“Shield failing on the starboard side and down to 60%—no, 54% to port,” snarled the Shield Officer as the ship bucked and writhed beneath us.
“Significant damage to hydroponics two,” the new Damage Control watch-stander from our previous battle said, sounding unconcerned. The bridge crew, on the other hand, groaned in unison.
“They just fragged hydroponics again?!” cursed an overwrought yeoman as the ship shuddered.
“Backup power relay system damaged,” called out the Damage Control watch-stander in an obvious response to the crew’s concerns, “primary system still intact.”
There was a cheer as the Harvester started venting gases, but both it and my rising spirits plummeted when the visible air leak quickly trailed off.
“Pour it on, Gunnery; give it to them with both barrels,” ordered Eastwood from his position at Tactical, giving his microphone yet another good thump for emphasis.
“Shields critical,” cried the Shields operator right before he pounded both hands on his console, “shields have collapsed! It’s going to take at least fifteen minutes to reform them.”
“Assuming we have fifteen minutes; this battle will be long over by then,” snapped Laurent, “thank you, Shields, but we’ll take it from here.”
One thing was for sure: our shield system wasn’t nearly as robust as on the Lucky Clover. It was just another way in which our old battleship was superior to this refurbished piece of pirate junk, ‘Little Gift’.
I knew one wasn’t supposed to denigrate the ship I was on, nor was it entirely fair to compare our old battleship to this even older, smaller vessel, but I couldn’t help myself.
The Harvester temporarily lost power right before our broadside fell down to a third of its former ferocity.
“What’s going on, Tactical?” I demanded.
“Overheated barrels and focusing arrays,” reported Eastwood.
“Blast,” I muttered angrily as the Harvester came back up to full power and resumed blasting our exposed hull.
“Maybe we should roll the ship,” I offered, thinking out loud.
“No,” Laurent demurred, “without shields by the time we turned we’d have just taken more damage—this is knockdown, drag-out fight to the finish. We can’t risk exposing our back; we have to hold, Sir.”
Sitting still while we were mercilessly pounded on by Bugs wasn’t my idea of a good time, but in the face of my Captain’s certainty I bit my tongue and stared unblinkingly at the main screen.
“Then hold we shall,”’ I said after regaining my composure. The only thing harder than standing by and doing nothing was standing by doing nothing while other people died—it seemed I was destined to do both.
Hold we did, against a withering storm of bug attacks.
“I’ve got missiles,” snapped the Sensor Officer, “they’re on close approach.”
“Switch every weapon that can be brought to bear over to point defense,” the First Officer barked into his microphone, not waiting for orders from me or the Captain.
Our gunners sent rapid-fire streaks out to every missile they could reach. Seconds later, there was a massive explosion on the side of the Harvester as those guns that couldn’t easily be switched to point defense punched through the side of the overgrown Bug.
“Good job, turbo-lasers,” cried Eastwood, who was accompanied by a cheer from the rest of the bridge right before several missiles slipped by our point defense screen.
The bridge’s cheer hadn’t even finished when The Gift was struck by a hammer of the space gods.
“What the blazes,” Laurent cried after being tossed across the bridge. A moment later, the power cut out. Long seconds passed before the dark red illumination of the emergency lighting came on.
“The main power distribution system that runs throughout the ship was just cut and we lost our last hydroponics bay,” Damage Control reported in a tight voice.
“Get power restored here, immediately, Damage Control,” I snapped.
“Sorry, Sir, I’ve got no access to my console for the rest of the ship. Everything is dead,” reported Damage Control coolly.
I looked over at her in disbelief. “You just said we lost hydroponics; you can’t have lost all access if that’s the case,” I said scornfully.
The Damage Control watch-stander looked at me levelly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t clearer, Admiral,” she said strictly, “I’m still getting reports through the wireless,” she pointed to an ear bud and small microphone attached to her ear. “I can get reports from auxiliary control, Engineering, and can even listen in on the general damage control channels. My ability to respond is extremely limited—nothing like I have when my console is activated.
“Blast,” I ground out with frustration and the ship shuddered again, “well, do the best you can to get us back into operation. We need those outside links.”
“Yes, Sir,” she replied and focused back on her headset.
Several long minutes passed before power suddenly returned to the bridge.
“Rebuilding our scan picture,” the Sensor Officer reported tensely.
The first thing to reappear was the Large Harvester. It appeared mostly intact, except for a big, gaping hole in its side. Thankfully, it was silent and unmoving and its power signature was minimal.
Where the remaining Scout Marauders had been harrying us, there was only a scattered debris field.
“What happened to those scouts, Sensors?” Laurent demanded as he made his way back to his usual post.
“I’m not sure, Sir,” reported the Warrant Officer.
Just then, some of our smaller laser mounts fired into what appeared to be empty space.
“Get your men under control, Tactical,” growled Laurent.
“Aye, Sir,” grunted Eastwood. He spoke into his horn and then looked back over at the Captain with surprise. “Sir,” exclaimed the First Officer, “the Chief Gunner reports that the gun deck never lost power. They took out the scout ships, Captain.”
“Pass the men my compliments,” Captain Laurent said after a moment’s pause, “and find out why they’re still firing.”
“My compliments to the men as well, First Officer,” I added.
Eastwood glanced over at me and then focused back on the Captain. “They say they’re firing at large, borer Bugs, Captain,” Eastwood said stiffly.
“Boarders,” hissed Laurent.
“Communications, inform the Lancer and Armory departments immediately,” I snapped, turning to the com-tech, “they are to armor up and prepare to repel boarders!”
“On it now, Admiral,” replied the Com-operator.
“What’s the status of that Harvester?” demanded the Captain, but I had other concerns.
“Where are our lighter ships—whatever’s left of the short squadron?” I said, cutting over him.
The Sensor Officer looked back and forth between the two of us and then quickly conferred with his team.
“The Harvester’s down for the moment, although we’re seeing signs of increasing activity,” reported the Sensor Officer before turning back to me. I hid a frown of displeasure at the Officer answering Laurent’s question first, but let it slide for the moment as he continued briskly, “as for the short squadron, the Corvette,” the Officer said interrupting my paranoid train of thought, “the Rapid Ranger, while damaged, still seems to be moving under her own power.”
“The others?” I said impatiently.
“I have a dead Corvette and a floating Cutter on my plot, and as the Admiral will recall, the other Cutter was destroyed,” reported the Sensor Warrant.
My heart clenched in response to this information. Three out of four of the smallest ships of my fleet had just been destroyed or rendered inoperable; now all that was left was one damaged Corvette, and a badly damaged Heavy Cruiser.
“First Officer, I want that Harvester completely destroyed as soon as possible,” I said angrily.
“Helm, as soon you have control you are to roll our sh
ip and bring our other broadside to bear. We’ve taken significant damage from that Harvester on the presented facing,” Laurent cut in.
Seconds ticked down as the Harvester’s systems reactivated, and more marine and borer Bugs began jumping from the Large Harvester in a growing wave. It felt like an eternity as the Gift slowly rolled over to present its still mostly functional broadside at the 500 meter bug ship.
“Come on,” I whispered under my breath, silently urging the Heavy Cruiser to move faster. I wasn’t the only one who flinched as the first Bug beam weapon lanced out to strike our damaged top hull, but fortunately it was only one shot. Although it was followed several seconds later by two more, and then the Harvester almost seemed to twitch…its drive didn’t activate, but I would have sworn—
“Ranging on the Harvester in three-two-one,” Eastwood called out in a clear, calm voice.
“Fire as she bears, Tactical,” Captain Laurent ordered, staring hotly at the main screen.
The Captain hadn’t even finished speaking, certainly not enough time for Eastwood to have relayed his orders, before our gunners fired.
Turbo and heavy lasers tore deep gashes deep in the nose of the Harvester, causing a minor amount of venting to occur. The Bug fired back with half a dozen weapons before falling silent. This time, we didn’t stop firing until our lasers were tearing through one side of the bug and coming out the other.
“Helm, please prepare to reposition the ship behind the Bugs. I want to make sure her engines are destroyed before calling it,” Laurent ordered calmly, “as well as avoid as many of those boarders as we can.”
For a moment I was taken aback, and then I realized that unlike most bug ships, even most Harvesters we had run across, this ship hadn’t broken apart or shattered into pieces before we killed it. I scanned the hull of the Bug ship intently, but the only difference I could see was the big, gaping wound in its side that had originally knocked it out of action. We hadn’t had time to finish it off like we had the others, and it made me wonder if this Harvester had managed to isolate the damaged part first.
Minutes later we had destroyed the Harvester’s engines and left her dead in space. Unfortunately, we were starting to get reports of borer and marine Bugs on the hull. But we’d regained engine control, and somehow managed to get away from the Harvester in time to avoid the majority of the wave.
Chapter 43: Not Quite Fix’ed
He was the very model of a recently upgraded space engineer.
The old engineer working beneath the main power relay whistled tunelessly as he disassembled the unit. Nice to finally be able to get some work done without interruption, he thought with a sigh.
A throat cleared behind him and the multi-tool in his hand activated before he could stop it. Growling under his breath, Spalding pulled back enough to pop his head out from under the relay.
“What the blazes is it, Park—” he ground to a halt and stared at the vision above him. Realizing his mouth was hanging open like a fool, he snapped it shut and squinted upward. “Oh…it’s you,” he said flatly. Then with a ‘harrumph,’ he thrust himself back under the relay.
The throat cleared above him again, and the old engineer found his shoulders hunching. “I’m busy,” he said shortly.
“You know what they call this little pet project of yours don’t you?” the other asked archly.
“No time for gossip ‘round here,” he blustered, grabbing an auto wrench and banging it against the undercarriage of the relay before sinking it into a stan-bolt he hadn’t meant to get around to for another ten minutes at least.
“’Spalding’s Folly,’ they call it, you old coot. Do you know why that is?” the other engineer asked rhetorically.
“I don’t particularly care for the—“ he snapped, but the other cut him off.
“Because we’ve got a battleship in that accursed, flexible shipyard of yours, another one—” this time she was the one to be cut off.
“It works!” he interjected defiantly. “A thing is only ‘accursed’ if it fails in some way, but the Duralloy II did the trick, just like I said it would,” he bragged. He was about to go on, but as she did habitually, she spoke back over the top of him.
“Another one, the Royal Rage, is practically in pieces waiting to go in as soon as the Armor Prince is patched back up and out of there,” she continued. “And to top it all off, you’ve got everyone—including all those green-as-sin new recruits—working overtime to build a new shipyard which is bigger than anything I’ve even read about!”
“The best way to learn how to do a job is just to do it,” he growled, shoving himself out from under the relay to wag a finger at her admonishingly. “Those recruits and construction workers need to learn by doing—and that’s another thing, Glenda; speaking of jobs, why aren’t you busy over there doing yours?!”
“You’ve been hiding out in this miserable excuse of a lander, a type of small craft not used since for almost two centuries because it was tossed in the trash bin of outdated and impractical technologies by every single government, and you have the gall…” her face turned red with outrage as her voice began to tremble. “You have the complete and utter gall to lay there on your back and accuse me of shirking my responsibilities?!”
“Now, Glenda,” Spalding said a might testily.
“Don’t you ‘now Glenda’ me,” she snarled, “shoving the work off on me and the others while you get to play around with your pet project—”
“Now hold on just a bloomin’ minute,” Spalding snapped, pushing himself the rest of the way out from under the relay and getting to his feet, “this here isn’t some pet project; it’s a top-secret weapon that’s going to save the day!”
“No,” Glenda Baldwin retorted hotly, “you’ve got a crew of civilians and greenhorns trying to rebuild a Dreadnaught class and an unprecedented shipyard. That battleship and those yards are what’s going to be saving your bacon,” she yelled, poking her finger in his chest, “not some love project you’ve locked yourself away in this last month or more!”
“I gave clear instructions on what was to be done,” Spalding glowered at her.
“You left the work and yard crews without a leader,” Baldwin cried in exasperation.
“What do you mean, ‘without a leader’?” Spalding said scornfully and jabbed her in the chest with a finger of his own. “Why, I left them with you, didn’t I? Drafted you into the fleet and put you in charge of the repairs and new construction and put you at the top o’ the food chain.”
“I’m a civilian! I’ve always been a civilian; I’ve never even worked on a project like this before. Simultaneously expanding a shipyard and rebuilding a battleship!” she glared at him. “I could have used a little bit of help, but nooo,” she drawled, extending the word sarcastically, “someone was too busy with more important work—like rebuilding this lander from the ground up—to spend more than two days a week overseeing the larger project at hand,” she finished with a shout.
“You’re in the navy now, so buck up and no more of that civilian nonsense out of you, lass,” Spalding said mulishly and they brightened, “but this here lander—”
“A pox on your Lander!” cried Baldwin. “And a pox on your fleet! I was pressed—Shanghaied, even! And to think that such things still happen in this day and age is a disgrace.”
“Hey now,” Spalding glared at her, “you where honestly conscripted, and I don’t want to hear any grumblings otherwise.”
“It’s those battleships that are important,” Baldwin said angrily, “although I don’t even know why I care.” She then turned the full force of her withering regard upon the old engineer, “As only a fool or a moron would place a conscripted person in charge of their shipyard.”
“Blast it, woman,” Spalding spluttered and then addressed the last part of what she’d said, “A fool, is it?! I’ll have you know that no member of the Fraternal Order of the Hammer and Wrench—”
“Don’t give me that old saw,” Baldwin bl
inked at him,
“I’m a member of the Order, too! Although why you lot made it the ‘Fraternal Order’ and then actively encourage women to come into it was never entirely clear to me.”
“Now, now, lass,” Spalding said soothingly, “if and when there are more women than men in our beloved mechanical Order, you can vote to change it to the Maternal Order of Hammer and Wrench.” He barked out a laugh, “That’ll be the day, ha!”
The former Construction Manager rolled her eyes in patented disbelief.
“Although,” Commander Spalding continued, thinking out loud, “I find it hard to believe you can’na understand why the Order seeks to fill our halls with more of the feminine half.”
Baldwin lowered her head and stared at him through her eyebrows.
“I mean, it just plain makes sense,” Spalding said waving wildly into the air, “if ye’ve two people who can rightly do the same job in your Fraternal Hall, wouldn’t you rather have it be a pretty lass, rather than some old Joe with his crack hanging out the back end of his trousers?”
Baldwin’s mouth fell open and then her face flushed with outrage. “Why, of all the cheek and nerve, you have finally outdone yourself, Mr. Spalding,” she snapped.
“Commander,” the Old Chief Engineer corrected absently, his eyes catching back on the power relay and the job still to be done.
“I beg your pardon?” Glenda said stiffly.
The old Officer started to reply and reluctantly looked away from the power relay. “You’re in the fleet now, girl,” he said as kindly as he was able, “and I just made Commander.”
“I’m sorry, Commander, Sir,” the former Construction Manager huffed with outrage, “although, as I will remind his Officer-ship, I hardly qualify as a girl anymore seeing as how I’m already a grandmother and an Engineer with more than three decades worth of experience!”
Admiral's Revenge (A Spineward Sectors Novel:) Page 33
