Admiral's Revenge (A Spineward Sectors Novel:)

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “Maybe I need some bifocals then,” I grumbled under my breath. Even in hindsight, I often had trouble seeing how I could have done things better and I would be the first to admit that I did a lot of things deathly wrong.

  “Admiral?” Laurent pressed.

  “Nothing, Captain,” I replied, smoothing out my features into a pleasant uncommunicative mask, “nothing at all.”

  “If you say so, Admiral,” the Captain said speculatively.

  “Keep us running parallel to the Bugs,” I instructed, standing up from the chair, “I’m going into my office to read some reports.”

  “Yes, Admiral,” the Captain said with a frown that cleared a split second after I glanced at him.

  Chapter 51: A Hero’s Welcome…or not

  “Representative, please report to the Bridge; we are about to initiate a point transfer through hyperspace into the Tracto system,” Captain Middleton’s voice rang throughout the ship.

  Several minutes later, the Representative was escorted onto the bridge by his security team. “Thank you for your invitation, Captain,” the Representative said with a serious nod, “you don’t know how important this is to my people.”

  “Oh, after the better part of several months in Sector 24, I think I have some idea, Mr. Representative,” Middleton said evenly.

  The Representative finally cracked a smile. “Perhaps I don’t give you and your men enough credit, Middleton,” the Representative said wryly, “although, despite all their troubles—and they are great—Twenty-Four hasn’t yet experienced a fraction of what we in Twenty-Three have had to endure since the Imperials destroyed our fixed defenses and abandoned us to the Droid offensive.”

  “My understanding is that the Droids didn’t attack until after the Imperials pulled out,” Middleton said, his words more a question than a statement.

  “The Droids attacked our outer worlds within a week of reaching them,” the Representative said bleakly, “and despite the Union Treaty, our desperate pleas for help fell upon deaf ears. The Senate has abandoned us and if the Assembly even knows of our plight, they’ve done nothing to show it.”

  “The Admiral will help if he’s able,” Middleton assured him as confidently as he could, although he had to wonder if even the Little Admiral could do anything against the Droids.

  The Navigator started counting down the seconds until the jump to hyperspace, until he finally called out, “Point emergence.”

  “Sensors can confirm: we’re well outside the star system, Captain,” the Chief Petty Officer in charge of the Sensor section said confidently.

  “Good job, CPO Sensors,” Middleton said as a dread he hadn’t even known was inside him released when the main screen populated, and he could see for himself that they weren’t about to crash into any suns, moons or planets.

  “Just doing our job, Sir,” the Sensor Chief said with a nod, but Middleton wasn’t fooled. He could see the pride in the head of his Sensor unit.

  “Even so,” was all he said in response, but he could tell as soon as he said it that it was enough.

  Middleton sat there quietly as his bridge went through yet a breakout routine. They had done enough breakouts over the past year that it had become old hat for the men and women that had become his crew. However, this wasn’t just another point transfer into a new or previously visited system; this was the end of a very long patrol, and everyone on the ship knew it.

  “Contact,” Sensors reported with surprise.

  “What is it CPO?” Middleton asked, sitting up in his chair with surprise. Spotting activity in Tracto System wasn’t unexpected—it was the fact that they had pinged something this quickly that concerned him.

  “Sensors reading multiple drive signatures, Captain,” the CPO at sensors reported on his team’s growing sensor picture, “three of them and rising…we’re now up to five, and now ten drive signs, Sir!”

  Middleton stared at the main-screen stonily.

  “Trouble?” the Representative strolled over and asked mildly.

  “It’s more ships than we were expecting is all…looks like the Fleet’s been busy,” Middleton said after a moment.

  “Let us hope that all has gone well since you have been away,” the Representative replied with a nod.

  “Your pardon,” Middleton said, turning away from the Representative.

  “Of course,” the Representative replied in a quiet, even tone as his eyes narrowed and he took a step back and away from the command chair.

  “Sensors, can you identify the Flagship,” Middleton asked, suppressing a growing sense of concern.

  “Not yet, Captain Middleton,” the CPO at Sensors reported, while in the background Shields called out its standard report of descending shield power and the Helm extended baffling and activated the engines. “However, we have identified signs of current mining activity, so it looks like the Belters are still up and running. All I can say for sure is that operations have expanded significantly since our last visit.

  “Good work, notify me the second you identify the Flag,” Middleton said evenly.

  “Do you want me to send out a hail, Sir?” asked his Comm. Operator.

  “Not yet, Comm.,” Middleton replied, “we’ll wait until we see the Admiral or a ship we recognize before relaying the news of our joyous return with word from our Sector neighbors.”

  “Got her, Sir,” the CPO in charge of Sensors said with a sudden grin, “I’d recognize that profile anywhere—it’s the Lucky Clover, Sir.”

  Something the Captain hadn’t even realized had been clenched up inside him suddenly released with the sound of a long, pent-up sigh. It had been a long time, after all. He was just happy that the Lucky Clover was still in Tracto, which suggested that nothing too terrible had occurred in their absence.

  “Send out the general hail, Coms,” Middleton said with a grin, “it’s time to let them know that the prodigal sons have come home.”

  “And prodigal daughters,” his Tactical Warrant Officer grumbled good-naturedly.

  “Breakout,” reported the Helm, and the ship gave hardly a shudder as it emerged from the gravity sump.

  “Excellent work, Helm; set a course for Tracto IV if you would be so kind,” Middleton ordered his Helmsman, making a point of ignoring Tactical until that last part was done.

  “On it, Sir,” replied the Helmsman sounding happy, “it’s nice to be back.”

  “That it is, Helm,” Middleton said before turning back to Tactical and making sure to catch the Warrant Officer’s eye before quirking his mouth and saying, “now, now, Sheila, of course it’s the prodigal daughters too. When you’re sitting in this chair, you can make sure it’s said just so, but until then try to keep a lid on it.”

  “It hardly seems fair, is all,” the Warrant Officer said a bit defensively.

  Middleton shook his head and sighed, “You know that when in doubt or when speaking for large groups, Confederation convention not only allows, but actively encourages us to gender-ize all comments based on the speaker’s own—in this case, your Commander’s gender.”

  “Sorry, Sir,” Sheila said ducking her head, “still a bit of matriarchal dust stuck on this Officer’s provincial boots, I’m afraid.”

  “I realize you’re at a bit of a disadvantage coming from a strict matriarchal society on a closed world, and you’ve done a bang up job at Tactical ever since we picked you up on that damaged station around Agincourt III—which is why you’re now my first shift Tactical Officer—so please don’t get me wrong when I tell you that one of the few perks of being Master of a warship answerable only to the chain of command and the Space Gods is the ability to not have to worry about gender norming every single conversation I initiate,” Middleton said with a smile to take away the stinging edge off his criticism.

  Warrant Officer Sheila pinked. “Sorry, Captain, it won’t happen again,” she said quickly.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he chuckled wryly.

  The next half an hour ticked away
as the ship settled out and started boosting for the edge of the Tracto System.

  “We seem to have arrived an exceptionally far distance outside of normal transfer range,” the Representative observed dryly.

  Middleton grinned. “Natural defenses,” he said as enigmatically as possible.

  The Representative raised an eyebrow, but the Captain just smiled and refused to comment further.

  “Don’t think I’m going to let you get away with that, Captain,” the Representative said with a quiet dignity which belied the hint of a smile around the corners of his eyes.

  Before Middleton could respond, his Sensor section went like a kicked over hive of ants.

  “Point transfer!” cried one of the Operators.

  “It’s close—blasted close, Sir,” cursed another.

  “What’s going on,” Middleton barked, “someone report!”

  “They’re five hundred clicks off our starboard bow,” snarled the CPO in charge of sensors.

  “Weapon’s locking on,” Sheila at Tactical said exuberantly, even as she started issuing rapid orders down to gunnery through her com-link.

  “Captain,” the Navigator said, speaking over the rising hubbub, “the mathematical probability of another ship randomly jumping that close to our ship approaches the absurd.”

  “Weapons locked and loaded; just issue the order, Captain, and that ship is history,” Sheila said, the barely detectable catch in her voice belying her excitement.

  “Keep our weapons targeted on that ship and wait for orders, Warrant Officer,” he rebuked, “this is friendly territory and the last thing we need is to fire on one of our own ships. That said,” he turned to Sensors, “I want that ship type and cast before they break out of that sump, CPO.”

  “Aye, Sir,” replied the CPO with steady authority in his voice.

  “Just give the word and we’ll geld that bastard for you,” Sheila said hungrily.

  Middleton winced and looking around. He wasn’t the only man in the room that didn’t particularly care for that particular descriptor.

  “All starships are considered female, with only a few special exceptions, Tactical,” was all he said.

  “I’m afraid I’m used to all ships being considered masculine,” Sheila grunted shaking her head and refusing to take her eyes off the readouts on her console.

  Middleton suppressed a scowl, as he and the rest of the bridge had already been treated to the Tactical Officer’s opinion that all ships should be considered male because they were possessed of superior power and could destroy everyone inside and around them if they weren’t carefully guided and controlled by their crews—which, in her society, were generally composed of women.

  “I’m reading a Heavy Destroyer of unknown configuration, Sir,” snapped the CPO, breaking Middleton out of his reverie, “all I can tell you is that whatever she is, she’s old but has been recently refitted.”

  “They’ve just broken the sump, Captain,” his Tactical Officer said urgently.

  “Shields to maximum,” Middleton barked.

  “We’re receiving a hail,” his Comm. operator exclaimed.

  “Put it on screen,” the Captain said quickly.

  A severe featured, almost ugly, middle-aged woman with white in her hair appeared on his screen. “Thank the space gods we got to you in time,” said the woman, and Middleton’s eyes skittered across her Confederation Captain’s uniform.

  “Captain Synthia McCruise, if I’m not mistaken,” Captain Middleton said with a nod of his head. “I remember you from that little scramble back in AZT.”

  “We don’t have a lot of time, Captain, so switch this com-link over from general hail to a point to point laser link and listen closely,” Captain Synthia McCruise said, speaking quickly. She then waited with obvious impatience until Middleton’s com-tech indicated her suggested changes had been made, at which point she resumed, “You are ordered by Admiral Montagne to proceed directly to these coordinates at your top speed.” A series of numbers designating a nearby star system appeared on his screen, “Our hyper-drive still needs time to recharge, but we’ll meet you there as soon as possible and give you a new series of jump coordinates.”

  “You want us to leave?” Middleton said, shaking his head in denial, “but we just got here!”

  “I’m sending over my authorization for your team to verify now,” McCruise said, her voice cracking with authority, “I want you to verify this order as genuine, point your ship out of this system, set your engines to maximum and jump at the earliest possibility.”

  “This is highly irregular,” Middleton said, his eyes narrowed with suspicion, “perhaps I should wait and verify these orders with the Admiral. We should be receiving a reply from the Little Admiral in another half hour to forty five minutes.”

  “The Admiral is not in this star system,” McCruise ordered abruptly, “there have been certain changes that cannot be discussed over a com-link in this system.”

  “This is an encrypted line over a laser link,” Middleton said with disbelief, “what could be so important?”

  “Do you read and acknowledge your orders, Captain?” McCruise said severely.

  Captain Middleton turned away and glared at his First Officer, who had his head together with the com-tech.

  The First Officer looked up after half a minute, and meeting Middleton’s eyes gave a grim nod. “It matches our last codes,” the First Officer confirmed, splaying his hands helplessly.

  “I have information critical to the survival of the Spine that cannot wait, McCruise,” Middleton said seriously thinking about ignoring these orders, even if they had been authenticated as best as possible.

  “Tracto has been compromised,” McCruise said, her mouth making a tight line across her face, “if you ever want this information to reach the Admiral, you’ll do as I say.”

  Never looking away from the Confederation Reservist, Captain Middleton spoke to his bridge. “Keep our shields at maximum and weapons on target,” he said grimly, and then after an extended pause, “and Helm, take us away from Tracto at best speed. Navigation is to plot a new jump to the coordinates provided by Captain McCruise.”

  “Thank you, Middleton,” McCruise said, “I assure you that you won’t regret this.”

  “Sorry, McCruise,” the Captain said through gritted teeth. After being away from home, or an unqualified friendly port of call for over a year, they were being sent away before they’d even crossed the hyper limit, “But it’s too late—I regret this already.”

  Chapter 52: The Gathering Storm

  “Point emergence,” the clarion call cut through the room like a siren.

  “What have we got, Sensors?” I demanded, jumping out of my chair.

  “I don’t know yet, Admiral,” the Sensor Officer said with concern, “but whatever it is, this thing is big.”

  “Locking weapons on target,” First Officer Eastwood growled.

  “I’d say go to flank speed, Helm,” Captain Laurent said loudly, “but as you’re already doing your best approximation, all I’ll say is to get ready for evasive maneuvers.”

  “Let’s hope that’s not necessary,” I told Laurent in a quiet voice.

  “With our ship shot to pieces and us unable to outrun even a Bug, I have to agree with you,” the Captain said dryly.

  “Navigation, what are the odds that someone followed the directions on that beacon we left tied to that dead Corvette, versus some random pirate discovering us out here in cold space?” I asked.

  “Not very—” Shepherd started.

  “I’m reading a Dreadnaught Class Battleship,” cried a Sensor operator.

  “Not very high; I’d say it’s a very high chance its pirates,” Shepherd cried.

  “Weapons lock on target and get those shields up to maximum,” I said, slamming my fist into the rail separating the command chair from the rest of the bridge.

  “Aye, Sir,” barked Eastwood.

  “Shields already at maximum,” Ensign Lon
gbottom said crisply and then flushed, “I mean, aye, aye, Admiral.”

  “They’ve initiated the beginnings of a sump slide,” Sensors reported tensely.

  “They’re raising shields,” Eastwood said in a rising voice, “if we’re going to fight, we need to attack before they have the chance to break free.”

  “We can still try to run, Admiral,” Laurent advised urgently, “there’s no shame in admitting we’re overmatched and bugging out!”

  There were too many voices demanding my attention, and I couldn’t think. We needed to close in and clinch, or get the Hades out of there five minutes ago. Decisions, decisions—I didn’t want to get my people killed in a fight they probably couldn’t have won even if we were up to our full fighting weight, and yet the thought of bugging out of anything stuck cross-wise in my craw.

  I knew what I had to say, I just hated the idea of running away and as soon as I forced the metaphorical fish bone that seemed to have materialized in my throat out of the way, I knew was going have to—

  “Sir, we’re being hailed,” the com-tech said excitedly.

  “Increase our distance, DuPont,” I managed to force out in a wheezy voice and rounded on Communications, “and put whoever it is through, Comm.’s.” Amazingly, the fishbone seemed to have disappeared the moment I gave the order to make like a coward and run away, which was fortunate since an instant later a strange officer appeared on my screen.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure,” I said, drilling the screen with my angry, narrowed gaze.

  The woman on the screen looked taken aback.

  “Acting Captain Susan Rider, on detached duty to the Armor Prince on the order of Captain McCruise, reporting for duty, Admiral,” the woman on the screen said, snapping off a smart salute.