As the number of men needed to fully man the little ships was a drop in the bucket compared to what was needed to run the Lucky Clover itself, I happily sent them over to finish cutting their teeth with the System Defense Light Squadron.
At last, the Constructor was done with the repairs and its primary focus shifted to building the orbital defense turrets. It still had some excess capacity to slowly expand the Belter mining operation, but they had strict instructions to divert men and materials to the orbital defenses for the time being.
I wanted to stay and make sure more Bugs weren’t coming in the immediate future, but finally I couldn’t hold off any longer.
Akantha took the opportunity to visit her planet while we were in system, and she invited me to tag along. The truth, this time, is that I only partially didn't want to go, but I also felt like I was needed up on the ship to oversee the shuffling of officers and work details, with the rearranging of the crews and so forth. So I bowed out as graciously as I could, and while she obviously wasn't thrilled with my decision, she appeared to accept it without too much drama.
Barring Bugs suddenly showing up on our sensors before we point transferred out of the system, we were committed to returning to a Rim patrol.
Chapter 17: A Morale Booster, And Other Violent Pastimes
The small group of gunners set out, crawling the ship from one illicit drinking hole to another. They never realized they were being trailed by none other than the very Chief whose duty it was to put a damper on those very pursuits.
Fortunately for them, this was one Chief who’d never seen the need to curtail his men’s drinking habits, so long as things didn’t get out of hand. And even more fortunately for them, this Chief very deliberately wanted things to get out of hand. In fact, it had taken weeks of planning for this specific scenario to present itself, and Clarence Bogart wasn't about to let it pass by without taking a good swing.
No one could later say who made the suggestion to go to Hatch 30 Portside, a Lancers-only watering hole, and the Chief Gunner who may or may not have had a hand in it wouldn’t talk about the matter in any specific detail later on, other than to lie and spout pro-gunner one liners.
However, with most of their number already filled to the brim with liquid courage and the pride of the gun battery at stake for some reason no one could remember later, that group of intrepid gunners pushed their way into Hatch 30 Portside, unaware they were about to add another tale to the legend of the Battleship that was their home.
***************
“I’m here for a drink, bartender,” barked the assistant gunner for turret 43, a young Caprian man somewhat larger than the rest of his gun crew.
The old Lancer behind the bar turned and spat into the spittoon beside the bar, before picking up a glass and wiping it with a washcloth.
“Can’t you read the sign,” he said pointing over his shoulder at a sign above the makeshift bar that said ‘We serve Lancers only.’
“Whiskey double shot, my good man,” said the already half-drunk assistant gunner.
“Move along son, before you get a whole lot more than you bargained for,” the old bartender said as kindly as an old bartender can.
The assistant gunner frowned and his comrades behind him muttered to each other. Some seemed to think they should leave, others wanted to give the Lancers a hard time about this policy before also leaving.
The assistant gunner opened his mouth. What he intended to say is now forever lost to us, because before he could speak a nearly seven foot tall Lancer who’d been sitting at one of the small tables within Hatch 30 Portside got up and with one stride was able to reach out and place a crushing grip on his shoulder.
“The civilized man told you to get on,” said the Tracto-an Lancer, speaking Confederation Standard with a thick accent, but no translator. He gave the shoulder a squeeze and the assistant gunner gave an involuntary yelp of pain. “But me and my people aren’t so civilized as that man, just ask any of the other 'civilized' men on the ship,” he said squeezing harder.
The assistant gunner started nodding, his face screwed up in agonizing pain. The rest of the gun crew started to make as if to back up when a voice spoke up from the rear of their group.
It was an older man in a basic crew jacket without any identifying rank symbols, wearing a nearly worn out class B enlisted cap.
“You Lancers think you’re too good to drink with us?” he asked pushing his way to the front of the group, planting his feet and raising an eyebrow.
“It's okay, really-” started the assistant gunner, who moments before thought he was something special.
“Shut it,” the other two men said, almost simultaneously.
The Lancer frowned, while the older man grinned.
“We don’t think it. We are,” he said in his heavily accented voice, releasing his grip on the erstwhile assistant gunner who immediately beat a hasty retreat to the relative safety of the rest of his crew.
The older man shrugged and tossed off another grin. “Well, lots of men have thought they were too good to share a drink with a gunner, so I can’t hold that against you,” he said with a shrug.
“Good,” said the Lancer starting to turn away.
“There are two things I guarantee you that any gunner worth his salt will do when he’s off shift,” said the older man conversationally.
The Lancer turned back with a growl. “What are you on about,” he glared.
“Because if you’re too good to drink with us, I sure hope you don’t think you’re too good for a fight,” growled the older man, his demeanor changing from an easy going causal manner to nothing so much as resembling an angry growling pit bull.
Chairs scraped back as the fellow squad mates of the Tracto-an Lancer pushed back their chairs and got to their feet.
“Come on friend, let's go,” urged the gunners behind him, causing the old man to sneer in response.
“Big words and a big mouth, listen to your buddies and move on. Unless you care to back up all that hot air with-” the big Lancer didn’t get any further than that.
Out of nowhere the Chief Gunner (whose nickname in his youth was Iron Hands) let loose with an overhand right and planted his fist right between the eyes of the Lancer.
Feeling like he’d just hit a duralloy wall with his hand, everyone stood still for a moment as the Lancer just stood there looking at him.
A veteran of many brawls, the older man was just starting to become concerned. If they could all soak up blows like that, this might be over faster than expected, he thought grimly.
Then the big Lancer’s eyes rolled back up in his head and he collapsed to the floor.
For a moment everyone just stood there. Both the Lancers and the Gunnery Crew were shocked and surprised at this turn of events, and more than a little disbelieving that one older Caprian man had just felled this genetically engineered giant.
Then the Lancers growled in unison.
“What, you waiting for an engraved invitation? Come on!” yelled the Chief Gunner in disguise, making a not-so-polite beckoning gesture to the lancers.
“Now you’ve done it,” the lead gunner for the battery this crew belonged to said quickly, pushing up his sleeves. “Forty through forty five high!” he yelled calling out the turret numbers of the various gun crews in his battery.
Whether this was out of a misplaced desire to back up the older man or the realization there was no way he and his crew were making it out the door before the Lancers got them, again, he’s not talking.
With a collective roar, the two groups met with a crash.
Normally able to take on half a dozen men all by himself, Chief Bogart once again lived up to his reputation as old Iron Hands, and somehow managed to put down his second before the third arrived to start taking him apart. When the fourth Lancer got to him, it was all over but pounding he was about to receive. He went down spitting teeth.
His gun crew didn’t even make half the showing their old chief did,
but it wasn’t for lack of trying.
If only four Lancers went down, two of them Prometheans, and the other two Tracto-ans taken out by Chief Bogart, compared to all 16 gunners in the Lancer canteen, no one could later say it was for lack of pluck or fear of a little fight.
Chapter 18: Departure Is Bittersweet, But Arriving Is Always The Pits
I watched as the ticker counted down past the first alarm.
“Critical threshold met and exceeded,” reported the Navigator, “attempting to abort the jump to hyperspace at this point would most likely destroy the ship.”
“Yes, we’re all well aware of this fact,” I said with a sigh, closing my eyes and rubbing my forehead with two fingers of my good hand. I was all-too-aware that we were now destined to leave this system.
Now that we were committed, the excitement of returning to our interrupted patrol was replaced with a bittersweet regret.
Regret was soon followed by anxiety regarding our next destination. I didn’t expect anything to happen, but then I hadn’t expected to find Bugs here in the Tracto system when we jumped back, either. Life was just full of little surprises.
“In keeping with the First Officer’s stated desire for increased formality and attention to duty, I was just trying to do my job like it states in the manual,” said the Navigator, the slightest edge of irritation in his voice.
“Oh, carry on then,” I muttered in irritation. This Admiral business really was for the dogs, I decided. Sometimes it felt like the First Officer ran things on the Bridge more than I did, the way he managed the duty roster and scheduled the drills, not to mention this new strict adherence to protocol.
Long past seemed the days when I could willy-nilly schedule drills and order things entirely to my satisfaction. Maybe this was what settling into your role felt like, or maybe this was just what your First Officer settling into his role felt like.
At some point, I knew I was going to have to get this ship another captain. I couldn’t continue wearing both hats forever. I fretted that decision, to be perfectly honest. The last thing I needed right now was another Lieutenant Tremblay, someone bound and determined to impede me from pursuing what I knew in my heart was the right way to do things in a galaxy suddenly gone mad, to Hades with what the book said.
I’d never learned the book and as far as I could tell, I didn’t have time to, not while I was continually dealing with things it had never really considered. Like the Empire cutting loose a few sectors of the Confederation, despite half a dozen treaties and other obligations.
The hour and a half that followed as we counted down the point transfer passed both far too quickly, and agonizingly slow.
Akantha came onto the bridge and I couldn’t help looking at her with a blush. She checked the countdown and shook her head slightly.
I tried to muster up some kind of sad expression at the thought of at leaving, but I could tell from the hint of scowl on her face that I hadn’t succeeded in pulling the wool over her eyes.
She obviously decided that I was happier than she would have liked me to be while putting her home system behind us. I don’t think it was the fact that I had duties outside her system that I had to look after first, she understood that part. It must have been the fact I was so happy about it that ticked her off.
This new honesty thing I proposed had seemed like such a great idea at the time, but now I was having second thoughts. When a person got upset, not because you had to go and do a thing, but because you were happy about doing it and it was something that couldn't be avoided in the first place, it started to feel like the dreaded No-Win Scenario.
The No-Win Scenario was a fictitious test first proposed by some pre-holo-vid entertainment network. I hadn’t paid much attention to its historical background at the time I learned about it. Suffice to say that it was a scenario that just plain stunk for whoever was in charge. I still couldn't remember what everyone called it...it was some foreign-sounding phrase, or maybe a name.
That’s how I felt right at the moment, anyway. Stuck in a No-Win Scenario, one which just plain stunk, since I was the one in charge.
When the counter marched its way down to zero and it was time to make the jump to hyperspace, it was almost a relief to have something rooted in incontrovertible reality to worry about. All this fussing about how I felt because it could make my life harder was exhausting.
Whether fortunately or unfortunately, take your pick, this new system was completely devoid of advanced life. After a few tense minutes of populating the main screen with every anomalous reading in the system, the sensor section was tentatively willing to declare there was nothing to be concerned about.
It left me with nothing to worry about other than my interpersonal life, but by that time Akantha had left the bridge. With relief I was able to focus back on doing my job as an Admiral of the Fleet.
The next several systems were also uninhabited, although they were all new to my crew because we were heading away from the center of the sector and going in the opposite direction I’d sent the old Hammerhead.
If there was any trouble to be found, I figured it was most likely to show up as far from the local center of organized power in the sector as possible. Unfortunately, I was right.
Transferring into the Bingo System did more to kill my gambit to save the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet than anything so far. In retrospect, I wish we’d never have gone in that direction.
“Point Emergence,” said the Navigator, completely professional and on the ball for this emergence into a civilized system. Or at least, what passed for a civilized system this far out on the Rim.
“Baffling extended, Main Engines are not lit,” Helmsman DuPont said crisply.
“Point Resistance?” asked the First Officer.
“55 Gravities and fluctuating,” the Science Officer said flatly.
“Main Engine at 15% of maximum,” said the Helmsman. “The lock is still in place.”
“I’m having difficulty modulating the shields,” said Shield Operator.
“Probably a faulty data conduit, I’ll have Engineering send a party to troubleshoot,” said the Warrant in charge of Damage Control.
As I’d grown to expect, the Sensor Operators were already filling the view screen with the results of their sensor sweeps.
“Engine at 35% of maximum, engaging secondaries,” said DuPont.
“Shield strength at 85% of maximum and steadily falling due to increasing drain from the Inertial Sump,” said the main Shield Operator.
“Secondaries are now at 35% as well, we’re still locked solid,” reported the Helmsman tensely.
The ship had a slight lurch as we broke free.
“Sorry for the bump,” the Helmsman said happily. “With that kind of shield drag, there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“It’s a faulty relay somewhere, there’s nothing I could do about it, Admiral,” protested the main Shield Operator
“Sound off, let's verbally run through contacts on the main screen. And there’s no need to get defensive over a mechanical issue,” said First Officer Tremblay, managing to project professionalism.
The tally of planets and the system’s primary was reassuring. We’d arrived in the right place at least. Then something new appeared on the board. Or rather, a big red symbol appeared, but I wasn’t entirely sure what it meant.
“What’s the new symbol, Sensors? I don’t think I’ve seen that one before,” I asked tightly. I didn’t like displaying ignorance, but it could be a threat, and better to look ignorant than a fool.
One of the Sensor Operators started tapping on his screen. “We’ve got semi-current charts for this system, Admiral. We updated them while we were still in Easy Haven. There should be a couple of factories and a processing node out there, but sensor sweeps are turning up nothing,” said the operator.
“How is that possible? Did they move it with a tug,” I asked, that all-too-familiar knot forming in my stomach.
“Somebody else put their
sensors on that missing contact and let's verify the reading. We need to make sure it's not a sensor glitch,” ordered Tremblay.
“I can confirm, First Officer. There’s nothing even remotely in the vicinity of where the system’s orbital industry should be located,” reported a second Sensor Operator after a moment's pause.
I clenched my hands to the sides of the command chair. I didn’t like it when things were different than expected. In my opinion, anything different was trouble with a capital 'T.'
“Someone scan for hostiles and everyone widen the search area around the missing factories,” snapped Tremblay.
“Ex-Com,” I said, turning toward the communication section, “Let’s see about hailing the planet. Maybe they can give us an explanation about the missing orbital infrastructure.” I figured it was worth a shot. Maybe there was a reasonable explanation about why things were the way they were.
The reply, when we received it, was totally disheartening. It looked like we were a cycle late and two credits short.
An angry looking man appeared on the main view screen. “Confederation Fleet, you say,” he scoffed, “where were you last week when we needed you? Pirates came in, and everything they couldn’t fit into their ships, they destroyed. They took the better part of an orbital factory along with about two thousand prisoners they openly planned to sell for slaves. Then they blasted everything in sight,” roared the angry man.
“We are sorry for your loss, Sir,” I began. I was trying my best to sound official and sympathetic at the same time.
“To Hades with your apology! Where were you when we needed you,” sneered the angry man, “what did you say your name was again. Admiral something or other with the Multi-Sector whatever fleet. You can be sure I’ll be complaining to my Assemblywoman about your dereliction of duty, my ugly looking boy.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Mr.…” I said coolly, once I was certain my temper was under control. Part of me thought he was right. If I’d just abandoned Tracto to its own devices as soon as the battle with the Bugs had been won, maybe I could have got here in time. The other, larger part of me simply thought the man was a big bully looking to take his angst out on someone else, and there was nothing we could have done anyway.
Admiral's Gambit (A Spineward Sectors Novel:) Page 21