The leader of the trio from tactical drew himself up stiffly, while the gunner with them simply worked his jaw prior to blowing a small bubble of gum.
Bogart’s mouth tightened.
“It’s Lieutenant Commander Quentin Absolon, and since the ship has so recently been in combat, I’m willing to overlook a few things like banned substances on the gun deck, but you’d best be mindful to keep a civil tongue in your head, Chief Bogart,” Absolon said stiffly. “These are my officers: Lieutenant Hector and Junior Lieutenant Anok McBride.”
Behind the trio, the gunnery officer started noisily chewing on his gum. He wore impossibly dark glasses, and had a barely regulation length, flat-top haircut which stood at a stark, upward angle from his skull.
Bogart’s nostrils flared at this bit of gum-chewing provocation.
“I’m sorry if you didn’t get the memo,” he said solicitously, refusing to let the real threat amongst this gaggle of ship’s officers get his goat, “but this here’s a Confederation outfit. Only thing illegal on this gun deck is chewin' gum.”
The gunnery officer behind them flashed Bogart a grin before looking off to the side lazily, as if the current confrontation was beneath his notice.
“I don’t know when your exact date of retirement and the new regulations intersected, but cigars and other forms of smoking have been illegal within ships of the Caprian System Defense Force for well over 45 years,” Lieutenant Commander Absolon said stiffly, “which is entirely beside the point!”
“Which would be, Lieutenant Commander,” Bogart asked evenly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one tall native Tracto-an surreptitiously move over to a nearby turbo-laser; in his hand was a crystal headed axe. One corner of Bogart’s mouth lifted slightly.
“By order of King James, the Caprian Parliament and the master and commander of this battleship Captain Jim Heppner, you are hereby ordered to stand down this broadside,” Lieutenant Commander Absolon ordered formally. “By order of the Captain, hostilities with this Pirate Station are temporarily suspended!”
“Warrant Officer Lesner,” Bogart barked.
“Yes, Chief Gunner,” Lesner said crisply.
“Have the pirates infesting the fine Caprian-built ship of the line ceased firing and struck their fusion generators?” the Chief snapped.
There was a fractional pause. “The main guns on the pirate battleship,” Lesner said, “have fallen silent, but their point defenses are still targeting our Lancers!”
“Inform our men that they are to proceed with counter battery fire!” Bogart instructed in a loud, carrying voice.
“Refusal to carry out legal orders while under enemy fire is mutiny against the Caprian Government!” yelled Lieutenant Absolon, and the Marines behind him started to move to either side of the Gun Chief. “You will be subject to summary execution, along with anyone following your illegal orders,” he added angrily.
Bogart stuck out his jaw, ready to go down in flames. Then he noticed a large, pale figure creeping up into a position on top of the nearest turbo-laser cab. “My table of organization lists Tactical Officer Laurent. You, my boyo,” he said pointing his cigar at the Lieutenant Commander, “I’ve never heard of.”
Then he rounded on the gum-chewing upstart. “And stow that illegal substance in the waste bin,” he snarled at the other gunnery officer.
The gum-chewer paused as if in consideration before giving Bogart a long look and, slowly pulling out his gum, he flicked it off to the side.
“Warrant Officer Laurent has been officially removed from your Chain of Command, Chief,” Absolon growled with barely restrained fury. He pulled out a rolled set of hard copy orders and slapped them into Bogart’s hands.
Taking as much time as he thought he could get away with (which, under these conditions, which was not very long) the Gun Chief checked the seals and signatures before reading the text. As expected, it was a bunch of mealy-mouthed parliamentary garbage.
“Listen, son,” Bogart began in a reasonable voice, one that nevertheless caused the Parliamentarian Lieutenant Commander to stiffen with outrage, “there’s only two ways you’re going to get me to order this Gun Deck to stand down. You can go back up to the Flag Bridge and get Laurent or the Little Admiral on the horn with orders to stand down,” he took a deep draw off his cigar, and slowly released the smoke out of his nostrils like an angry dragon. “’Cause there’s only one man on the gun deck who issues orders, and that’s the Chief Gunner.”
“The other way you’ll stand down?” demanded Absolon, motioning to the Marines to move in and take the Gunner Chief into custody.
“Over my dead body,” roared the Chief Gunner.
“That’s it,” snapped Absolon, “Marines, you are hereby ordered to take this old fool into custody, using any means necessary!”
“Hold fast, Marines,” said a cool voice with ringing authority.
“Not now, Officer Bernard,” Absolon said stiffly, “I’ve got this well in hand.”
“I have been granted special dispensation to deal with the Chief Gunner of the gundeck, from Captain Heppner himself,” the flat-top sporting gunner said evenly, “do you dispute these orders, Sir?”
“Oh, of all the superstitious, departmental nonsense,” glared Absolon at the gunnery officer, “we could be violating the ceasefire at any moment and you want to—”
“Do you fail to recognize the special authority granted me by the Captain of the Ship,” Bernard demanded, “yes or no, Lieutenant Commander Absolon!?”
“Of all the fife,” Absolon exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air and motioning for the Marines to hold fast, “carry on, Bernard.”
Chief Bogart watched with a smile, his cigar clamped firmly by the teeth on the left side of his jaw.
“Sorry about all that,” Officer Bernard said, propping the over-sized dark glasses up on his forehead.
“Elected incompetence,” Bogart sneered, determined to make his position clear from the get-go.
“You prefer royal tyranny and corruption by appointment?” Bernard inquired mildly as he cracked his knuckles.
“Gonna make me ask, are you,” Bogart said dropping the cigar onto the deck and grinding it beneath his boot-heel. A gun deck was no place for a stray heat source.
“Yep,” Bernard replied, taking a step forward with a hard glint to his eye.
“Well then, what are you here for, if it’s not a job on my gun deck,” growled the Chief, clenching his fists and giving the other man a dire look.
“Are you sure we can’t hash this out first? You have to know your position’s untenable,” Bernard said, motioning to the Marines behind him, “even if by some miracle you win… you won’t.”
“I haven’t got time to stand around jawing all day! By all the green blazes, put up or shut up,” Bogart barked as he raised his fists. This had been destined to be an old-style gun deck challenge. Parliament might have tried to do away with the old tradition of challenging for the position of chief ramrod on the gun deck, but the Royal Regimes had never even tried. This Bernard looked like he was old enough to have cut his teeth on the proper way of doing things.
“It’s your funeral, old man,” Bernard said shortly. Then he drew himself up into a brawlers version of formal attention, “In response to your original question, Chief of the Gun Deck, I’m here to kick ass and chew bubble gum.” Bernard pulled his lips back in what at any other might have been misconstrued as a smile, “Thanks to you, I’m all out of gum.”
“Well, what the Hades you waitin' for,” snarled the Chief Gunner when the other man didn’t just wade right in, “come on, ya pansy!”
“Oh, you old bastard,” growled the Parliamentary Gunner as he popped his glasses back down over his eyes. With his fists raised, he charged forward, leading with his chin.
Presented with such a tempting target, the aging Gunner decided it would be a right shame not to finish this thing before it had begun, even if the Marines would immediately move in anyway.
With a grunt, the old Chief unleashed a patented Iron Hands uppercut. His fist connected square on the other man’s jaw, landing with such force that he felt something crack upon impact.
Shaking his hand, Chief Curtis Bogart watched with poorly concealed triumph as this Bernard’s charge came to a sudden and immediate halt.
The other man stood there, shaking his head from side to side for a moment. Then, like an old bull that had smashed headlong into one too many rock walls, he snorted harshly as he regained his balance.
The spiky-haired Bernard gave a red-toothed smile. Spitting blood off to his left, the other man glared at Bogart. “Duralloy jaw,” the gum-chewer explained, tapping his chin, “lost the original back in the Toge Offensive.” His lip curled, “I hope that’s not the best you’ve got, old Iron Hands,” he finished derisively.
Resisting the urge to shake his right hand, the pain making it clear that whatever crunch he’d just felt had to have come from his side of the equation, the Gun Chief growled fiercely. He knew it took more than a metal jawbone to keep from the deck after a shot like that. The gum-chewer probably had black market spinal shock absorbers installed as well.
“I’m just getting started,” Bogart taunted.
“Take as much time as you need warming up,” sneered Bernard, “old bones, and all that.”
With a roar, Chief Gunner Bogart waded in, this time aiming for the body. If he there was no quick way to finish this bruiser, it just meant it would take a little longer to chop him down to size.
This time it was his turn to take a blow to the back of the ear that wobbled his legs and had him seeing stars, but Bogart was an old hand at scraping and brawling. Instead of retreating like most men, he started swinging wildly instead.
Once, twice, then a third time he connected with the younger man, before his fourth swing whiffed over the other’s head.
A punishing blow to his own side caused ribs to pop, and the older man coughed air in a spasm of controlled pain.
“Blast,” muttered Bogart feeling blood in his mouth, that blighter had landed a blow on the same side that parliamentarian assassin had scored with his knives.
There was a pause as both men temporarily unclenched and started circling.
Behind his original position, a silent crowd of grease monkeys armed with pipe wrenches and plasma torches had gathered. On the other, a quad of power-armored marines trained at riot suppression and all other forms of general killing and mayhem.
Despite the fact he knew they would lose if it came down to the ratings versus the marines, the old Chief wouldn’t have rather had anyone else at his back.
Buoyed by a surge of pride, the old chief lunged back into the fray.
Twice more they both came in with fists flying and feet kicking. Bogart gave as good as he got, but the simple fact was the other man was younger and ever so slightly quicker to the target. The old man was going to have to change things up and fast, he decided.
Thinking his next overhand left was a fake, the parliamentary gunner took advantage of a temporary opening and landed another punishing blow to the body before Bogart left came home and splattered his parliamentary book licking nose all over his smug upstart face.
Hoping this would send the other reeling, the Chief was taken off guard when Bernard came forward and clinched.
He struggled mightily for several moments; pitting brute strength against raw brutal strength before age and the damage already done to his side sapped him. His breaths became harder to come by, the longer the duel went on.
A head butt had Bogart once again seeing stars and he knew that if he didn’t come up with something quick, his time as Chief of the Deck was about to come to a second, crushing end.
When all his dazed brain managed to come up with was a big empty blank instead of a winning strategy, just like any other aging champion whose time was nearing an abrupt and unseemly end, he had no choice but to fall back on emergency tactics. That is to say, he lunged forward like some kind of angry striking snake and went for the ear.
Chomping down on the Challenger’s flesh his teeth dug deep into cartilage and the other man screamed. The resulting thrashing around knocked the both of them over.
Riding the clawing and striking parliamentary fur ball down to the ground Bogart grimly held onto that ear and gnawed for all he was worth, even when desperate searching fingers started to dig around his cheek seeking for an eye, he held on tight and just chewed harder.
When a nearby crashing sound was followed by a loudly screamed, “Messene,” and blows rained down on the back of his head, the Gunner just grabbed at his auto-wrench, determined to give back as good as he got. Parliament would only ever take another deck out from under him over his dead body.
Chapter 30: A Little Diplomacy… with a Boarding Axe
Heirophant knew that an unarmored man against four warriors in power armor was a losing proposition, even throwing in a bunch of overeager grease covered young ratings. The test for his fellow grease monkeys wasn’t going to be piling on when the fur started flying, it was going to be standing their ground if and when those marines cut loose with those rifles and the bodies started hitting the deck.
That’s why he had to wait until the right moment to make his move.
Watching the Chief Gunner defend against the upstart challenger who thought he could just come in here and take over the gun deck was interesting. The Chief didn’t have an ounce of surrender in him, but the challenger was proving an obstacle.
Then the moment he’d been waiting presented itself. Just like everyone else on the gun deck not firing their main guns, and probably even a few of those, the Marine nearest him turned his attention, however briefly, to the fight taking place between the Chief Gunner and his Parliamentarian rival.
With a flying leap, Heirophant jumped off the turret.
“Messene,” he screamed, planting one foot on the shoulder of the nearest marine jack and the other on his armored helmet. The force of his leap overbalanced the marine causing him to fall over to the side, just as the former lancer and current gunnery rating had planned.
Riding the now falling marine to the ground, he brought the mono-Locsium edged Imperial boarding axe down with all his strength on the helmet of the Marine standing in front of the one he was knocking to the ground through sheer kinetic force.
Glass shattered as the marine, sensing motion out of the corner of his field of vision started to look up, just in time to receive the edge of Heirophant’s axe right in his reinforced visor.
While the other half of the marine quad turned in response to the attack, the Warrant standing to the side made his move.
Holding the male end of a power cord normally hooked into a point defense array, Lesner smashed it against the side of wall, damaging the housing that protected against an accidental discharge of electricity.
When the marine nearest him turned his back, Lesner lunged forward, jamming the now-exposed leads into the back of the marine style power armor.
Heirophant savagely bared his teeth as the Marine to his front, blaster rifle leveled, suddenly started jerking as a torrent of electricity powerful enough to supply a small point defense array surged through his body.
Continuing with his current movement and jerking his axe free, he brought it up just in time to knock the last marine’s blaster rifle temporarily out of position. Unfortunately, even the strength of one of Tracto’s sons wasn’t enough to do more than move it a few inches out of the way, and the power assisted arms of the marine almost instantly had it back in position.
The molecular thin edge of the boarding axe did more to upset the Marine’s intent of blowing a hole through Heirophant heart than his well muscled arms had succeeded in doing, causing the Marine to glance at it to assess damage before pulling the trigger of the weapon pointed right at the Tracto-an warrior’s chest.
Unfortunately, when his axe cut a line through the duralloy metal the rifle was made out of, it damaged the rifle’s miniatur
e crystalline focusing array and when the marine pulled the trigger, power shot from the power pack into the focusing array which promptly caused the rifle to explode.
The array exploded, sending fragment shards out its forward end, a number of which scattered on and around the figure of the former Tracto-an lancer. Those very same fragments shot out the rear end and, ultimately harmless to a man in a duralloy power suit, they ruptured the containment of the power pack causing the rifle to explode in the Caprian marine’s hand. Even the strength of the powered armor wasn’t enough to fully protect the Marine, as half his hand shattered into a weltered wreck of blood, bone and burnt flesh.
Not willing to let a little thing like dozens of little bits of shrapnel lodged into his torso stop him, the former Lancer raised his axe for the coup de grace, while the Marine Jack was distracted.
However, the marine he had knocked to the ground, by virtue of landing on top of him had other ideas and came up swinging. The force of the kick from one of the Marine’s flailing legs hit the Tracto-an hard enough to cause something to snap inside and sent Heirophant flying back in the direction of turret he’d just leapt from.
With a jerk and a grunt, Heirophant leapt back to his feet only to collapse back to the floor, one hand bracing out for support to keep him from falling entirely prone as his right leg bent in the middle like a broken twig.
With a second scream of effort, the six and a half foot tall native hauled himself back upright.
Raising the axe up over his shoulder and not daring to place any weight on his broken right leg, the genetically engineered warrior crouched ever so slightly and hopped forward, jumping as far as he could to try returning to the action.
“Stand fast, men,” cried Lieutenant Commander Absolon leveling his sidearm at the ratings that had gathered round to watch Chief Bogart and his challenger duke it out for control of the gun deck.
Spineward Sectors 03 Admiral's Tribulation Page 19
