Spineward Sectors 6: Admiral's Spine

by Luke Sky Wachter

  Gants looked sick. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said, backing away to the blast doors.

  “In a way, we’re actually fortunate that the droids are so slow,” I said looking back at the main screen, which clearly showed we had been going too fast for what had quickly become a plan of action. ”And Mr. DuPont, if we’re going to draw those droids close enough to the moon to do any good we’re going to have to slow down and force them to adjust their intercept angle. Get with Sensors and Tactical and get me a course that will suck those droids in so deep they’ll never escape.”

  “On it, Admiral,” replied the Helmsman as he flashed an expression which resembled nothing so much as a snarl.

  I looked at the screen, and saw that the mother-ships had sent in their slightly faster gunboats to deal with the orbital fortresses. This had, ironically, caused the little parasite craft to slow down while they had skirted around the fortresses, all the while pounding them with their spinal mounts for as long as possible. I didn’t know for certain, because we’d gotten too far away before it could be confirmed, but I was pretty sure both fortresses were gone.

  In any case, the mother-ships were now ever so slightly ahead of their screen of little gunboats.

  It was a mistake I meant them to pay heavily for.

  “To the moon, Captain,” I said, leaning back in my chair and steepling my fingers.

  It would all come down to a roll of the dice.

  Chapter 47: Battle for the Moon I

  “Are they still on course, Mr. Shepherd?” I asked, my voice cutting through the din.

  “They’re swinging wider than I would like, Admiral,” Shepherd said with concern. “I think they’re trying to maximize their speed to try and catch us.”

  My eyes tracked back and forth as my mind raced, trying to find a way through this conundrum. But I didn’t see anything for it. We were going to have to slow down and drag them in after us.

  “Reverse course and speed, maximum thrust; we have to draw them closer to the moon,” I instructed, glaring darkly at the screen.

  “If we slow down, not only will the mother-ships get a shot at us but we’ll be swarmed by the remaining gunboats,” Laurent noted from his position beside me.

  “Noted,” I said flatly and my eyes shot over to the Navigation station, “Mr. Shepherd, please forward to the Helm the closest approach we can make to the moon without risking the ship and keep it updated in real-time.”

  “Yes, Admiral,” our Navigator said in a slightly less robust voice than was his usual.

  The bridge fell unnaturally silent as the distance between us and an overwhelming number of droid heavies began to shorten.

  “Let’s supercharge those shields, Mr. Longbottom,” Captain Laurent said, clearing his throat.

  I stared grimly at the screen, wondering if this time the Montagne magic had finally run out. If a battleship hadn’t been able to weather the storm of gunboats and mother-ships then it was certain our medium cruiser—or even heavy cruiser, if all the armor and weapon upgrades had actually increased its class rating—certainly couldn’t.

  “Tactical, what’s the latest estimate on overall gunboat numbers,” I asked.

  “Just under seven hundred boats remaining, Admiral,” the Tactical Officer said crisply. “Those orbital fortresses really did a number on them.”

  “They were sitting ducks,” I noted absently as my mind tried to grapple with a way to defeat that many gunboats. We’d done as well as we had against a lesser number of boats because A) we’d stayed out of their range for as long as possible, and B) we hadn’t had to deal with the mother-ships at the same time like those heavy forts had to do.

  By deliberately slowing down, I was in fact removing the only real advantage we’d had over the droids compared to the forlorn battleship and her ruined escorts.

  Captain Laurent shifted beside me. “I would have tried to circle the moon and drag them in for a closer pass to the moon base, except that I’m pretty sure we’d run into the tail end of the gunboat mass and have to fight our way out,” I told the Flag Captain.

  “Enemies before us and behind, and with the fleet moving at reduced speed so we don’t lose those droid heavies so as to suck them into a trap that might backfire on us as well…it isn’t something I’d want to face, either,” he said after a moment.

  Sensing a potential, silent disagreement over the need to sacrifice ourselves over the chance to sucking those mother-ships in close enough to the moon, I looked away. Our best shot to break this droid fleet, in my estimation, was to roll the dice rather than take the ‘safe’ route—a route which led to our almost certain annihilation while we fired our guns until they, and we, had been mulched by the droids’ weaponry.

  Maybe the leaders of this system deserved to be shot, and then again maybe I was just an angry man who’d been crossed one time too many by the so-called planetary and Sector leaders back home, but one thing was certain: so long as there was so much as a chance of saving the innocent people of this world then I couldn’t turn my back on them.

  After all, whatever the leadership had done against me—even if only in my own suspicious mind—the people themselves had never wronged me. They were innocent victims in all this, and so long as there was breath in my body and any kind of chance of saving them, I was ready to throw myself and the fleet that followed me into the fires of the Demon’s Pit if that’s what it took to save them.

  The only other option—taking flight and bugging out like the evil gods of cold space were on our heels—was something I quite simply couldn’t do.

  “Here they come,” reported Tactical, and my eyes snapped up to the screen. I’d been caught out woolgathering, and I flushed as I hoped nobody had noticed.

  “Alright boys and girls, this one’s for all the marbles,” I said in a ringing voice. Looking at those gunboats, I knew that even the Imperial trick of supercharging the shields wasn’t going to help us now. I didn’t know anything that would, but as the Admiral it was important that I didn’t show it, “Step lively and work your consoles like you mean it. This is where we break them.”

  There was a silence, perhaps as people started to realize just how badly we were outnumbered and began to collectively wonder what, exactly, Admiral Montagne had gotten them into. Then Laurent broke the silence.

  “It’s time to show the people of this system just what the MSP is all about,” he growled, “who’s with me?!”

  At this, the bridge roared with approval. Fists pumped in the air and pounded on desks—and there was also the distinctive sound of yet another microphone breaking from where First Officer Eastwood was sitting. It looked like even the reinforced one they’d gotten for him couldn’t stand up to repeated slamming as it deformed in his hands.

  I nodded happily, and was relieved that the bridge crew were as ready and willing to follow me through the gates of destruction as ever. I was only mildly irked that it was the Captain who had got them going with his rousing speech, and not me. I wasn’t used to being upstaged on my own bridge, and the realization that I’d just been upstaged—however slightly or temporarily it might have been—stung a lot more than I expected.

  To cover for this, I pasted on a confident expression and stood up. “Wait until the last moment to increase our speed, Helmsman,” I instructed. “We want to get those mother-ships as deep within range of that bombardment center as we possibly can before trying to pull away—even if it means eating a few volleys.”

  “Can do, Admiral,” DuPont said with a fierce expression. “I can get us as close to those mother-ships as you like—just so long as you’ll talk to the captain about the paint job after.”

  Laurent coughed, turning slightly purple as he gave DuPont a hard look, during which I suppressed a smile. “I’ve got your back,” I said knowingly.

  Several tense minutes passed, and finally the droids were within range of our turbo-lasers. Under the deft hand of Mr. DuPont, the Phoenix immediately started the first leg of a familiar, zigz
ag, pattern which brought our starboard broadside to bear on the enemy.

  “Tactical, relay to Gunnery: they are to go weapons hot and fire as soon as local fire control has a lock,” Captain Laurent barked.

  “Weapons hot and fire at will, aye, Captain,” Eastwood said and repeated the order into a new microphone already plugged into his work station.

  “I want that lead mother-ship taken out of the sky, Mr. Eastwood,” I said in a calm, carrying voice that reached from one end of the bridge to the other. Maybe a bit too carrying, I thought with irritation. I was used to a larger bridge than the one of the Phoenix, and no matter how large and opulent with the most cutting edge tech, a medium cruiser simply doesn’t have as much space as a Caprian-built battleship.

  “We’ll knock it out of the sky for you, Admiral Montagne,” Eastwood growled.

  Turbo-lasers lanced from the Furious Phoenix and her metaphorical talons struck the lead mother-ship’s shields and lit them up.

  “We’re getting solid hits; it’s just a matter of time, Sir,” the Tactical Officer reported.

  I had to hide a wince at that, because with the current firepower disparity it was only a matter of time until we were overwhelmed.

  “Orders to the fleet,” I instructed, stiffening my spine and doing my best to project confidence, “formation is to increase speed as much as safely possible and fire as soon as the droids come within range. The Flag will forward targeting priorities,” I said, motioning with a circular gesture to Tactical that he was to forward the information to the rest of the fleet’s Tactical Officers.

  “You heard the man, Helm,” Laurent barked, “give it whatever you’ve been holding back.

  “The Captains are signaling receipt of orders,” Warrant Officer Steiner said moments later.

  “I’m already doing the best I can, Captain!” DuPont said, sounding stressed.

  Looking at the way the moon was getting closer and closer to the ship, I could feel myself starting to get tense as well but I forcefully unclenched my muscles and with a smile put my hands behind my head and leaned back as if I had all the time in the world and we weren’t in combat.

  Unable to hold the pose, when Tactical began to sound off the enemy ship’s shield condition, I lifted my arm as if stretching and then leaned forward once again all business. I knew I probably looked like a fool and shook my head at myself, but within moments I was too focused on the battle to feel like the fool I must have looked like.

  “Enemy shields are spotting,” Tactical said in a triumphant voice right before half a dozen droid mother-ships fired their spinal mounts in unison. Seconds later, the rest of the mother-ships followed suit.

  “Shields down to 50% and fluctuating hard,” shouted Longbottom, “heat levels in the starboard generator are passing the red line and still rising!”

  “Do whatever you have to but keep those shields up!” ordered Laurent.

  “We can’t take another hit like that,” Longbottom exclaimed, “we won’t just lose the starboard shields; the generator will go into emergency shutdown!”

  “Blast it, Ensign, do your job or I’ll find someone who will,” snapped Laurent, which I thought was somewhat unfair as Mr. Longbottom had been the most steady and non-hysterical shield operator we’d ever had. But I wasn’t about to get between the Captain and his ship—at least, not without a better reason. “And you, roll the ship!” he shouted at DuPont.

  “Rolling the ship now, Captain,” replied our Helmsman and in addition to turning the ship he threw the Phoenix into a corkscrew. “She sure handles a lot more nimbly than a battleship,” he said, unconsciously turning his body in the seat along with the unfelt motion of the cruiser.

  Spinal laser fire lanced around the ship once, twice, three times it missed and then the inevitable happened.

  “Laser strike!” cried Longbottom, “shields down to 37%. The generator is going critical!”

  “Blast it, somebody do something about that generator,” Laurent swore.

  “I have a pair of Damage Control teams, one working to deal with the heat inside the ship and the other out on the hull,” came the calm, steady voice at Damage Control that I hadn’t heard since our last battle at Tracto against Jean Luc.

  “Who gave permission to put men out on the hull? That’s suicide!” Laurent cursed.

  “We can’t have it both ways, Captain,” I lifted a hand, cutting him off. “Engineer Blythe knows what’s she’s doing,” I said, giving the woman at Damage Control a nod. I didn’t know her except from the campaign to re-take Tracto, but she’d been a steady hand on the bridge during that time. It was a judgment call to trust her, but given my experience it wasn’t a hard one.

  “Yes, sir,” Laurent said giving me the stink eye for overriding him in front of the crew. But we were where the rubber hit the road, and I didn’t have time for hand holding.

  “Severe spotting on the starboard side,” Longbottom reported.

  “Your overheating problem should be coming under control shortly,” Damage Control Technician Arienne Blythe said evenly.

  “Readings have stabilized and are starting to come down,” Longbottom said, sounding relieved. And I could almost feel a collective sigh at his words.

  Chapter 48: On the Hull

  “Come on, you blighters,” shouted Petty Officer Parkiney, “pop out that faulty heat sink and replace it like you mean it! Move-move-move!”

  Space wrenches and multi-tools whizzed and whined as the work party frantically dug into the side of the starboard side shield generator.

  “The heat sink is coming out now,” reported the tech outside the faulty heat sink.

  “Fulsom,” snapped Parkiney, “how’s that new coolant line coming?”

  “Nice and shiny, Chief,” Fulsom said, twisting around beneath the generator. A second later, the old line was tossed out the side of the generator and flew off into space, “New line’ll be locked down in just a tick or two.”

  Looking back over to the panel accessing the faulty sink, the trio of engineers milling around in front of it didn’t fill the Crew Chief with confidence.

  “What’s the hold up?” he demanded, clomping back over to the panel urgently.

  “We got the old sink out but the new one’s jammed tight, it won’t budge,” Bentley said in a rising voice.

  “Stand aside and hold fast,” Parkiney said, bracing himself against a stanchion and a foot hold located just outside the access panel. Reaching down to his belt, he pulled out the oversized space wrench and swung it back over his shoulder.

  “Uh, Chief, are you sure—” his words were cut off by a brilliant flash of light from the shields overhead.

  Parkiney looked up at the still-glowing shields, and then back at the rating. “I’m sure,” he said, winding up and then slamming the wrench into the heat sink. Once, twice, and then third time the makeshift hammer struck home. He continued to slam the wrench repeatedly into the sink until he felt something budge.

  “One last tap,” he grunted, and this time when the wrench hit it the sink shifted. As it slotted in, an arc of electricity struck leapt out from the device and Parkiney’s entire body clenched up, lighting arcing through his body he spasmed losing his bracing. The next thing he knew, he was floating off the hull.

  Dazed and still twitching, it took him several tries before he managed to grab the loop of cable with the magnetic end aimed at the hull of the Furious Phoenix. Tossing it, the cable went wide and he had to use the auto retract function to get it back. A second toss and the cable wrapped around a sensor antenna before the magnetic end finally found purchase.

  By then he was more than twenty feet away from the hull—and at least a hundred feet further down the hull from the shield generator.

  “Crew Chief!” cried Bentley as Parkiney slowly—and carefully—started reeling himself in.

  “I’m okay; how’s the job?” he said through clenched teeth.

  “The sink’s in, Chief,” replied Bentley in an overly loud v
oice.

  “Then what the blazes are you waiting around talking to me for?” Parkiney snapped. “We’re in the middle of a battle—close it up and get out of here!”

  “We’re almost all wrapped up over here, but we can’t just leave you behind,” protested Bentley. “I’m coming out to get you.”

  “I’ll be fine. Just get out of here before we take a laser strike,” Parkiney grunted, engaging the auto retract function after the second time he lost his grip on the line. It was something he should have done right off, but he had been too scatter-brained after the electrical arc to think straight.

  “I can’t—” Bentley started.

  “Do it now,” the Petty Officer snarled, “I won’t have anyone die because of me today!”

  “Aye, Chief,” the rating said in subdued voice.

  By the time he finished getting back down to the hull, the crew was scurrying away from the generator and on to the nearest airlock.

  “Move it, you slackers!” Parkiney growled at them, even though they were probably moving at twice what he could manage just then.

  “Sure thing, Chie—” Fulsom started to say, but his words were cut off by a brief squeal that died almost as soon as it sounded. At the same instant, a flash caused his helmet to instantly polarize darkened his field of vision until he couldn’t see so much as his nose in front of his face.

  “Sweet Murphy,” Parkiney shrieked, diving for cover—which, if he remembered correctly, the nearest of which was off to the left several steps. However his body didn’t wait for his brain to give permission; it just dove.

  Seconds later, his visor started to clear as overhead the shields continued to flash and sparkle as the titanic power of ship-to-ship weaponry attempted to hammer through the ship’s first line of defense.

  “What’s going on?” the Petty Officer demanded, and when no one answered immediately he added a growl to his voice to cover for the less than manly utterance right before he ducked and covered. “Fulsom, Bentley, report!”