Spineward Sectors 6: Admiral's Spine

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “Not every threat to this Sector originates within this Sector, Commodore,” I said enigmatically, and then pushed on before questions could follow, “and we’re going to need to get as many ships refitted and into service as soon as practical if we’re to meet these new threats. On a more nuts and bolts level, these new crew members you and your team under Warrant Steiner,” I nodded towards the cute as a button Caprian young woman, “are a godsend. Because of their total lack of training or experience, a lot of our current officers and crew are going to have to step up. While no organization likes growing pains, at least while suffering them, this is a decidedly good problem to have. I only wish you’d brought me more than twenty five hundred.”

  “We simply didn’t have the capacity for more, sir,” Druid said stiffly.

  I waved a hand in the air as if shoo away a bad smell. “I’m not saying anything against you; you’ve done an excellent job,” I stopped and considered before nodding, “in fact, in light of our ever-increasing need to expand the Patrol Fleet roster—not to mention critical shortages in base personnel—I’m going to increase your transport capacity with additional freighters and cut new orders to swing through the sector over to Easy Haven and drop off whoever you manage to recruit at Wolf-9. The MSP isn’t the only Confederation outfit in need of more crew, and I’m certain that LeGodat won’t say ‘no’ to more warm bodies who believe in the Confederation and what we stand for, even if they are woefully undertrained.”

  The Commodore looked pained. “Of course, sir,” he said.

  “A problem, Commodore?” I asked with a touch of concern.

  “Not as such,” he replied shaking his head, “it’s just that after riding herd on a slow-moving dungeon ship turned recruit transport and a pair of other ships with civilian drives, I’d hoped for the opportunity for another mission.”

  I leaned back in my chair, face going blank in thought as I shot a penetrating look over at the former com-tech.

  “Do you feel the same way?” I asked.

  The Warrant Officer looked embarrassed and then nodded reluctantly.

  “The benefits of having your corvettes serve as escort for the recruiting mission are twofold,” I said, stalling for time by stating the obvious. I needed time to think, “It not only increases our ranks but it also allows the MSP to, in effect, patrol the border worlds and wave the flag.”

  “I understand the importance of our mission, Sir,” Commodore Druid said professionally, “it’s just that me and my men joined the MSP so that we could go out there and do some good by taking the battle to the enemies of this Sector. While worthy work we had hoped for a chance more, that’s all. Even if you need me to stay in command of the flotilla, I would ask that you consider transferring the other two ships in my unit over to more active operations.”

  My lips compressed into a thin line. I didn’t want to rock the boat, and Druid and his team had done a good job bringing in not one but now two boat loads of new crew. On the other hand, the whole reason I’d been able to sway the man and that part of his organization—his corvette squadron that had been willing to defect from the Sector Guard over to the MSP—had been because I’d rightly pointed out that we were out there fighting the good fight.

  I hated to admit it but maybe they’d done their time before the mast and it was time to put them to more active use. That and if I left them on the shelf for too long, who knew what could happen, officers and crew that had turned their coats one time could just as easily turn again.

  At the thought of losing a short squadron of corvettes because I didn’t trust—or, rather, didn’t want to trust—Druid and his former Guards, I realized it was time to make some changes.

  “You’re probably right,” I said unhappily, “let’s you and me put our heads together after this meeting is over and see if we can’t figure out the best way to continue our recruiting efforts and at the same time free up your ships for more hazardous assignments.”

  “It’s not that we’re glory-hounds looking to die in pitched battles, Sir,” Druid made sure to point out. “We’d just like to get out there and stretch our legs a bit more than we have been.”

  “Your people have shown that they can follow orders, even if it’s not the most glamorous assignment and not just do the job but do it well,” I said firmly. “That kind of loyalty should be rewarded.” Especially, I silently didn’t add, if failing to do so could lose me…or, more accurately the MSP, Druid’s warships.

  “Thank you for your consideration, Admiral,” Commodore Druid said with a nod of gratitude, “that’s all we could rightly ask.”

  Now the only question was, should I take the Commodore and his restive corvettes with me, or set them loose on the border like a fast-moving, anti-piracy patrol?

  I could see advantages either way. The most compelling points in favor of the anti-piracy patrol were that Druid and his men had a depth of experience—especially when dealing with planetary governments—that I would not simply struggle but literally be unable to replace.

  “Now, if we could turn back to the presentation I understand you have prepared,” I said with a media patented royal smile as I gestured towards the holo-projector built into the conference table.

  “Of course, Sir,” Druid said turning towards Lisa Steiner, “as our chief recruiting officer and the face of our recruiting drive, I will allow Warrant Officer Steiner to begin the presentation.”

  With a nod I leaned back in my chair. I had a lot to think about.

  Chapter 17: Spalding Eyes a Tool Belt

  Spalding plopped down at the end of a bench table in the Station’s mess hall. He meant to do it all gentle like and careful, but when your legs are made of solid duralloy—and the rest of you is more metal than man—sometimes the littlest movements like taking a brief load off could be a trial.

  In this case there was a clang and the bench groaned as the through bolts in the legs attaching the table to the floor squealed in protest.

  Conversations stopped, heads turned, and a man who had just been wanting a wee bit of the privacy suddenly found himself the object of everyone attention.

  “What the blazes are you looking at?” he growled gruffly, that part of his forehead that was still natural and not synthetic flesh turning red. “Never seen a man sit down to eat before have you, is that it?!”

  Heads and eyes were quickly averted, a few shaking from side to side, but the ornery old space engineer was pleased to see that the old hands were used to his ways and they quickly schooled their younger, greener colleagues.

  Nodding his head wisely, he started tucking into his gelatin and mashed potatoes. Tasting the weak space gravy they were using in this sub-standard establishment, he scowled and grunted in disappointment.

  First, they ought to use stronger gravy; the stuff they had in this here mess hall wasn’t fit for pigs or dogs, but if it was all they had access to they should have been much more liberal. A mere dab of this type of weak gravy was an insult, that’s what it was! They should have smothered the potatoes in it that’s how they should have done. Both poor quality and skimpy amounts was an insult to the men and women they were feeding…

  He trailed off into a series darkly muttered recriminations and aspersions cast in a muttered voice at the sub-standard cookery team. The fact that his diet had been severely restricted for far too long to mostly soft foods—with only the occasional sort of food that was fit for man’s consumption, of course—had no place in his present concerns. At least, that’s what he kept reminding himself of.

  Still muttering to himself, his eyes started scanning around lighting on the various tools, tool belts, and plasma torches carried by the various engineers, technicians, and other workers eating in the mess hall.

  Then he spotted a familiar-looking space wrench and a signature tool belt. His appreciative eyes roamed from tool to tool as he contemplated the things those tools had been used for. If it weren’t for that blasted multi-tool, it would have almost made a perfect set.
>
  He shook his head wryly and he took in the wide hips and ample backside with a sigh. Then his brow furrowed…something was different; that pair of diagnostic units hanging off the left side were a Full Tech 38.7 and a Gently Ultra, when he distinctly remembered Ark 92’s resting there before.

  He was still trying to figure out the discrepancy when the owner turned. “Can I help you?” asked bearded man with a deep voice and a suspicious look.

  Spalding recoiled in dumbfounded shock. “You’re not—!” he started in a rising voice and then choked off the words, “I mean…shove off and mind your own business, you angry blighter!” he growled, picking up his plate. Then he slammed it back down on the table as he stood up and threw his spoon down into the pitiful excuse for mashed potatoes and gravy as he declared, “I’ve got better things to do than sit here and jibber-jabber when there’s work to be done.”

  Turning he walked off as fast, the thump of his legs sounding like a loud clanging metronome as he walked. He irritably decided to get some kind of semi-spongy rubber substance to pad his feet…and he’d make them look like shoes—or boots! It was vain but he just couldn’t take the clanging any more, and so long as he was going to do the job, he might as well go whole hog on the thing.

  “Murphy-blasted bunch of nonsense that’s what it is,” he muttered under his breath as he stomped out of the mess.

  So lost was he in his ruminations that he didn’t notice the person coming around the corner until he ran into her.

  “Of all the confounded, fool things to do,” he snarled, catching as she staggered against the wall. “Why don’t you watch where you’r—” he started only recognize who he’d just run into. “Glenda!” he exclaimed.

  “Don’t you ‘Glenda’ me,” Glenda Baldwin said shortly, turning an irritated gaze his way. “I should watch where I’m going, you over-riveted ox? Who do you think you are, King of the Moon!?”

  “Me, a King? Why…that’s blasphemy, lass—treason, even,” Spalding declared, taken aback as he frowned down at her, “and entirely beyond the pale. I’m not one to put a crown on meself; Chief Engineer and Head of the Fraternal Order of—” Spalding continued, genuinely wounded.

  “Not that old saw again,” Baldwin said impatiently, “you and that Fraternal Order of yours is nothing more than a ‘good old boys’ club.”

  “It’s been more than enough for this old man,” he growled and then took a breath. “Sorry fer running into you,” he said gruffly.

  “Yeah, you seem real sorry,” she said severely, “trying to pull up the Order as if it was a reason for bad behavior. Watch where you’re going in the future; not all of us walking these corridors are as young and spry as we used to be—and none of the rest of us is made of metal.”

  Spalding leveled a finger at her, “You say that because you have no idea the kind of good works the Fraternal Order’s been doing,” he said as patiently as he was able. “Behind the curtain, overworked and underappreciated, the Order has…”

  Glenda stood there tapping her foot until he trailed off to a halt.

  “Eh?” he asked, realizing his audience wasn’t as receptive as he’d hoped toward hearing about the unsung glories which only he knew about.

  “This is supposed to be the part where you say it won’t happen again and then drop the subject, not continue on about the Fraternal Order of Engineers,” she informed him with a ‘hurry up’ gesture.

  Spalding stared at her nonplused and then shrugged. “Won’t happen again,” he said, rubbing his chin.

  “Alright then,” she said, flashing him a smile that temporarily lit up her grease stained tired face, “I’m off to get some food inside me.”

  Spalding nodded and she started past him. Then he started. “Wait!” he said hurriedly.

  She turned back and looked at him in surprise.

  “Well…” now that he had her attention, his mind had seized up like an unlubricated tri-axial joint. She was going off for food, he reminded himself and then his eyes lit up as he remembered, “You don’t want to use the mess tonight,” he assured her once more back on solid ground, “the food they’re serving up tonight isn’t fit for man nor beast. You’re better off heading to the rec deck and splurging for a meal or taking a shuttle over to the Phoenix. I think the old chef from the Clover set up shop there a few days ago.”

  Glenda pursed her lips and then nodded decisively. “I’ll order over in the Rec then,” she said turning back around and patting him on the shoulder, “I’ll be off then.”

  Seeing her heading off once again he realized he still wasn’t ready to let her go. So, all the while taking himself to task, he hurried after her.

  She looked over at him curiously, “Going the same way?”

  For a moment his mind went blank and then he smiled confidently. “Couldn’t stand the stuff in the mess so I’m still hungry,” he said, not entirely untruthfully seeing as he’d only finished about half his meal before leaving, “I figured I’d go with you to the Rec and pick up a plate.”

  “It’s a free station,” she replied.

  He wondered what he was doing chasing after a woman like some kind of tongue-tied idiot what hadn’t sprouted a full set of whiskers—and at his age to boot! Spalding shook his head in self-disgust.

  “Something wrong?” she asked, and he colored realizing he’d been muttering under his breath.

  “Just a small engineering problem,” he lied, saying the first thing that popping into his head. It was a trusty, stock excuse. However, unlike most people he ran into, Glenda was a reasonably competent engineer.

  “What’s got you stumped?” she asked. “I’ve found that sharing the load can free up processor space and get the old ticker moving again sometimes,” she said, tapping the side of her head.

  At first he wanted to refuse, but under the weight of her gaze he realized she wasn’t going to give up any time soon. So, caught out but unwilling to admit it, the old Engineer decided he might as well mention the problem that was on his mind. He’d thought on it night and day and it took up all the free time he had from all the priority and emergency repairs floating around the Yard at Gambit Station.

  “It’s the Clover…as usual,” he sighed, giving in. After all, it’s not like it would be a surprise to anyone with a heart of their own or, failing that, a pair of ears to hear him speak, as he knew he’d mentioned the problems with her more times than he could recall…possibly, although he resisted the notion quite stoutly. But even so…still, possibly, he might have gone on about the subject past the point of decent conversation.

  This point was reinforced when the woman he was with sighed. “What is it this time,” she asked patiently, “more problems with the power distribution system?”

  “No, no, it’s not that,” he said hastily and then paused wondering if she knew something about the power grid on the Clover that he didn’t and should maybe take a look into.

  “Well whatever it is, I’ve taken a look over there myself and I hate to say this,” she paused and looked over at him out of the corner of her eye.

  “Oh, go on,” he grumped waving an unlit plasma finger from one of his fake hands at her.

  “Well, I know she was shot up pretty bad in that fight, but from what I could see there’s nothing six months in the yard couldn’t put back right and make her better off than she was before,” she said.

  Spalding bristled internally, even though he’d been thinking some of those very thoughts himself lately. Oh, he’d told everyone the Clover wasn’t—and couldn’t be made—combat capable again. In truth he was pretty sure they could get her back into working order again if they had to. But after the beating his poor lass had taken, he knew she’d never again be what she was if he did.

  “The internal supports are in pretty bad condition,” he said glumly, “all those maneuvers under full engines after taking damage—not to mention she’s seen more combat in this last year than in any twenty you’d care to name—and she’s understandably pretty stress
ed. A few of the supports are even warped and twisted, and that’s just what we can see.”

  “So tear into her,” Baldwin urged, waving a hand, “oh, I know, we need to get the less damaged ones out there first but put her back in the queue. We can tear into the hull and replace the damaged struts with Duralloy II and she’ll be back into action in no time. The stronger struts we put in there will more than make up for a few hidden problems.”

  “What I’d really like to do is just completely rebuild her,” the old Engineer sighed.

  “So do it! Or at least set aside the plans and we’ll get to work on her as soon as we clear some of this backlog,” Glenda urged, and even though he knew her—and she weren’t really talking about the same thing, since his idea of a rebuild was quite different from hers—he could feel himself starting to perk up at the thought of the old girl once again stretching her legs.

  Things just hadn’t felt the same with her out of action. The other Dreadnaughts were similar but every time he was on one of them it just reminded him all the more about everything it wasn’t…everything the Lucky Clover was.

  So, deciding to pull the trigger on the notion that’d been floating around inside the back of his head ever since they dragged the old girl back into space dock, he nodded and cast aside the other idea he’d been toying with.

  Just pulling off the old outside armor and whatever damaged internals she had and replacing everything that was down-checked with new replacement systems and with a new outer coating of Duralloy II just wouldn’t do…not for the Clover!

  “You know what, lass; you’re right!” he said, starting to get excited once again. The Clover would be changed—and a lot more than if they just replaced a few things—but after he was done with her she’d once again be the Queen of the Space Ways and the envy of all other Battleships and, dare he even think it, Imperial Command Carriers would tremble at her presence.