Admiral's Challenge (A Spineward Sectors Novel: Book 8)

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “You know, in a way I should have picked up on it before now,” I said grimly. “I didn’t have a clue about my mother, and with my sister you’re the one that told me she was trouble, so at least I had a warning even if not the details. But with Akantha it was always ‘Men’ this and ‘World of Men’ that. Massively Multi-Parallel Entropic Network—M-E-N. It was right in front of me the entire time and I was blind!”

  “Sure, if you were going to slavishly labor over the history books,” Spalding scoffed, “but just what do you think you are, a mind reader? There’s not been AI’s in this part of space—or any other I could name—in almost a thousand years. Why, in Murphy’s benighted tool shop, would you have been studying up on them? Pirates, Bugs—even Droids and Imperials, I could see—but AI’s?” he shook his head firmly. “That’s a row too far to hoe, lad. The whole world doesn’t rest on one man’s shoulders—and it certainly doesn’t rest on yours—so pull yourself together.”

  “But it’s enough to make me sit back and wonder about things. I can’t help it. What if maybe—and I mean just maybe—the Empire was right to bombard the Royal Family in the Summer Palace back in the day fifty years ago,” I said, something I had been struggling to come to terms with in the last few minutes. “I always figured the Empire for a bunch of bloodthirsty SOB’s, but if they were in any small way acting on information that suggested there was a nest of AI supporters inside the Palace…” I trailed off.

  “Don’t talk about things you know nothing about boy,” the old Engineer said sharply.

  “But if the royals really were AI supporters…” I disagreed stubbornly.

  “A lot of folks lost people they cared about, thanks to that bombardment, and not just in the actual attack but from the fallout from when Parliament took over,” Spalding said direly.

  “If the threat is real, then—” I started.

  “They went too far!” shouted Spalding. “Besides, don’t even think for a minute that the Imperials are all lily white in this business—not even for a bloomin second,” Spalding raged. “You think they wanted to get rid of a bunch of AI followers? Well just what do you think the Imperials are?”

  “What?” I asked, thoroughly confused.

  “Listen to a little wisdom from papa Spalding here,” the Chief Engineer said, leaning forward gravely, “the universe is a more complicated place than any o’ us can know.”

  “What’s that got to do with the Imperials, specifically?” I asked, confused and wondering if this was just another of Spalding’s rambling diatribes or if there was a secret wisdom actually about to be imparted.

  “Let me ask you a question,” Spalding said leaning in even closer and whispering.

  “Okay…shoot,” I said, finding myself sucked in despite my otherwise good sense.

  “Has anyone ever told you how to spell the Empire of ‘Man’,” Spalding asked intently.

  “How to spell it?” I repeated, drawing back incredulously. “I’m afraid you’re starting to lose me.”

  Leaning forward, as if he were chasing me, the old Engineer laid a finger alongside his nose and whispered, “You think swearing by ‘MEN’—a long-gone AI—is a trick then what would you say if someone named a whole bloody empire after one,” he asked hoarsely.

  “What? That’s…that’s insane; no one would be crazy enough to do that,” I blurted, boggled by the sheer audacity of such a move but, all of a sudden, feeling doubtful about my out-of-hand rejection of the possibility.

  “You know the Imperials used to be a subject race too, before they,” and here the old Engineer’s voice became derisive. “Threw off their shackles, they did, and said throwing happened right in time with the Elder Protocols hittin’ their region.”

  “A lot of people were liberated during those days,” I said, mostly for the sake of making a rhetorical point. “What does that have to do with the spelling? I mean, you can’t seriously be telling me that the Empire—” I snickered at the very thought that the protectors of the human race were not just former, which was understandable, but current AI would-be subjects.

  But before I could finish my thought, the old engineer grabbed me by the collar and dragged me in close. “M-A-N,” he whispered hoarsely, “The Empire of Man is spelled M-A-N.” I stared at him, bug-eyed, until he leaned forward and put his mouth next to my ear as he quietly said, “it stands for ‘Multi-Access Network’.”

  I was dumbfounded. Had Spalding finally gone off the deep end, as I’d long feared he would, or was there actually something to this unthinkable insanity!?

  “Oh, and I got your sword for you; found it back on the Clover,” he said, releasing his grip on my collar and standing from the bedside. “It’s in your room. I heard you’ve been having a little excitement and figured you could use it,” he explained.

  I was so surprised—no, I was so stunned—that I forgot to ask how the Chief Engineer had broken into my locked stateroom—again.

  Chapter Twenty-seven: Updates and new business

  “You’re not serious,” I said numbly, as the hits just kept on coming, “come on; maybe you could pull the wool over the eyes of a few worlds on the wrong side of known space, but how could you deceive a giant organization like the Confederation?”

  “Admiral, all I can tell you is it was the same AI network that had controlled the original Imperial space, and it’s the same AI that monkeyed around with their genetic code. M-A-N, the Multi-Access Network; it’s the straight download,” so saying, he sat back down in his chair. “So whenever you hear those bloody Imperials talk about the ‘Empire of Man,’ they aren’t talking about the people—at least, not those in the know. To the mucky mucks, it’s all about—and always has been—bringing back the one that made them.”

  That entirely rational statement felt far too similar to the one I just heard in this very room from Akantha and Mom.

  “I hope you’re wrong,” I said, not wanting to believe but having no choice. If the Empire bombed Capria because of an AI nest’s presence then it had to have more to do with some kind of rivalry—like two gangs fighting over territory, or whose side was bigger or better or what have you—and if that was the case then the Confederation had willingly signed up, and joined forces, with the very people it was designed to stop. It was a lot to take in.

  “I’m not,” the old Engineer said disinterestedly.

  “Even so,” I cleared my throat, “that still doesn’t help me decide what to do about my family.”

  “Buck up and grow a pair, lad,” Spalding growled turning toward me, “you think this life is all about sunshine and lollipops? There’s a lot worse things out there than AI’s that can’t be put back together again, or them that want to chase down that rabbit hole. So what if you’ve got a family that’s not entirely right in the head—so what?!”

  “What do you mean? They’re trying to bring back the AI’s!” I exclaimed. “What if they get close to actually succeeding?”

  “Well, if they do then I’ll help you sort them out. And if they feel the need to kill a bunch of innocent people along the way then I’ll help you put them in the ground—I’ll even bring the shovel,” the old Engineer said firmly. “However, seein’ as of right now all you’re doing is running around in circles chasin’ your tail—I mean, lad, has any one of them shown the slightest desire to start massacring whole cities and planetary populations?”

  “Of course not,” I snapped, coloring indignantly.

  “Then I suggest you set a watch and keep your eye open. If you get the chance to deal with whoever set your sister on you, shut them down hard—them and their entire organization, too,” Spalding growled, “but we can’t go chasin’ our tails over what might happen. The Empire’s been out there for a long time and, even if you don’t believe that, so have those same people you were just worried about back on Capria. If 800 years hasn’t let them bring back the old AI’s then I think we can worry about more pressing matters like, oh, Droids and Sector Officials and whatnot. Don’t you agree�
��Sir?” he asked after a nearly insulting, rhetorical pause.

  “And my sister, who just tried to kill me, maybe I should just let her go also?” I asked tightly.

  “Eh, what?” Spalding looked confused for a moment. “Ah, the Sister,” he said, as if just recalling her and then shrugged, “do what you’ve got to do, then, and put her out the airlock—or, if you’re worried about the family, then just send her back wherever she came from. I’m sure they’ll not be pleased with her failing like she has. They might even take care of the matter for you while they’re at it, if they’re all the ruthless, would-be killers you’re worried about.”

  I flushed, because the worst part of it all was that it was actually semi-decent advice. “Alright, Commander,” I said finally, “I’ll stop the pity party and get back to it.”

  “Thank Murphy and all his evil monkeys,” Spalding said, throwing his hands in the air and standing from the chair. “If that’s all, I’ve got some real work to be at.”

  “Dismissed then, Commander,” I said shortly. Giving off a wave that might pass for a salute—in a very flexible CO’s mind, anyway—the old Engineer cheerfully left the room.

  After he left, I picked up my slate and sent out an order for a small ship to be readied. It was time to transport Tiberius and his band of happy hoodlums back to where they came from: Capria. I would decide if Ishtaraaa would be joining them or not after I’d had time to think about things. My thought as Chief Spalding left the room, however, was just to space her and be done with it.

  Chapter Twenty-eight: A Routine Arrival

  A ship emerged from jump space in a Star System so far out on the edge of Sector 25 space — which was actually just over the border and actually inside Sector 26.

  Of course, since the Withdrawal of the Empire and the removal of the Rim Fleet, it was currently—by its own stated and entirely self-determined choice—the outermost inhabited world of Sector 25. As such, the system had been given Observer status in the Sector Assembly.

  “Begin routine scans and send out the transmission,” ordered the well-rounded Captain of the newly arrived warship. “Let’s see what there is to see in this hovel of a star system,” the man smirked.

  “New Tau Ceti operational control, this is the Promethean SDF Light Cruiser Agamemnon, Captain Ezekiel Stood commanding. We’re here to renew diplomatic ties between our two worlds, foster trust and unity, and offer our services as an escort for the next freight convoy scheduled to leave for Prometheus. The Captain is standing by for your Planetary Magistrate, over,” said Sub-Lieutenant Visalia in a pleasant, professional voice. She then turned to the Captain of the Agamemnon and said, “Message sent, Captain.”

  “Visalia, you do these yokels too much honor,” the Captain chuckled, leaning back in his chair and contentedly patting his paunch as the rest of the bridge carried about the standard business of completing a hyper-jump. “To call an up-jumped moon in a fringe star system, without any significant resources—natural or manmade—is too much. Why, they don’t even rate a full representative in the Council.”

  “Just doing my duty, sir,” Visalia replied crisply.

  “Yes, I suppose,” the Captain said allowing his eyes to rest on the statuesque figure of his com-tech a moment too long before looking away. Leaning forward and stretching, he scratched under his armpits before cracking a yawn, “Well, a captain’s work is never done. If you need me, I’ll be taking a nap in my office. You’re free to interrupt me anytime,” he chuckled, turning toward the exit off the bridge.

  He was halfway there when the Sensors section began chattering about increased system traffic, and he was almost out the door when an officer stood abruptly.

  “Point Emergence,” called Senior Lieutenant Nicolai, the overly excitable nephew of an important Admiral in the Promethean Supply and Quartermasters Department.

  Stood turned around with a scowl.

  “I have multiple contacts point-transferring into extreme close range,” shouted one of the Sensor Operators beside the Senior Lieutenant, usurping his superior’s privilege. “I say again: I have four—repeat, four—warships of unknown class within range of our point defense systems.”

  “Master-at-arms, throw that operator in the brig for speaking out of turn; I will not have a common space hand ignoring protocol on my bridge!” shouted Stood, running back to his command chair so fast his extra weight jiggled up and down in a rhythmic fashion. “Visalia, open a channel—and someone get me confirmation of the intent of those warships.”

  “Opening channel now, Captain,” said the Sub-Lieutenant.

  “This is Captain Stood of the Promethean Warship Agamemnon; maintain your distance and back away from this warship, or so help me when our diplomats are through lodging a complaint with the Assembly, you’ll be extradited from your home world and find yourselves in the orbiting penal colony’s gas giant mines of Cyclopes Doom!”

  “There’s no response, Captain,” Visalia said as soon as he was done speaking.

  “Recommend we raise our shields and attack before the enemy clears their inertial sumps,” suggested the ship’s Tactical Officer.

  “Are you insane, or do you simply want to lose your rank and be broken from the service for gross incompetence?” Stood said tensely. “These are not enemies; they’re jackals out joyriding in their ships at their home world’s expense.”

  The Tactical Officer jerked back, wide-eyed as if he had been struck by a fist.

  “Well, what do they have to say for themselves?” Stood turned to the Sub-Lieutenant at Comm. with irritation.

  “Still no reply, Captain,” replied Visalia.

  “Give it a minute. Even these hicks out here in the boondocks know better than to mess with the might of a world like Prometheus,” Stood said confidently, glaring balefully at the screen. Heads were going to roll over an insult of this magnitude. This weighed directly on the might and majesty of Prometheus—he wasn’t going to let this go…even if he had to exercise ‘extra-legal’ measures to ensure these cowboys were properly punished for their offence against the pride and dignity of—

  “Enemy—” Tactical paused and then quickly restarted, “unidentified warships raising shields, powering weapons, and locking on with targeting sensors!”

  Stood’s eyes bulged. “Raise shields! Raise shields! Do you want to get us killed, you incompetent fool?!” he shouted at the Tactical Officer as the realization of their imminent danger dawned.

  “Raising shie-” the Tactical officer began, but the ship rocked around them, cutting short the other officer’s acknowledgment.

  “What have you done to my ship!?” cried Captain Stood, silently vowing to take every dent—every scratch—on the hull of his ship out of the Tactical Officer’s hide once this debacle was over and done with. “Return fire and destroy those pirates at once!”

  “Shields holding; minimal damage reported to the starboard and dorsal facings. One medium laser is yellow-lighted and temporarily out of action. Returning fire now!” Tactical Officer Trevai said, alarm breaking through his usually stoic features.

  “Shields are buckling,” reported the Shield Operator in an overly loud voice, “starboard facing is down to half strength.

  “Enemy warships moving into position, two on either side of the ship and preparing to bracket the ship,” Lieutenant Nicolai at Sensors said sharply. “Ships are confirmed as Destroyers.”

  Stood stared at the tactical screen on his armchair and, seeing two of the enemy ships starting to pour fire on the area of his ship covered by the shields, he panicked.

  “Helm, take us to full power and get us the blazes out of here!” he ordered. “Take us to jump at the first opportunity and don’t wait for the orders—hang protocol!” he cried.

  “Sir, that will expose our stern to all four destroyers,” protested Officer Trevai the ship’s Tactical Officer.

  “You are relieved, Mr. Trevai,” Captain Stood said angrily. “Master-at-Arms, take the ship’s Tactical Officer do
wn to the brig and clap him irons! The charge is cowardice in the face of the enemy. Blood will tell out, it seems.”

  “Sir, I must protest,” Trevai said, jumping out of his chair, “you can’t remove your Tactical Officer in the middle of a battle.”

  “Helm,” Stood shouted and then calmly pulled out a blaster secreted in the arm of his command chair and shot Trevai in the chest, “the Tactical Officer stands relieved.” He said flatly and then turned to the assistant tactical officer—a woman selected for the post due to her high personality score.

  “Argh!” gurgled Officer Trevai, falling to the floor with a thump.

  “I-I-I have Tactical control,” stammered the red-headed bombshell who, up to this point, had been number four in the Tactical department’s chain of seniority—right behind Trevai and the other two shift supervisors.

  “Excellent,” said Stood, “just as soon as we leave this star system and return home, we’ll lodge a formal injunction and—”

  The ship, engaging its high speed acceleration and rapid turn, suddenly lurched as a torrent of enemy fire broke through their rear shields. The damage readouts for the main engine began to flash dangerously.

  The Assistant Tactical officer stared at her screen in horror. “The engines have taken damage!” she exclaimed.

  “Do I have to do everything myself?” Stood screamed, pushing his way over to the Tactical section and pushing the assistant tactical officer to the side. “Reroute all emergency power and reinforce the rear shield facing,” he yelled directly into the ear of the shield operator.

  Another torrent of fire lashed out, turning weakened shields into virtually non-existent ones, punching through and rocking the ship for a second time.

  “Shields down to 18% and fluctuating,” yelped the Shield Operator, his hands flashing over his console.