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

by Luke Sky Wachter

  Frustrated beyond measure, Captain Iorghu called down to Engineering for the second time that day.

  “How goes the modification of the energy banks, Chief Engineer?” the Captain demanded when the other officer had finally been brought to the com-link.

  “A lot faster, if I wasn’t being interrupted,” growled the Engineer. “That said…we should have the modifications done within the hour, which should show as a marked improvement in our micro-jump response time.”

  “Good work, Chief Engineer,” Costel Iorghu said, gritting his teeth because he knew that, even after the new work, they were still going to be far too slow. Still, shaving even a half hour off of their response time had to count for something.

  “I have things to do,” the Chief Engineer said rudely and then cut the connection.

  Costel Iorghu pounded a fist into the arm of his chair. Everything that had happened before now—the humiliations, constantly receiving the worst assignments in the System Defense Force, the scorn and sometimes outright shunning by his fellow officers—was all because of one single event: the time he, Costel Iorghu, had allowed a warship of Sovereign Prometheus to be captured in Easy Haven by a group of pretend Confederals.

  He had only been following the orders of his lawful superior, and fellow Captain, Jeremiah Stood—but try telling that to the review board.

  Every problem, every insult, every slight could all be laid directly at the feet of one individual: Jason Montagne Vekna, now known as the Tyrant of Cold Space. The ill fortunes of Prometheus Fire, and her crew, were all because of him.

  The Captain of the Fire burned with the desire to redeem himself and clear his good name, but until such a time came he was reduced to scraping along the border of Prometheus, showing up late and looking like the most useless captain in the defense fleet.

  “We’re receiving a distress call, Captain. It’s the Height of Flying, a freighter registered out of New Pacifica and she’s screaming her head off, Sir,” reported the Comm. Officer, looking like a beaten dog as he reported yet another attack to which the Fire would be responding to as fast as its slugging hyper engines could manage.

  “Get me Engineering,” Costel ordered.

  “Captain, I really don’t have time to play around; we need to bleed off the energy now that the modified banks have been tested,” the Chief Engineer said with a haggard look after arriving at the com-link.

  “No!” Iorghu exclaimed, shaking his head firmly. “Continue to build up a charge; we’ve got another distress call. I don’t care what it takes, Chief, I don’t want to be stuck with another body retrieval duty because this ship is the largest class and last on the scene. It’s destroying morale, being unable to do anything but pick up the corpses.”

  “I’ll do my best, Sir,” the Engineer sighed.

  “You’ll do better than that,” the Captain snapped, feeling something inside himself break, “I don’t care if you have to rupture the strange particle generator and crack the main dish. I want to be there in time and I want it now—or I’ll find this ship a new engineer!” “One who’ll kill everyone on board,” the Chief Engineer warned.

  “I don’t care,” the Captain snapped, “we all have to die sometime. So if you don’t want to see that happen then do something about it.” He furiously slammed his fist down, cutting the connection.

  He refused to go on even one more clean-up ‘patrol.’

  ****************************************************

  “Point Emergence!” exclaimed the Navigator.

  “Extending engines,” reported the Helm.

  “I’m reading high level energy signatures,” said the Sensor Officer who then shot bolt upright in his chair, “we have active weapons fire!”

  Going from half-expecting another in a long string of failures, to the sudden realization that this time they hadn’t arrived too late, Costel Iorghu’s eyes lit with an intensity that hadn’t been present in more than two years—if ever.

  “Full power to the engines,” he snapped.

  “Full power to engines, aye,” the Helmsman said his excitement growing and shoving the power throttles to wide open as ordered.

  “Tactical, you tell Gunnery to lock on target and fire at the first possible opportunity,” the Captain snapped, “I don’t care if we’re out of range and taking pot shots into the dark. I want to fire on the enemy and I want to do it as soon as humanly possible!”

  “Fire as she bears with liberal ranging shots, aye, Captain,” Tactical said, looking like an old herding dog too long in the house because of his aching joints, who suddenly spotted cattle on the front lawn.

  The Medium Cruiser ponderously built up speed—some would say she did so almost majestically, were it any other ship. In her sights as she closed distance was a pair of freighters.

  One of them, the Height of Flying, was under attack by the rakish figure of a pirate destroyer. The other, the Brilliant Cargo Gem, was running away from the battle at top speed.

  “Tactical, bag me that pirate!” Captain Iorghu yelled with glee and then, realizing how he must have sounded, he recovered his composure and turned to the Sensor section, “get me the profile of that Destroyer. I want to know her class, her modifications, who built her, and the name whoever they sold her to,” he ordered fiercely.

  “Pirate vessel is breaking off,” reported Tactical.

  “Class assessment confirmed; she’s in our database, Captain. Data banks list her as the Rat Pack, a Marauder class Imperial Destroyer out of the Imperial Yards in Ceti Alpha Four—record shows she was lost with all hands during a routine border patrol,” Sensors said with dismay.

  “First salvo away, Captain!” said Tactical clenching his fist.

  On the screen, a storm of laser fire lashed out from the front of the Hammerhead class Cruiser, lighting up the Destroyer’s shields like a spring-tide celebration.

  “Enemy shields damaged, but holding,” reported Tactical, “cycling our medium and heavy lasers as quickly as possible, Captain.”

  “Not the last one to the party this time, are we?” Costel Iorghu chuckled harshly, as a pair of corvettes flashed into existence just outside of laser range off the port bow of the pirate Destroyer. Then he gave himself a shake, “It’s not your fault Tactical; the Hammerhead is a centuries old design, for all she’s been updated continuously down the years, while that Destroyer is cutting-edge Imperial tech.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” the other Officer said, as the Destroyer fired a broadside that slammed into the Cruiser’s shields while lighting up her drives and blasting off at full speed.

  “Up the kilt,” Costel said excitedly, “fire! Knock out those engines and she’s as good as ours.”

  “On it, Captain,” Tactical said, and a renewed rate of fire lashed out from the medium cruiser’s main batteries.

  “Keep our nose pointed straight at that scum of the space-ways,” the Captain shouted, pounding his fist repeatedly on the arm of his command chair.

  “A hit!” exulted the Tactical Officer. “She’s trailing debris.”

  “After her, man,” Costel yelled at the Helm, even though he knew it was probably a futile gesture,” don’t let her get away!”

  “Another hit—a glancing shot to her secondary weaponry,” cheered Sensors.

  “SDF Corvettes are accelerating to get around on either side of the enemy Destroyer; they say they’ll be there in two minutes and are requesting to link fire-control with us,” reported Comm.

  “The Fire’s still got fight in her,” cheered Captain Iorghu, “of course. Tell them we’ll allow them to link up fire control with us,” he said.

  “Maneuvering to avoid debris,” reported the Helm, and Costel cursed. The one advantage of the old Hammerhead class was that her heaviest assets were forward facing—both her weapons and her shields. Turn her to the side or the rear, and she was all but a sitting duck compared to her head-on approach. This allowed them to directly follow the enemy with the nose pointed at her stern and fire
their full broadside. But it also meant that they were following directly in the path the pirate had taken.

  He was about to order the helm to stay on course and push through the debris, their forward shields could take it, when a huge white flash snowed out their forward screen.

  “Ion wave!” shouted Sensors.

  “Enemy launched an ion bomb in the debris,” Tactical belatedly reported as the bridge lighting was knocked out, leaving them in momentary darkness, before the bridge emergency lighting immediately activated.

  “Blast,” Costel cursed, “flip the breakers and get us going again.” “We’ll have minimal functionality in two minutes, and systems fully restored within ten, Captain,” reported Damage Control sourly, “our systems weren’t as hardened as we thought.”

  “Minimal helm control restored,” the Helmsman said seconds later, “but even if we have full power, there’s no way we’ll catch a Destroyer with her main engines at full. She’s getting away, Captain,” he finished with trepidation in his voice.

  Costel Iorghu wanted to curse, and swear, and throw a tantrum on the bridge but he did none of those things. He could sense that a critical moment in his ship’s storied service had just arrived, and he could either ride the wave back to fully-fledged mediocrity or sink back to the level of pond scum for a second time.

  “You’re doing the best you can,” he choked out instead of venting his spleen and then straightened.

  “Sorry, Sir,” shoulders around the bridge started to slump.

  “She can run from us in fear, but she can’t hide forever,” Costel said, thrusting a finger in the air, “one day soon, either her or a sister ship will try for our shipping again and when they do…we—the crew of the fighting warship, Prometheus Fire—will be waiting for them!”

  The bridge didn’t cheer, and they didn’t declare how they were the baddest, roughest bunch of spacers this side of the Gorgon Front, but their shoulders did straighten at their mediocre captain’s words.

  No one wanted to believe they were trash, and the patent fact was that the Destroyer had run from them. Maybe next time they really would get the chance to prove themselves by bagging a pirate.

  So, while they still couldn’t be considered anything like a crack crew, they no longer acted like the trash of the SDF. They now had something to look forward to: a rematch.

  That’s why, even after the Corvette Captains called over to compliment him with words that were little more than thinly veiled insults, Costel Iorghu just smiled grimly and let their words roll off him like water off a ducks back.

  Because next time he would be ready.

  ****************************************************

  “I regret to report that, this time, the freighter got away,” the captain of the Rat Pack said stiffly.

  “Nothing you could do about it. What are the odds of a Medium Cruiser of that make and model almost having her hyper drive fully charged, and appearing within minutes of your attack?” Commodore Serge shrugged. “You did the best you could.”

  “Thank you, Commodore,” said the Captain.

  “At least you disabled the Cruiser,” Serge said with a smile.

  “A ship like that? What a joke,” laughed the Rat Pack Captain, “fell for the oldest trick in the book: eject the sewage tanks to simulate a hit, and hide a mine in the debris. We knocked her out easy and, if we’d had time, we would have finished her off. I dare say that if this had been an invasion instead of a raid, my crew would be sharing out prize money instead of sour grapes at having to turn away and let her go.”

  “There is no point in throwing away your ship when the entire system border patrol is about to jump on top of you. Even if their whole SDF is as incompetent as that Cruiser they’d still wear you down by sheer weight of numbers,” Serge said dismissively, “offer your people my sympathy and assure them that they’re a testament to the service. You can also tell them we might be getting a little help from the forward operating base in this theater—perhaps even enough firepower to start making some serious inroads.”

  “I’ll do that, sir,” the Captain said with a hungry look.

  Chapter Fifty-two: Spalding Vents his Rage

  Zero hour was only eleven minutes and twenty second away when gastric distress rocked the Lancer Contingents onboard the Flagship—and throughout the rest of the Fleet.

  His slate chimed, indicating that ‘Operation Stir-Fry’ had been an unqualified success and that Phases Two and Three of Environmental’s operation were ready to go on his command. For Engineering’s part, ‘Operation Upgrade’ had reached as many Lancer suits as was practical, given the time constraints, while the Volunteers from the Marine Brigade had been successfully diverted away to more harmless areas of the ship. They would be on call in case of an emergency.

  “We’ll give them a few more minutes to baste in their own juices before we head in,” Spalding said, watching the blast doors leading into Lancer territory with narrowed eyes. Silently, he hit several keys on his slate’s touch screen and a prepared message was sent out. “That should give them just enough time to get their leaders all gathered together nice and proper,” he muttered balefully. He wanted to make this point once—and once only.

  When Zero Hour was only one minute and thirty five seconds away, Spalding snatched another data slate out from his belt. He pulled up a pair of special programs and, snapping his head up, he marched into the Lancers’ compartment.

  It was show-time.

  ****************************************************

  The stench hit them as soon as they entered the room. It was the smell of sickness and backed up sewage lines.

  “Well, if this isn’t one of the saddest sorriest excuses for a marine contingent I’ve ever seen in my long and storied career,” Spalding said with deep, vindictive satisfaction.

  “What are you doing here, Engineer Commander Spalding?” demanded a Lancer Captain, striding over and looking ill-pleased with the visitation, “as you can see, we are hardly fit for visitors.”

  If the old Engineer recalled correctly, this particular lug-head was ‘Captain Darius.’

  “Having a little trouble right now, are you?” the Commander smirked.

  Darius opened his mouth but another Captain stormed over. “That is none of your concern Star-Lander!” the new man shouted.

  “Oh, it’s none of my concern, is it?” Spalding remarked mildly.

  “You are neither Tracto-an or Lancer; you have no business in this barracks,” yelled the Captain. “Others may think you can walk on water, but there are those of us who are immune to your tricks—and we aim to stay that way!”

  “I see,” drawled the old borged-out Engineer.

  A moment later, Persus came into the room but Spalding had more important things to deal with right at the moment. He’d sort out his hash soon enough.

  “And another thing; we do not need any half-men around here. I know not how they do things in Argos, Messene, and among the stars, but in my home polis of Thebes we hold no truck with failed warriors, cripples, and half-men who have been mangled due to their failures,” sneered the Captain.

  “Oh, it’s terrible—it is,” Spalding said, baring his teeth in a grin but his eyes promised retribution, “why, when I lost my lower half they hooked my waste system up to a hose and detachable bag—let me tell you that a man just doesn’t feel like a man when he’s in such a condition. Might be the only thing those medical morons over in the sickbay did right, was hook back up the original plumbing the way it was meant to be.”

  “You Starborn are a sickening lot,” the Captain said, his lip curling in disgust. Beside him, Darius looked as if he wanted to say something but he was clearly torn.

  “Speaking of feeling sick,” Spalding said with a ‘butter couldn’t melt in my mouth’ expression, “I hear you boys have been having a bad case of the trots?”

  “Come to gloat have you?” the Captain snarled, getting right in the old engineer’s face. “I heard h
ow it was you who gave that weakling a brand new suit. You got a lot of good men killed.”

  The urge to use a crowbar to stove in the middle of this Captain’s forehead came upon Spalding strong and hard, but the old engineer was too wily to give up the game over a small fit of pike—no matter how big the provocation.

  “I think you and I might differ over the meaning of the word ‘loyalty,’ and what the interpretation of ‘good men’ means,” Spalding said, his jaw setting resolutely, “’cause where I’m from, a man that turns against his own shipmates and captain…well, lad, there just isn’t a worse sort of malcontent out there.”

  “And I suppose you are who they sent to complain, old man?” the Captain mocked. “Oh, lad, you’ve got me all wrong,” he said with a crazy look in his eye, “I’m not here to complain; I’m here to lay down the law. You boys crossed the line when you took and went after the Little Admiral. But I promise you that won’t happen again—not on my watch.”

  “You and what army, cripple?” glared the Captain his hand falling on the hilt of his blade. “A lot of people think you to be some kind of wizard, but I know you for what you are: a crazy old man whose best days are past him, and who no longer has the guts or the strength to do anything about it—if he ever had them to begin with.”

  “You Lancers seem to have forgotten your place, boy,” Spalding growled, “and it won’t take me no stinkin’ army to deal with the likes of you, Major! Why, I’ve got the entire lower deck at my back! Who have you got, lad?! And seein’ as how you brought up guts again, have you boys been enjoying the sweet release of your own into backed-up toilets?!” he bellowed.

  “World of Men!” roared the Captain pulling out his blade. On either side of the room Lancers stood up and started pulling out weapons, “You coward—you have poisoned us!”

  “Poison, my Auntie Freeze!! Looks to me like it was just a bad potato—or perhaps it was a moldy bit of cheese—that found its way into your bowl of soup, if you know what I mean!” Spalding chortled, completely unconcerned with the pig-sticker being waved around under his face. “Nothin’ a few trips to the head won’t fix. But you know what they say, boy: never offend the Chef—and that goes double when you’re dealing with an Engineer!!”