“Yeah, because you wouldn’t tell us why we had to bail out of our cabin! The way you were acting, I thought security was hot on our trail, or we needed to clear out before a random room inspection,” she growled, and the way her lower lip stuck out and her hands rested on her hips like some kind of little brown pixie would have been cute, if not for the mountain of a man standing literally right behind her.
That was when he knew it was time to call out the big guns. It was time for the big lie.
“The Admiral needs us,” he exclaimed, hamming it up as much as he could without gagging, “look, I’m sorry I didn’t fill you in on every little detail in the rush over here,” he threw his hands in the air and stomped around a bit. Then he leaned forward to whisper, as if revealing a big secret and gave them a significant look, “Word through the Intelligence grapevine is that the Security Council is growing tired of waiting; they’re moving forward with the execution sooner than expected.” He actually had no idea what the UPN Sub-Committee had planned, since it should have been patently obvious to even these fools that he was no more privy to that information than anyone else who could watch the Confederation Special Pan-sector Assembly News release (otherwise known by the handy acronym: CSPAN) but there was no need to make them aware of the fact.
Lisa gasped and put a hand over her mouth, and seemingly without thinking, she leaned against the Tracto-an.
“I didn’t realize we had so little time, the last we saw on CSPAN, the hearings looked like they could continue going on forever with the way they keep droning on and on, and that gag order is simply inhuman,” she started off sounding worried, but by the end she was stamping her feet in frustration.
“The public poll results they run in the sidebars seem to indicate most of the population actually finds comfort in seeing the Tyrant of Cold Space openly muzzled by the Provisional Assembly. It simultaneously humanizes him, and makes him appear mortal and not some unstoppable force of nature,” Tremblay said, unable to suppress a half smile at the thought that Jason Montagne was finally getting a taste of his own medicine.
“You wipe that smirk off your face, Raphael Tremblay,” the Com-Tech barked, sounding so much like his own mother at that moment that he instinctively winced and hunched his shoulder to defend against a blow that never came. “I don’t know what you have against the Admiral, whether it’s simple jealousy or an ingrained suspicion of everything royal, I don’t know and frankly I don’t care, just so long as you do your job and it doesn’t get in the way of us helping the Admiral Montagne,” she said fiercely.
“Me?! Jealous of a Montagne, that Montagne?! That’ll be the day,” Tremblay scoffed. “I don’t know how that notion entered your head in the first place,” he sneered.
“The sooner we can break him out and show the people of this star system, and the rest of the sector just how wrong they are about the Little Admiral, the better,” she growled.
Tremblay blinked. “That’s exactly why we need to get out of here and off to the Dungeon Ship, as soon as possible. I’ve exchanged a few messages with the crew of the ship he’s being held on and, amazingly enough,” he said, shaking his head in genuine disbelief, “they’re from the Clover! It’s the very crew the Admiral sent to Captain Synthia McCruise, after our battle with Captain Cornwallis and the Imperial Strike Cruiser.”
That Tremblay had contacted the crew aboard the Dungeon Ship without much hope of success (and more than half an eye toward getting a little leverage in his back pocket, if Heppner and his hounds caught scent of his activities) was beside the point. Besides, he had only gone as far as exchanging a few cautious—non-incriminating—messages with their former crewmates.
Again, nothing they needed to concern themselves with. Either they would be welcomed into the loving arms of their fellow loons, or they would find themselves on a one-way trip to a cell on the very ship they were attempting to infiltrate. Either way, by the time anyone found out about this pack of fools, Tremblay and the rechristened MPF Lucky Clover—now the SDF Larry Montagne, by order of their new Commodore—would be long gone from this system. It was even possible the mission might be successful, and they would slip into the Dungeon Ship like a royal hand into a velvet glove.
The Universe was strange that way; one could never predict every little wrinkle in the larger folds of existence. On some level, he actually hoped they succeeded, in spite of himself. They were hardheaded, even stupid at times to the point of imbecility, and more than half-determined to get themselves and everyone around them killed in one gigantic blaze of glory. Despite all that, they were more real and genuine than half the new officers strutting around the ship.
He came out of his reverie to realize that all three of them were staring at him with varying levels of concern and suspicion.
“What?” he asked.
“I said we’ll do it, so lead the way,” Steiner said irritably, with a melodramatic eye roll thrown in for good measure.
“Wha-,” he gurgled, switching mental gears and a smile broke out on his face, “Great! Now all we need to do is get this great big lug in the laundry bin.” He gestured with certainty at the pile of stinky clothes still at the bottom of the bin; they would make decent cushioning for the other man.
“We’re putting a lot of trust in you, Lieutenant Tremblay. Don’t make me regret it,” said the spunky little Com-Tech severely.
Tremblay put a hand to his chest dramatically, to disguise the sudden stabbing sensation he actually felt in his gut. There was no way he could keep hiding them on this ship forever, and there was even less of a chance he could conceal their stated goal to rescue Jason Montagne. This was literally the only plan he had been able to come up with on short notice, and he knew if they took a couple hours—hours they did not have—hashing things out, they would have gone regardless of what he said.
Then, for the first time, the fact that he was lying by omission about not accompanying them started to bother him. Not to mention the manner in which he was set to benefit, regardless of whether they succeeded or not. He felt a strange sensation churning away in the pit of his stomach…and he suspected it was guilt.
“You can trust me; have I ever led you wrong in the past?” he asked instead, forcibly suppressing his sudden, inexplicable urge to actually be a part of their group, and accompany them to the Dungeon Ship.
That was impractical on so many levels. He was a member of the Commodore’s staff, and if he disappeared, they might suspect something and turn the ship around, just to be sure. It was a long shot that they would do so, but still not worth the risk, in his opinion. Also—assuming they were successful, and he did decide to join their side—having an inside man on the Clover possibly able to transmit critical intel when no one was looking, was the smart play.
The fact was, Jason Montagne would have to be more of a fool than even he was capable of not to shoot his former First Officer out of hand for his suspected (and, in this case, actual) part in the mutiny, which had seen control of the ship revert to parliament. That, as far as Raphael Tremblay was concerned, was merely icing on the cake.
So, his impulsive desire to throw his lot in with these good-hearted dunderheads died a stillborn death, and he just smiled, to allay their suspicions.
After that, it was just a matter of covering the scowling Tracto-an with dirty laundry, and heading for the nearest lift.
“Don’t you think it’ll be suspicious if we push the laundry bin all the way to the shuttle,” Lisa whispered out of the side of her mouth from her side of the cart. Tremblay was opposite her, and poor Mike stuck at the back, where the ripe smell of their cargo was strongest.
Tremblay raised an eyebrow. “An Intelligence Officer taking a suspicious looking package and loading it into the back of a ‘civilian’ shuttle? In the middle of a busy shuttle bay, no less? Do you really think any member of this crew is stupid enough to wander over and start asking tough questions?” he asked incredulously.
The little Com-Tech looked reflective. �
��I guess I got so used to things under Admiral Montagne, that I forgot how good we had it,” she sighed. “He kept you guys on a short leash.”
Tremblay’s step stuttered before he caught himself and his gait steadied. As an Intelligence Officer, he never really had to worry about that, but looking at it from the standpoint of the general crew, it was no wonder they were happier under their Little Admiral.
The thought caused him to frown. Due to his training, he was used to thinking that way, but Jason Montagne just might have been smarter than he had given him credit for. He took the only member of the crew left to monitor the crew—himself, Raphael Tremblay—and kept him so busy with his ‘promotion’ to First Officer, there had literally been no one with the time or training to go around watching the crew. Thus binding the crew to him in ways the rest of them would never dare mention in the presence of their new First Officer.
First Officer, Tremblay thought bitterly, “it’s not even a real post on a battleship! Having never been on the Command path, Tremblay had been unaware that the proper title for the second-in-command of a military vessel is Executive Officer, until hearing Commodore Jean Luc Montagne use the term when dealing with Captain Heppner. It fits, though; Honorary Vice Admiral Jason Montagne, dancing to his own beat. Why should it come as a surprise? he thought to himself with a derisive snort.
His musings were interrupted by their arrival at the shuttle’s loading ramp.
“Thank Murphy for gravity repulsors,” he muttered, as he helped the other two shove the laundry bin up the back of the ramp.
A no-nonsense older man, with the working uniform of a crew chief, stood just inside the little cargo-hold.
“This is the cargo you wanted transferred, Intelligence Officer?” asked the Chief.
“This,” Tremblay confirmed, tapping the side of the bin and then taking two steps back, “and my two compatriots here, of course.”
The Crew Chief just shook his head dourly, but looked disinclined to ask questions.
“Two compatriots,” Steiner said quizzically.
“Oh, yes, there’s another one hidden within the bin,” he said, pointing at the pile of laundry and taking another pair of steps away.
“You’re the boss,” said the Crew Chief shaking his head.
“We’re all going together; that’s the plan, right?” Steiner asked, looking at him uncertainly before taking a step toward him.
Tremblay smiled, to take the sting out of it and shook his head sadly.
“Someone’s got to man the home front, and if the Commodore’s new Flag Lieutenant suddenly disappeared, questions might be asked that would interfere with the operation,” he said, shooting a glance over to the Crew Chief to indicate it was unsafe to talk about everything in front of these other men.
“So, what you’re saying is, you’re sending the rest of us on a one-way trip to a Dungeon Ship, while you’re going to stay safe and sound right here. Do you realize how bad that sounds, on the face of it, Officer Tremblay?” Steiner demanded, and the pile of laundry started to shake as clothes went flying off to either side.
“I assure you, it’s not as bad as it appears; the mission is still a go,” he said, by this time now on the ramp. He turned to the Crew Chief, and the other man looked at him with concern.
“Button her up and take them over, just like I told you. This is still a top secret intelligence operation,” he said sternly, slapping the side of the shuttle and then jumping off the ramp.
Behind him, the ramp began to close, and Lisa shouted something. Heirophant’s bellows could just be made out, as he broke free of the entangling laundry just before the ramp finished closing.
“Another job well done,” Tremblay said to himself, as he headed for the exit of the shuttle bay.
With a jaunty hitch to his step, he listened with satisfaction as the thrusters of the shuttle behind him fired and the ship slowly levitated out of the shuttle bay.
Symbolically wiping his hands of the whole mess, he headed back to his quarters. The Commodore had him buried under a mountain of paperwork, and without Mike around to share the data-crunching, non-critical task load, it was all going to fall right back squarely on his shoulders.
That was okay, because the greatest threat to his long-term survival had just left the ship. Now, it was time to focus on placating his greatest short term threat: the Montagne Commodore.
“Your day will come,” he said, clenching his fist around an invisible throat, “no one does that to me and gets away with it,” he hissed, unconsciously rubbing his right hand at the joint where the doctors had reattached it. He might not be the bravest man, but he was a man, and certainly no coward. That evil, vindictive Montagne would pay for his crimes.
Oh yes, he would pay. The former Intelligence Officer was unsure exactly how it was going to come about, but with those feckless, pie-in-the-sky-heads-firmly-stuck-in-the-clouds- do-gooders off his ship and out of his hair, he could finally turn the full weight of his time and attention upon their newly minted Commodore.
He was eager for the chance.
Chapter 31: Spalding in a Time Crunch
“No! No!” Spalding screamed, as their sensors registered the Clover and her companion Dreadnaught Class Battleship burning for the other side of the system, in clear pursuit of the hyper-limit.
“We’re too bloomin’ late,” he cried, slamming his fist through the data screen on the console in front of him. Sparks, fire, and more than a little smoke started pouring out of the ancient console.
“Played for a fool!” he raged, stomping on a console that looked like it predated a ship that was even older than he was—and from a design that seemed ancient when the AI’s were still young.
“Sir?” asked Brence, the only man on this miserable excuse for a warship who had come off almost as bad as himself after receiving the tender ministrations of the Quack. Any man who had been so badly wronged by Medical deserved what little sympathy he could muster. That was why he had made Brence the Executive Officer of this rattletrap they were both marooned on.
“Blow me out our twin mechanical evacuation ports,” the wizened engineer said, drawing himself up short and taking in deep, puffing breaths into the single lung that quack had left him with. He glared over at Brence, causing the man to step back; but unlike most of the timorous door mice on the ship, he failed to cower. It was a definite point in his book…that, and the fact that this ship needed another engineer more than it needed an XO.
For all the other man’s faults, at least Spalding knew what to guard against, unlike the vast majority of the fools who had been put forward when Lady Akantha had exiled him to this broken down old warship. In fact, it was the very reason he had picked the wayward spacehand to back him up.
“To think, if I’d been stupid enough to abandon our fine filly over there—something that wouldn’t have ever happened, not in a million, billion years,” he said, shaking his head sourly, “instead of joining that Captain off in some retirement Vineyard, like his several secret messages claimed, I could have been Pirate Spalding, the Mechanical Scourge of Unknown Space,” he grudged slapping his head near his mechanical eye, and giving his droid legs a little kick, “Cyborg terror of the space lanes,” he finished derisively, scorn dripping from his every fiber.
“I don’t understand, Sir,” Brence looked confused, something the Chief Engineer had nearly come to consider a natural state for the man, “you’ve only had mechanical…attachments since the Fusion Reactor Incident.”
Spalding shot the other man a hard look; he wasn’t about to tolerate any mis-labeling, or telling of the tale. But, as Brence was one of the two men who went in after him—and the only one of the two who survived after pulling him out—he let it pass with just a nasty look.
“The Demon changed me inside his realm, I can feel it in my bones,” he declared, ignoring the fact that most of the changes were actually installed by Medical, in favor of the more important, ephemeral changes.
Brence shook
his head sympathetically.
“No doubt he would stretch his hands back through the wrinkle of time,” continued Spalding, “quantumly entangle this terrible new body, interposing it and ruining my fit as a fiddle old one, had I dared abandon my appointed task as Guardian of our fair Clover,” he declared. Then, what he had just said penetrated his fog of outrage, and he realized how badly he had opened himself up for ridicule.
He rounded on the former Space Hand before he could say a word. “And being hauled off the ship against my will—in a stasis tube, my body dead for all the world to see, plain as day—doesn’t count for abandonment,” he warned, waggling a finger in the other man’s face furiously, “that was the Demon’s work, plain and simple. Although, I’m not above having a few strong words with the Little Admiral, when I get my hands on him again, HA!” he declared.
“Right,” Brence blinked rapidly, his puny brain clearly unable to process the great wisdom his Chief Engineer had just bestowed upon him.
Spalding scowled.
“Do you want me to set a course to follow those two ships?” Brence asked intently.
“Do I want you to set a course for those ships…” Spalding smacked the side of his head theatrically. “Are you daft, man? Of course I do!”
“Helm, follow those two ships,” ordered Brence in a rising voice, as he turned to face the Helm.
Spalding stared at him flabbergasted for a moment, and then he gave himself a shake.
“Belay that order, Helmsman,” Spalding barked.
Brence rounded on him with his natural state—that of confusion—plain on his face.
“Your time in the Demon’s Realm works against you; it’s rotted your brain, you slack-witted…slacker you,” he cried activating his plasma torches.
The Helmsman in this cramped excuse for a Bridge, looked back and forth between the pair of them with fear.
Admiral's Trial (A Spineward Sectors Novel:) Page 26
