Spineward Sectors 03 Admiral's Tribulation

by Luke Sky Wachter

  When the others had reluctantly backed away from the edge of violence, the Council Leader resumed his position at the head of the tactical table.

  “The combined Jacks and Uplifts struck with speed and surprise, but thanks to speedy action securing the forces of the Droid Tribe docked at the station for trade and repair,” he said, grudgingly inclining his head toward the Dark Seer. “The tide has turned, and they are now stalled out in front of our most formidable defenses: the protections surrounding this room.”

  He swept the table with a glare, both for those members who had spoken and those that continued to remain silent and observe.

  “It is now a battle of attrition, and so long as the rewards we offer are sweet enough, every Gun Thug, Whip Jockey, Pirate Reaver and Black Colonial Guard Unit onboard this station, armored or unarmored, will continue flocking to the fight,” he said with finality.

  “An expensive proposition,” remarked a black-cowled figure at the side of the table, who had remained silent until now.

  “We acknowledge the Consortium of Bankers and Pawn Brokers’ concerns, however we should keep in mind,” the Lead Council Member said with an evil grin, “that we only have to pay those that actually survive!”

  “We’ve almost reached an agreement with The Coalition,” the gnome-like creature interjected, “as soon as parity of purpose is achieved, they shall descend on the Confederation within this station like the forces of a Rogue Star!”

  “Beware,” intoned the completely coweled figure raising a finger and pointing at the tactical display, her normally light and ethereal voice acquiring a dark tone.

  The station gave the very faintest of shudders, so faint that one could almost imagine it had not happened, except that immediately after it did, warning alarms chimed and lights flashed all around the room.

  “Environmental is reading massive loss of life from the Icarus Spine to the Polar tip of the Station,” exclaimed one of the technicians lining the walls.

  “That comprises just under a third of the station,” cursed the rapier thin Council Member.

  “It looks like some kind of detonation originating in the lift system,” the Technician continued.

  Tiberius pulled out a dagger and threw. The technician reeled back, clutching at the weapon lodged in his chest and looking at his leader in disbelief.

  “Never interrupt a Council Member when he, she, or it is speaking,” he glared around the room. Killing the messenger of such bad news always helped relieve some tension, but most importantly, the others of their ilk needed to remember never to rise above themselves. If they did, soon they would get ideas, and then the Council would only have to kill even more of them than they already did.

  “The Icarus Spine and the Pole contained the majority of our ‘human’ reinforcements, those ones we had yet to hire,” said the razor thin council member.

  “A setback,” Tiberius allowed.

  “That’s it, I’m out,” declared the gnome creature, pushing back from the chair and glaring at everyone around him.

  “We must stand united, or we are all doomed,” growled the Lead Council Member, “we still heavily outnumber the Confeds. As long as the droids stay purchased, we can still win.”

  Several other council members visibly wavered, obviously shocked at the tremendous shot just delivered to their powerbase. “I go, and the Hunt Packs go with me. We know when a fight becomes unwinnable, and it’s time to cut our losses,” the toothy gnome said heading for the door.

  Several of the more shell-shocked humans followed him.

  “Let them go,” Tiberius ordered with an irritated wave to the guards at the door when they eyed each other questioningly and looked to him for direction. Other than the gnome, the others were leaving because of the losses to their power bases, making them less than the potent allies they had been but a few moments before. Cutting them loose now just made it easier to kill them and consolidate whatever was left of their holdings later.

  When he saw the Dark Seer levitate off the floor with a whine of anti-gravity repulsors, he took an unconscious step toward her. “Wait,”’ he said abruptly, seeing the superstitious fear in the eyes of many of his fellows, “your insight is still needed by this Black Council, Dark Seer,” he said.

  “There must be Unity of Purpose, or Violent Dissolution,” declaimed the Dark Seer from within her all-encompassing cowl.

  “We shall be unified,” he assured her hurriedly.

  The Seer inclined her body in his direction and then nodded slowly. “I go now to achieve unity of purpose with the Droids, following this setback. They will be… concerned,” she said.

  “Yes, keep the Droids on our side and the Council will double their reward, as well as reward you with a special fee,” he said with relief.

  “Material wealth means little to me; all I seek is position within the Flow,” she dismissed with the faintest tilt of her upper body, and then resumed her stately progress out the door.

  Several minutes later, when the droids renewed their attack with mechanical fearlessness, Tiberius breathed a sigh of relief. “The Dark Seer has come through for us once again,” he announced, meeting the smiles of relief and satisfaction all around the tactical display with one of his own.

  “Wait,” said the rapier-thin Council Member, pointing to the table. Tiberius looked down. The droids were attacking with all their mechanical fury all right, but not in defense of Station Command!

  “They aren’t holding the line, that’s a break-out formation; those droids are trying to escape!” he raged, slamming his fists down onto the table with all the power of a heavy gravity-worlder. Part of the display blacked out momentarily, before returning with less clarity. “The Seer has betrayed us, she has betrayed us all!”

  Chapter 82: The Final Push

  “Captain Darius, this is your chance to advance. Lancer Captain Atticus, Senior Captain LeVere, report,” snapped Wainwright to his Company Commanders on their closed channel.

  “Morgan LeVere here, Colonel. I’m afraid we’re about to be overrun,” the Senior Captain said, sounding concerned.

  “Such foes! Hydraulic fluid shall cover the deck from floor to ceiling before we’re done with them,” cried Atticus, sounding happier than a pig in a wallow.

  The Brigade Colonel had found that when Captain Atticus sounded all fired up and happy, that he, Alabaster Wainwright, soon had good reason to feel the opposite.

  “Atticus, LeVere, you are to perform a fighting withdrawal; rain some pain down on them, but pull back,” Wainwright ordered. “I don’t want the far edge of our line enveloped and rolled up by the droids, but I don’t want to lose the men of your companies either. Pull back Captains, and I’ll get you some support,”

  LeVere acknowledged the order shortly and Atticus had just began to howl when he cut over to a private channel with just Captain Darius and the commander of the 4th Regiment.

  “Captain Darius, you are to advance with vigor; this could be our chance! Major, I want you to pull two companies off your part of the line, they are to support Darius’ advance,” Wainwright said forcefully.

  “Lieutenant Cross,” he continued, activating a link to the current commander of the disloyal 2nd Battalion 1st Regiment, the only element of the 1st regiment still a part of the Brigade.

  “Here, Colonel Wainwright,” spat Lieutenant Cross.

  “You are to pull your men off the line and swing around in support of Captain’s Atticus and LeVere,” he growled.

  “I hear, and I obey,” acknowledged the senior remaining officer in the 2nd Battalion. No doubt he was angry at the way his Brigadier Colonel had been throwing his men into the front line every chance he got. Well, that was just too bad. If the men of the 2nd wanted his good favor, they should have thought twice before letting their Commanding Officer get fragged, then compounding their error by supporting Major Gaspard when he tried to kill their Brigade Commander as well. Now little more than a three quarter strength company remained, and while
he would never have wanted this — even for a bunch of Parliamentary tools like them — the drive into the station had called for some tough decisions along the way, and he had made them.

  He watched as the remnants of the disloyal 2nd pulled out of their former positions and wheeled around in support of Atticus and LeVere.

  “Encountering minimal resistance, Sir,” reported Darius, his forces starting to push through the formidable defenses for the first time in what seemed like hours.

  “Well done,” Wainwright exclaimed, but his joy proved to be short-lived.

  “The cowards flee!” shouted the most irritating voice on the Officer’s Command Channel, his voice loud enough to make the Marine Colonel wince.

  “Give me a regular report, Captain,” snapped Wainwright, cycling his HUD for a closer look at the man’s position.

  LeVere broke into the link channel.

  “They punched right through our lines and kept going, Sir,” the Marine reported, his breathing coming short, rapid and dare Wainwright say, bubbly.

  “Are you injured, Senior Captain,” he asked with urgent concern. The last thing he needed was Captain Atticus assuming overall command and leaving a big, gaping hole in his lines as he chased headlong after the Droids.

  The Senior Captain coughed.

  “It’s either one big blunderous, stupid feint — and these droids haven’t been stupid so far, Sir — or it’s a break out,” he reported, ignoring the question about his physical condition.

  “You don’t sound good, Captain,” Said Wainwright.

  “I think Captain Atticus had better take command,” LeVere said faintly, and Wainwright could hear a muffled thump over the link.

  “Captain Atticus, see to your brother captain and hold your men ready in case this is a faint. However, if these droids really have cut and run, I’m more than ready to let them go,” he said, projecting all of his command presence into his voice.

  All that came in response over the link was a growl of frustration, but after awhile it became clear that no Lancers or Marines were moving out of position.

  Thank Murphy for small favors, the Colonel thought, fighting the urge to get down on his knees and pray to the Saint right then and there. He did still have a battle to fight, after all.

  Seeing the progress projected on his HUD, he got over the officer’s push. “I want as many companies funneled in behind Captain Darius and the 4th Regiment companies with him as possible. We’re going to drive straight to the heart of this pustulant corruption on the soul of humanity, then we’re going to do what our brother Lancers do best,” he paused for effect, “we’re going to lance it clean through!”

  Chapter 83: The Straight Razor vs. The Boil

  Wainwright drove his vibro-blade into the stomach of an overgrown heavy worlder, sporting jewelry on his ears alone worth more than the Marine Colonel made in ten years.

  In spite of the wound, the heavy worlder leaned forward, his eyes bulging and his metal-gloved hand bounced off the Colonel’s helmet with a loud clang. The other hand came around bearing a hidden vibro-knife, and the Marine Colonel only just had time to duck his head down and take the blade in the shoulder.

  “Smoke you,” raged the Pirate Leader, his control room swarming with Lancers and Marines as his defenses were completely overrun. Wainwright knew his was the type to keep fighting and spitting defiance until the very end.

  Which end rapidly approached when Wainwright came around with his free hand in a ringing slap to the ear, which temporarily stunned the heavy worlder. Grabbing the pirate by the head, the Marine Colonel gave into all the hate and rage he felt over the deaths of so many men and women under his command, and he squeezed until he was rewarded with a sickening crunch.

  Dropping the pirate with the overly adorned, now crushed head, the Marine Colonel turned and swept the room for more enemy combatants. Seeing that the last of the enemy leaders and technicians were either in the process of being killed or subdued, he frowned.

  The next part was going to hurt, and he had desperately hoped to avoid it for a while. Wincing in the expectation of future pain, his hand came around to grab the hilt to the vibro-knife still stuck in his shoulder but before he could reach it, Sergeant Kopenhagen reached over and jerked it out.

  “Ow, that hurt, blast it all!” exclaimed Wainwright, turning around to glare at the Sergeant as white fire shot through his shoulder where the knife had been.

  “It needed to come out, and you were taking too long psyching yourself up,” she said with a shrug.

  “Space rot! I was doing no such thing,” he grumbled under his breath, but turned back to survey the former heart of pirate power here on Omicron Station.

  “Don’t be such a big baby,” she chided, and he could all but hear the eye roll from six feet away with his back turned.

  “Someone’s going to have to teach you some respect,” he said under his breath.

  She must have heard him despite the attempt at a lowered voice, because the next thing she said was, “Is that the Colonel talking, or the man with the bruised ego,” she asked.

  “Either one could do the job,” he growled.

  “Oh really,” she asked evenly.

  “You’re coming perilously close to the line of insubordination,” he said, even though she had probably crossed it a good while back.

  “I didn’t realize I was talking with my Commanding Officer,” she said challengingly.

  He glanced back at her in surprise and she met his look with raise eyebrows.

  He gave himself a shake. “Back on task, Sergeant; there’s lives riding on those of us in here,” he said, turning away and striding over to the giant tactical table dominating the center of the room.

  He gazed upon the scene of the battle as the now dead, defeated or fleeing pirate leaders must have viewed it.

  “Sir,” reported the Lancer liaison he had sent over to help keep him updated on the actions of their Gorilla Allies.

  “Yes, Lancer,” he said.

  “The Primarch says to tell you that the Pirates have broken, Sir, they’re all on the run,” the Lancer reported joyously.

  “Carry on, Lancer,” Wainwright said evenly.

  “Yes, Sir!” said the other man.

  It seemed they had won. Only now did he allow himself to actually believe it, and only now did he secretly admit to himself that he never thought they had a snowball’s chance of actually pulling it off. Damaging the Pirates — certainly. Crippling them… possibly. But to actually pull out a win?

  Alabaster Wainwright looked into his HUD and scrolled through the casualty figures, his face like granite. If he were a lesser man, he would have broken down and wept at the destruction of his Brigade as a fighting force. Switching screens, he observed the losses among the Lancer Contingent that was currently his charge while Suffic was gone, and they were no less severe.

  If every single one of the wounded he had with Colonel Hansel Suffic had survived to make it back to the Armor Prince, and all the casualties he had here with him now pulled through (which was unlikely without access to more healing tanks than he could possibly lay his hands on) then he would be lucky to field half the force he came into the system with. The suicidal Lancers would manage even less than that.

  Factoring in projected losses among the wounded, as well as those known to be dead, he estimated that if they rolled both Lancers and Marines together into one amalgamated force (another situation very unlikely to occur) that he would have a combined unit strength of more or less half the Brigade he had entered the system with.

  “Perhaps a regiment and a half of our own survived,” he whispered, and that was with an optimistic casualty survival rate among the wounded marines of the four original units he entered the battle with. If this was victory, he hated to think what defeat would look like. From 4400 Marines, he was now down to somewhere between 1200-1500 survivors. Even that number was out of reach until the wounded were back in formation. That might take a month or two. That est
imate did not factor in the ones who had joined with Riggs and his traitors. The Lancers, maybe 600 or 700… he was not yet entirely sure, as his network wasn’t fully linked into theirs.

  Currently, he had fewer than a thousand effectives from both forces, counting the walking wounded. That the pirates had lost more, even many thousands and thousands more, was no comfort at all.

  I wonder how many of our supposed ‘Allies’ were lost, he wondered, before shaking it off. Thankfully, that particular subject was out of his purview.

  “We have some mopping up to do, people,” he said loudly, speaking to the people in the Command Center and every lancer and marine with a working helmet linked in over the general push, “but first we need to get back in contact with the Armor Prince. We’ve got wounded in need of treatment, so if you see any medics or doctors among the pirates, don’t kill them. At the very least they might know where we can get our hands on a few more healing tanks. In this instance, patience with the scum of the spaceways saves lives; the lives of our brothers and sisters in arms, so hold yourselves in check.”

  A harsh laughter with a mean edge to it came back to him but he felt certain that everyone, even Lancers like Captain Atticus would follow the directive.

  “Get me a com-link, people. And keep a weather eye on our recently defeated pirate foes. Just because they ran away once doesn’t mean they’re all the way licked. We may be called on again shortly to stove in some heads and show the rest of them the error of their ways for daring to pop back up,” he said grimly and then clapped his hands together, wincing at the pain in his shoulder as he did so.

  All around him, Lancers and Marines scrambled to make his orders reality.

  I should retire after this deployment, he decided wearily. Leading Marines into battle was worse than he remembered.

  Then again, it was always worse than he remembered.