Unable to see, I fumbled around until I felt his sword and then pushed it away. Hopefully it was out of reach, if Nykator was playing possum.
On forearms and knees, draped over the fallen Warlord's body, I lay there for a moment and rested. At least I was able to breathe again, which was something.
I made one aborted attempt to get up, but with the leg joint seized up, there was no way I was making it to my feet in my current condition.
Two of my battle suited armory crew, servos whining, came to assist me to my feet. Someone poured water over my eyes and thrust an inhaler into my mouth. Coughing and dripping sweat, I could barely open my eyes but I could somehow see again.
Feeling lightheaded, I watched as a male medic backed away and Akantha filled my limited vision.
“Have you seen my hand,” I asked, looking down to verify that it was in fact missing. It was. I looked up at her with a hopeful expression. She opened her mouth and then closed it, but my vision wasn't quite good enough yet to tell what expression she wore.
“You didn’t need to fight, you know,” she said at last, “I tried to tell you before, but you were too thick-headed to listen. There are barren lands on Messene that I can dispose of however I want,” she said, touching my face with light fingers and pushing open my swollen eyelid to get a look at what remained underneath.
“Oops,” I said, unable to think of anything witty to say. “About my hand,” I continued, focused on my missing limb.
Akantha eyed me strangely. “You look out on your feet. Do you want me to take care of matters here while you recover?” Was this genuine concern I heard in her voice? “Or is there someone else you’d rather deal with it, like your hoplite Gants?”
“Sure, my Ice Maiden, whatever you want,” I said, unconsciously calling her by the name I’d given her in the privacy of my own mind. Gants was a good man for the Armory, but not the handler of matters. Or the matter of handlers. Or…
“About that hand,” I muttered, looking around. “It's still missing,” I complained, holding up my stump.
There was the hiss of a medical device of some kind, and I fell into darkness.
Chapter 34: Settlement and a Dispute
He was the very model of an ancient, outdated Space Engineer: the nuts are cracking
The aged engineer eyed the barren land consisting of dirt, shrubs and giant bones around him suspiciously.
“This is a bad idea,” he muttered under his breath before taking a small step onto the shuttle’s off ramp. He scowled at the dirty hydraulic assembly on the right side of the shuttle. Someone had been stinting on shuttle maintenance.
“Slackers!” His customary bark was followed by a growl, and he leaned closer to take a look. The cylinder looked like it needed a good buff and some lubrication. He’d make a note to have the whole assembly taken down for inspection and the cylinder run over by one of the ship’s machine shops.
“Chief Engineer-Wizard,” exclaimed a female voice, “I am so grateful you could come. The learned advice of a Master of the Arts Engineering Mechanicus is in dire need, I fear.” Despite the imperious tone in her voice, the young Lady sounded truly grateful that Spalding was down on this ugly mud ball.
The Chief forced a smile that slowly turned genuine as he faced the tall, young lady. “Ah, Lady Akantha,” he said fondly, then scowled, “if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. I ain’t no quack Wizard with a bag full of love powders. I’m just an ornery old engineer.” He put extra emphasis into the scowl to make sure she understood.
“Of course,” she said in a voice that clearly didn’t agree with him and a smile that slowed the angry beating of his old heart. “I have need of your wisdom. Reach into your bag of tricks and help me convince the Promethean Tribe of their foolishness.”
The old engineer’s eyes widened. “I’ve told you before,” he said, hastily reminding her. “My bag of tricks are strictly scientific in nature,” this wasn’t the first time he was wishing he’d never mentioned reaching his hypothetical bag of tricks. It was just an expression. But for all of her otherwise reasonable and accommodating nature, the Lady Akantha was a tad bit on the superstitious side.
“I need a miracle worker,” she said in that happy, imperious way of hers, “and now that you’re here, I’m certain that anything we put our minds together on, we can accomplish.”
“No need to be hasty,” he said hurrying down the ramp. “Let's just take a look at things before we get our minds all set in stone.”
“A miracle,” she repeated, and led the way deeper into the temporary settler camp.
“Remember how I’ve told you before that any man… or woman,” he allowed, “can set their sights on the Destination or the Method and, if they work hard enough, they can have it? But only a fool or a miracle worker…,” he trailed off, realizing the young whipper-snapper was trying to use his own sayings against him.
“I remember,” she assured him. “That’s why I called you! The new citizens have proved themselves entirely unreasonable in their demands, and that’s when I knew there was only one person who could fix this.”
“Now wait just a minute,” he barked, hurrying to keep up. He leveled his finger and then had to stop abruptly, before he ran into Akantha' imposing form.
“At last!” said one of the refugees standing just outside a temporary portable structure. One of those models that collapsed and disassembled easily, so beloved by early colonists and military land forces. “Someone who can finally talk some sense into this unreasonable-” the Promethean bit his tongue, “the War-Prince’s Bride.”
Spalding pulled himself up short, puffing with the effort. Sandbagged! “What’s the blasted problem here,” he growled, stepping into the temporary structure. Then nodded at Lady Akantha, “Sorry, my Lady,” he grumbled.
The Prometheans were utterly flustered. “She’s completely unreasonable," shouted one of the assembled settlers.
“They want to get themselves killed,” cried another.
He threw his hands in the air and turned to march right back out the door and return to the shuttle. He was right; this had been a bad idea.
United (if only in their demands that he return to settle the matter), he allowed them coax him back into the structure with promises to behave themselves and moderate their tones.
Later, when the chief engineer finally made good his escape so he could return to the Lucky Clover and get about the important business of the day, he left behind a the tent full of mollified settlers.
A triumphant looking Akantha beamed in his direction as she escorted him back.
“A miracle!” She declared imperiously, “Just as I expected.”
“Common darned sense,” he said, in a foul mood after playing referee for the last two hours. “As any Murphy-touched idiot should have been able to see for himself. There was no need for a referee old enough to be everyone’s grandfather to step in and point out the obvious.”
“Oh, cheer up. We won! And the tribe will be safe from the Stone Rhinos,” she declared.
“If they’re tough enough to soak up blaster fire, like that skin sample you gave us seems to indicate, then moving the settlement off the flat and into the hills is the only reasonable way to go,” he frowned. “They can sink a deeper well for water, or run a pipeline up from the sea and set up a desalination plant.”
“Yes, but you convinced them by using words they could understand,” she said seriously. “Though I tried, I could not.” Apparently, failure was something to which she was unaccustomed.
“I’m going to take a piece of that sample back with me to the ship,” he declared, trying to change the topic. “Nothing natural has skin strong enough to resist blaster fire. The Doc needs to take a look at it and run some tests. Outside of my field,” he said, turning back toward the temporary structure.
She gently took his arm, “The Stone Rhino comes to Messene peninsula to die. There are lots of dead rhinos outside the camp. It takes a sword of
power, pit traps or poison for my people to kill a mighty rhino. That’s why this place is uninhabited by my people and so dangerous for yours. We can get another sample using your ‘plasma torch’,” she said, pronouncing the last two words in Confederation Standard.
Her superstitious respect for his plasma torch was touching, but he still grumbled as he leaned down, well outside the camp, to cut a sample off the gigantic carcass of a long dead Stone Rhino. It was nothing more than skin and bones at this point.
“Helping you sort matters with the settlers is all well and good. But the real danger to everyone isn’t down here, it's out there in space,” he waved his hands at the night sky. “Set up a few towers with a handful of men and laser turrets and things should be safe enough down here on this mud ball…” he reddened, “I meant on your fine planet,” he corrected hastily.
“And why is that,” she asked, amused. Thankfully, she was willing to overlook the slur against her world. “The danger greater up in, ‘cold space’, as you call the river between the stars,” once again she pronounced a pair of words in Confederation Standard.
“The Clover needs to be ready! The Bugs are itching for half a chance to infest this system,” he expounded, waving his hands in the air, “Which completely forgets about Pirates raiding the border systems, like the ones we stopped on our way out here. Or the great big mess those blasted Imperials made withdrawing from the Spine and taking their fleets with them.”
He glared up at the stars, “No doubt the Confederation is practically falling apart at the seams while we’re stuck out here. The Clover was built to make a difference. She needs to! She’s been stuck in dry dock for so long, it’s time for her to shine,” he said, stamping his foot up and down in agitation.
Lady Akantha looked unhappy. “I hadn’t realized the situation out in the Lands of the Stars were so dire,” she said, looking wistful for a moment.
“Oh, it’s not as bad as all that,” said the Chief Engineer, worried his belly-aching had give the wrong impression.
“No. I understand,” she said with a sigh. “How long do you think before my Protector, the Admiral,” she once again used the Confederation word, “has to take heed to the needs of your Overlord?” she asked, looking like a woman who is contemplating her husband’s future naval deployment.
“Don’t let the grumblings of an old fool ruin your honeymoon, lass,” he said gruffly.
“How long,” she insisted, a tone of command creeping into her voice.
The Engineer winced to be the bearer of bad news. It served him right for standing around on a mud ball doing nothing and complaining like a slacker, when there was work to be done on the ship.
“The lad’s made more than his fair share of mistakes,” he said more harshly than he’d intended, then took a deep breath. “But his heart’s in the right place. I suspect as soon as we get something set up here, that can at least see off Scout-sized ships, we’ll make the journey back to Confed space,” he paused and bit his tongue.
Akantha raised an eyebrow and he turned a bit red.
She kept looking at him until he relented with a sigh.
“It's not really my place to say anything,” he said, uneasily aware he was speaking out of turn, but thinking it might ultimately prove necessary.
“I can keep your words in confidence,” she assured him, looking intrigued.
“The Clover’s a mite short on manpower at the moment,” he said. She opened her mouth to comment, but he waved her off, “not something you need concern yourself with, the why’s and the wherefore’s,” he assured her. “But the sad fact is that after the better part of a year, many of the crew want to go home and the lad, well, he’s a fine one. For all there’ve been some tragic mistakes along the way,” he said, his voice hardening again at the thought of that ridiculous ramming maneuver.
“Go on,” she said, playing it cool and looking at him out of the corner of her eye.
Spalding wasn’t fooled for an instant, but went on anyway. Being old was a double-edged sword. Firstly, you knew all the tricks the youngsters had in their bags, so spotting them wasn't all that difficult. But the older you got, the less you cared about such things. Sometimes it's just easier to coast right on by those clever little tropes and gambits.
“The point is, he’s got a big name to live up to, and even bigger boots to fill as the Admiral of a Confederation Fleet,” he said matter-of-factly. “So you know, not everyone thinks well of the Montagne’s these days, especially after the Troubles.”
“I wasn’t aware of any of this,” she said, looking at him seriously. “Are you saying the action by that grey haired man and his war-band, the ‘Security Department’, wasn’t a surprise? That they had general support when they tried to kill my Protector… the Admiral,” she inquired, looking concerned.
“Oh, aye,” he confided, and then hastened to add. “Oh, the attempt itself was somewhat unexpected,” he tried to reassure her, “But the sentiment behind it, not so much. Right now most of the crew gives the lad the benefit of the doubt because he’s a Confederation Admiral, not properly part of the Caprian defense force. But I fear that not taking the men home right away, and then almost crashing into the planet has tested the crew's patience. If there’s another misstep...” he trailed off.
He didn't even want to get into the information he had uncovered during his search of Lieutenant Van Ness' quarters and recordings. Not to mention that he had recovered the sword at the same time, and had taken it to the little admiral's quarters without her knowledge. Better to leave that out of the conversation for now, he thought.
“You are talking of an insurrection,” she said grimly. “Is he so unpopular with his own warriors then,” she demanded. “The Prometheans and the Armory Hoplites seem to hold him in high esteem.”
“He’s only been a real Admiral for less than a week,” he said, “Before that… well, he’s filling some pretty big boots and the men just haven’t had the kind of time they need to get to know him yet. I have to admit, he’s pushing a boulder up hill. The Montagne name, it’s what got him into the top spot in the first place, but now it acts against him. He’s got a few points from the men for smashing the pirates, although that had its own problems." The old engineer had to stop his temper in its tracks at the mention of the ramming which cost a handful of crewmen their lives, if only for the sake of his re-worked heart. "Then rescuing the settlers helped some more, but that nearly crashing into the planet bit... It shook a lot of people up.”
“Has he no men he can rely on,” she asked, looking away.
“The young Admiral suits up in battle-armor half the time he’s on the bridge, the other half he walks around the ship as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. Gants is a good steady lad, and the handful of boys down with him in the armory do their best. But it's more bluff and enthusiasm carrying things than anything else at the moment,” he said.
“Jason Montagne is a proven and resourceful warrior,” she said a bit stiffly and looked uneasy. “I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve troubled you with an old man’s fears,” he said, absently fingering his plasma torch for reassurance.
“I thank you for your candor,” she gripped his arm, her hand crushing. “You can come to me with your ornery old fears any time you want,” she said fiercely, a fire present in her eyes that the old man hadn't seen before.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” the Chief Engineer said awkwardly.
“He must live to fulfill his obligations,” she said grimly and let go his arm. “There is much to be done.”
She drew herself up in front of him and nodded stiffly.
“Safe journey on your way home. You have given me much to think on,” she said formally and stalked off, those long strides of hers quickly taking her back into camp, leaving the old engineer to make his way back to the shuttle by himself. Nothing jumped out of the darkness to squish or eat him, and the walk back to the shuttle was thankfully uneventful.
>
Back on the ship, Spalding threw himself into his work. He wondered briefly what he might have set into motion down on the planetary surface, but was soon swept up in the process of trying to simultaneously educate a half-trained a work force and keep the Clover running at the same time.
Which didn’t even touch on his current job, weapon installation (or, in many cases, reinstallations) as the Clover’s old weapons, as well as scavenged weapons from the captured pirate cruiser were finished installing and then test fired.
He was on the hull, working with his plasma torch, when spacehand Brence came over and touched helmets. Whatever the man wanted to say, it must either be important or very embarrassing to the crewman, if he was staying off the open communication channels.
Admiral Who? (A Spineward Sectors Novel:) Page 37