Admiral's Gambit (A Spineward Sectors Novel:)

by Luke Sky Wachter

  I nodded, having thought this through previously, but never really stopping to think about the psychological effect this type of new-found isolation might have on the people out along the Rim.

  “Whether or not they could get in and out fast enough was the only real question," the First Officer continued, "but there were always opportunities to systematically loot the local inhabited planets, like we see happening here,” he finished.

  “We take four times as long to cycle our engines,” I said with a dawning realization. "If we knew who was under attack and just had a dozen or so ships spread throughout the sector, I bet we could take care of the pirates,” I said.

  “Imagine that,” the former Intelligence Officer said mockingly. I shot him a hard look.

  “What if the pirates just cut the link to a star system? No one would know anything until the next tramp freighter came passing through the area,” I demanded.

  “There were routine updates built into the system, and with multiple links to other civilized worlds, the odds of two or more FTL comm. stations going silent around the same time is effectively nil. The Imperials had the policy that if any planet went silent, they immediately dispatched a reconnaissance in force,” Lieutenant Tremblay said seriously.

  “Remind me how expensive a Com-Stat network is again,” I invited, covering my eyes. I didn’t want to hear the answer.

  “Same as last time we talked. It took the Empire years and billions upon billions of credits to extend their network throughout the Confederation. The cost of setting up a full scale network in this Sector alone is simply staggering,” Officer Tremblay said and pursed his lips.

  “Another thing to thank our former Imperial benefactors for,” I said bitterly.

  “Spilt milk,” Tremblay said simply.

  That callous, 'one world' provincial attitude of his really got under my skin sometimes. I wanted to shout at Raphael Tremblay and shake him until he was seeing the same injustice and actual harm that I was.

  The sad fact was that he probably did see everything I did, and ultimately he just interpreted the data differently. He wanted to view everything through a Caprian SDF perspective, where the problems of other worlds just weren’t that important unless and until they threatened to spill over and effect our home world.

  It's not that he didn’t care for the millions or billions that might be impacted. In his mind, that was the job of the Empire or the Confederation. He thought of himself as a Caprian SDF Officer and not only didn’t think of himself as part of the Confederation Fleet, he actively didn’t want to be a part of any such organization.

  Right now he was happy being an SDF Officer, first and only. Who knew if time and events would change the man, but I wasn’t going to hold my breath. I wondered just how many members of the crew shared his attitude, and I shuddered a little.

  We continued on our patrol route home after exiting the system. The longer this mission took, the more anxious I became. We needed to get back to Tracto and make sure everything was still okay. After seeing all the rampant destruction out here on the Rim, I was liable to do myself permanent harm if I came back to see the same thing had happened back home in the Tracto System.

  Chapter 20: A Transfer Unwanted

  One of the three main hatches on the portside gunnery deck slid open, but the Chief Gunner ignored it.

  “I want you to tighten up the hydraulics on this heavy laser, and no fooling around with the gimbals now, 'cause that’s not the problem,” he instructed sharply.

  “But Chief!” exclaimed the Assistant Gunner manning the heavy laser, while the Gunner’s Mate who actually claimed to be in charge of firing the thing nodded his head in agreement, “we’ve been over the hydraulics three times now. There’s no way it's anything but the gimbal!”

  Chief Bogart stepped up until he was in the face of the Assistant Gunner, “Did I or didn't I just say it wasn’t the Murphy Cursed gimbal,” he snarled, his face turning an angry shade of purple. The other man just gobbled and tried to lean back, but the Chief was having none of it. “I’ve been riding a gun deck for over fifty years now. Worked my way up through the ranks doing every job from grease monkey to gunner to deck chief, so if I look at it and say it's not the gimbal, that means it's not the blasted gimbal!”

  “Yes, Chief,” wheezed the Assistant Gunner, looking like he was about to swallow his own tongue.

  “Hydraulics, the fire-control computer or simple human error are the three most likely culprits here,” he ticked off each option with a finger before leaning back to sweep the three man crew on this mount with a gaze suddenly as cold and bleak as a rogue comet, “that said, the more you stand around arguing when by all rights you should be doing your job and carrying out your blasted orders, the more I’m starting to lean towards the third option,” he finished with a growl.

  The gun's crew quite literally jumped before scrambling to check the hydraulic system.

  “Grease monkey!” hollered the Gun Chief.

  A head popped up from the next turret down. “Yes, Chief,” said a junior rating, jumping up and hurrying over, “just a second chief,” hurried the rating as he hopped over.

  “Go to our Engineering liaison and tell him we need a System Analyst to come take a look at a faulty fire-control program,” he barked.

  “You got it, Chief,” grinned the rating, taking off at a run before the Bogart had a chance to tear into him for standing around and getting mouthy.

  “Cheeky sod,” growled the Chief Gunner turning away from the heavy laser. Behind him someone cleared their throat.

  “Who in the green blazes,” started the Gunnery Chief rounding on whoever it was that thought it be a sweet idea to interrupt his inspection rounds. The gun crews were green and these mounts weren’t going to check themselves.

  He opened his mouth to proffer a profanity-laden rebuke, and found himself looking into the chest of the largest rating in a ship’s uniform with gunnery patches he’d ever seen. His gaze went higher and higher until he had to crane his neck to meet the gaze of the man standing behind him.

  His jaw clenched as he recognized the man. “What do you think you’re doing here on my gun deck,” he demanded, sticking his finger into the chest of the rating, “playing some kind of prank on the Department Head?” he barked.

  “No, Sir,” said the rating, his eyes hard. The hulking crewman clenched his fists reflexively as the Gunner glared at him.

  “Is this some kind of joke,” growled the Chief Gunner. It was hard to properly get ‘in the face’ of someone when your head only came up to his shoulders, but Bogart had been a top gunner for a long time, so he still managed fairly well. “Come to try for a rematch, then,” he barked, his jaw jutting forward defiantly, “I took you once, and by Saint Murphy’s polished guns, I can take you again.”

  The Tracto-an dressed as one of the gun crew just shook his head and glared at the Chief Gunner. “No joke,” growled the angry native, thrusting a paper hard copy into his face, “transfer orders,” the Tracto-an Lancer all but snarled. “I’ve fought and killed Imperial Marine Jacks, slaughtered Sky Demons by the dozens, but one bar fight and,” the Lancer let go of the papers and balling up one fist slammed it onto his other open hand, “exiled.”

  The gunner snagged the papers before they fell to the floor and leaned back. “Exiled you say,” he glared back at the brute and took a quick glance at the hard copy. At first blush they looked like an interdepartmental transfer order.

  “My team leader does it to shame me,” said the Lancer, the very same man the Bogart had knocked out at the beginning of the bar fight and had subsequently kept his mouth shut to the First Officer down in medical. “No one thought the First Officer would endorse the transfer.”

  “Twistier than a desert dragon, that one,” agreed the Gunner, taking a look at the signatures on the bottom of the orders.

  “But I can take you any time, old man,” grunted the Lancer, looking ready to kill.

  The chief gunner rol
led up the hard copy into a small paper cylinder and smacked it into the Lancer’s chest. “Every new recruit in the gunnery department starts at the bottom of the heap as a simple grease monkey,” he growled, meeting the Lancer’s angry glare, “learn your job and pass the entrance tests for the next level and you can challenge your way up the ranks. You’re too junior to step up to me, but I’ll be ready and waiting to hand you your head as soon as you educate yourself enough to try,” he said flatly.

  The Lancer shook his head disbelievingly. “You’re not going to reject the transfer and send me back,” he demanded, looking furiously disappointed

  Chief Bogart looked at him in disbelief, “Are you crazy,” he asked shaking his head, “and let that jumped up pipsqueak of a First Officer think I’m too old and feeble to handle an oversized killer like you?”

  The Lancer’s eyes turned into molten pools of fury.

  “Besides, this is the best department on the ship. Being sent to the gun deck isn’t exile, it’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened to you in your entire life,” Bogart began. Then his eyes narrowed, “If you’re too stupid to realize this as fact,” his lips slowly spread into an evil smile, “then it's time we educated you.” Bogart held the Tracto-an's furious gaze for a moment, then turned and roared, “Grease Monkey!”

  Another fresh young Caprian came running up. “Yes, Chief,” asked the rating.

  “Got us a new recruit, see he gets squared away and oriented to his new duties,” instructed Bogart with a sneer.

  “Chief…,” the rating said dubiously, looking at the giant Tracto native, “you want me to show a Lancer around the deck?”

  “Show this new Grease Monkey of ours,” the Chief Said slowly enunciating the Lancer’s new title, “around the deck, and if he has any problems with his new duties, make sure to send him my way,” he ordered, knuckles popping as he clenched his right hand into one of his infamous iron fists. “I’m sure I can sort out any of his confusion right away,” he said while meeting the gaze of the Lancer who looked like nothing so much as a giant crazed attack dog at that moment. Fortunately, the Chief knew how to deal with everything from fresh-faced recruits right off the farm, all the way to hardened conscripts performing mandatory service to the crown as payment for their crimes. He could deal with one barbarian wannabe Lancer, or he didn’t deserve to be called chief of the deck.

  Bogart reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a cigar, promptly chomping off the tip. Chewing the end in his mouth before spitting it out on the deck, he shook his head as he watched the big brute being led off to the grease pit to get oriented to his new duties

  Chapter 21: A Little Glue Goes A Long Ways

  We were over half-way back to Tracto and our burgeoning little home base when we ran across yet another system being actively looted by raiders.

  “Point Emergence,” reported the Navigator.

  There were a few tense seconds as the Sensor Operators got busy populating the main screen with the results of their scans.

  “Looks like we’re where we’re supposed to be,” said the Navigator with a sigh.

  “Extending baffling beyond inertial field and activating main engine at minimal levels,” declared the Helmsman.

  “Sump Resistance at 37 gravities and holding steady,” reported the Science Officer.

  “Engine at 20% of maximum,” said the Helmsman. “Inertial Sump lock is still in place. We’re not going anywhere just yet.”

  “Shields properly modulated for a Sump Slide,” declared the man at shields.

  “This should be an easy one,” said Science Officer Jones. “The resistance is really quite minimal when you compare it to many of our previous transfers.”

  The First Officer glared at the Jones, but since he’d already done his job, Tremblay didn’t take the immediate opportunity to reprimand the other man specifically. “Let's stick to what we can see on our computer screens, people,” Tremblay barked.

  I still found a moment to be thankful for the lack of lurches, surges or sudden bangs, while I contemplated the Science Officer’s growing willingness to speak up. It was nice to see him opening up again. Just so long as he was willing to stay on task and focused, I didn’t mind a little side talk.

  “Engine at 29% of maximum,” reported the Helmsman. “Lighting up both secondaries now.”

  “Shield strength at 95% and holding,” reported the shield operator. “The shield regeneration is keeping up with the sump drain,” he remarked.

  “Engines two and three are lit. We’ve increased our thrust," there was the barest hint of a sensation in my stomach, "and we’re free,” Helmsman DuPont said with a smile. “I’d like to see the helmsman and ship that can make a smoother transition that this one.”

  “Alright, that’s enough,” I said, stifling a laugh before Lieutenant Tremblay had the opportunity to rip into DuPont. “Let's stay focused. We’re in a new and potentially hostile system. Raiders have been crawling all over this part of the sector, so let's try and stay focused, hmm.”

  “Yes, Sir,” muttered the Helmsman while he tried to hide a smile behind his hand. Tried and failed.

  I was forced to glare at him to keep up appearances, but behind my mask I was actually relieved to see some of the previous doldrums leaving the bridge crew. I had to remind myself that most of the crew up here had been on the job for only a couple months. Before that, some of them had received training as backup bridge personnel, and some of them hadn’t. There were more than a couple who had volunteered to fill the holes and were still on the receiving end of on the job training.

  My happy musings were interrupted by a shout from the sensor section.

  “Contact! I’m relaying the information over to tactical for a confirmation,” the woman at sensors said, her fingers flying over her consol.

  “I’m just getting it now,” said the grey bearded officer in charge of the tactical section this shift.

  “I can’t be sure,” said the sensor operator, her shoulders tense, “but it looks like a Pterodactyl Class and a pair of merchants are hooked up to the system’s orbital factories.”

  I gripped the side of my command chair and leaned forward. All around me I could see the tension sweep through the Flag Bridge. I opened my mouth to issue orders, but the crew beat me to it.

  “Calculating a least-time intercept course, will forward to the helm” said the Navigator briskly.

  “I’m on it,” DuPont promptly replied. On the screen, the little icon representing our ship began to rotate and start accelerating.

  I opened my mouth again, this time turning but yet again I was anticipated.

  “I can confirm with 95% certainty,” reported the Tactical Officer, “that it's the same Corvette with the little gunship parasites.”

  “I’ve got a crippled Corvette operating under minimal power, which is why I didn’t spot it before. Looks like it's limping out of the system for a jump point,” said one sensor operator.

  “I’ve got two more. One's a damaged Destroyer, the other a Corvette that’s been cracked in half….” the second operator gave a short pause, then nodded, “I can verify. The Destroyer is also headed out-system.”

  “Another drifting Corvette, this one looks like it's been through the ringer. From what I can see, the engines are a total loss,” said a third sensor operator. The revolving door that was the sensors section was just too turbulent for me to try learning names at this point.

  As I sat there and listened, the tally ran up to a Destroyer and two Corvettes, all damaged but making their way to a jump point, and an additional three Corvettes either destroyed or too damaged to be of any immediate use.

  “What are they squawking, people,” Officer Tremblay cut in with a carrying voice. “Are these local SDF ships? And if so, where are the rest of the pirates!”

  There was a short pause. Then Ex-Com broke the silence. “None of the ships in the system are squawking anything. Not so much as a peep. They’re all running silent, Firs
t Officer Tremblay,” said the communications technician.

  Tremblay, myself and the wizened Tactical Officer all shared a look.

  What kind of warship shows battle damage, is running silent, under minimal power, and was looking to jump out of the system? All while the system’s orbital industry was being actively looted?

  Yeah, not a lot of guesses need to go into figuring that one out.

  “I think the only real question is, do we make for the presumably captured SDF ships, or hightail it directly toward the industrial node,” observed Tremblay.

  “We could always dispatch a couple shuttles full of Lancers and just head directly to the Pterodactyl and the system factory complex ourselves,” I suggested.

  The Tactical Officer decided to weigh in. “Sure, those warships are all shot to Hades, but if there’s anything resembling a working weapon on those ships, they’ll try to light up our shuttles for sure and certain. There will be losses,” said the grey bearded tactical officer flatly.

  Both the other officers looked at me. I sat there and tried not to look like I was busy chewing my mental fingernails. I hated the thought of losing anyone, and if we charged right into the heart of the system, there was no certainty the Pterodactyl wouldn’t just flee.

  On the other hand, if we left now we could probably intercept the slower merchant ships trying to take off with this system’s vital industrial equipment.

  I was genuinely torn. In the end I tried to imagine what I would think if I was one of the Lancers about to be blown out of space by a crippled Corvette or Destroyer. All I could picture was a group of bloodthirsty native Tracto-an Lancers bouncing off the walls of the Imperial Strike Cruiser, howling for blood. Or tearing apart Bugs. Or upset they hadn’t been chosen to go bring the rebel Medium Cruisers to heel.

  With a phantom Tracto battle cry still ringing in my ears, I made a decision I was sure I would only come to regret later on.