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

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “Let me—” Stood started.

  “Main engine is down,” reported Damage Control in a rising voice.

  “We won’t have enough power to pull away with only the backup engine,” reported the Helm.

  “What are you trying to say?” Stood spluttered, turning to the rest of the bridge.

  There was a loud chime from the Communication Section, and Sub-Lieutenant Visalia turned to him.

  “By all that is considered holy,” Stood barked irritably, “what now?”

  “Two more ships, one of them cruiser sized have jumped into the area,” reported the ship’s new redheaded First Shift Tactical Officer.

  “I’m also reading a number of major warships in orbit around the System’s single inhabited moon,” reported Nikolai at sensors.

  “Order engineering to make emergency repairs to the engines,” Stood said to the Damage Control Officer, his breath heaving in and out. Sub-Lieutenant Visalia cleared her throat. “What is it, Sub-Lieutenant?” Stood’s voice cracked like a whip.

  The Sub-Lieutenant swallowed. “Captain…the unidentified warships are demanding our immediate surrender,” said the Sub-Lieutenant, “if we fail to comply, they say they’ll destroy our ship.”

  Stood staggered, feeling as if he’d been literally stabbed in the chest, and taking a few steps fell into his command chair.

  “Put them on,” he ordered shortly after his enormous girth had filled every nook and cranny of the chair.

  “You’re on, Captain,” the Sub-Lieutenant said a few seconds later.

  The Captain took a deep, steadying breath and then looked up glaring at the screen.

  “This is Captain Ezekiel Stood, of the Promethean Light Cruiser Agamemnon. Declare yourself and your intentions,” he said, steeling his voice, “you have attacked a vessel belonging to the Sovereign Provincial Planet of—”

  The image of an officer in an Imperial-style uniform—one with new rank and star nation insignia—cut him off.

  “Yes, yes; you belong to a mighty anthill in these parts, Captain Stood,” said the officer, his hawk-like eyes seeming to cut right through Stood and peer inside him. From the expression on his attacker’s face, the other man found Stood wanting, “You caught me just before I embarked on an extended patrol. Sadly, I do not have time to indulge you in your bluster today, Captain. So I’ll make this simple: in the name of the Reclamation Fleet, I hereby order you to heave to, strike your shields, scram your fusion generators and prepare to be boarded. If you comply with all of our requirements, and do not resist, you will have the signal honor of being the first prisoners taken by our fleet in Sector 25. Although, I doubt the accommodations can compare to those of…what was it…Cyclops Doom?” his lips twisted contemptuously. “Nevertheless, we will still endeavor to do our best to accommodate you in the same fashion you had intended for us.”

  Stood gaped, his mouth opening and closing like that of a fish. “Mister, I must protest!” he finally gathered himself enough to protest.

  “The rank is ‘Commodore,’ and you can call me Commodore Serge. I will not issue my orders a second time, Captain,” the Commodore’s eyes turned into flinty chips of space ice. “You now have thirty seconds to comply before I blow your miserable little light cruiser into its constituent atoms.”

  “Surge?” Stood asked surprised at the other man’s name—an unfamiliar one, considering the pronunciation of the first vowel followed by the ‘soft g.’

  “Serge,” the Commodore growled, repeating the unusual combination of syllables, “and I assure you neither insults or groveling will sway my offer or my decisions—twenty-five seconds!”

  “Commodore, this is a clear violation of the Galactic Accords!” Stood protested. “Under Statute 29 of the Conflict Statues, I demand the right to a lawfully empaneled—”

  “Fifteen seconds, Mr. Stood,” Commodore Serge said coldly, turning to face someone off screen, “issue new orders to the squadron: target enemy cruiser’s bridge and fusion generators and prepare to fire.”

  Seeing that the other man refused to be swayed by reason or law, Stood’s eyes bulged. “Turn it off! Turn it off,” he shouted to his bridge crew. “Shut down everything and prepare to pipe in and receive a boarding party. Turn out the color guard!” Then he turned desperately to the Reclamation Fleet officer, “We surrender. By all the gods, don’t fire! As you love life, hold your fire—we’re unilaterally disarming!”

  Serge cocked his head to the side and peered at Stood for a long moment. Then a slow smile—almost a disapproving smirk—flitted across his face before disappearing.

  “A wise choice, Mr. Stood,” the Commodore said, his face relaxing fractionally, “because of your quick thinking and wise actions today, I even believe it might be possible that we’ll be able to add your Agamemnon into our ever-enlarging fleet.”

  Stood winced at the barb the ultimate shame of a captain, turning over a still functioning and repairable warship to the enemy but forced himself to keep his eyes on the screen and refrained from commenting, knowing he would be taking his life into his own hands if he so much as opened his mouth.

  The Commodore appeared almost disappointed when Stood proved too wise to hang himself with a rope of his own making.

  “The ultimate disposition of your former command will be in the hands of the System Commander,” said the Commodore, “as I said, I have a schedule to keep. So please, by all means,” his eyes bored into Stood’s, “do not resist and make things even more unpleasant than they have to be.”

  Despite his words, the Commodore almost seemed eager for Stood to violate the surrender agreement. But, even though it stung his pride, the wily Captain of the Agamemnon was too wise to give the other man a reason to kill him.

  After all, where there was life there was hope. How did things like honor, or even governmental accountability for a warship, matter in the face of such overwhelming force?

  Chapter Twenty-nine: Receiving Reports and issuing orders

  “What’s the next item on our plate?” I asked.

  “Here, Sir,” Steiner said sending over a file for me.

  I scanned it briefly and, seeing that it was another document from the would-be Alliance of Border Worlds, I glanced at it halfheartedly. I didn’t want to spend a half hour wading through yet another useless file. That’s what assistants and secretaries—or, rather, staff officers—were for in this Admiral’s Fleet.

  “Anything special about this one?” I asked glumly.

  Steiner smirked, no doubt reading my thoughts exactly. “I believe this particular one is to inform you that the first Alliance of Border Worlds Summit was just held, and the delegates have agreed to empower themselves to form the Alliance, as well as to begin sending the first supplies, manpower and ships—mostly freighters,” she snorted, “to Tracto, for the Alliance Fleet of course.”

  “So you mean they’ve retroactively authorized what their home worlds and fleets have already been doing…or most of them have, anyway?” I asked wryly.

  “That’s about the shape of it, Admiral,” she grinned.

  I laughed, unable to help myself. The bureaucratic mind was hard to fathom, but that made some of its actions particularly amusing.

  “At least it settles one issue, Sir,” Steiner said seriously.

  “If you think that any issue is ever completely settled then you don’t understand the political animal,” I replied absently as I started to scan the document.

  “I guess that’s why I just work Comm.,” she said with an impish smile.

  “Right,” I drawled before sinking back in to the proposed founding document of the Border Alliance. The Lieutenant was thankfully silent as I finished the first read through.

  “Well…most of what we wanted,” I said, tossing the slate back down on the table, “and enough of what we didn’t that they’re probably not actively trying to hurt us. We can probably live with it,” I finally decided with a sigh.

  “Are you ready to counter-sign it, th
en?” she inquired.

  I shook my head, “Toss it over to legal and have them run through it. Then we’ll see if I even have to sign it at all.”

  Steiner looked surprised.

  “Oh, at the very least I’ll be signing it as a witness. But maybe it’s better if Akantha signs on for Tracto and I just send whatever’s needed under the auspices of the Tracto-an SDF,” I explained, uncertain if an Admiral of the Confederation signing onto a sub-sector level document with specific commitments was going to wash.

  “But there is no Tracto-an SDF,” Steiner replied, “or it’s just a lot of corvettes and cutters.”

  “So we’ll just detach more assets to bulk up the numbers,” I said dismissively.

  “Can you do that?” she said and then seemed to realize what she was asking—and who she was asking it. “Legally I mean,” she said, looking like she’d just had her hand caught in a mouse trap.

  “Tracto-an Lancers, seconded to the Confederation Fleet, captured most of the ships in the fleet,” I replied without rancor. “Since the organization is ‘at will,’ I think an argument could be made for ships captured to be remanded back to the provincial forces which actually captured them.” Although I was spinning it that way, I knew it was mostly just a convenient fiction. I’d captured those ships—or, rather, this Fleet had done so—and we’d spent our blood and tears and no one was going to take what was mine…or, rather, ours—not without a fight.

  “But the Lucky Clover was a Caprian ship; couldn’t the argument be made that it was a joint effort?” she asked, and then held her breath.

  I pursed my lips and moved my head from side to side. “Eh, the Clover was built by a Montagne King and originally commanded by a Montagne Captain. I think we’re entitled to something of our original inheritance. The way I see it, so long as they don’t try to take my ships away from me, I won’t lay claim to their throne,” I said evenly. “After all, while there might be claimants with a closer line of succession to the line of Larry than myself,” a possibility I now knew was not at all likely, based on what my mom had just unloaded on me, “I don’t believe James is one of them.”

  Steiner gulped. Her reaction wasn’t really that surprising, considering that saying those words in front of the wrong person could reignite a civil war back on our home world—or, at least, our previous home world of Capria. More and more I was just finding myself filled with disinterest when it came to the former center of my universe.

  Leave me alone and I’ll be more than happy to return the favor, I silently told that part of the universe harboring my royal family. It wasn’t that I expected the universe to actually listen, but it was the thought that counts. Or so I told myself.

  While I was at it, I cut orders for the brig to be emptied. Tiberius and his mutineers were, in my official decision, desperately needed on Capria; let them bedevil the home world with their antics. After a moment’s hesitation, I decided to send Ishtaraaa along with them. Letting my loving sister leave here alive was probably a mistake, but it was now officially over and done. At least I could console myself with the thought that she might be killed by her mysterious backers for failure.

  That said, I decided with an evil smile, one good turn deserved another and I really couldn’t risk her sneaking back into my quarters one night. So in addition to preparing a time-delayed ‘kill on sight’ order, just in case she snuck back in, I contacted Doctor Presbyter via com-link.

  “What can I do you for, Admiral Montagne?” the good Doctor asked with that certain reserve I’d come to expect from his generation of Capria. Bias against the Montagne side of the Royal House would likely linger for as long as men like him were alive. That said, he was a fairly decent sort—if a little too inclined against chemical interrogation for my taste. Which made what I was about to do a little problematic.

  “I have a little problem, Doctor,” I said, baring my teeth.

  “Go on,” he replied stoically.

  “Someone tried to assassinate me—and my wife—in my bed the other night. For various reasons I can’t go into right now, I’d rather not throw them out the airlock but I can’t have them coming back to try again in some sort of twisted ‘catch and release’ setup,” I said, giving him a hard look.

  “I’m not sure what I can do,” he said eventually, looking concerned.

  “To ensure our safety, I’d like a treatable neurotoxin—one that takes a few years of therapy and regular visits to a regeneration tank to fix,” I said grimly.

  “You know my thoughts on this sort of thing, Admiral,” he said, stiffening, “we’ve spoken about similar scenarios before. My oath is to do no harm.”

  “Yes, and you’ve always been willing to go just that little bit further,” I gestured with a thumb and forefinger spaced so close as to nearly touch each other, “for other people who require your expertise than you have for me and mainly when your services are needed to be used against me. However, I don’t think you quite understand what I’m telling you here: the assassin will receive a neurotoxin. Akantha has a poisoner lined up back on her home world just for the occasion,” I lied, as I hadn’t spoken with her at all about the matter and hoped not to until it was all over and done with. “So she will be receiving a neurotoxin; the only question is if I will be administering a Tracto-an home remedy—one that might do Murphy knows what to her body—or one guaranteed to be recoverable from since it was synthesized in your facility?”

  Presbyter drummed his finger rapidly along the edge of the desk he was sitting at. “I’m sorry,” he said, cutting the transmission. His principles were obviously unbendable when I was the one making the impassioned plea.

  Shaking my head, I now had to decide if I was going to go through with the airlock or not—and if not was it worth turning to Akantha for.

  Chapter Thirty: Imperials of Tau Ceti

  “Excellent work on bagging that provincial Cruiser, Commodore,” Captain Goddard said wistfully. “I almost wish I was going along with you. If not for direct orders from the Admiral, I would be; I almost feel like a fifth wheel out here.”

  “I’m sure we would have found a way to use you,” Commodore Serge laughed, “still, it’s not like you’re entirely useless out here. Your mere presence means we won’t be losing the base in this system to anything the provincials can muster up. I’m sure Admiral Wessex is appreciative of the signal honor and concern shown by your presence here, instead of the half dozen other places elsewhere you could be.”

  “Sitting dark next to a gas giant isn’t exactly what I had in mind when the Admiral offered me the chance to take the ship out to the border,” Goddard said ruefully. “Still, protecting the base isn’t the worst thing this ship could be doing. Color guards and tours for the politico’s come to mind in that particular regard.”

  “It is better to be out on the hunt than doing orbital guard duty,” Serge laughed, “no doubt about that. But that’s why I refused to let them pry me away from my Destroyer. As long as I stay here, the worst they can do is give me command of more ships—and a squadron of Destroyers is almost as free to move about as a single one.”

  “I never should have agreed to trade up,” Goddard sighed and then shook his head, “but what am I saying? Capital ships are in my blood. I wouldn’t have been content with something smaller when I had the chance to captain the biggest, baddest ship class in the known galaxy—an actual Imperial Command Carrier. I’d always be looking back, instead of forward,” he finished regretfully.

  “I prefer speed and maneuverability over a bigger, heavier, sitting target any day,” the Commodore shook his head.

  “Oh well, enough reminiscing. I’m probably keeping you from your duties,” Goddard said regretfully, “still, keep the Invictus Rising in mind when you’re out there. We can’t do much right now, as our orders are to stay on post unless requested by a Theater Commander to deal with significant threats.”

  “Oh?” Serge’s eyes sharpened. “I assume ‘significant’ means battleships or higher?
”

  “So long as we can maintain operational security and not reveal the Command Carrier’s presence before the start of Operation Pacification begins,” Goddard nodded with a hint of a smile as he added the last caveat.

  “You’ll be in our thoughts and prayers as we tear through this Sector, Captain. After seeing just how pitiful one of its Cruisers was, I’ve more than half a mind to turn my sights toward Prometheus. It’s a Core World, true, but if this ship and its Captain represent what we can expect then I’m not too concerned, worse case we pull back. It is the closest Core World to our base here, and if we can cause it to pull its assets in then the chances of an early exposure go down significantly. Worth taking a look, at least,” Serge laughed with the sort of élan expected from Destroyer skippers before cutting the connection.

  Goddard shook his head but, now that the seed had been planted, all he could do was sit back and wait to see if anything sprouted. Worst case, he was stuck on base-defense duty until the Grand Fleet was assembled.

  Which wasn’t the end of the world.

  Chapter Thirty-one: A Knock

  There was a chime at the door. “Enter,” I said, staring at the metal case the woodworking department had just sent up at my request. It had been sitting in the corner of my quarters for over an hour and I still hadn’t touched the thing. I’d sworn off the things ever since my last girlfriend on Capria dumped me.

  “Is this a bad time?” Mom, Elaine, asked after stepping into the room.

  “It’s as good a time as any,” I said, turning back to look at her with determination.

  “You’ve grown up,” she said, stopping to take an appraising look at me.

  “And you’ve changed,” I replied flatly.

  “I’m the same person I always have been,” she said, shaking her head in negation, “you just didn’t know everything about me. To be honest, you still don’t know everything.”