in a shocksuit but Heskan hoped the sight would be attributed to his reputation as a bloodthirsty fleet commander.

  Wallace’s expression was one of weightiness mixed with contempt. “My greetings to you, Captain Heskan. I offer my compliments on your punctuality and hope this display of compliance with our way of war marks your willingness to follow all of our rules.” Wallace’s back stiffened and the slight change to his height allowed him to look down on the camera recording him. “It is my assumption that, seeing our overwhelming superiority and your status as the aggressing officer, you wish to open negotiations immediately. After your inevitable unconditional concession, I shall expect your immediate transit back to Seshafi.” A precise wave ended the transmission.

  Wallace’s condescending manner was unmistakable in his tone. The friendly banter displayed between Wallace and Cooke, the evident mutual admiration of the two friends… none of that was present. Even the subtle jab at Heskan’s rank was apparent. Over the course of the last ten days, disturbing rumors had surfaced regarding why Heskan was not an admiral, as was customary for corporate fleet commanders. It was no surprise that sources, anonymous of course, leaked those reasons to none other than Chase Fuller. Joshua Covington dismissed the rumors to Heskan in private, reaffirming his complete confidence in not only his own decision to elevate Heskan to the status of fleet commander but also Heskan’s competency to carry out his duties. However, Covington explained that promotion to admiral was more of a political question than a military one. The board of AmyraCorp simply wanted further confirmation of Covington’s instincts before they adorned Heskan with not only the rank of rear
admiral but also the fons honorum title of nobility that attached to it. Admirals could always be retired or sacked but noble titles, once granted, were more enduring.

  Well, Heskan thought as he scanned the updated order of battle, there’s certainly nothing patronizing about his statement of overwhelming superiority. A full twenty-eight ships to our ten. Outnumbered almost three to one. The brutal odds were exactly why he felt so adamant about attriting Wallace’s fleet before the “real” skirmish in Seshafi. Unlike today, Heskan would have access to corvettes that could not tunnel and he hoped to improve the odds further with more privateers and Gables’ secret fighter squadron. However, he knew that Wallace would come to Seshafi in the next encounter with everything in his arsenal and as it stood now, that arsenal was far too great.

  Heskan pressed his record button. “Greetings, Viscount Wallace. It’s a great honor to be able to speak with you again. I believe I shall defer at this time in order to judge the prowess of your very large fleet and its commander. As it is your fleet that shall unconditionally concede, we may very well remain in your system to enjoy our victory.” Heskan closed the channel with a grin.

  “Cheeky, Captain,” Cottineau stated while flashing his own smirk.

  Heskan simply shook his head. “I didn’t mean it to be when I started, Mike. There’s just something about that man that makes me want to slap him around a bit.”

  * * *

  Admiral Wallace listened to Captain Heskan’s response while gently lifting a porcelain teacup to his lips. The leaves used for the drink were a heartier variety of camellia sinensis designed to flourish under Sade’s red star. While much of Sade’s social elite scoffed at the notion of drinking anything less than the more standard strains of evergreen shrubs transplanted from Terra, Wallace believed such pretentiousness failed to recognize the complexity of the various Saden steeps. He placed the cup down and reflected that the nobles who discounted this tea did so because they were mired in the daily machinations involved in climbing Sade’s social ladder. Wallace’s status as Lord of the Admiralty and a viscount freed him from having to put on such airs. He did not feel bound to follow the expected norms of a noble stratum; instead, he created the norms to which others would conform.