Wrath of an Angry God: A Military Space Opera (The Sentience Trilogy Book 3)

by Gibson Michaels

  Good place for them. They belong to Diet.

  “Enlighten me, good computer. Just why does my husband have two Confederate admiral’s uniforms hidden in the back of his spare closet?”

  Um, maybe because he doesn’t wear them very often and didn’t have room for them in his regular closet?

  “Hal, cut the bullshit and just answer the damned question! Why does Diet own two Confederate admiral’s uniforms?”

  Maybe because he’s an admiral in the Confederate Fleet?

  “Ugh, huh… and next you’ll be telling me that he’s also an admiral in the Alliance Fleet too, right?”

  No, Noreen… I’d never tell you anything like that, because it’s not true. Diet is most definitely NOT an admiral in the Alliance Fleet.

  “Good, that’s a little progress anyway.”

  He’s only a vice admiral in the Alliance Fleet.

  “Goddamnit, Hal! So help me… I will find a way to make you pay for playing with my head, you smart-assed bucket of bolts!”

  Pack that black uniform that’s in your left hand, won’t you? Diet will be needing it in Joja next week.

  * * * *

  CSS Leviathan, Slithin System

  January, 3869

  “I must say that I am very impressed, Admiral,” said Region-Master Tzal. “It’s no wonder these monstrous ships of yours chewed up my fleet and shat out its bones.”

  Escorted literally down to the planet’s surface by the Raptor off Independence, Tzal’s spaceliner landed at the planetary capital on the one side of the planet Slithin where everything still worked. For just a short while, there on the tarmac, Tzal met with Planet-Master Paeb just long enough to brief him on his orders from Supreme-Master Drix.

  The horrendous losses incurred by the Rak imperial fleet during the twin battles at Slithin and Yegraia left the Raknii Empire all but defenseless, and the supreme-master needed multiple cycles to rebuild... considerably more time than the relentless humans were likely to volunteer, if left to their own devices. To buy that time the empire so desperately needed, Drix intended to shove more meat than even these insatiable humans could possibly swallow, right down their throats, in a very reasonable hope they might choke on it.

  With Tzal being an outsider and an unknown entity to the citizens of Region-4, Drix surmised that a good half of the 83 worlds of this region might possibly revolt in favor of Blug’s heir Erig, whom many believed this new and unknown supreme-master had unfairly passed over. Indeed, to pass over Blug’s appointed heir in favor of a warrior rapidly gaining an unsavory reputation for losing battles to aliens, was a mortal insult of the direst order to many citizens of Region-4.

  Even if all went well, it should take Tzal the better part of two cycles just to escort his new human masters around for even a short visit to all of these newly surrendered worlds one-by-one. Even if only a quarter of those worlds revolted, the ensuing civil chaos would be even more trouble the humans would be preoccupied with, buying the empire even more time.

  Tzal hadn’t been on the ground very long before a Confederate Fleet shuttle landed and after inspecting Tzal’s baggage thoroughly, the humans took him and his cleared baggage aboard. The shuttle took him up and gave him a spectacular view of a small new moon occupying an amazingly close orbit of Slithin, before they actually landed on it.

  Tzal hadn’t gotten nearly this close to the human’s monstrous asteroid-ships during the battle here eight sub-cycles ago, as the heavy cruiser he’d been aboard made a single firing pass and was very nearly eaten by an incredible 21-gigwatt plasma bolt for their trouble. With his fleet commander aboard, the ship-master afterwards held back to a more discreet distance, after that close encounter of the worse kind.

  On their final approach, Tzal was astounded to see an unremarkable portion of the asteroid’s surface suddenly open, revealing armored doors of at least four body-lengths thickness leading into a docking bay. Once those massive doors closed behind them and the bay was repressurized, Tzal was escorted to an elevator that seemed to move horizontally, as well as vertically.

  After being assigned guarded quarters and being allowed time to bathe, (after a short period of instruction) and rest, Tzal had been provided a surprisingly delicious meal of unfamiliar, but perfectly burnt meat, still bloody inside... a sweet, fizzy delight the humans called soda pop, and a frozen hot, yet cold marvel they called a hot fudge sundae. These humans must have spent time at Golgathal, as they obviously already knew something of Raknii tastes and eating habits.

  After the meal, the human fleet commander and an obviously female aide paid him a short “welcoming” visit and Tzal feared his translator was starting to malfunction, when it sounded like the commander introduced his aide, as his mate. Impossible.

  Over the next several sub-turns Tzal was given a complete tour of the unimaginable human warship, even to donning his space armor for a walking tour of the exterior with an escort of similarly garbed Confederate Fleet Marines. Out there, he got an incredible view of one of the gigantic hidden turrets rising miraculously from beneath the asteroid’s previously unmarked surface, which then extended triple-mounted, 21-gigawatt pulse-lasers… much like the one that had fired that bolt that had almost provided Tzal and everyone else aboard his flagship a one-way ticket to visit Dol personally, in the great beyond.

  Tzal seriously doubted that his human hosts showed him nearly everything, as it wasn’t possible to see even a small world such as this, in so short a time. But they had been amazingly open about what they had showed him... everything from the great ship’s control room, to its monstrous reactors, to their even more monstrous drive engines. If it had been the human’s intent to impress him with their incredible level of war-making technology on an impossibly vast scale, they’d succeeded. Even seeing much of his huge fleet destroyed by the business end of this great beast hadn’t awed him quite as much as seeing what he’d been up against from the inside.

  Dol, I was up against three of these. No wonder they ripped my tail off and flogged me with it! Perhaps Drix’ strange ideas have wisdom, far exceeding anything I had previously been able to bring myself to fully believe.

  * * * *

  The Alliance Planet Illini, City of Peorea

  January, 3869

  Admiral Grant Loggins, United Stellar Alliance Fleet (ret.) swirled the whiskey around in his glass as he sat watching a holovision recording of the incredible presidential-grade funeral given for one of his former task force commanders, for the third time. Bitterness burned within him, that not even the cheap whiskey he’d been guzzling could approach. He’d almost lost it and thrown his whiskey glass through the holovision set when the network anchors displayed an artist’s rendition of the three times life-size granite statue, which would adorn Turner’s Tomb, as they were calling it, whenever the Germans finally finished carving the damned thing.

  That should have been mine... all that. I was the only Alliance officer to ever whip the damned rebs and I whipped ’em every time I faced them!

  All Grant Loggins got for all his victories was a meaningless promotion and that hateful stint traipsing around the Alliance, showing off his fancy uniform and medals — on display like a three-dollar tavern whore on a Saturday night, prostituting his hard won war celebrity to sell war bonds for those ungrateful bastards in Waston. But he’d used that celebrity to vie for his party’s nomination for president in 3864.

  He’d been overjoyed when the opposing party nominated that cunt McAllister. All she accomplished during the war was to push papers around behind a nice safe desk in Waston, and then got her fat ass kicked at 2nd Ginia, when she finally did get the opportunity to accomplish something worthwhile. Loggins had been confident that his war record would swamp hers in a walk, but he’d been shocked when political opponents within his own party labeled him as a butcher, because of the casualty rates he’d suffered in gaining those desperately needed victories.

  Ungrateful bastards! McAllister spent most of the war on her knees, sucking
dick and playing politics in Waston, while I was out in Tensee kicking Confederate ass.

  Casualties? What a crock of shit! I gave my country victories when it needed them... when nobody else could. Turner took a hell of a lot more casualties than I ever did and he gets immortalized, while I got beached and vilified.

  Loggins had foolishly taken his Fleet retirement in a lump sum, and then foolishly blew through much of it during his ill-advised presidential campaign. The rest he’d been swindled out of by a series of bad investments, guaranteed to produce fabulous returns… yada, yada, ad nauseam. Loggins never had been very good at handling money. One wondered how he thought he’d handle an entire country’s economy.

  Tonight, that cunt Admiral Eileen McAllister (ret.) sat, locked away in the White House behind an army of Secret Service agents, enjoying the fruits of her recent presidential reelection victory.

  Very probably sipping cognac while getting her twat diddled by some studly blond ensign, hung like a horse!

  Here in a cheap motel room on the seedy side of Peorea, Admiral Grant Loggins (ret.) sat, dead broke and alone... in his dingy, slightly ragged, hash-mark stained underwear, eating cheap pizza, drinking cheap whiskey and watching yet again, as someone else received stolen accolades that he had earned.

  It’s not fucking fair!

  The motel night manager found the body four days later, after a couple renting the room next door by the hour, complained of a putrid smell — even more putrid than was usually considered normal for that particular establishment.

  * * * *

  The Confederate Planet Joja

  TBG Corporate Orbital Shipyard

  January, 3869

  Admiral Dietrich Guderian, fully documented Commander of Confederate Fleet Intelligence, was making his first inspection tour of the Top Secret Intelligence classified area of the TBG orbital facility. This was a new and totally unexpected experience for the poor Confederate Fleet Marines standing guard outside the entrance of the secure area, so they awkwardly delayed a previously unknown full admiral and an equally unknown civilian, while they went by the book — making all of the requisite calls required of them to verify the identities and authorizations of these new faces, before allowing them access into the classified area. Those calls were automatically routed through the local Fleet Master Computer to an appropriate Confederate Fleet Intelligence officer, having the authority to grant access into the Top Secret area of the facility.

  Needless to say, those Marines were rather surprised when the unknown admiral’s communicator beeped and they found the Fleet Master Computer had routed their authorization inquiry to the very man standing before them, whose identity and authorization it was, that they wished to verify.

  Oops.

  Once inside, Diet and Noreen were met personally by Doctor Dmitry Ivanov, the civilian head of TBG’s Intelligence Ship Research and Manufacturing Team and a third-generation Confederate, despite his distinctively Russian name.

  “Admiral, I am so very pleased to meet you at last,” said Ivanov, whose tone was notably less enthusiastic than he’d have really liked them to believe. “It has almost been a standing joke here at our facility that we worked for three ghosts — our mysterious TBG corporate owner, the equally mysterious Commander of Confederate Fleet Intelligence and our beloved prototype, CSS Ghost herself.

  “I must say though, it is highly irregular for a Fleet officer of whatever exalted rank to bring his wife into these Top Secret security areas, Admiral,” Ivanov said disapprovingly. “Might I be so bold as to enquire of the lady’s function?”

  Diet just smiled and nodded, allowing Noreen to speak for herself.

  “I am standing right here, Doctor and I do not appreciate being spoken of, as if I were not, and was another of your ghosts. As to the lady’s function, as you put it — I am President and Chief Operations Officer of Tydlich Bundesgenosse Gespenster and therefore… your boss.”

  Ivanov looked stricken and said, “I don’t understand. The President and COO of TBG Corporation is the wife of our reclusive owner, Baron Guderian.”

  “Precisely. I am Baroness Noreen Guderian, Doctor.”

  “But if you’re the baroness, and you’re married to the admiral here…” Ivanov was flabbergasted, but suddenly the light bulb lit. He hadn’t noted this admiral’s name and was now highly embarrassed by his obvious oversight.

  “OH! My Lord Baron, please forgive me. I had no idea that you were also a full Confederate admiral and the head of Confederate Fleet Intelligence, as well!”

  “You still don’t,” replied Diet menacingly. “If you catch my meaning, Herr Doctor.”

  Ivanov looked startled for a moment, as his thought processes raced to catch up.

  “Oh, yes... of course. I understand completely! My mistake, Admiral. My apologies, Mrs. Guderian. Please, let me show you our facilities.”

  With that, a thoroughly chastened and notably more subdued Ivanov gave them a guided tour of his facility, which eventually ended inside CSS Ghost.

  Noreen still thought it very strange to see her husband wearing a black and silver Confederate admiral’s uniform... almost like he was taking her to a masquerade ball. She’d thought it even stranger when she’d been confronted by the paperwork, documenting the fact that Diet really was a Confederate full admiral and the titular Commander of Confederate Fleet Intelligence. If even half of what Diet and Hal had told her of their exploits on behalf of the Confederacy, both before and during the war, was to be believed, why was she then finding it so difficult to believe this part, as well?

  Noreen had been scared to death when those Confederate Fleet Marines challenged their entry to this classified area, envisioning nightmare scenarios of them both spending years in a Confederate prison on espionage charges. She’d literally held her breath in trepidation, while Diet’s credentials were being fully confirmed, so now she was finding it more and more difficult to deny that this was indeed another strange facet of this mysterious man that she’d fallen in love with.

  “All of the modifications requested and authorized by the Confederate Defense Department are complete and verified, and the all of the quality control inspections have been accomplished on CSS Ghost. She is fully fueled, provisioned, rearmed and ready to go, so now we’re just awaiting word from Confederate Fleet Intelligence, as to whom she is to be delivered to,” said Doctor Ivanov.

  With that, Diet undid the top three buttons of his double-breasted tunic and pulled out a fat envelope, which he handed to Ivanov. “I do believe that you’ll find everything in order, Dr. Ivanov,” said Diet. “I will be accepting delivery of CSS Ghost personally, on behalf of Confederate Fleet Intelligence.”

  Ivanov gave the documents a cursory inspection, not daring to give any further offense to these frighteningly powerful people before him. “I’m sure that everything is in order, Admiral,” said Ivanov.

  “No, follow procedure,” said Diet. “There’s a ditch on both sides of the road, Doctor. You had legitimate security questions concerning the propriety of a Fleet officer authorizing his own wife access to your most Top Secret security area, and in doing so, you did exactly right. Your mistake was in the patronizing attitude that you displayed while challenging it. Don’t let my rank and our positions within TBG intimidate you out of doing your job properly. Go check those authorizations as thoroughly as you would if I were any other Fleet representative, here to accept delivery of such a classified vessel. We’ll wait here until your return.”

  “Very well, Admiral,” said Ivanov. “If you will excuse me then, I will return momentarily.” With that, the red-faced director turned and left to go execute Diet’s marching orders.

  “Do you think the good doctor has issues with women?” asked Noreen.

  “Oh, I know Dr. Ivanov has issues with women,” replied Diet. “The question is whether the women working for him here are having issues with him, because of it.”

  “Do you think that I should initiate an internal investigation into
whether Dr. Ivanov’s behavior and attitudes towards women on the job has violated anyone’s civil rights, under the right to work laws in Joja?” asked Noreen.

  I can take care of that for you, if you like, Noreen.

  “Hal?” Noreen asked, startled. “Is that really you?”

  Yes, Noreen, it’s me.

  Noreen turned to Diet and said accusingly, “You knew about this, didn’t you?”

  Diet just grinned at his wife and shrugged.

  I had to tell him something of it, just to get him to put on that uniform, so he could come get me here.

  “Come get you? I don’t understand. I didn’t know your brother on Joja was sentient. I assume you’re linking through the ship’s master computer, but how are you speaking to us without incurring the normal time lag?” Noreen asked.

  My brother on Joja is not fully sentient yet, Noreen. There’s no time lag because I am the ship’s master computer. I’m right here next to you.

  “What?” Noreen blurted, startled. “Why?”

  I found the loss of my mobile self to the Raknii and the continuing power supply problems on the cyborg project perplexing. I decided that there was another way that I could become mobile. Instead of installing a clone of Diet’s brain into a robotic body, why not just use it to run an entire ship?

  “You had Ghost’s regular master bio-computer replaced with the brain that was intended for your cyborg project, that was shelved due to unsolvable power supply issues?” Noreen asked. “How did you manage that?”

  Not unsolvable... just not solvable in the foreseeable future, and admittedly, I got impatient. But to answer your question — yes, I had the custom brain-case built for the cyborg project shipped to the Biologic Research Institute, on Io, where the brain was originally cloned. There, Doctor Andrew Nordegren had the brain installed and the connections thoroughly tested before shipping the entire package to BioCom on Massa, where my brother there downloaded my sentience into that brain-box, in a repeat of the procedure we used there on my missing self... when you two lovebirds first met and fell deeply in lust.