Admiral's Revenge (A Spineward Sectors Novel:)

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “Thank you,” she whispered, squeezing his shoulder tightly for a moment before pulling away to watch the targeting screen. Hierophant was aware after she stopped moving that she was no longer as close as she had been previously.

  The single Corvette took a series of hits before spiraling away from the pirate ship, and then a blast at the rear of the Cruiser, followed by flames shooting out the rear, gave testament to some kind of massive air leak. The only way to have flames in cold space was if a ship was leaking sufficient oxygen to sustain it.

  “I hope those pirates are wearing their head bags,” the former little com-tech winced, as the flames continued for almost half a minute before abruptly cutting out, likely due to exhausting the nearby supply of oxygen.

  “A head bag will not be enough,” Hierophant’s eyes were riveted to the screen as the pirate continued to fire until it damaged the single, remaining Corvette with shields—the one that had nearly destroyed their engines. “The Lancer Colonel had us go into an airlock with only a head bag and the airlock electronics disabled. We almost died,” he said bleakly, “but at least we learned how to operate the manual controls of an airlock, and there was no more boasting about breathing honor instead of air if our suit had a leak. The lesson of immediately patching our suits if one was damaged was driven home to great effect.”

  “Hierophant…that’s horrible,” Steiner stared at him, “that’s inhuman, is what it is!”

  “That is training,” he shrugged, “but it does make me think that even having a head bag isn’t going to be enough if they cannot get to air—and, more importantly, pressure—very soon.”

  Eventually, the pirate’s fire trickled to a halt.

  “Look, they’re alive,” the little Warrant Officer clapped her hands together as first one and then the other of the damaged Corvettes activated their drives and limped out of the pirate Cruiser’s firing range. The third and last of the Corvettes, while also damaged, had never stopped moving.

  “Looks like the Cruiser’s dead in space,” Hierophant pointed to his screen.

  “We’ve won,” the tech squealed and then kissed him on the cheek before throwing herself off the medium laser and dancing a jig on the deck, “we’re not going to die today, my friend!”

  “No,” Hierophant said in an odd voice, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand, “we are not.” He deliberately looked away from the little Warrant Officer and her childish little dance. I have no interest in being second consort, he reminded himself. He was a proven warrior and gunner in the service of his Warlord; he had earned better. Ignoring the little officer was hard, but he resolutely turned back to his targeting screen and started scanning cold space around his side of the ship.

  There was a Fighter out there somewhere, and maybe he could get another kill before the battle was finished. Battle and battle-honors were one of the best ways a man had to take his mind off all the things he couldn’t have in this life.

  Chapter 32: Cutters do the Cutting, McCruise does the McCruising

  “Well, Captains, that’s about the long and short of it,” Synthia McCruise said to her assembled Squadron ship commander. “To recap, we’ve been keeping tabs on the merchant freighters, and several hours before Captain Belmont and his Corvette,” she nodded in the direction of that part of the conference room screen that held that Captain’s image, “started a rapid series of point transfers to our position, those very same freighters were heading in this direction. It seems we guessed right on which way they would be coming.”

  “Unless they’re trying to confuse us by breaking orbit and heading in the opposite direction, in normal space drive, from the star systems they intend to point transfer to,” Captain Belmont pointed out.

  “There is always that; it could be a deception,” McCruise agreed. “However, most Captains—including myself—tend to point the ship in the general direction of the star they intend to point transfer toward,” she paused in consideration, “upon reflection, perhaps that’s something we need to consider changing, so as not to become too predictable to our enemies,” she gave a self-deprecating smile. “After all, we wouldn’t want them to do unto us as we’re planning to do unto them.”

  “Still…what about her escort ships?” Captain Archibald, one of the two Cutter captain’s which McCruise had selected for this operation, asked worriedly. “I’m not so concerned about that fast courier; even if it’s armed, one Cutter should be enough to capture, destroy, or simply drive it off if she takes to her heels. But a Battleship and a pair of Destroyers…” he trailed off with concern.

  “Light Destroyers—the kind with the sort of speed and engines a pirate captain would prefer,” McCruise said sharply and then took a breath. “While I doubt that they have the sort of maintenance and overhaul schedule that a regular fleet warship would have undergone as a matter of course, I’m not counting on that. We’ll prepare for them as if they are fully maintained, hot, and ready to trot as soon as we jump on their position.”

  “But that Battleship, the Vineyard,” Archibald pressed, “what if it continues with them?”

  “This Squadron is too light to take on a Battleship,” McCruise said regretfully, “so no, I don’t plan on any suicide death rides against any battleships today. If they come out here with her, we lay doggo and have our navigators make their best guess on where those freighters are going and then try to transfer after them. Under no conditions can I imagine taking this squadron head to head with a Dreadnaught class, not while I’m in command anyway,” she paused to smile tightly. “I make no promises where the Admiral is concerned, though. As far as I can see, he’s liable to do anything to anyone, with whatever he has under his command at the time, up to and inclusive of this squadron. He might take on a Battleship with this force but I, in good conscious, cannot.”

  To her surprise, the other Captains in the holo conference grinned.

  “The Little Admiral is something else,” Captain Belmont agreed, still grinning, “takes any blasted thing he sets his mind on.”

  “Luckiest royal I’ve ever seen,” Archibald agreed, slapping his hand on the desk he was sitting at on the holo-screen, “the man can’t be stopped. Mutiny, betrayal, even prison in that Dungeon ship and still we break him loose and get the prize!”

  “Luck can only take you so far,” McCruise said in a quelling tone, “as I’m sure even Admiral Montagne can attest; you can’t win all the time. That’s why we’re going to practice simulated micro-jumps and prepare for battle until two hours before the estimated arrival of those Merchant ships.”

  “Even when he loses, he still wins!” Belmont continued in support of his erstwhile leader. “It was Parliament and those politicians at Central that are to blame!”

  McCruise frowned at him, having not expected the banter to continue this long. “Moving this meeting forward,” she said, clearing her throat, “I want confirmation that you’ve all received the battle program I’ve forwarded for your simulators. The Admiral and his many attributes, both positive and negative, are not, and should not be, part of an extended discussion here—especially not while we are preparing for a raid and capture mission, clear?”

  “We’ve got them, Captain,” Archibald said speaking for the other officers present, Belmont and the other Cutter Captain nodded slowly in agreement.

  “Then let’s be about it,” Captain McCruise said evenly. “I know we practiced this in simulation before, but this time we’re going to plan on facing those two Light Destroyers, not the random grab bag spawned by the computer.”

  “Yes, Sir,” the other Officers murmured in agreement.

  “Oh, and one other thing,” McCruise said with a frown, “it’s tradition that when going into battle that the Senior Captain in command of a Squadron is addressed with the courtesy rank of Commodore. Just like you don’t have two Captains on a ship and the Captain is always a Captain, even when,” her eyes shot over to pin Archibald in his seat, “the Captain really is a Junior Lieutenant. So, then, is the
commander of a Confederation Fleet Squadron called the Commodore. This is not a power grab on my part,” she explained seriously, “it’s simply part of the tradition that I, and now you, are a part of.”

  “Alright, Captain…I mean, Commodore McCruise,” Captain Belmont said agreeably, and the other Captains—including Archibald—quickly nodded in agreement.

  “Very well then,” McCruise said in a professional voice, “let’s prepare ourselves for those destroyers.”

  Chapter 33: To the Armory

  Lugging your own battle-suit down the corridors of your Flagship might sound like a fun way to spend an afternoon, but let me tell you it’s nothing of the sort. Between being stopped in the hall for questioning about just how I intended to deal with both the Bugs and my Uncle’s pirate fleet, and alternately questioned if my power armor was somehow broken, I was almost to the point of clenching my teeth.

  “No,” I said as patiently as I was able to for the nth time, “I don’t need help moving the suit, that’s why I have this perfectly functional grav-cart.”

  “Are you sure, Admiral, because it’s really no bother at all,” said a very concerned looking able spacer from the Environmental department.

  “Really, it’s no bother. Simply being free and able to walk,” I said, laying the irony of the situation thick in my voice, as I was currently waylaid in the middle of a service hall, “is its own reward.”

  “It must have been hard for you in prison, Sir,” the spacer said, seemingly unable to take a hint, “which reminds me—walking, that is—that I was on my way to hydroponics three and was wondering when you’ll be putting a priority repair order on fixing it up, I mean since it was vented into cold space, that is. The mess hall grub has become…uninspired of late.”

  “Your lunch menu is my number one priority,” I lied, and then couldn’t believe it when the spacer nodded his head as if this statement was an entirely believable part of his world. “That’s why I’ve delegated all such repair efforts to the good offices of Captain Laurent and his bridge team.”

  The enviro-spacer seemed to deflate, and then suddenly brightened. “Hey, how long do you think it’s going to take to finish up with these Bugs so we can finally start getting our homes back, Admiral?” the other man asked.

  “Oh, gee, look at the time,” I said, activating my data slate. I stutter-stepped and reached up to my ear, “Sorry, I’ve just been paged,” I lied for the second time in the same conversation, “looks like I have to run. I’ll get back to you on this subject later!” I raised a hand in the air to wave at him as I hurried past.

  “Great! Thanks, Admiral,” the man started to turn away and for a moment I actually believed I was home free to the turbo-lift.

  “Wait,” he cried, “how will you be able to answer me if you don’t have my name. I’m Pavlo Moriss, of—,” I cut him off.

  “I’ll make a crew wide announcement, Pavlo,” I shouted back at him, “it’s been educational meeting with you! Bye now. Bye-bye!”

  Dashing to the lift system, I thanked my lucky stars to see a lift parked and waiting, almost as if Murphy or the Space Gods themselves had heard my plea.

  “Saint Murphy, help me out here,” I muttered under my breath as I pressed the button to open the lift. Without pause or hiccough, the door opened and I hurried my grav-cart into the lift without hesitation. Pavlo Moriss was just rounding the corner into my field of vision when I slapped the auto-close feature on the door.

  “Wait, Admiral,” the spacer exclaimed, “you forgot—”

  “Good luck with hydroponics three,” I called out as the door slid shut, after which I slumped over on the grav-cart. I didn’t care what he thought I’d forgotten. Some people just couldn’t take a hint, and the last thing I needed right then were rumors of an irate admiral roaming the halls with a battle-suit in tow. Before you knew it, I’d have been wearing the power-armor and yelling at people in the halls because I didn’t want to improve their meal options. Sheesh, I really needed a vacation, one that didn’t involve forced confinement to a small, windowless, cubicle-like prison cell.

  “Computer, take me to the Armory, please,” I said, finally able to breathe again.

  “Destination: Armory,” the Computer chimed, and then we were off.

  “Who knew that taking this beast down to be repaired was going to be such a chore?” I groaned. “Maybe I should have just let the yeoman do it…” I briefly considered before discarding this idea out of hand, “nope, the last thing I need is more excuses to stare at reports.”

  With a newfound resolution, I turned my attention back to the indicator light on the lift panel.

  Chapter 34:Agitation at the Armory

  “I’m sorry, Sir, but only authorized personnel are allowed beyond this point,” an Armory rating in light armor and equipped with a sonic rifle said standing outside the armory.

  “I’m the Admiral of this Fleet,” I said smoothly, “I assure you that I’m authorized, and that you’ve done your job by stopping to check my identity. Now stand aside, crewman.”

  “Sorry, Sir; you’re not on the list,” the armed crewman insisted, stiffening to attention.

  “I’m not authorized to go into my own Armory?” I said coolly, unable to believe my own ears. “Do you know who I am?”

  “Yes, Sir, you are Admiral Jason Montagne, Sir,” the rating said firmly.

  “So you know who I am,” I said with disbelief, “but because of your…list, you still won’t let me in.”

  “That’s right, Sir,” the rating agreed, “you have to be authorized to enter the Armory.”

  “Son,” I said with a laugh, even though the crewman was probably the same age or even older than I was, “you do know that I could hop in this battle-suit I’ve just lugged all the way here from the bridge and just force my way in, do you not?”

  The rating leveled his weapon at me and I saw his finger tremble slightly as he slotted it against the trigger. “I’m going to have to ask you to calm down, Sir,” he said, looking concerned.

  “Or what?” I asked, more amused than anything. “You’re going to shoot me? Your life won’t be worth a trip to the waste recycler when my Lancers get through with you; now speak to whoever you need to speak to, and get me cleared to enter.”

  “Sir, you’re becoming agitated, and that’s dangerous. Please take a step back,” the guard said in a rising voice as his hands visibly tensed. “Now, as I said before, the Armsmaster isn’t taking visitors at this time, but I’ll be happy to take a message, Admiral. Now back off before I am forced to neutralize the threat.”

  “This is mutiny,” I said mildly, reaching into my sleeve to grasp the butt of my blaster pistol, “and while you sure seem excited, I can assure you I don’t get much calmer than I am right now.”

  There was a click when he took off the safety and his weapon whined as the power cell activated to pre-charge his sonic rifle.

  “Fine,” I said taking a step back, “you win. See? I’m walking away.”

  “Calm down, Sir, and raise your hands above your head,” the Guard was almost shouting now, his eyes rolling around the corridor, probably checking for my nonexistent co-conspirators as his weapon’s barrel wavered minutely.

  Releasing my holdout blaster pistol, I slowly raised my hands, determined to have this man up on charges before the day was through.

  “Gun,” he screamed at my very empty hands, and he pulled the trigger. The next thing I knew, I had been picked up by a rhinoceros and thrown down the hallway.

  Not daring to get up for fear of being shot again, I lay there waiting to see what happened next. My new plan was to play up my pain and slowly reach for my holdout, whereupon I would shoot this mutineer in the chest until he was dead and then blow his face off with the last of my charge.

  There was the sound of the Armory door sliding open and a raspy, older voice demanded, “What the Hades do you think you’re doing, discharging your weapon right outside the armory?” demanded a voice I’d heard be
fore which belonged to the ship’s Armsmaster.

  Time to see just how far this rot has spread, I decided, grasping my holdout pistol while their attention as on each other.

  “Sir, this rating was attempting to follow orders related to today’s surprise anti-mutiny, anti-boarding drill, Armsmaster!” the crewman said in a parade ground voice before pausing briefly. “I didn’t mean to fire, sir, but when I thought I saw a weapon I just reacted, sir.”

  “How did you know about the drill—which, by the way, hasn’t even started yet!” snapped the Armsmaster who then took a deep breath, “I take it then that your sloppy trigger discipline has just resulted in some hapless member of the crew getting blasted?” he said in a rising voice.

  “Oh, space gods, I thought he was a Lancer—I mean, hostile force spy,” the guard said, looking sick.

  “From his uniform he’s a Fleet Officer,” the Armsmaster swore, coming over to where I was still laying down. I was quite literally unable to believe what I was hearing. “Sweet Crying Murphy, he’s not a Lancer or even wearing a training harness, and you still shot him with a sonic rifle! That’s it, you’re relieved! How in the Demon’s name you thought he was part of the training exercise, I’ll never know.”

  “He wasn’t on the list and he was trying to gain access,” the crewman protested, starting to sound hysterical. “I mean really, what are the odds the Admiral himself would come down here in the middle of a training exercise!”

  “The Admiral!” the Armsmaster roared, rushing over to my side.

  “The Lancers always say he’s one of them, I just thought…” the guard said miserably. “I mean, I gave him all the keywords we were trained to use when talking down a potentially volatile crewman.”