Spalding’s enraged thoughts continued until his consciousness gradually faded into darkness. The last thing he heard was the Quack say, ““Can someone come over here and help me cut my sleeve loose? I can’t get him to let go, even now that he’s unconscious!”
Chapter Thirty-five: A little exercise is good for the soul
Standing in the middle of the practice mat, I stared across at my opponent with a deathly gaze. I was determined that this time I wouldn’t just not lose, and neither would I simply pull out a surprise win—I was going to completely crush and dominate this foe.
With a sudden move, I brought my sword swinging up from low to high and attacked.
“That’s it; don’t hold back,” coached the familiar voice of my very first sword instructor.
A slash was followed by a parry, then a lunge. I followed through each move with power and intent.
“Watch your form; you’re leaving unnecessary openings,” said the dry, familiar voice of my very first instructor in the sword.
I gritted my teeth and picked up the tempo. My form might not have been perfect, but when it came down to it my speed had always been superior.
“Hitting faster won’t help if you can’t control your weapon,” Duncan Tuttle said with a sudden twist of his sword that sent my blade flying up in the air. One smooth movement after that saw him close the distance between us and press his sword against my neck.
“Your match,” I said coldly and, stepping back, I brought my sword back into position. I hated to lose, but so long as I wasn’t dead there was always room for improvement and that was something I was determined to do: improve.
Off to the side, I saw a pair of Tracto-ans looking in our direction with an assessing look in their eyes.
“Eyes on your opponent,” Duncan said in his usual, stern, no-nonsense tone, but I locked eyes with the Tracto warriors.
“Just what are you two looking at?” I demanded frostily of the warriors.
“Nothing, Warlord,” said the first man, turning away, but the other just quirked a corner of his mouth, his eyes never leaving mine as he backed out of the room.
Worse than dogs, those Tracto-ans, I silently cursed. Ever since I’d come back out to the ship following several days of seclusion, I’d taken note of the way a number of not just the new Tracto-ans, but even a few of the older members of the Lancer division, had been looking at me. My mouth tightened and I suddenly felt a sharp sting on my arm.
“What?” I asked, turning back to Duncan who had just taken the opportunity to whap me in the arm.
“Lose your focus on the battlefield and you’re dead,” he said balefully.
“We’re not all Royal Armsmen. Besides, if I find myself on a battlefield relying on my sword strength to keep me alive, I’ve probably failed somewhere,” I countered, but despite my words I brought my sword back up into guard position.
“Get yourself killed on your own time if that’s what you want,” Duncan Tuttle said bluntly. “But I’ll not be relaying the news to your mother that you died on my watch thank you very much. While you’re under my training you’ll pay attention to your foe, whether it’s an enemy ship or a sword pointed at your gullet. A man can die as easily from a blade up close as a blaster at what feels like a safe distance.”
At the reference to my mother I felt myself stiffen, my eyes turning flinty.
“I enjoy using a sword, but it’s not what I’ll be using to win any up-close-and-personal battles,” I said flatly, and then glanced over at the door the pair of Tracto-ans had exited out of before putting them forcefully out of my mind.
“Tricks are all well and good, but they come and go as your enemies learn of them. Real skill stays with you wherever you are. Now, come at me again,” Duncan Tuttle said sharply.
If everything rests on the skill of my blade then you’re in for a world of hurt, I thought mutinously but redoubled my efforts anyway.
As if sensing my thoughts, Duncan broke my guard and whapped me mercilessly with the flat of his blade.
A half hour later, I collapsed exhausted onto the side of the matt but despite being tired and bruised I felt better than I had in a longtime. Exercise was good for the soul—or, at least, getting the chance to hit someone with a sword for a while was. Not that I was the one who’d managed to getting all that many touches in, that went to the former armsmen who was in love with my mother.
“Feel better?” Duncan asked, sitting himself down beside me but leaving several feet between us for comfort.
“I’m not planning to execute anyone for crimes against humanity, if that’s what you’re asking,” I scowled, tensing up.
Duncan gave me a long look. “It wasn’t, but I appreciate the heads-up,” he said evenly.
“Bah!” I say turning away. Levering up to my feet, I walked over to the nearest wall and stare at the screen built into the wall. The image it showed was of the area outside Gambit Station.
“See anything interesting?” Duncan ambled over after a few minutes to stand beside me.
“Nothing worth my time and attention,” I replied, my eyes locked onto the freighter just now pulling away from the station with the help of a handful of shuttles and tenders swarming around it.
The lumbering civilian craft was destined for Capria, by way of Tracto, and I didn’t much care that its destinations were in different directions. I was just glad that a pair of headaches would soon be out of this system…after having its navigation computer scrubbed, that was. A Dreadnaught class battleship started moving on a near-intercept course to escort it to a nearby star system. After the jump, the second shift navigation team from the battleship would be retrieved and, just like that, not only would the freighter’s computer have no record of where it had been but its onboard navigators would be allowed to take back over.
“Seems a bit like overkill, escorting a single freighter with a battleship,” Duncan observed.
“The Armor Prince has thousands of new crewmembers, and can use the chance to stretch her legs,” I said dismissively. “Besides, she’ll be back after a quick twelve hour jump out, jump back turnaround.”
“Simple, is it?” he asked skeptically.
“No worries,” I said firmly, even though on the inside I was always a little worried about sending a major warship with movement orders outside of whatever system I currently resided in. But I needed to get rid of Crystal, who couldn’t start her life in a penal colony across the sea from the rest of what passed for civilization on that planet fast enough as far as I was concerned. And with the Chief Engineer still undergoing medical treatment—specifically neural regeneration—now wasn’t exactly the best time to space Tiberius out the airlock.
But, forgetting family concerns for the moment, I knew that I could thank Captain Middleton for my current jitters. I knew it was silly, but the last time I had sent a captain out on a simple out-and-back mission, the ‘man on the spot’ managed to turn it into a multi-month long odyssey.
My eyes shot over to look at the oversized freighter—the one with the strange, Elder Tech drive that the Pride of Prometheus survivors had brought back home with them. My gaze then swiveled over to look at a pair of ships in our repair yard, where workers were currently swarming over.
Surrounded by dozens of floating gunboats, a battered Harmony Destroyer and a single liberated human-style Heavy Cruiser rested side by side. A more unlikely pairing you would be hard pressed to find. Conformity gunboats, a Harmony warship, and a human Cruiser all docked side-by-side. I shook my head, still not quite able to believe I’d let Lieutenant Commander McKnight talk me into keeping the Pride’s crew together and sending them back out to the border of Sector 24.
“Don’t let me down, Captain Archibald,” I muttered. I knew I needed someone to keep an eye on Middleton’s protégé and make sure she didn’t run amuck. Archibald, and that Heavy Cruiser out there, was my answer. The mission to create a special forces border recon organization meant I needed someone loyal to me, but who was
n’t hidebound. The new-minted cruiser captain fit that bill as closely as I could manage. He was a man who would take independent action when needed, even in defiance of direct orders, but was loyal to a fault. And a man who would place his own ship between the flagship and a broadside was exactly the kind of man I needed right now.
“The burden of command,” Duncan commented, “I never wanted it; it’s part of the reason I was only ever an armsman.”
“Right…you were just one of the most highly-skilled special forces operatives in the Queendom,” I said fishing for confirmation.
“Was I?” Duncan asked with an enigmatic smile.
I huffed out a sigh. After my people dealt with Jean Luc and, more importantly Connor Tuttle, I had him dead to rights and still I was surrounded with shadows and secrets.
“Maybe I’m wrong, and they only recruit over-the-hill, former, top operatives for inclusion in the Royal Guard as an armsmen,” I laughed.
“Hey,” Duncan said in mock protest, and a moment later I was blocking a half-jesting blow to the belly.
“Have to be faster than that,” I mocked, quickly stepping back out of range.
“You’re getting faster,” Duncan said approvingly.
“I’m trying,” I agreed modestly.
“Well, keep your chin up; at least that battleship will be back by the end of the day,” Duncan said.
“Yes,” I agreed, “although, as soon as the Parliamentary Power is out of the space-yard next month, I’ll be sending one of them—either the Power or the Prince—out on patrol. We need to wave the flag and let everyone know we’re still alive and kicking out here.”
“Really?” Duncan asked, making no attempt to hide his surprise. “Hasn’t your Fleet done enough these last few months to deserve a breather?”
“It’s already been several months of ‘breather’,” I said, shaking my head, “and besides, absence doesn’t necessarily make the heart grow fonder—it also gives the local parasites ideas. A perceived power vacuum draws in bottom-feeders. So what we need to do is let them know that there is no vacuum out here, only armed to the teeth battleships!”
Duncan nodded in understanding.
Also, of course, I needed to make sure that the new recruiting pipelines I’d been painstakingly building up didn’t dry up and disappear. Both our direct recruiting effort and the new Border Alliance recruits wouldn’t keep coming if the worlds they were from started to get hit without so much as a lonely patrol running through their area by my Fleet. That, as much as anything, necessitated a patrol in force as soon as possible.
But, fortunately, there was no real rush. We had some real breathing room with no enemies out there gunning for us right then, and we could take that breathing room to rest, repair and refit. Otherwise, I would have sent the Armor Prince out last week after she finished working up.
With that cheerful thought, no immediate enemies in sight, and no reason to rush to the next possible crisis, I headed for the showers.
Chapter Thirty-six: There’s trouble, Mr. President
2 Months Later
“Strange ships have been sighted all along the border, Sir,” said the Military Attaché sounding intensely worried.
President of the Security Council of the Assembly, and Governor-pro-tem of Sector 25, Sir Isaak—the former Ambassador from Capria—sat behind the desk in his office at Central and frowned.
“The Border with Sector 26, you mean?” Sir Isaak corrected.
The young attaché blinked. “That’s right,” he replied with a nod.
“Clarity, Mr. Beaumont,” the former Ambassador replied with forced mildness, “it’s not simply a requirement in this job, it’s a functional necessity.”
“I’ll work harder, Sir,” the young twenty something aid provided by the military said quickly, “but about those sightings…”
For a long moment, the President of the Security Council stared down at the surface of his desk with pursed lips. Then he shook his head. “Probably just pirates or scouts; we have an agreement with the warlords up Sectors from us, do we not, Mr. Butters?” he asked rhetorically, turning to his Foreign Office assistant and brushing off the worrying reports.
“That we do, Sir,” Butters said with certainty. “And they’ve given us strong assurances that—”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President, but this isn’t just sightings of warships that come in for a quick sneak and peek and then leave,” the Military Attaché sounded distressed. “They’ve taken control of New Tau Ceti and established a tight defensive perimeter. This might not be a short-term problem, Sir. They could be here to stay.”
“A minor world, I’ll note,” the former Ambassador and current Sector Governor said with a frown. Then his eyes briefly narrowed, “Wasn’t she originally a part of Sector 26?”
“Tau Ceti was originally a Sector 26 world, but petitioned to join our assembly after the Withdrawal, Governor,” the Foreign Office bureaucrat said helpfully.
“And, whoever they are, according to Commodore Solomon of an area SDF, they’ve started to build an Imperial-grade—and style—forward operating Fleet Base for resupply operations,” Beaumont cut back in. “They may only be sending a few ships into our Sector, but we have reports of tanker ships full of trillium being taken and stockpiled there. They seem to be readying themselves for an extended campaign, Governor.”
Sir Isaak’s blood ran cold. “Blast it!” he hit the table with punishing force
“Sir?” asks the functionary Mr. Butters looking rattled.
“Why wasn’t this minor detail in the beginning of the report?! It’s nowhere in my abstract; I wouldn’t have missed something like a forward operating base being built on a member world of this Sector,” he snapped.
“Prospective member world,” Butters said quickly, “the Pacifica Block has been obstructing their inclusion in the assembly as a full rights voting member. Right now they only have observer status.”
“Observer status! As if that makes it any better,” looking as if he was having a bout of indigestion, the former Ambassador bit back any number of things he would like to say and pasted on a smile.
There was a pause while the Aides tried to look anywhere except at the Council President.
“Exactly how many ships are currently based out of Tau Ceti, Mr. Beaumont? Best estimate,” he asked calmly.
“Unknown; the squadron under Commodore Solomon couldn’t get close enough to make an educated estimate,” said the military aid.
“Ballpark; give me an estimate,” Isaak’s voice turned frozen.
“Best guess…at least a pair of squadrons. That’s as of right now, if they really are making a base who knows,” said Beaumont.
Isaak’s eyes narrowed.
“They could just be building a listening post,” Butters said quickly, but the Governor of Sector 25 lifted up a hand and the aides in the room instantly fell silent.
Isaak blinked once as his mind finished churning through the information. “I guess we’ll be rejoining the Confederation after all,” he said, coming to a grim realization.
“Hasn’t the Old Grand Assembly refused to recognize our sovereign status, Sir?” Butter’s brow furrowed.
“They’ve also refused to assist us with ships now that the Imperial Fleet has left,” Isaak said coolly, “it seems raising the first genuine Confederation Fleet in fifty years—as they seem to have already sent their last one to the breakers as too costly to maintain—was too much for them.”
“Too costly…the Spine?” the Military Attaché said with disbelief.
“It is if they want to continue to provide full-service healthcare and social wellness programs—such as the basic human right to life without work stipend and not raise taxes,” Isaak explained absently. “The individual worlds of the Core have been skittish when it comes to raising taxes for a military force not under their direct control, and the whole subject of a Confederation-wide levy to support a battle fleet is currently tied up in committee.”
> The Foreign Affairs man nodded agreement.
“They really just wrote us off, then, and the rumors are true,” Beaumont clenched his teeth. “They actually have the gall to just tell us so.”
“Hardly,” Isaak quirked a grim smile.
The military aide looked at him questioningly and the foreign affairs man looked smug.
“We have an excellent intelligence service,” Isaak said and decided to leave it at that.
“The Old Confederation at large is certain that something has to be, is being, will be, or must be done about the Spine, but no one wants to pay for it,” he continued expressionlessly.
“Then…if they don’t even have a fleet, or the funds in the pipeline for one, I don’t really see how abandoning the Single Sector Sovereignty Pledge your political campaign was based on, and attempting to re-join the Confederation, will help us,” said Beaumont, who then added hastily, “not that I’m questioning you! I just don’t understand your thinking here…not that I necessarily need to.”’
“No, you’ve mistaken me,” Isaak said grimly, “I do not intend to send yet another fruitless petition to the Grand Assembly like my predecessors have done. That’s a fool’s errand.”
“Then…” the aides looked stumped.
“Forget the Grand Assembly; what I’m talking about is the Confederation of that rebel, Admiral Jason Montagne,” Sir Isaak said stonily.
“That Royal brat—the Tyrant of Cold Space!” said the functionary with surprise.
“An unfortunate PR campaign that continues to backfire on us, even at this later date,” the Governor of Sector 25—pro-tem ,of course—chided, looking genuinely upset.
The assistants assigned to the Governor’s Office on the other hand looked like they couldn’t believe their ears.
“I wonder if we’ll all end up calling him ‘Your Majesty’ before this is all over,” Isaak mused.
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