Retribution (The Federation Reborn Book 3)

by Chris Hechtl

  He had implants; he planned to run everyone ragged getting as much wrung out as he could. Then he'd take the bar rag and wring it out a second time for good measure. Waste not, want not and all that, he thought.

  :::{)(}:::

  Sprite would have shaken her head if she wasn't virtual. The things organics pulled, she thought as she scanned the latest antics into memory. Sometimes she wondered if they were worth saving. The only thing that made it worthwhile sometimes was the entertainment value.

  Case in point, New Texas.

  New Texas in its infinite wisdom, chutzpa or whatever one wanted to call it, had tried to file for exclusive rights to supply meat to the federation government and military. She knew some were amused by the chutzpa. They definitely grew them big she thought. Apparently they'd been lobbying for the move, which was hitting resistance in Congress. It would never fly she knew, but if she could nip the attempt in the bud, it might be a good idea.

  They could be after something else. She knew they were lobbying for an army base. So far it had been unsuccessful, but they might be playing a game here, she noted. She pulled the relevant files and regulations, then quickly worded a diplomatic letter pointing out that ships used food replicators for most of their needs and resupplied at any port they were at. It allowed the crew to get fresh food and substrate material.

  She pointed out that their market was expanding with the ships being faster and reaching further markets. She then capped it with a suggestion that they look into stasis to better preserve their product before it hits its intended market. The current traditional freezing method could only keep the meat good for a year. With faster ships and stasis, they could hit every star system in the sector and beyond. She ran a simulation about suggesting additional investments in infrastructure to move the product faster but the simulation didn't pan out so she dropped the section. She capped it with a simple statement. “I've been told by organics that New Texas beef is the best in the quadrant, quite possibly the best in the galaxy. Having it as fresh as possible for other markets would be a treat for many civilizations.”

  She was amused by the response she received an hour later. “Lil darlin’, thank yah kindly for your words of comfort and support. If you'se was an organic, I'd invite you to a feast fit for a king! But, since yah ain't, you can't mosey on over to get some vitals at my spread. I don't suppose you could point an old, fumble-fingered cow poke at those stasis doohickeys you mentioned?” Senator Russell replied.

  Her emotional modulator had her chuckling as she tapped out a response to the lead delegate complete with links and supporting material.

  :::{)(}:::

  Quirinus had been a one off, not a copy of Bismark, but she shared nearly 70 percent of her components with the ship and over 80 percent with the new SDs in the pipeline. The SDs were modified versions of the Leviathan class, called the Mark II. The ships had been the most powerful and last SD class produced before and during the Xeno war. The Mark II took some of the hard learned lessons from combat and data they had downloaded from Lemnos and incorporated it into the design.

  Sunday morning dawned on the planet somewhere and Irons felt a sense of accomplishment. The blitz had paid off in that it had advanced the prototype SDs schedule by weeks if not months. Their two-day blast had nearly stripped the area clean of resources, but it had allowed Sindri to stockpile parts that he would have had to wait on anyway. He now had every part he needed to build the ship and all seven of her follow-ons without having to come to the admiral for the key codes.

  They'd even made a dent in getting the ship together in the process. Commander Gray, Protector, and some of the other A.I. and cyber techs had done an outstanding job with the software once a lot of the hardware had been installed and wired. Sun Tzu's smart A.I., Confucius, had been brought online yesterday. With the ensign up and running, the ship could start to look after itself and even oversee some of her construction. That process would accelerate as each of the ship's twenty-two dumb A.I. were brought online.

  It had worn a few people out in the process, so they had Sunday off for liberty to recharge their organic batteries. The A.I. involved also took time off to integrate the experience.

  Vestri grinned tiredly as he looked over the spreadsheet. A lot had been crossed off but a lot remained. The jump in the schedule and appropriation of every resource not nailed down would cause gaps in production and in the warehouses he knew. Gaps were troublesome; it interrupted the pace and flow of the building process. It was never a good idea for a crew to be idle for too long, so Sindri judged the experience a mixed blessing. Apparently he should be careful what he wished for in the future.

  He blinked when Lieutenant Fletcher finished running the calculations for him and outputted the results. Slowly he whistled. Sun Tzu was now thirteen months away from launching. They'd done two months of work in just … his tired eyes cut to the chrono. Blurrily he stared at it before he gave up. Call it thirty-six hours he thought. Admiral Iron's one-shift blitz had turned into a three-shift marathon. He shook his head.

  “If I ever see another cup of coffee or key, it will be too soon,” he moaned, struggling to get to his feet.

  The good news was also hitting the grapevine it seemed, he noted. The volunteer work had hit the news a few days after Bismark's arrival. The threat of the Horathian fleet still hovered over Protodon, but there was some confidence that it was going to be dealt with, hopefully once and for all, he mused.

  Damn well better after everything his people had gone through, he thought.

  His implants pinged with a related news story. He was almost tempted to ignore it but clicked it anyway as he got into the lift to go home. Apparently, the admiral's efforts had caused some chagrin and even some panic when volunteers swarmed the factories, recruiters, and docks wanting to help or sign up. Thousands saw what they had worked for, strived for over the years being threatened. And Irons, the engineers, and the Marines on Protodon had shown them that they could do something about it. It was the final impetus to do something, a call for action.

  Among them were women he noted, seeing a few women flexing their muscles or grimly standing in line to sign-up. Not a lot of women, but a bit here and there he thought with a nod. A small percentage but a growing one now that modern industry was freeing people up from the traditional agricultural roles they and their ancestors had been forced to occupy. He snorted when a history buff made a comment about Rosey the Riveter syndrome.

  He rolled his shoulders and turned his neck a few times back and forth as the lift finished dropping and the doors opened with a soft ping. He rumbled softly as junior officers and enlisted made a hole for him to pass by. He nodded to a few people in passing, but he was too tired to think straight to handle a conversation at the moment. “Get on it, boys and girls. We got it started, keep it rolling,” he said when someone began to clap. He waved a meaty hand then continued on his way.

  Some of the old-fashioned men from Antigua had been a bit put out over having women in the general work force. They were scandalized by those who wore trousers or hell, even were a boss! Some of the ladies had to prove themselves all over again.

  He knew that as time passed that would wear down, and they'd settle in. What was probably going to keep going on were the changes as that acceptance filtered into the society. But that was someone else's headache he thought as he exited the office complex and headed across the open corridor to his apartment nearby. “Beer and bed. Not necessarily in that order,” he growled gruffly as a guard at the door nodded and checked his IFF credentials. He pushed the door open and headed to the lift with a slight smile on his face.

  :::{)(}:::

  Admiral Irons stood there, with his left hand behind his back as he waited for the door to open. When it did he smiled at the red-haired vision of loveliness before him. She was wearing one of his purloined white dress shirts; its long tail and big size hung on her absurdly, which made it all the more endearing. She had the sleeves rolled up to her elbows,
and the buttons open down past her breasts, giving him a tantalizing peak at the silk covered wonders within.

  The shirt was also the only covering she had on, she had her soft skinned legs open and barefoot for all to see he noted.

  She cocked her head at him with a frown, bringing him back to her freckled impish face. “So look what the cat dragged in. Done playing with your spanners?” April demanded as Admiral Irons stood in her doorway. “You think you can misbehave like that, smile like a little boy, and I'll forgive you for standing me up?” she demanded, glaring at him.

  “I wasn't aware I stood you up,” he replied with as much dignity as he could muster. He could tell from her tone that she was toying with him. Not that he was going to let on that he knew that. She'd let him off the hook eventually, but if she knew he knew, then he'd be in a different sort of trouble.

  “Really, so, you clearing your schedule didn't have anything at all to do with me?” she demanded, hands on her hips as her green eyes glittered at him.

  “Look, can we have this conversation inside?” he asked, glancing around the hallway to the penthouse suite. It wasn't like others would come around, but it still felt wrong. Especially with the security personnel stationed at each intersection and the lift doors as potential witnesses. “Um …”

  “Yes?” she asked, tilting her head to look up at him.

  “I brought flowers?” he said weakly, pulling the flowers out from behind his back.

  Her eyes narrowed, but the perfume got to her. He saw her pert nose tilt ever so slightly upward and her nostrils dilate as she drank their scent in. Finally, she nodded. “Okay, I'll let you off with a spanking,” she said, taking the flowers from him.

  He blinked at her, taken aback as she trotted to the kitchen to find a vase. He stepped inside, felt the door close behind him and then shook his head. He'd gotten just a tantalizing look at her backside and legs; he knew she knew it. He heard water come out of the faucet then stop. “Spanking?” he demanded as she padded over with a vase. She set it down on the coffee table and then straightened, with both hands on her hips.

  “Why, yes. You misbehaved and …,” her index finger pointed down. “Over the side of the couch mister. Drop your drawers and we'll get this over with,” she said, all business.

  He went over to the couch slowly, amused by her antics. When he made a show of getting ready to lower his drawers, she rolled her eyes and threw a pillow at him. That surprised him, even though Protector warned of the incoming projectile silently on his HUD. He fended it off, then a second, and then retaliated. She waded in swinging a pillow like a maniac. He guffawed as she pummeled him.

  He got an arm around her and scooped her off her feet. She squealed in his ear and kicked her feet and hands, but he tossed her down onto the couch. She giggled, kicking and fending him off with the pillow as he tried to catch and tickle a foot.

  All was right with the universe for a brief moment he thought as he let everything else go and just enjoyed the moment.

  :::{)(}:::

  The more the changes filtered into Antiguan society, the younger women and even some men came to scandalize and antagonize their parents and others. It was inevitable, each generation liked to do its own thing, things that the other generation disapproved of. But by going in trousers, even when socializing, some of the social conservatives were up in arms. The images of women wearing short skirts, shorts, and bikinis had a few up in arms.

  As he read the editorial, Governor Randall snorted. “I know that sound,” his wife teased. “What is it this time? What's got their dander up in arms?”

  “Clothing. The stuff shirts are getting a bit bent out of shape at the latest fashions. Or I shouldn't really say latest should I? It's been done after all.”

  “I know. I'm more concerned about the practical first I suppose,” his wife Sandra said. He knew she was okay with trousers or shorts for the girls but not for formal occasions. She had the family dressing to blend the old and the new. For a time she tried to ride the fashion trends, but his wallet couldn't support all of the girls getting a fresh wardrobe every quarter. Even on a governor's salary he thought wryly.

  “What's the smile about now?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Nothing, nothing at all,” he drawled. She eyed him then gave him a peck on the ear. “I have to admit, I am a bit old fashioned,” she said, taking the paper to look at an image of a woman with a daring neckline. “I wonder where she bought this?” she murmured.

  “Um …”

  “Not that I'd wear it. At least not in public, dear,” she cooed soothingly.

  “I, um, don't um ….” He shook his head. “You are terrible; you know that?” he finally said.

  She chuckled. “Why?” she asked innocently.

  “Teasing like that,” he said, wrapping his arm around her. She chuckled as she sat on his armrest. “I'll settle for some of your more eye-popping finds in the bedroom, thank you. I'm not sure my blood pressure could stand seeing you in some of those numbers,” he said.

  “If I see one of your interns or secretaries dressing like that …,” she growled in warning.

  “It won't be me who put them up to it! I'm a married man anyway,” he said.

  “You'd better believe it,” she growled possessively, toying with his hair. She kissed the top of his head. “I don't think either of us is ready to see the girls in skin-tight garments that would make the young men drool and tongues wag.”

  Jeff shivered. “No, though I could see some of the more … modern materials working their way into things. As they have been,” he said, indicating his winter coat. It had special liners that made it light and airy yet incredibly warm. And it was water proof.

  “Come on, you aren't getting off this subject that easy,” Sandra said.

  “Oh?”

  She leaned out so they could see eye to eye. Instinctively his arm supported her. She flicked the tip of his nose with the tip of her finger. “You aren't fooling me, Jeff. You're a proud papa, but the girls dressed like that or worse …,” She indicated the paper.

  She continued to tease her husband, flirting with him. He snorted and started to play along. “Well, if you want to, I suppose you could test them out. I wouldn't mind seeing you …”

  She gasped and punched him in the shoulder, making him laugh and rock with her. She held onto him as he did so.

  “You are right, dear; the girls aren't ready for such adult pursuits. Makeup?” He shook his head. “They are too young; I doubt they will notice now.”

  “Oh, but they do, honey. The fashion sense in my side of the family is there. They've got keen eyes; you just have turned a deaf ear to it.”

  “Come on! They still play with dolls,” he scoffed. “They are not quite ready for the dating scene, thank the gods!” he chuckled, waving a hand as his wife got up and then adjusted her dress. He noted it was a bit more daring than other dresses.

  “Where do you think some fashion ideas come from? Trying them out on the dolls? And the competition in schools and their circle of friends …,” she shook her head.

  He grimaced. She was right there; a few times he'd heard her tell him something or other about the girls coming home in tears because one girl was mean or something or other.

  His wife smiled at him. “Two more years dear …,” she warned with syrupy sweetness or threatened he thought. He eyed her with scant favor. If anything the grin widened ever so slightly as she settled into staring him down.

  “Absolutely not,” he said with mock severity, trying for a light tone but failing. If anything his wife's grin just widened. His oldest daughter Ramona came in the room and kissed him on the cheek. Then she went on to gush and prance around about a boy in class with her sister Kylie. Her mother rolled her eyes and gave a significant look to her husband over her shoulder as she shooed the girls off.

  He pursed his lips and then shook the paper out and hid behind it. He didn't like the future anymore. A father of daughters—ones about to become teena
gers was not a good prospect for future survival, either physical or mental. And with his wife involved … he shuddered at that thought as well.

  At least he didn't have to worry about Sandra allowing the girls to dress inappropriately! Bad enough that his position would draw the boys like flies. He shook his head and then heaved a sigh.

  If he could find a way, he'd lock the girls up. An all-girls boarding school would be appealing … as long as it didn't get one or the other to swing in that direction. He grimaced. Not that he had any prejudices against it, but …

  He heard the girls prattle and chatter on and fought a shiver. No one would blame him if he locked the lot up in a dungeon until hell froze over would they? Or in chastity belts? He snorted at the idea and then went back to reading the paper in his momentary bubble of quiet.

  Chapter 34

  The Fourth Battle of Protodon started when the Retribution Fleet jumped into real space well outside the B-95a3 normal jump zone. Admiral De Gaulte took a moment as the bubble of space around Executioner and the fleet stabilized. Their long-range sensors stabbed out as the fleet secured from jump.

  The time involved plus the deliberate space he'd placed between the jump zone and his own forces allowed him to size up the situation. They'd jumped high, above the plane of the ecliptic. Only the cat and mouse game Nevada and Massachusetts had performed there had allowed him to do so. They'd passed on their raw data in the courier, and he'd had Jeremy use it to priceless advantage.

  The plot was already set up with the anticipated locations of the star, moons, and planets. Less well-known locations of artificial constructs had been painted in yellow. These filled in as their sensors picked up their spoor and active transmissions. Cryano nodded slowly as he noted the fortresses and their numbers. They wouldn't be the real threat here he knew; he could stay out of their range … or at least the range of the fortresses themselves. Even as he watched he also noted threat of fighters and bombers launching from those and other platforms.