I looked up the specs of Dungeon ship. The ship the Commodore had been talking about was a modified 175 meter Lictor-B Class Dungeon Ship, capable of holding 1250 in comfort and safety with only 50 wardens to manage the situation. It was extremely un-automated, as was the norm back during the AI wars.
Unfortunately for them, the Imperials numbered around 1700 plus a few casualties that might pull through. It’d be a tight squeeze, but I wasn’t feeling particularly charitable towards them at the moment. Besides the specs said you could squeeze as many as 2500 prisoners into the ship, if you were willing to risk overcrowding and a prison revolt.
I gave instructions for an Engineering party to be assembled to check the ship in person. Then dispatched another group of Lancers by shuttle from the captured Imperial ship. They were to officially take the Marine Jacks on one of the locally-owned Constructors prisoner, so the crew of the Constructor could move on to fixing up the old Lictor-B.
That ship needed to be put back in working order yesterday. Noticing it had been stripped of weaponry after I was able to review the tactical after-action report, I made sure to queue in an order for the Constructor to rectify that situation as soon as the ship was habitable.
Because my men were untrained and the ship needed a crew, not just wardens, I assigned two hundred men from the Lucky Clover’s crew, across all divisions so they’d have a mix of personnel.
Then it was time to run down to the Infirmary to lay eyes on my Chief Engineer.
***************
The infirmary was a mad house of strewn and sawed-off power armor. Inside were men. Injured and screaming men. Imperial Jacks and Confederation Lancers were being treated side by side.
It took a couple tries but I finally managed to get pointed in the right direction and found the grey haired doctor in charge of the medical department.
He was operating on one of my Lancers so I waited until he’d removed a bunch of shrapnel from the man’s abdomen before interrupting.
“Tank him,” said the Doctor, pulling away from his patient before turning to me.
The orderly assisting him tapped something on his slate and shook his head.
“Sorry Dr. Presbyter, all the regeneration tanks are full. We’d have to bump someone to put him in,” the orderly reported.
I realized I had forgotten the doctor's name. Someone who had treated me twice already merited more attention than that. I really needed to start doing a better job with this whole Admiral business, and a more systematic approach of learning people’s names and then remembering them might be the way to start.
Presbyter looked irritated. “Finish patching him up as best you can with standard surgical-heal, then,” he said shortly.
The Lancer was half out of it on painkillers, but at this last statement both the Medic and the Lancer looked alarmed.
“Me,” squeaked the medic looking like he had just swallowed something gross and inedible on some kind of a wild dare gone wrong.
“When an Admiral comes knocking, it behooves the Head of the Medical Department to find out what new emergency is about to beset us before a fresh flood of casualties stream into Medical. Besides, you’ve seen the operation performed often enough. As you can see,” he gestured around, “we are a little short of trained physicians at the moment,” said Presbyter, who then walked over to where I was standing.
“A little harsh perhaps,” I observed in what I hoped was a mild voice.
“Perhaps,” Doctor Presbyter said dismissively. “It's trial by fire down here, and he’s had the training. If he can’t handle it by himself, it's time find out now rather than later. We don’t have time to coddle anyone when hundreds of casualties are pouring through our doors.”
I nodded knowingly at the not-so-subtly implied rebuke. I understood the Doctor’s position, but since there wasn’t anything I, as Admiral, would do differently that could have changed the outcome, all I could do was suppress the urge to shrug helplessly or get upset and yell. As there were lots of casualties still flooding into Medical, I really had no choice but to let it go.
The Imperials needed stopping, the Clover had stopped them and done the best job of it we (or perhaps more accurately, I) had known how to do at the time. Despite the beating we’d taken, and the loss of so many Lancers and crew, this one had to go in the victory column. The losses were just an indication that I needed to step up my game. If we’d been facing another ship our own size, things almost certainly would have gone very differently.
“Tell me about the Chief Engineer, please,” I requested.
The Chief of Medical seemed to sag, his scowl disappearing. “Crewman Brence, who's also suffering from radiation poisoning, brought him in. I’m surprised the ornery old fool wasn’t already dead. Even so, the only reason he’s still technically alive is because right after his heart attack I took biological samples for culturing,” he shook his head sadly before continuing.
“Our technology may be a bit dated on this ship, but I still planned to shave some time off building him a new heart. Frankly, that’s the only reason he’s made it as long as he has. Fresh, uncontaminated samples, in some bulk thanks to the total amount of tissue we started with, have been added to his regeneration tank. We’re scrubbing and chelating him as fast as possible, but he took a massive prolonged dose,” he finished.
“What’s the prognosis,” I asked, dreading the answer.
“He’s not going to make it,” the Doctor said flatly. “We simply don’t have the kind of tools necessary to deal with this kind of extreme case. Barring access to top of the line Imperial medical facilities, the best thing we can do is cryogenically freeze him and pray someone somewhere can successfully revive him and simultaneously treat him for a massive dose of radiation poisoning.” The look on his face said clear as cold space what he thought the chances of that happening were.
“Assuming the facilities could be built or acquired, could you fix him,” I asked, trying to keep a demand out of my voice.
“There’s nothing in this system that could handle that kind of job,” the Doctor said dismissively. “By the time we could jump to another system, it would be too late. I’m afraid Chief Spalding is living on borrowed time, and even that’s about to run out.”
“If it were possible to build whatever facilities were needed to fix Spalding, anything you needed without limit, could you operate on him with any kind of chance of success,” I asked pointedly, hoping my tone would brook no further dismissal.
The grey haired man chewed his cheek and hesitated. “I could perform the operation,” said the Doctor said finally. “But the kind of equipment we’re going to need for this kind of massive tissue transplant and repair on the genetic level, not only is this an incredibly delicate operation, but it requires a level of computer assistance and processing power not allowed outside major Imperial facilities with strict controls. Essentially, we’d have to clone and replace most of the tissue in his entire body.”
“Would his chances of survival go up if you had everything you could possibly need and if it did, by how much would you say it improved?” I demanded.
“If I had everything I could possibly need…he’d possibly go from a 2-3% chance, up to as high as say 20-25%. It's hard to say without access to the actual facilities,” the Doctor said hesitantly. “So far, you are speaking as if this is a very real possibility.”
“How is your most qualified replacement,” I asked instead of replying. “Can he handle your job?”
Presbyter’s lips thinned. “Medical lost a lot of orderlies to Janeski and his Imperial recruiters, but as far as most of the actual physicians and surgeons, we stayed on board. Which is to say, my second is highly qualified,” he finished.
“What if I offered you a long-term assignment, creating a top of the line medical treatment and research facility? Everything would be state of the art and built to your specifications,” I said, the glimmerings of a plan that had been kicking around in my mind finally gelling into reali
ty. Not only might it be possible to save myself, but more importantly, this could be Spalding's only real chance. If it worked, this would be a gambit that would go down in history as one of the greats. At least, in my humble opinion.
“I don’t see how that is possible,” he said frowning.
I just looked at him steadily, my features hard.
“But I suppose that was I given actual control of the staff and facilities…the founding and creation of such an institute would have to be considered the achievement of a lifetime,” he said reluctantly.
“You’ll do it, then,” I said agreeably.
“I don’t see where you intend to acquire such facilities, short of the sort of piracy I simply can’t be a part of, on ethical grounds if nothing else,” said Presbyter.
“It is my understanding that in addition to top of the line onboard medical facilities, that the two Imperial Constructors from Sector 28, so long as they have the blue prints and technological base, can build essentially anything if given the right materials and work force,” I offered, hoping I wouldn't have to go too far into things just yet.
“I suppose,” said the Doctor doubtfully.
“The ship’s crew is free to take their chances at anytime, but because of the risk of Imperial piracy, as a Confederation Admiral I cannot take the risk of them being captured. So in return for the use of the ship in the meantime, when our forces are built up enough, we will escort the Constructor back home to Sector 28,” I explained, revealing the opening moves of a plan which had only hours before come to me.
“I’m not sure that a Spineward Constructor would have a full Imperial database with the designs for top of the line medical facilities,” Doctor Presbyter mused.
“I think there was a reason an Imperial Strike Cruiser was escorting a pair of Constructors from the 28th Provisional Sector. A Sector founded by Imperial interests, including several prominent Senatorial Families. Besides which, even if everything we need isn’t in the database, there’s always whatever technological readouts are onboard the Cruiser itself,” I finished.
“It's a possibility, I suppose,” mused the Doctor. “Although morally questionable. Taking advantage of a stranded Constructor and its crew like this...” he frowned.
“Well,” I began, meeting the searching eyes of the Caprian Doctor, “I’d say blowing up every single military base and technological asset the Empire was ever remotely involved with, and then violating half a dozen treaties or more by withdrawing all support, to be more than morally questionable. To me, this looks like nothing more than a start at rebuilding what was stolen and destroyed before returning the Constructor, undamaged of course. But that could just be me,” I said dryly.
“Like I said: morally questionable,” said the Doctor with a severe look. Then he crumbled, “But not an opportunity I’m willing to pass up, given the circumstances.” He paused as if to say something more but released a heavy sigh instead.
“Good,” I exclaimed, suppressing the urge to rub my hands together.
“How soon do I have to get ready, and is there anything else you needed from me,” asked Doctor Presbyter.
“In point of fact,” I said, pulling out a data slate.
The Doctor looked at the slate and his eyes widened. “There’s no need to transfer all these men,” Presbyter said in surprise.
“Oh, but there is,” I said as though in a lecture. “Not only does the Constructor we’re transferring them to have superior, although smaller medical facilities, but there’s another reason.”
“And that would be,” demanded the Doctor.
I leaned in and, in a whisper, explained exactly why those particular wounded crewmen needed to be transferred to the Constructor.
“Of course, we’ll need some able-bodied volunteers, which is the next thing I will be seeing to,” I remarked casually. I leaned nonchalantly against the wall of the infirmary and watched as the Doctor cycled through a variety of emotions.
“If this works….” the Doctor ground to a halt.
“All legal, and within my powers as a Confederation Admiral,” I assured him. “I specifically checked on the way down here.”
The Doctor slowly nodded, then snapped his eyes up to meet mine. “Remember, I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this for the good of the Spine, the Confederation, and Capria,” he said.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I lied.
The Doctor held me with a hard look, then let it go, taking a deep breath. “I guess I’d better get going if this little scheme is to work,” Presbyter said with a reluctant look at the Infirmary. “I’ll need to issue a number of orders and transfers before I can physically go over to the Constructor.”
Just like that, he was off and I was left looking around the infirmary for a moment before giving myself a shake and heading deeper into medical. There was a certain Engineering rating I needed to thank personally before doing anything else.
“Hello, crewman,” I said, after finding my quarry. Before me was a grey faced man, hunched over in his sick bed. Attached to one arm was a medical auto-doc and to the other was an IV with multiple lines attached to it.
“Admiral, sir,” the crewman started, trying for a smile but failing and grabbing for a vomit bag instead. When the he was done with his business and had enough time to recover, he decided to try again.
“Crewman Brence is it?” I inquired.
“Yes, Admiral,” said Brence.
“I understand you helped save the number two fusion reactor, and then threw yourself into Murphy’s own portal to Hades to rescue Mr. Spalding,” I said firmly, not needing to fake how impressed I sounded.
“That’s right. I went in to get the Chief,” said the Crewman, then his face fell. “I guess I was too late to do any good. They say the Chief Engineer’s not going to make it.”
“There’s still hope for the Lieutenant,” I said slowly, not wanting to give false hope but needing to give some kind of reassurance in the face of such a forlorn look.
“If there’s anything I can do for the Chief,” the crewman began, then chuckled, probably at his own situation and the unlikelihood of being able to help anyone in his current condition. “I should have known better than to go in there.”
“Why’d you go in after the Chief Engineer if you knew it was so very dangerous,” I asked with genuine curiosity.
“The Chief is a hard one and he’s full of his own strange notions sometimes,” Brence coughed. “Still, he's the only one who ever believed in me enough to care whether I turned into a real Engineer, or just stayed a whiskey-seeking screw up,” he said.
My eyes widened at the news.
“Oh, I know he only did it because there was so few of us with the training. But the fact is he did it. Instead of just throwing his hands up over me and Castwell, he took out his plasma torch and demanded our best. With my record, I don’t think the new Chief Engineer, whoever he is, will give me the time of day. Probably bust me back down from acting crew chief to able-spacer,” Brence said morosely.
“He had his moments, the Chief Engineer,” I said fondly, cracking a smile before rubbing my jaw where the old man had essentially knocked me out on the bridge following the aborted ramming attempt.
“He deserved better than to die in a blasted fusion core,” swore Brence, his eyes hard and his hands clenching the puke bag tightly.
“I think if he doesn’t make it, then he died like he would have wanted,” I said solemnly. “He went out saving the ship from destruction by the Imperials.”
The crewman had a prolonged coughing fit.
“Could be you’re right,” he muttered. “Could be,” then he started coughing again.
I saw blood on crewman Brence's hand where he’d been covering the cough.
Impulsively, I decided to broaden the conspiracy.
“Maybe there is something you can do to help the Chief,” I said, a corner of my mouth rising slightly.
The crewman’s eyebrows shot up and he h
unched over coughing again. “Anything for the Chief,” he said.
“If you’re in on this,” I sat down on the cot and leaned closer to the crewman, “then you’re all the way in. This is a long-term assignment. And there are no guarantees, but if we don’t try, there's almost no chance he pulls through,” I said somberly. Genuine emotion like this was a bit unfamiliar to me, to be honest. I usually had to fake it.
The crewman’s eyes popped. “You can count on me, Sir,” he said fervently.
“I need you to find me men from Engineering who can be counted on for a long-term assignment off the ship. It's like this...” I started.
When I was done explaining, the crewman looked at me like I was crazy but nodded anyway. “I can make you a list of men, Admiral,” said Brence, a new spark in his eye.
“Make sure you add yourself to that list, Chief Petty Officer,” I reminded him.
“I’m just an acting crew chief,” protested Brence.
“Not anymore, you aren’t,” I said with conviction, standing from the cot. “Besides, you deserve the best medical facilities I can find for you, and that’s on the Constructor.”
“Yes, Sir,” Brence said faintly.
I waited until the ship's newest Chief Petty Officer had made a list of men, and then uploaded it to my own personal data slate.
“I’ve got to run, but if I don’t see you again for a while, know that you have the respect of your Admiral,” I said genuinely. "Remember, if anyone asks what you're doing, you're going over to dismantle and transfer two of the fusion plants from the Victorious Solar Flare to the Lucky Clover," I added, pulling out a dataslate and hastily composing an order to that effect, complete with my signature.
With that, I left the infirmary, acutely aware that I had at least doubled the number of balls I was juggling over the last hour or so, and made my way straight to the shuttle bay.
***********
Gants from the Armory and his quickly assembled company of Lancers were waiting for me on one of the Constructors. As the shuttle landed in the Constructor’s massive landing bay, I decided exactly how I was going to put this to the men of this Constructor.
Admiral's Gambit (A Spineward Sectors Novel:) Page 9