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

by Britt Ringel

  “Genius that triggered a most distasteful court proceeding,” Dunmore riposted.

  “That would never have happened if not for that man,” Wallace insisted.

  “But it did happen, Oliver,” Dunmore said pointedly. “You personally promised me a quick victory if I were to grant you free hand. You’ve failed to deliver and that failure has created an ugly and costly conflict that we can ill-afford to lose.” Dunmore placed both hands on the table’s surface and looked angrily at his admiral. “The Board’s confidence in you has been shaken, Oliver. Mine as well.”

  Wallace felt his face flush red in anger. “Your Grace, I have delivered success after success for the Board.” He tapped a finger to his chest as he boasted, “My standing among the corporate worlds... the entire spectrum of humanity, is one based upon triumph and conquest. This outlander threatens the impeccable reputation I have advanced through victories—”

  Dunmore shouted angrily over his subordinate. “Make no mistake, Viscount. You advance your status through the Board’s good graces.” The executive’s scolding tone whipped Wallace into silent submission. “And your reputation is only as good as we determine it to be.”

  Wallace cringed at his CEO’s outburst and cursed internally at the realization that the booming reprimand had probably traveled past the sanctity of his office. Silence, once again, stretched between the men.

  “I’m sailing with you to Seshafi, Oliver,” Dunmore announced.

  Wallace started to reply but thought better of it.

  “When you supply us our victory,” Dunmore continued, “I will negotiate the final terms of amalgamation. It’s become clear that those stakes are above your level of understanding.”

  * * *

  “Ladies and gentlemen, Rear Admiral Heskan,” Captain Nguyen announced inside the conference room. The simple proclamation brought the table of ship captains to rigid attention.

  Heskan’s reply returned from the doorway. “As you were, please be seated.” He walked the length of the long table toward his place at its head. Once seated, he scanned the room’s occupants. Thirteen pairs of eyes looked back him. “This is it,” Heskan said simply. “This will be our final briefing.”

  Heskan saw genuine concern in the faces of his fellow sailors. The fortnight leading up to the battle scheduled for tomorrow had been a whirlwind of activity. Even without forsaking the customary banquet, every ship captain and sailor knew this battle would be different. The foolish optimism that existed two weeks ago had quickly eroded with the growing appreciation for how severely outmatched they were. Hollow ship sections validated each captain’s foreboding during the spate of fleet exercises.

  Of Seshafi’s three sections, only the main held a full complement of six ships. Under the command of Captain Nguyen on Dioscuri, the main was fortified with not only Commander Tannault’s brig, Falcon, but also Vernay’s fourth-rate, Ajax. Before the exercises had begun, Nguyen expressed a deep reservation about placing Ajax inside the main, positioned as the second ship in the section. To corporate eyes, the line ship’s highly unusual assignment would be a clear indictment of that ship captain’s abilities. Nguyen had suggested that it might be wiser to relieve Commander Vernay than have her suffer the humiliation of her line ship languishing ingloriously behind another vessel.

  Heskan had dismissed Nguyen’s assertions and countered that Seshafi needed at least one section that could win decisively on the initial pass. It was his hope that the main’s success would carry the entire fleet to victory. When Nguyen doubted Heskan’s assertion that Commander Vernay would see things his way, Heskan had immediately called the petite ship captain to his office. In front of both Nguyen and the admiral, she unequivocally stated, “All I care about is winning.”

  Heskan could have predicted such a positive response from his friend. Since his promotion to rear admiral and the subsequent announcement that he would command the fleet from the C-3 ship, Vernay had become unshackled. Upon first hearing the news, she had uncharacteristically and quite unexpectedly thrown herself into a firm hug around Heskan while boldly declaring that it was about time he positioned himself where his sailors needed him most.

  Since then, her buoyant attitude had not wavered in the slightest. Through each of the fourteen days of rigorous exercises, Vernay had led the other ship captains in spirit, despite her ship sailing second in the main. When any ship captain expressed doubt, she countered with unshakeable confidence. If a battle pass during an exercise ended in obliteration, as they frequently did, she remained a steadfast and immoveable anchor of support and assurance that fed the other captains. Thinking back to her resolve over the last weeks, Heskan’s eyes tracked instinctively to Vernay, seated immediately to his left. Her blue eyes shone back at him and a dangerous smile played over her lips. The woman had somehow found an inner reserve of strength that had erased her prior battle fatigue. She was poised to strike, eager to vanquish any obstacle that stood in her way.

  Vernay was not the only beacon of optimism, merely the brightest. Commanding Seshafi’s vanguard from Hawk, Lieutenant Clayton Covington’s limitless faith in his fleet admiral became the cornerstone bracing his understrengthed section. Heskan had been sure about the composition of his main, but he had expressed uncertainty to Nguyen about one of his best ship captains commanding a vanguard otherwise comprised solely of privateer ships. Would the move be seen as a slight to Covington’s abilities? This time, Nguyen reassured Heskan that such worries were unwarranted and that commanding a section of privateers held the same esteem as heading a section of natives. The decision was a shrewd one, Nguyen added. Covington’s hard-charging but relatively inexperienced leadership style would be reinforced and tempered by the Iron Brigade captains he would be overseeing.

  Although the vanguard was composed of only four ships, Heskan hoped that the mixture of enthusiasm and experience might carry the section against what would surely be superior numbers. Farther down the table from Heskan, Lieutenant Covington sat next to the leader of the Iron Brigade, Commander Frankfort McDaniel. The two individuals had bonded into a strong duo during the exercises. The crafty privateer had taken the Seshafian under his wing and Covington was blossoming into a lethal leader. Hawk would need such a captain, Heskan knew. Surely, his brig will face a ship of the line. Heskan felt a shudder pass through him at the thought.

  If the vanguard was going to be outmatched by its counterpart, the rearguard seemed destined to be eclipsed. The Seshafian rear had exercised the entire two weeks with a paltry three ships. It was a brutal necessity as operational security took priority over exercise results. Heskan looked at Truesworth, the rearguard’s section leader, with rueful eyes. His ships just have to stay alive for a single pass, Heskan reminded himself. Nothing more than that.

  The seemingly simple defensive task would require superhuman effort. Not only would Truesworth’s corvette square off against a line ship, the rest of the pitiful three-ship section currently contained only the two pressed freighters from the Ugrit system. The freighters had been refitted over the last five months to increase their survivability, but the modifications had been so hasty and extensive that general purpose lasers fitted to their bows and sterns were not operational. The emphasis of the refit was protecting the crew and there had simply not been enough time to install the control systems required to operate the weaponry. Just survive, Heskan repeated to himself as he looked at Lieutenants Donovan and Carver, the two officers who had valiantly volunteered to command the impotent ships.

  Heskan found himself clearing his throat lightly. A sizeable lump had grown there during his inspection of his officers, and he struggled to find the right words.

  Unable to withstand the uncomfortable silence, Nguyen started. “What is the situation with Lagrin?”

  “Both good and bad news,” Heskan answered. “The third freighter will arrive tonight and we will use it for the battle. I’ll insert it into the rearguard to bring Jack’s section up to four ships.”

  T
ruesworth nodded with great relief, as he understood the deeper meaning.

  Across the table, Commander Tannault asked, “And what about the Colossus-class snows? Are they coming as well?”

  Heskan grimaced. “No.”

  Every head dropped around the conference table, some lower than others.

  “Lagrin fell behind schedule on their repairs too,” Heskan explained. “And they’re demanding nearly twice as much as we originally agreed to.” This was truth. An unexpected bill had arrived ten days ago from Unadex’s Shipping and Repair Company citing a lengthy list of unanticipated expenses incurred to rebuild Ravana, Rindr and Anakim. The invoice was little more than a ransom demand that Seshafi had no choice but to pay.

  “Damn,” Tannault cursed a touch too loudly.

  Lieutenant Covington shivered and said, “I guess this means the van won’t be receiving any extra help.”

  “Maybe not initially, Clayton.” Heskan wished he could give the man better news.

  Covington put on his bravest face and replied, “We’ll make do, sir.”

  Tannault looked sympathetically at his friend before turning to gaze brazenly at Heskan. “Can we at least expect additional privateer support, Admiral?”

  Heskan felt his stomach turn at the question. “Catalina’s Iron Brigade is all we have.”

  “A shame we’ve strayed so far from corporate values that other firms won’t touch us,” Tannault remarked before lowering his head.

  Heskan let the snipe go unanswered. There were much larger matters requiring attention. He tapped at the console in front of him and the screen on the table’s surface flared to life. “We must continue working on our maneuvers over the last remaining hours.” He entered a command to bring up the starting Seshafian fleet formation.

  “Admiral,” Lieutenant Baldwin of the corvette Honor interjected, “I understand why we’ve devoted so much of our time toward maneuvers and defense but, with respect, sir, we have it down cold. Shouldn’t we be focusing more on offense now?”

  Heskan had expected such a question although not from her. “I understand your concerns, Jaynee. I really do. However, how we move our fleet will be crucial to the battle plan. Our maneuvering must be precise.” He emphasized the word, as he had done for the last two weeks.

  Baldwin nodded her acceptance reluctantly.

  “Jaynee,” Heskan added, “I know you can fight. I witnessed it personally the last time.” He looked around the table. “I’ve seen you all fight, twice now, and I have zero doubt in any of your abilities to strike the enemy. Further, I know that each of you will give this battle your total effort. We may be outnumbered, but we’ll never be outclassed.”

  To his left, Heskan saw the muscles in Vernay’s jaw tense violently as she nodded agreement.

  The remainder of the briefing lasted less than an hour. By its end, Heskan was confident that each captain knew what was expected and there was no reason to belabor points already made. Once he outlined the final exercise, he broke the meeting to give the officers time to get back to their ships and brief their crews. As had become ritual, all of the captains filed out of the conference room save one.

  “Why are your meetings always so short?”

  Heskan grinned at the unexpected question. “Because I’ve been in your position during ones that went on for far too long.”

  Vernay returned his smile with one of her own. The expression briefly revealed a young, attractive woman but the dangerous professional with the single, long braid reasserted herself. “You know, you’ve rubbed off on all of us. I can’t go five minutes in my own meetings without looking at a chronometer. Jack’s said the same thing.”

  “Then every Seshafi sailor owes me a debt of gratitude,” Heskan joked lightly. His thoughts turned to the looming battle. “Whoever is going to be left, that is.”

  Vernay cast a glance toward the door. “It’s not as bad as it seems, Garrett.” She sought eye contact and said earnestly, “I think these sailors are going to owe you their lives. Everyone on Seshafi will too.”

  The intensity of her blue eyes pulled at him. He chuckled to break some of the power in the moment and quipped, “Where did my ‘Captain, Oh Captain’ curmudgeon go?”

  Cobalt eyes never wavered. “You’re going to be safe on the C-Three ship. Wallace would never make another attempt like that and the archduke has assured me of your safety.”

  Heskan’s eyebrows shot upward. When did she talk to Covington?

  “We’re going to get through this, Garrett,” Vernay promised. “I know it.”

  “I like the optimism.”

  “It’s not optimism,” Vernay countered. “It’s truth. This is my battle. It’s my fight. If Wallace thinks he can take away my future, he’s going to learn just how dangerous a Brevic on a mission can be.”

  Bolstered by Vernay’s absolutism, Heskan smiled with her. “Let’s go see this through.”

  Chapter 22

  The Seshafian defense fleet had been underway for two hours, led proudly by her C-3 ship. A herd of corporate media and civilian spectator ships trailed closely behind. Media outlets from each corporate zone were represented and various media ships from the Federation also attended. Billed as the final skirmish in one of the most unusual and intense rivalries in modern corporate history, the area around the chosen battlespace was already shaping up to be a circus. Private yachts the size of schooners had entered the system over the last several days at the rate of three per hour. The extra traffic had created a docking nightmare for the orbital at Seshafi Major but also brought an influx of tourism that the star system had never seen before. AmyraCorp’s board blessed the impending battle as a boon of priceless publicity but cursed the likelihood that the corporation would be unable to capitalize on it after the battle was over.

  Inside the Seshafian command ship, Chase Fuller paced near the front of the crowded media room like a caged tiger. His plan for the upcoming event, made possible by his untiring efforts and numerous bribes both inside and outside of the corporate sphere, was perfection personified. The only potential weakness was if Garrett Heskan had pulled another stunt and failed to lead from the C-3 ship like a proper fleet commander should.

  The media man’s eyes widened slightly and his stomach twisted when he saw an aide enter the room and scan the space expectantly. Fuller waved a hand to gain her attention and the woman quickly bolted toward him. When she was a few steps away, Fuller irascibly demanded, “Well?”

  The woman smiled and Fuller felt a gush of relief pass over him before she could speak. “Confirmed,” she said. “Baron Heskan was spotted on his way to the battle bridge. He’s on board.”

  Fuller pumped his fist in triumph. “Then I’ve got him,” he growled through a nasty sneer. “Good work. Now fetch me some tea.” He glanced casually at the compartment’s chronometer. The vessel would arrive at the designated battlespace in slightly under two hours.

  Plenty of time to practice a little bit more, he thought. Fuller silently ran through his coup de grace again. How many sailors know that their leader is a bloodthirsty Brevic, Baron Heskan? He could barely contain his smile. Does the AmyraCorp board realize they’ve invited a ‘Vic barbarian into their peerage? He sorted through other possible questions on his datapad before swiping a finger across the screen to conceal them from prying eyes. It was the perfect ambush with perfect timing, Fuller knew. News that the Brevic Republic had unleashed fusion missiles inside the Helike system was just reaching the LMA and anti-Brevic sentiment would soon be running at an all-time high. Garrett Heskan would be unknowingly walking into a veritable firestorm when he entered the media room to field questions before the battle. He’ll be defeated before the fight even begins… Has any reporter ever had such a direct impact over the news as I? Fuller smiled cruelly.

  “Excuse me, sir,” a fit man in a perfectly tailored suit questioned after tapping him politely on the shoulder. “Did that woman say that Admiral Heskan is on the ship?”

  “Yes,” F
uller confirmed. The intrusion was a bit bold but he was in a generous mood. Most correspondents would know better than to ask another reporter for such highly valued information.

  “Excellent,” the man replied. “When will we see him?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it?” Fuller said vaguely. His generosity had limits and this bumpkin reporter with a fine suit needed to learn his station. “He’s supposed to be having the conference right now but, at the minimum, he’ll have to take some questions before negotiations with IaCom can start. It should be soon.”

  * * *

  “Tunnel disturbance,” Lieutenant De Haas announced. The sensor officer rapidly swept back a lock of auburn hair as she zoomed out the optical of the Sade tunnel point. Unlike a normal warship, all personnel on the C-3’s battle bridge had a personal communications unit that transmitted every word uttered into the media room.

  While being fitted for the tiny unit that attached at the ear, Heskan had remarked that it would make wearing a shocksuit helmet uncomfortable. Attendants countered that shocksuits were pointless because C-3 ships were officially noncombatants. Even Cooke, they noted, died before lasers or missiles were fired and a shocksuit would not have saved him. Unperturbed, Heskan insisted that everyone on the ship would wear shocksuits. The decree lasted two days until the backlash from the media grew into a tidal wave of rebellion. Every outlet joined to petition AmyraCorp, stating the C-3 shocksuits would cause a reduction in the quality of media coverage by hiding the faces in command. A ruling from corporate headquarters determining that such excessively protective measures were not worth the troubles they were causing and put the matter to rest.

  In recompense to crew safety, security procedures on the battle bridge had never been tighter. The media was banned from the compartment and explosive-sniffing devices were run through the bridge every five minutes. An armed honor guard stationed at the entrance ensured only authorized individuals crossed the threshold.