Admiral's Fall

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “I’ll try to make sure that doesn’t happen but if it does, and I’m still at large, I’ll come for you. It’s the least I can do after everything you did for me,” I said seriously.

  “Good. Because if you don’t, or if you take too long, I’m telling them you made me do it. All of it. Whatever they ask. Everything was your fault and I’m just the poor, humble space engineer who was in over his head. Like a babe in the woods, I couldn’t leave even after everything went belly up because I was personally sworn to your service. It’ll be 'your highness this' and 'your highness that' as I take your name in vain over every little thing they accuse me of—including that space rescue where we liberated you from the Durance Vile,” Spading assured me.

  “Way to kill any sense of appreciation I had for your efforts in the past, Commander,” I said dryly.

  “I aim to please,” the old Engineer said with an unrepentant smirk, “now what was it you wanted to do with all those extra ships?”

  I resisted the urge to wipe that smirk off with a cutting remark. “Not all of them,” I said, getting back to business, “just enough so that if things go poorly we don’t have all our eggs in one basket. In fact…I might even be willing to take a few names in vain along the way.”

  “You mean you want to hide them and then foist the blame on someone else?” he asked.

  “We’ll shift a few here. A few there to the Omicron. We could even say some ships were lost in transit,” I said wryly.

  “A false flag operation,” Spalding grumped, his interest clearly piqued but not wanting to show it, “but who are we going to blame? Jean Luc’s dead, Arnold Janeski’s dead, Cornwallis is dead—way to get revenge for what he did to Capria by the way and Ambassador Isaak’s part of the new Government, the very people we’re trying to convince. Heck, he runs it.”

  “That’s not important,” I dismissed.

  “Not important?!” Spalding cried.

  I waved my hands in the air like a street magician.

  “If necessary we’ll conjure someone up. Operations Budget Balancer and Rounding Error didn’t come about because Captain Jean Luc Montagne suddenly decided he wanted a life of crime...or at least that wasn’t the only factor. Parliament needed a villain and so they conjured him up!” I said with a flourish. “I’m sure we can do the same. Especially since we won’t be killing anyone. I mean we could off a few pirates, and maybe we should, but that’s about it,” I added contemplatively.

  “You’ve got anybody specific in mind?” asked Spalding.

  “The Interstellar Shoveler, Captain Furious, the Blue Rajah… does it really matter?” I rolled my eyes. “The important thing is moving them around like a magician and making them disappear. And not just that,” I leaned forward intently, and at this Spalding cocked his eyebrow, “to make it easier, maybe a few of those warships we captured turned out to be more damaged than we thought. Maybe we had to sell them off or break them down for spare parts.”

  Spalding looked startled and then he began nodding, a conniving expression appearing on his face.

  “I like the way you think,” the old Engineer, “of course we’ll have to alter the weight scales,” he looked contemplative for a moment before he nodded, “monkeying with the Duralloy records, that’ll be easy peasy. All we have to do is ‘sell’ a few loads of the right sort of minerals from Tracto, ship them over here instead, and we can smelt them down into duralloy. The problem will be the odd bits that make up the internals, power runs and DI. We’ll have to figure out how to do that.”

  “Why don’t we just say we stripped out all the machinery and computer systems and sold them to a wholesaler in Sector 23?” I pointed out.

  “It fits. But if everything we try to sell gets mysteriously intercepted by pirates before it arrives, people might start asking questions,” said Spalding.

  “I think we can get around that. The Capital Star System sounds like a place where anything and everything can be sold, for a price. Why, I’m sure we could even have Captain Archibald sell a few actual loads for us—he's been developing an impressive satellite operation out there ever since McKnight followed Middleton's example and split. If funneling some of them to Capital covers our tracks and helps fund and expand our covert operation’s list of contacts, it’ll probably be well worth it,” I declared. “Speaking of which, I should probably talk with Archibald and see about rotating his crew and assigning new personnel to his black hat patrol,” I said glumly, reminded yet again that an Admiral’s work was never done. There was always something else to do.

  “Then it looks like we both have some more work to do,” Spalding said, rubbing his hands together and with a gleam in his eye that would have instantly put me on guard if I hadn’t been the very one to put him in his current state.

  As it was, I had to wonder what kind of monster I’d just unleashed. When it came to squirreling things away, Commander Spalding—initially, in our relationship, just a Junior Lieutenant—had proved himself a master.

  The only question was whether or not his skills would translate over to this newer, larger stage.

  Had I just created a monster—or was I simply feeding one?

  Chapter 14: Stravinsky Reaches the Confederation Fleet Headquarters

  Captain Stravinsky held the slate holding her electronic orders in a tight grip as she walked through the eerily empty hallways of the Fleet Starbase. A slight wrinkle creased her forehead as she walked stiffly down the hall.

  Chimera Prime was remarkably different from the old Wolf-9 starbase. Built at the same time and to a similar build plan, and utilizing the same materials technology, she would have expected it to feel like home. Yet somehow it didn’t.

  The almost depopulated military complex was manned more by automated dust busters and self-activated cleaning bots than it was by military officials. Wolf-9 had gone from empty to always shorthanded too, so a lack of personnel shouldn’t have been jarring and yet, somehow, it was.

  Maybe it had to do with the few spacers she’d seen wandering the halls. Everyone in Easy Haven had moved with an energy and sense of purpose that just seemed to be lacking here in Chimera Prime.

  Finally, she left the region of well lit but empty halls and rediscovered a veritable hive of fleet personnel. One that was almost as off-putting on general principle as the empty halls had been. The administrative section had all the hustle and bustle which had been lacking in the rest of the starbase but it was the bureaucratic kind that was nearly as bad as inactivity.

  Walking forward, she showed her ID to the security guards just inside the entrance to Administrative and then stepped through into the halls of Fleet power.

  “I’ve been spoiled out in the Spine,” she sighed, memories of a time before the hustle and bustle of building, training like your life depended on it, and then literally fighting for your life before the cycle started all over again in the Spineward Sectors. Somehow all of that action, that energy had dulled the memories of the previous dull routine and endless paperwork and bureaucracy that was the Confederation Fleet.

  She felt a brief pang before reminding herself that the Spineward Sectors was still a part of the Confederation. Now that contact with the Confederation was reestablished and Commodore Colin LeGodat was in the good hands of the doctors, she had every reason to believe she’d be sent back to Easy Haven with new orders.

  Every reason, she reminded herself firmly.

  “Did you say something, Ma’am?” asked one of the security guards.

  The Captain started. “No, spacer, I’ll just be on my way,” she paused. “And it's, 'Sir',” she added pointedly.

  “Of course, Sir. We are more than happy to use your designated signifier,” said the Guard.

  “What is this?” she asked sharply. “Are you mocking a superior officer?”

  The guard stiffened.

  “You’re not my superior anything, Fem-Sir,” he said coolly, tapping a patch on his shoulder boards, “private security contractor. All your frog and jum
p nonsense went the way of the dodo birds when they replaced the Marines with us.”

  “Private contractor? In one of the most sensitive military bases in the nation?” she said with disbelief.

  The guard looked at her sardonically. “Where have you been the past five years, Fem-Sir?” he inquired.

  “Clearly not here,” she said, turning on her heel and striding away while trying to ignore the small pit that had just opened in the middle of her stomach.

  Following the starbase map app she’d loaded onto her slate, Stravinsky finally arrived outside a door with a pair of proper Marines standing guard outside the door.

  “Captain Stravinsky, Lieutenant Commander, Confederation Fleet, reporting as ordered,” she said, proffering her slate.

  “This way, Sir,” said one of the guards opening the door and then escorting her inside to a waiting area.

  She sat and waited while the Admiral’s personal assistant sat filing her nails and then she waited…and waited. Until Admiral Croatoan finally called for her to come in.

  Stepping into the Admiral’s office, she straightened to attention.

  “Lieutenant Commander Stravinsky, Captain of the Q-ship Hot Potato, reporting as ordered, Admiral,” she said, coming to a stop before the desk that took place front and center in the office.

  “It’s good that you could arrive so quickly after being summoned, Commander,” the officer sitting behind the desk said with a slight curl of the lip.

  “I live to serve the Confederation, Sir,” she said, bracing to attention and saluting.

  “That has yet to be determined. After you pass the new mandatory sensitivity training, we’ll see if there’s a place for you and your crew in the new Starbase Wall initiative,” said Admiral Croatoan.

  “The Old Confederation now requires loyalty tests?” Stravinsky asked, drawing back in surprise.

  “'Sensitivity training,' I said! Loyalty tests are for third barbs out on the frontier who are part of failed planetary nation states,” Croatoan said sharply.

  “If you say so,” Stravinsky said doubtfully, and then quickly wiped her face clean of expression.

  “All of you Academy trained officers are the same. Think that you’re above the new anti-discrimination laws, do you? Well, let me inform you of something, gentle-fem: despite this new initiative, a pet project of our glorious Speaker can only take you so far! Do you hear me so far?” growled Admiral Croatoan.

  “I’m sure I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re referring to, Sir,” Stravinsky said firmly, “the Wolf-9 Reserve squadron was abandoned in place five years ago in Easy Haven, which is a part of the Spineward Sectors. I have less than no idea what new legislation you are talking about.”

  “Ignorance is no excuse, Academy!” Croatoan sneered. “Although, with your attitude, I can see why they abandoned you.”

  Stravinsky stiffened, a flash of fury sweeping through her like lightning. She forcefully suppressed the emotion before looking back at the Admiral levelly.

  “I take it from your statements you did not come up through one of the Fleet Academies?” she asked, instead looking for something to get the conversation back on track that wouldn’t set Admiral Croatoan off again.

  Croatoan openly scoffed. “I attended a University like any truly patriotic servant of the Confederation,” said the Admiral.

  “That’s something we share in common then. I was part of my world’s self-defense force’s JROTC during my secondary schooling, and then transferred into Antigua Prime University for the ROTC track program,” she said, inclining her head.

  The Admiral’s upper lip curled. “A meathead, then,” Croatoan sniffed, “fortunately I was wise enough to attend training in a proper program, and received a Masters in Space Industries Management with a minor in Inter-Cultural Relations.

  Stravinsky blinked with surprise. “I take it then you didn’t come up through one of the traditional training programs,” Stravinsky said in surprise, “were you perhaps a merchant fleet transfer?”

  “As it so happens, I ran a series space factory platforms before being directly commissioned by the armed services committee into the Fleet. Unlike you, I actually worked for a living before coming to the luxury resort you lot have set up out here,” said Croatoan with an edge to his voice. “In fact, I’ll have you know I worked my way up through the factory’s Cultural Diversity department. Started as an officer gopher and eventually ending up running the department. After becoming department head I was promoted to factory manager. After that it was a simple step for the Grand Assembly to recognize my talent and assign me out here to keep an eye on you rogue military types.”

  “Sir, I resent the implication. The Reserve Squadron and my own Hot Potato have been anything but rogue operators. We’re patriots, Admiral,” she said with force.

  Croatoan looked at her with slitted eyes. “I have to warn you, you are treading close to some very dangerous territory, Officer Stravinsky. Very dangerous indeed,” said the Admiral.

  “I don’t see how proclaiming my loyalty to the Confederation is dangerous, Admiral,” she said faithfully.

  “You will after you attend sensitivity training. That you haven’t had a chance to attend such training is the only reason I’m not placing you under administrative review immediately. As it is, I am prepared to withhold judgment until after seeing your test scores,” said the Admiral.

  “My test scores, Sir?” Stravinsky said with disbelief.

  “Let me tell you something: I have been brought in because some in the Grand Assembly are quite concerned with the recent resurgence of the toxic military culture they’re seeing emerge inside this Fleet,” warned Croatoan. “If you had attended your training, you would know that one of the hallmarks of toxic military culture is loud cries of patriotism and loyalty to the Empire.”

  “I’ve never heard of toxic military culture,” Stravinsky shook her head in a lack of comprehension—though, in truth, she feared she understood all too well.

  “Cries of patriotism are code, you see, for a conspiracy of officers and politicians which we believe are determined to bring back a resurgence of the military-industrial complex. As such, any right thinking officer and spacer must be doubly careful not to make excessive utterances of loyalty, patriotism and pride in the Fleet,” Croatoan said earnestly.

  “I don’t see how being loyal to the Confederation is a crime, Sir,” Stravinsky said carefully.

  “Being loyal isn’t, in fact it’s a virtue, but saying how loyal you are…now that’s dangerous. Much like the toxic fraternities of old on University Campuses that had to be disbanded, their permits revoked to prohibit their lawful assembly, so too must toxic military culture be rooted out,” said Croatoan.

  “Is this legal?”

  “That’s another toxic question,” Croatoan said sharply before reluctantly adding, “unfortunately for all right-thinking officers, it is not. Not yet anyway. Just like fraternities that were disbanded for proclaiming themselves exclusively male institutions with doors only open to people who, regardless of biology, proclaimed themselves male. So too must we search until we find the proper regulatory breech before we can bring the toxic culture within the military to its heel. I hope you are onboard with this plan and that I can rely on you going forward?” Croatoan asked pointedly.

  Stravinsky looked at the Admiral nonplussed. This was not at all what she’d expected upon returning to home space.

  “You can count on me to enthusiastically follow, carry out and apply all valid Fleet regulations, Admiral,” she said enthusiastically.

  Croatoan’s expression twisted like curdled milk. The Admiral was about to speak when the door entry chimed. “I told you I was not to be interrupted,” Croatoan said, smashing a finger on the desk activating the intercom.

  “I’m sorry, Admiral, but Commodore Gamecock insisted,” said Croatoan’s Secretary.

  “Ah!” Croatoan snapped, silently fuming for a minute before opening the door from the console
built into his desk. “Gamecock,” Croatoan sneered the moment the Commodore strode into the room, “what seems to bring you here on this gloomy day?”

  Gamecock came to attention and snapped off a razor sharp salute. “I wish you every respect on this wonderful day, Admiral,” said the Commodore.

  “Get out of here. Out of my office and back to that benighted demon hole you call home,” demanded the Admiral.

  “I am truly sorry to come between you and another opportunity for more sensitivity training, but rules are rules I’m afraid,” the Commodore said with a cheeky grin that appeared to nearly send Croatoan straight up the wall. “I’m here for the officer, I’m afraid,” he said, jerking a thumb at Stravinsky unrepentantly.

  “You cheeky blighter!” swore Admiral Croatoan.

  “Cheeky? Why, I’m hurt that you would say that, Front Admiral. Just plain hurt. My each and every utterance is in line with the regulation manual,” Gamecock said with a wounded expression, “but fear not, Sir. I’ll have the Captain back to you before long never you fear,” the Commodore ended with a wink.

  “Commodore, I am ordering you to get out of this room this instant!” snapped Admiral Croatoan.

  “Of course, Sir,” Commodore Gamecock nodded seriously and turned to Stravinsky with an eyebrow cocked, “well, do you want to get back to the business of the fleet or are you more interested in an administrative post and sensitivity training?”

  “I’m a ship’s captain,” Stravinsky said, studiously avoiding Croatoan’s increasingly irate look, “and the needs of the fleet must come before the personal desires of any officer.”

  “False patriotism!” bellowed Croatoan.

  “I’m sorry you feel that way, Admiral,” the Commodore interjected before Stravinsky could open her mouth, “but as both the Captain and I are both aware, her agreement is just a formality.”

  “Officer Stravinsky, take one step off the administrative deck before I clear you and you’ll be up on charges,” snapped Croatoan, “as for you, Gamecock, I’ll deal with you later.”