Spineward Sectors 6: Admiral's Spine

by Luke Sky Wachter

  On the screen, I watched as our entire fleet unleashed its combined fury. The combined effort quickly overloaded the shields of the droid ship and gouged deep into its hull.

  Almost as if in response to this attack, more than fifty light lasers lanced out from almost every part of the droid ship. The majority of them were aimed at our ship, but any that could be brought to bear on our fleet were fired.

  “Shields now at 52%; adjusting to compensate,” the Shield Ensign reported eagerly.

  “Good work, Longbottom,” said Captain Laurent.

  Moments later, the ship completed its roll and turbo-lasers once again lanced out.

  “Shield collapse; the enemy ship is suffering shield collapse,” cried Tactical.

  The bridge cheered even as lasers from all over the fleet counter-fired in one massive, continuing salvo.

  “Pour it on, Gunnery!” First Officer Eastwood shouted into his microphone.

  “This feels too easy,” I said uneasily, even as the enemy lasers—all except for its spinal mount, which apparently took time to recharge—fell silent one by one, knocked out by the barrage from the MSP Fleet.

  “There she goes!” cried a Sensor Operator.

  “We’re reading a breach in the spine and a massive power overload on the enemy ship,” the Tactical Officer reported in a rising voice, while on the screen multiple explosions from inside the enemy mother-ship ruptured its hull and blossomed out into space.

  My eyes scrambled across the screen, waiting for the hidden hand, or surprise maneuver that was going to rock us on our heels but nothing happened. No stealthed reinforcements appeared, no new enemies jumped in system, nothing.

  Laurent clapped me on the shoulder.

  “Don’t look so glum, Admiral,” he said with a grin, “we won.”

  “You’re right,” I said uneasily, but I was absolutely certain that I was missing something. Not even machines like droids could be so stupid as to come straight at a larger, more powerful force like that without some ulterior motive…could they?

  Around us the bridge crew high-fived and blew off steam, in the aftermath of the victory.

  “Alright now,” Laurent said cutting through the din with the steel of command his voice, “this isn’t some penny ante system militia. A little celebration is good for the soul but let’s remember we’re the MSP.”

  Still looking like winners the bridge crew settled down at their captain’s words like a mare to the bridle. It was only then that I allowed myself to believe that we really had won.

  “Amazing,” I said, failing to add that as far as I could see our enemies had been amazingly stupid, “let’s chalk that one up in the win column and start charging the hyper-drive for the next leg.”

  “Yes, sir! If they’re all as easy as this cruiser/mother-ship thing then we’ll be rolling them in the isle’s before this is all over, see if we don’t,” Laurent said with a hungry expression, “next stop: Aqua Nova, and what passes for a Core World around here.”

  I nodded and wondered why I felt uneasy.

  Chapter 32: Spalding vs. Persus

  The old engineer was out stretching his legs. Although, he had discovered that stretching his legs nowadays wasn’t quite as effective at getting the blood flowing as it had back when his legs had been made out of flesh and blood.

  Still, a man needed to get out every now and then and see the world for what it was. Or, in this case, take a walk to see a top-of-the-line Imperial ship and try to knock the cobwebs out of his head.

  Seeing the mix of Duralloy and Mono-Locsium that comprised the interior of the ship, he momentarily wondered if that was what he needed to add to his special little project to make it work right before once again shaking his head in disgust.

  “I’m grasping at straws,” he scowled, increasing his pace until he was all but charging down the corridor, “what we need is a larger compensator system. Maybe the grav-plates…” but, of course, he’d already ripped out the old grav-plates and installed new top-of-the-line Imperial ones that performed head and shoulders better already, than the previous plates. “It could just be a factor of power, except where would I put in a larger power source?”

  Rounding the corner to his right, he ran full tilt into someone coming the opposite way and bounced something that didn’t tend to happen very often, now that his legs were made of metal.

  “Watch where you’re going, lad,” Spalding said, staggering and almost overbalancing.

  Something whined and clicked horribly right before a hand that clamped down on his forearm like a vice grabbed hold and prevented an unwanted encounter with the deck plates.

  “Apologies,” said an accented, Tracto-an voice, and from the thickness of the accent obviously not one of the original Lancer force. “Sometimes I forget how small and feeble you Starborn when I’m not paying attention.”

  “Not paying attention! It was me who was running around the ship like a mad man and running into things,” Spalding said. Then he stopped and glared at the other man. “And just who are you calling feeble?” he demanded hotly, taking in the way the man had the hand of his one normal-looking arm tucked into his belt, while the other limb—both the arm and hand—was the kind of bargain basement metal arm even a droid would be ashamed to own.

  “I meant no offense,” the other man said, and not very convincingly if one Terrance Spalding was any judge.

  “You and your piece of junk arm think I’m the feeble one here, just because I’m old, is that it?” he demanded belligerently.

  “What you say about my false arm?” the Tracto-an said going unnaturally still. Unlike the usual run of mill Tracto-an, this one was older, his hair was starting to grey, and he looked like he’d been run through the meat grinder—twice.

  “I said it’s older than me, or should be, and it was probably considered a piece of trash even back when it was new,” the old Engineer said, jutting out his chin and then an idea occurred to him. “What you need to do is get a proper one,” he advised the Lancer, “not this whining, clicking, piece of junk someone saddled you with.”

  “My Mistress has gift me a new arm,” the Tracto-an said, his nostrils flaring, “is good arm.”

  “It’s a terrible arm,’’ Spalding firmly informed the other man. “First, it’s not flesh; and second, it’s sub-standard. No, no, what you need is something like this,” he said, pulling out his plasma torch and tapping his leg for emphasis.

  He ignored the way the other man dropped into a combat crouch in favor of rapping the leg a second, and then a third time, making the metal on metal sound ring throughout the corridor. Then he showcased the rest of the leg, displaying how the ankle and knee joints moved, “This droid leg of mine is more the speed you need until medical can grow you a new one. It’s strong, it’s durable, and most importantly, it’s blasted well silent!”

  “You insult the gift she has given,” the Tracto-an said, placing a clicking noisy hand on his sword. Every single Tracto-an he’d met seemed to love carrying a sword.

  Spalding ignored this bit of foolishness and started back down the corridor plans and schematics whirling through his head. It took him a moment to realize the other man wasn’t following.

  He turned back and glared at the crippled warrior, who was trying to pull out his sword out of its sheath but failing spectacularly. His metal hand slipped and whirred, until finally the Tracto-an growled in frustration and pushed his still-sheathed sword back into its sheath.

  “What’s the hold up?” he demanded, “are you coming or not?!”

  “I can take you with my legs alone,” the Tracto-an growled, advancing on him.

  “Son,” Spalding told the younger merely middle aged man, “if it comes to a backside kicking contest I’m pretty sure I have you beat." He gave the deck such a stomp, using the full power of his power assisted legs, that the plate beneath his feet gave a small shake. He was unable to help if his words sounded condescending…sometimes the truth hurt.

  “I can take
you at any time, at any place,” the Tracto-an growled advancing on him.

  “Eh?” Spalding eyed the other man doubtfully. The Tracto-an had one, buggered up, flesh arm and a junker metal one. On the one hand he was crippled up, on the other hand he was a trained warrior…even so, the Chief Engineer gave himself pretty good odds. “Hardly seems fair to whip you while you’re all jammed up like that.”

  “Are all Starborn cowards?” demanded the warrior as he chased after him.

  “Now, that’s enough of that blasted nonsense you pigheaded blighter,” Spalding snapped, rounding on the other man the fingers of his plasma torch fingers lighting up. “Terrance P. Spalding fears neither man nor beast—o’ which ye might be a bit of both!”

  The Tracto-an paused to look at his now burning finger tips and cocked his head. “I offer challenge,” the Tracto-an said gravely.

  Spalding blinked at him in surprise and then shrugged. “Well, I refuse to fight you until you have a new arm; wouldn’t be a proper fight,” he said with a nod, and then turned as he added, “come along then.”

  “Don’t think you run—I will find you,” warned the Tracto-an.

  “Boy you sure think highly of yourself,” Spalding sneered, marching toward the nearest turbo lift.

  Bemused, and more than a little suspicious, the warrior trailed along behind him looking confused.

  “Now what kind of arm are you looking for,” Spalding asked as he stepped into the Phoenix’s Locker. Walking over to a pile of discarded armor pieces, he started digging around, throwing away the pieces he didn’t need and gathering a small pile of metal rods, control interfaces and load bearing joints. “We just don’t have the same pieces as in the Clover,” he complained bitterly, “back home there’d be all sorts of choices to pick from but here I’m forced work with stone knives and bear skins.”

  “What are you talking about?” demanded the Warrior.

  “Don’t despair,” Spalding said with a long-suffering sigh, “we’ve got enough hand tools and elbow grease in this half-deck to make up the difference.”

  “I’m here to fight you,” the Tracto-an said, taken aback.

  Spalding nodded as he looked down at the parts…he was still going to need some more wiring and not that shoddy stuff like they used for hack and patch repair but the kind good kind used for the computer runs.

  “What?” he asked, realizing the other man was still looking at him and then recalled what the warrior had just been saying. “Oh, of course; don’t worry, you’ll get your fight,” he assured the other man, “but I’ll not have it said that Commander Spalding took advantage of your disabled status. Now…where did I put—” he cast around before spotting the large pair of clamps he was looking for buried under a pile of battlesuit helmets, “ah ha!”

  “Are you right…in the head?” the Tracto-an asked warily.

  “Terrance Spalding, Chief Engineer,” the old Engineer said extending his hand.

  Looking at it like it was a snake, the warrior lifted his barely functional arm in return.

  Spalding’s smile wilted. “Well then, let’s just shake on it after I get you a new arm, how about?” he said gruffly.

  “Why are you doing this?” the Tracto-an sounded perplexed.

  “What’s your name?” Spalding asked, turning back to his work table and pulling out his tools started to disassemble the various pieces of armor and electronics he’d gathered up.

  “I am Persus,” the warrior replied after a moment.

  “Persus,” Spalding nodded, “well then, it’s nice to meet you, Persus,” he said before turning back to his work. “As soon as I finish pulling this stuff apart, we’ll go grab a top of the line prosthetic arm; after the modifications I make to it you’ll have an arm worthy of a King!”

  “I don’t see,” Persus said shaking his hand, “why would you help an enemy like this.”

  “Enemy?” Spalding said with alarm. “Because of a simple little scrap we haven’t even had yet? What nonsense,” he declared, “no, son, I am not your enemy…speaking of which, why are you here?”

  “I have the honor of being the past and present Guard of Hold-Mistress Adonia,” Persus said with quiet pride.

  “You’re guarding the Lady,” Spalding said with surprise, “well then, all the more reason to make sure you have an arm worthy of the job!”

  “Among my people…to lose a limb is a sign of failure. To replace it with a false arm or hand is an admission of weakness. If she did not ask me as her guard again, I would not still be here,” Persus said with quiet finality. “I am not much of a guard with only one living arm, and that barely able to hold a spoon to feed me, but Adonia says she will trust no other.”

  “Well you aren’t down on that dirt ball any longer; you’re here among the stars! So I say that’s all the more reason to build you a new arm and, knowing you’re guarding the Lady Akantha, I’ll make sure it’s as well armored as a suit of power armor!”

  “I do not know what to say,” Persus said eventually with a shake of his head.

  “Then don’t say anything, and instead head into that old Penetrator-class marine shuttle and grab me that small sheet of Duralloy II,” the old Engineer said, pointing to the half disassembled shuttle sitting in the cargo bay that was his work shop.

  “What is duralloy?” asked the warrior.

  “Oh, never mind,” the old engineer said tossing down his tools and throwing his hands in the air, “if you want to do something right you just have to do it yourself anyway.”

  “What is all this?” Persus asked following the old Engineer as he puttered around the Penetrator before snatching up the right-sized sheet of Duralloy II.

  “This is my shop,” Spalding said authoritatively, “it’s where the magic happens. Take this shuttle for instance; it’s going to win us the battle someday, I tell you it is. All I have to do is figure out a way to keep it from turning its passengers and crew into little piles of goo and the next thing you know,” he snapped his fingers, “we’ll be popping boarding parties into the hulls of enemy warships lickity split.”

  Dawning comprehension appeared on the warrior’s face.

  “You are the Wizard I keep hearing about. Not the young one, the first one—his father,” said Persus.

  “If I told her once, I told her a thousand times: I ain’t no Wizard!” Spalding snapped.

  Chapter 33: Surprises at Aqua Nova

  “Point Emergence,” Richard Shepherd our Navigator exclaimed.

  “Extending baffling and engaging secondary engines,” Helmsman DuPont chimed in.

  “Beginning sensor sweeps now,” reported the Sensor Warrant.

  “Shields at 98%,” reported Longbottom.

  “We have an estimated 25 gravities to overcome to escape the sump,” observed our new Science Officer and for a moment I waxed nostalgic over the missing Jones. Now there was a Science Officer who you couldn’t pin down on anything, especially hard numbers, to save his—or your—life!

  On second thought, I was glad he was back in Tracto attempting to put his would-be doctoral thesis into some kind practical action onboard the Royal Rage and not here to plague us with us insufferable, mealy mouthed observations. ‘I think,’ or ‘it looks like’ and ‘maybe’ or ‘it could be’ just were not the qualifiers I wanted in the heat of battle.

  “Secondary Engines at 35% and climbing, engaging main engine now,” reported the Helmsman.

  “No other ships in the immediate vicinity, Captain,” reported the Warrant in charge of Sensor Operations.

  “Good,” replied the Flag Captain.

  “Shields stabilized and holding strong at 96%,” reported the Shield Ensign.

  “Any word from the rest of the Fleet?” I asked mildly. Due to the various and different hyper-drive ranges on our ships, one of the biggest obstacles involved in fleet movements was coordinating and ensuring no ships were left behind. Those ships like the Phoenix were able to achieve almost five times the range in light-years, per single jump
, as the worst of our corvettes. So it was necessary to perform a staggered series of jumps through uninhabited waypoints. This allowed our corvettes, whose drives cycled much faster, to make up for their decreased range and arrive in the same target system as ourselves at roughly the same time—emphasis on ‘roughly.’

  “No word yet, Admiral, but I’ll make sure to keep—” Lisa Steiner, my combat-tested former com-tech and current head of the Communications department abruptly cut herself off. “Wait one moment, sir,” she said.

  Heads snapped around at that and not only mine.

  The petite little com-tech and current Warrant Officer held up a finger and her lips suddenly made a thin, pale line before she looked up.

  “Communications is picking up a whole host of encrypted chatter over the dedicated military channels, sir,” she said, looking straight over at me—not at Captain Laurent—but she had worked for me first and I’d basically appointed her to the job of temporary department head. “But the non-encrypted public channels, as well as the commercial buoys, all say the same thing.”

  She drew a deep breath and I had to fight the urge to drum my fingers along the edge of my chair’s armrest, while she blinked still hearing something in the background of her com-link.

  An unnatural pause settled over the bridge around us, as staffers and technicians quieted and strained to hear.

  “It’s official: this system is under attack by the droids, Admiral,” she said flatly.

  I released pent up breath in a slow hiss and nodded in acknowledgment. “Monitor those channels continuously and keep me apprised of anything new that comes your way, Comm.,” I said, and abruptly turned back to face the bridge.

  The crew had taken on a much graver serious note as the news permeated the bridge, for once the knowledge that we were about to head into a fight coming not from the sensor section but communications.

  “Alright people, this is as real as it gets; there’s a star system under attack and it’s not by pirates, who for all they may not seem or act human are still made of flesh and blood,” Captain Laurent said grimly. “So let’s stay on task and mission-focused.”