Admiral's Trial (A Spineward Sectors Novel:)

by Wachter, Luke Sky

  “And if we can’t,” Heirophant growled, giving me a clench-jawed stare.

  “Then we can go out in a blaze of glory,” I relented with a sigh.

  “I am sworn to serve you; not the other way around,” he said unhappily.

  The words were like music to my ears, and I practically danced into my room to get the handheld. By ‘danced,’ I really mean ‘staggered,’ and by ‘music,’ I meant ‘a persistent, annoying ringing in my ears.’

  “Come on,” I said trying to cheer him up, “it’s not like you’ve never had to fall back in the face of a superior foe before.”

  “I have not,” retorted Heirophant, his face one of grim defiance as if he had been insulted.

  “What?” I blurted, looking at him suspiciously.

  “Never—never have I retreated in the face of a foe,” he reiterated flatly.

  “Not even when the Gunnery Department was…” I trailed off.

  “As one of the few with a captured battlesuit, I was the tip of the spear. I swore the enemy would have to go through me, before they could reach my Departmental Brothers. This was a vow I kept,” he said, his eyes seeming to look back into a memory from the not-too-distant past.

  “Right, well now you’re going to be the tip of a different kind of spear: one aimed at the enemy’s vitals. It’s not as glorious as going for the head or the heart, but it can be just as effective,” I added, to cover my uneasiness at the other man’s words. I wondered if I would have been brave enough to stand in the face of overwhelming odds, knowing I was probably going to lose, yet still advancing because those were my orders.

  A triumphant charge, even if there was a great chance of defeat…I knew I could do that. After all, I’d done it before. A fighting withdrawal, with me at the back because I was the only one in power armor…it might take a few deep breaths, but for my men, I figured I could probably manage it if the need arose. But going into certain defeat without the possibility of retreating…I just didn’t know. I liked to think I wouldn’t ever do something that stupid, but I just didn’t know. My courage would probably desert me, even if my brains were out on an extended vacation.

  Clicking on the activating switch of my hand held com-unit, I tried to raise somebody. “I need a pick-up,” I said into it, “I’ve got a wounded man in need of extraction.” Deafening silence was all I got in reply; there wasn’t so much as static on the line. “Hey there,” I said, putting the whip crack of command into it, “this is Admiral Montagne! Whoever’s on this line had better get off their duff, and on the other end this horn!”

  Several iterations of this same line, each of them just as fruitless as the last, spewed out of my mouth to no effect.

  “Blast. I guess we’ll have to try it your way,” I said unhappily. Then I cheered up a little, “At least I won’t have to live with the guilt, so there’s that.” I tried to look on the positive side, but this was one of those infamous ‘no win scenarios,’ and there wasn’t very much to be positive about when you were stuck in one of those.

  The muted hum of a grav-cart came from around the corner.

  My warrior and I exchanged a pair of glances; mine wide-eyed, and his narrowed. Then we leapt into action, pulling the two dead men into my cell. I discovered I had more strength than I thought, as I drug John Henry into my room by his feet. Let me tell you, bodies are heavier than they look, especially when you’re out of your power armor like I was.

  My thoughts turned dark, as I remembered that power armor had not been particularly helpful against my Uncle. Why hadn’t I kept my helmet on? When I remembered why I had removed it—so I could speak with that Pirate Montagne without appearing to be afraid—I quickly moved on. Better yet, I should have had him summarily executed, I thought grimly. Although, again, it’s unlikely Marine Colonel Kyle Riggs would have executed the very man he was trying to deliver into my ready room to assassinate me.

  Still I could have waited until Jean Luc was on the Flag Bridge, and then instructed my loyal lancers to burn him down. As my options for Monday Morning Quarterbacking got further and further fetched, the Grav-cart got nearer and nearer. Heirophant and I both crouched just inside the doorway to my room as it was about to pass by.

  Whoever it was, was about to get the surprise of his life!

  Chapter 12: Finding the Perfect Patsy

  A few minutes earlier.

  Tremblay needed someone who could get into the Brig. Someone who could remove a body from there unchallenged and it could not be Tremblay himself. He had been in the Brig too much of late, and the Morale Officer might have even left instructions for the Guards to keep him out if he showed up again—or worse, ordered that he should be escorted to his own cell. He needed someone to get the lancer out if everything went as planned. Otherwise, there was always the possibility the lancer could kill the Morale Officer, his assistant, and somehow survive any confrontation with the Marine guards…if that should occur, the Lancer could point the finger straight at Tremblay when questioned. That simply would not do; it would not do at all.

  Not many had access to the area and most of those that did were well-vetted and loyal parliamentarians. They were more likely to turn him in, rather than be subverted or blackmailed. Besides, that type of thing took a lot of time to develop, and time he did not have. There was however one individual on this ship who was likely to help him, either out of the goodness of his heart, or because Tremblay could blackmail him into compliance. It was the same blasted individual who had gotten him into this mess in the first place, which only made the situation all the more poetic.

  If the man had left well enough alone, Tremblay would still have his hand and Jean Luc would not have been able to leverage him into murdering the Morale Officer. Except for a minor indiscretion named Lisa Steiner—Com-Tech extraordinaire, Tremblay was just another typical, moderately dissatisfied, loyal parliamentarian officer. Sweet Murphy, was obscurity really too much to ask?

  Well, since this man had not left well enough alone, neither would Tremblay. He did not know his name, but he easily remembered the face of the orderly who had saved Jason’s life by stuffing him in a tank. And since Tremblay still had access to all the personnel files of the old crew aboard this ship, it was simply a matter of going through photos in the personnel files of the Medical Department until he spotted his target. It had been tedious and time-consuming, but Tremblay finally found the right man.

  The file said he was a decent trauma medic with extensive experience during this deployment. That experience was in part thanks to the crew's beloved Little Admiral running around seeming intent on killing off as many of them as possible. The man had a minor notation in his file that said he was part of some kind of ship’s music club: a trumpet player. Tremblay even thought he remembered something about the group now…it was coming back to him as he thought about it. There had been a jam group playing in the mess hall a couple months back, where they had literally been booed off stage for playing some kind of deathly, earsplitting form of space grunge. The jam group had promptly fallen apart and never played together since, much to the relief of the ears of the crew at large.

  “Well, well, Crewman 2nd Class, Medical Orderly and Space Grunge trumpet player extraordinaire, I have you now, Justin Tyrone Beaver,” he muttered, saving the unique personnel code of the Orderly in his record files. Using the Intelligence database from the secure terminal he had personally installed in his quarters after the Imperial withdrawal, it was the work of a few moments to insert the proper, low-level security clearances into the DI.

  “Now…if we put a signal into the system, purporting to be from the Morale Officer’s Assistant,” he said under his breath, tapping away on his console. It was much easier to hack the encryption codes of the Assistant over those of the Morale Officer himself, and much less likely to draw suspicion. For the first time, he was actually grateful to have Lisa Steiner―or, more specifically, her boyfriend Mike―on his team. With the click of a button, a new work order was queued into t
he system. A couple more instructions entered and a specific lift elevator was designated as the only one that would respond to the orderly for the next half hour.

  Stepping out of the room, he locked the door before heading over to the nearest lift location. Several minutes later, Tremblay was leaning against the inner wall of the lift—in a deliberately intimidating manner—when the doors slid open. Standing on the other side was Justin Beaver, medical orderly extraordinaire, and the very same man whose actions had directly led to Tremblay’s current circumstances. “Hello, Justin,” the Intelligence Officer said with a wicked smile, “it’s time you and I had a talk.”

  The orderly froze. “I’ll just take the next lift,” he said quickly, backing away alongside his grav-cart.

  “I think you’ll find this is the only lift that will be answering your summons today,” Tremblay said, giving the younger man a flat look.

  The orderly’s eyes widened, and he hesitated before visibly summoning his courage, and stepping into the lift. “The name’s J.T. by the way. The only one that calls me Justin is my mother,” he explained, a note of worry in his voice.

  “I’ll make a notation in your personnel jacket,” Tremblay said dryly, causing the orderly to gulp.

  “How about those Parliamentary Cruisers,” J.T. began gamely, referring to the backlog of smash ball game files the relief crew had brought along with them when they boarded the ship. He selected a favorite team of the current crew.

  “How about one Jason Montagne, a man who should 'not' be alive,” Tremblay retorted, matching his tone.

  The Orderly turned white as a sheet. “I, uh…don’t know what you’re talking about, Lieutenant,” said J.T.

  “Now, that’s very interesting,” said Tremblay as he pulled out his data slate, on which he pretended to make a notation.

  “What did you write down? Whatever it is, I’m sure I didn’t do it,” exclaimed the orderly.

  “You can save that line for someone who doesn’t know any better, but seeing as I’m the one who saw you take the Little Admiral to Medical for healing—all on your own authority—I’d take a moment and think again,” Tremblay warned, placing his black-gloved hands on the shoulder of either arm to emphasize his point.

  “B-b-but, you gave him to me, Mr. Tremblay. You’re the one who left him there.” J.T. protested, his hands wringing.

  Tremblay decided he had sufficiently put the fear of Parliament into the little scud-worm; it was time to change tact. “You’ve helped the Little Admiral at least once before,” Tremblay said meaningfully, and held the Orderly’s gaze until the other man nodded reluctantly.

  “I took a medical oath,” whispered the now-quivering young man.

  “Well then,” Tremblay said with a condescending smile, “it’s time to help him again.”

  The orderly was shaking his head.

  “There’s a man—one of the Admiral’s Lancers, you see—and you’re going to…” he let his hard look finish the statement, and by this time, the other man was staring at him in horror.

  “I won’t do it; I’m loyal to the Elected Order,” he blurted.

  Tremblay pointed his data slate at the Orderly. “Oh but you will, Crewman Beaver. I assure you…you will,” he said menacingly.

  “I won’t! And if you try to make me, I’ll-I’ll-I’ll,” inspiration seemed to strike, as J.T. Beaver’s eyes flared indignantly, “I’ll tell the new Executive Officer.”

  “Thus implicating me in some kind of royalist plot, and running to one of the few men on board who might have reason to believe I was after his job,” Tremblay said appreciatively, nodding his head as if at a star pupil as he tapped the data slate against his arm.

  The Orderly stared at him like a mouse stares at a snake before it strikes.

  “But you see, the single most important factor you’re forgetting is this,” Tremblay continued, displaying his fresh stump for the orderly to see. “There’s a new Commodore: a blood-crazed Montagne Commodore, and he’s enraged—absolutely enraged that the Little Admiral is still alive,” began Tremblay, seeing the other man’s face drain at the sight of the ruined arm. “So by all means, if you’re certain you won’t help a man in the Brig who has more than earned your loyalty, then let’s take this whole sordid affair before the new Fleet Commander. He’s already taken his satisfaction from me,” Tremblay indicated his arm. The best part about this particular fabrication was that on most of the key parts, it would ring true.

  “What,—I didn’t say…I mean, what if…” the Orderly ground to a sputtering halt staring at the stump.

  “If you can’t drum up the loyalty Murphy gave a green creeper, then let’s go to the Commodore and lay our sins bare. He’s already fully informed on mine, as you can see,” Tremblay once again waved his stump, “but once he finds out your part in this little affair of ours, I wonder…” he said tapping the data slate lightly against his chin for effect, “will he be so forgiving?”

  The orderly’s eyes rolled up into his head, and he immediately passed out.

  “Now that’s unfortunate,” Tremblay muttered, angrier with himself for overdoing it, than he was at the orderly. He snapped his fingers in the younger man’s ears, and when that failed to rouse the man, he twisted his nose.

  The orderly came awake with a shriek. “What do I have to do?” he sobbed after regaining his senses.

  “Just calm down, and remember you’re on the right side of this one. Saint Murphy’s got your back,” Tremblay assured him, and from a certain perspective, it was even true. Both the former Admiral, and current Commodore appointed by Parliament, wanted this to go down. That the Commodore could care less if Tremblay got away clean, was beside the point; he had been instructed to use any tools necessary for the job…that Commodore Montagne had merely implied the use of a vibro-knife, meant nothing to Tremblay.

  He had spent long enough working for Montagne-lite to recognize some of the same operating patterns in the older, nastier version; Jean Luc played for keeps. It was at that moment when everything crystallized for Tremblay. Ignoring all the window-dressing,―like Caprian general crew, versus the new Parliamentary Loyalists—the most important thing was to keep the eye on the prize. Exchanging Jason for Jean Luc was a bad trade, regardless of Parliament bestowing its blessing. Jean Luc was insane, not only that, he was a Montagne of the Old School. Tremblay was now willing to admit he may have misjudged Jason.

  The Little Admiral was still a fraud but an honest—albeit suicidal—one whose intentions were good. The Commodore, on the other hand, was a bloodthirsty, murderous, mauling, scum-of-the-spaceways pirate. It would be nice to get rid of them both, but lacking that…Capria and her people would be far better off with that bumbling, full of himself, Honorary Admiral. Having Jean Luc at the helm was simply unacceptable. Tremblay was unsure he could change anything, but he was going to have to try. It seemed he was the only one on this ship with the people of Capria’s best interests at heart.

  “Now, here’s all you have to do,” he leaned forward and whispered in J.T. Beaver’s ear conspiratorially for several seconds. When finished, “You haven't got much time; go now and be ready.” Tremblay deactivated his counter-surveillance field and with a whistle, he pressed a button and stepped off the lift, once again secure in the rightness of his Elected Cause. “For the People,” he reminded himself fiercely.

  Chapter 13: An Ambush

  It was a gravity stretcher that rounded the corner of the corridor, not the grav-cart I had been expecting. Guiding it was the sort of fresh-faced crewman I had been used to seeing in my crew. He was wearing the insignia of a Medical Orderly on his chest.

  He’s probably just another parliamentary stooge, I reminded myself angrily, and tapped Heirophant on the shoulder.

  The orderly came to a slow stop and glanced around him furtively. Heirophant tensed, but I placed a hand on his shoulder; whether by accident or design the grav-stretcher was currently blocking the doorway. We needed to play this cool. I was sure that
he could leap over the stretcher and pulverize the parliamentary crewmember in nothing flat, but if this was a trap…I could totally see someone like the recently deceased Morale Officer ordering a lamb in to be slaughtered, if it would give the Jacks a better shot at the escapees.

  “Admiral,” the Orderly whispered, and the Tracto-an under my hand went from tense to nearly bursting, like a spring that had been wound too tight.

  I placed a finger on my lip, certain that my former Lancer could see me out of the corner of his eye. He was a trained warrior, and I was just a recent college student who never even finished his degree, so on an objective level he had no reason to listen to me whatsoever. But the ‘Warlord’ thing must have kicked in again, because he gave a fractional nod and eased back the barest fraction.

  “Admiral Montagne,” hissed the Orderly, starting to look worried.

  I jerked my head, motioning Heirophant to take a step out of the room. Once again proving his inexplicable, fanatic loyalty, he only hesitated a moment before obeying.

  The Orderly sucked in a breath at the sight of my blood-soaked warrior, but rapidly nodded his head, his breath now coming in sharp, fast gulps.

  “Oh thank Murphy, someone’s here; I was about to have a heart attack. I’m supposed to let you know I’m here to smuggle you out of here,” the Orderly whispered quickly.

  I popped my head out from behind the door, unable to help myself. “You’re here to get us out?” I asked, unable to believe the stroke of good luck. Maybe we were near an inhabitable system after all!