by Chris Hechtl
She felt for Naomi. She'd been there. Having a wounded ship sucked, it wasn't just a wound to the metal and plastic around you, but to your home and to your soul. Something some saw as pitying or with disdain, blaming the crew for getting hurt in the first place.
Those who had never experienced it didn't understand. They didn't deliberately go in to get hurt. No sane ship captain did. Warship officers were usually hunters; they preferred to kill the enemy ship quickly and without any damage in return. Everyone had that idea in mind. But, a fleet action, especially a close quarter's one was a slaughterhouse. They were lucky they were returning at all. She'd seen the broken bits of Justice being cleaned up by the tugs.
She checked the status board and then pursed her lips. Trajan had his hands full with the carrier command. He rarely had time for either of them to visit, not that she expected it. They'd had one brief booty call that still made her glow when she remembered it. It was nice to have him in the same star system so they could exchange emails and VID chat messages. She had teased him about his star and transferring to Argus. Hopefully, he settled in soon.
She gave it another two months before they were comfortable enough to go back on the offense once more. She was fairly certain that the admiral would be cautious about getting in too deep. But from their last senior officer conference she'd attended, he fully intended to put the screws to the pirates as fast as they could.
This time she'd be there along for the ride—older, wiser, and deeper in sin. But, ready to tear it up once more.
Chapter 15
Retribution Fleet, B-97c
The journey to B-97c hadn't taken long, a bare six weeks to get there despite their damage. Admiral De Gaulte was gratified that the crews had managed to make good on some of their damage along the way, though he understood they had a long way to go before they could be judged as fit for battle once more.
But, it had been an almost orgasmic relief when there had been no sign of the enemy in B-97c. Captain Lovejoy and the fleet train had been waiting there, a welcome sign. Still, they had been cautious as they had crossed the star system, ever aware of the enemy's superior speed.
They were fortunate to catch Captain Lovejoy's reinforcements when they had arrived at the Dead Drop jump point two days before the fleet arrived there in subspace. More than one sailor had expressed relief and gratitude at seeing them. Some had reportedly been near or in tears at the news. He could understand that though he knew most of his people hated looking weak. They hated and feared it for their own people were as likely to pull them down as the enemy. Or had been. Now they had to pull together or they would all fall.
His people had sucked the colliers and tanker dry and then had turned them around with the fleet train to get back to Dead Drop with the news. According to the captain's report, no one was coming in behind him for another few months. Cyrano was of two minds about that. He was grateful no more reinforcements had been passed in their flight, but he was bleakly aware that he wouldn't have much waiting for him in Dead Drop when he got there. And he'd need them desperately.
But therein was a fresh problem; in making the repairs, his people had scraped the bottom of the barrel of the reinforced fleet train. He ordered the empties to be sent to race back at their best speed along with Nimitz and the ships with no drive damage, but then decided there was no point remaining in the star system.
His forces had met up with Captain Lovejoy's reinforcements. The captain had just the single pair of tin cans as warships. The other ships in his convoy had been stripped of resources along with his old fleet train and sent off with them. But he'd hung on to the tin cans.
He admitted his force was broken. He grudgingly gave ground, aware it was hard on morale. He had no choice. They had to shorten their logistics line and get some space between them and the enemy. Every time they prepped to exit hyper, he was also aware that many feared the enemy had raced on ahead of them. He too shared that fear, though he was wise enough not to give voice to it. His staff was doing their best to settle people, but it wasn't easy. Knowing he too had misgivings wouldn't help the situation and would undo some of the repairs they'd fought hard to make.
He forced himself to have his forces sit on the Dead Drop jump point for some time digesting the new acquisitions. He didn't want to show his fear or to give into it. He also wanted to wait and see if those cruisers followed him. But, finally, when little more could be done in the machine shops after a week of work, he gave in and fell back further.
:::{)(}:::
Dead Drop
There was no doubt that disaster was looming for him and potentially for the empire as the Sword of Retribution's fleet train, Nimitz, and several of her ships arrived. They confirmed the courier's report of the battle of B-95a3. It was a shattering revelation for some when the news hit the public. Despite everything he tried, the captain couldn't put a stop to it. He was not happy about it and how it was affecting morale.
Reluctantly he allowed the engineers to triage the ships while he did his best to shift every fighter and bomber he had to the carrier. It was stripping the planet dry but they would be of more use on the carrier in space than on the planet. The sooner he got them there, the quicker they could drill with the crew of the ship to become a cohesive unit once more.
To date he hadn't seen any more reinforcements, though he was aware there were more in the pipeline from a single courier that had arrived in the star system two days prior to the new arrivals. He had stopped the courier from moving on with her message; there was no point since he had already known the admiral's intentions of falling back on Dead Drop.
What bothered him most was that he hadn't seen the promised shipyard techs, nor the battle cruisers. Nor had he seen a single Gather ship. He no longer expected any to come from the West, but none at all from home? No one was interested in fighting the Federation apparently. He couldn't blame them. The courier had left after the resupply convoy had jumped. Had they suffered an engineering problem in transit? He hoped it was minor, something that forced them all to slow down and not get lost.
He was starting to think it was a good idea to pass on command of Dead Drop to someone else. Leave someone else holding the bag and return to Horath for a long overdue reassignment was paramount in his thinking. If the commodore or Captain Lovejoy showed up before Admiral De Gaulte, did he fully intend to hop a courier back home to “consult” with the Admiralty and give them a full assessment of the situation.
Now he just had to wait and see who showed up first.
:::{)(}:::
Garth:
The arrival of the Retribution Fleet courier with the news of the disastrous battle of Protodon and then the second courier's arrival with the news of the battle of B-95a3 spooked Duchess Tucket. She realized everything could come crashing down around her ears. The death of the two princes shocked her. Normally, she would have seen opportunity. Now though, it was different.
When Trembling Timmy and her courier consort passed through the star system, Glennis knew things were serious. Captain Brown had declined her hospitality as his two ships continued south to the jump point there. Along the way, he passed on their messenger traffic as well as a warning from home about his mission. The very idea that the enemy could be coming from two separate directions spooked the duchess further.
Alarmed that enemy might be lurking south of her she decided it was best to shore up her defenses while working on means to get more sent to her. She wrote out missives to her husband to get additional forces assigned to Garth to defend the newly reopened shipyard. Surely, the empire would do that?
Unfortunately, she was short of couriers to send back. It took days of impatient waiting before two ships turned up. Both of them were crippled Sword of Retribution destroyers. She had been grateful to see them and a bit puzzled as to why they were returning home. When she found out why, she understood why Captain Abernly had passed on them. Without any offensive weapons and stripped bare as they were and with only a skeleton cr
ew, they were too damaged for her to use. She only took a few hours before she too decided to send them on to the homeworld with her mail to everyone she knew to get her more help.
:::{)(}:::
Retribution Fleet in hyperspace
Cyrano drained his glass and then grimaced. That was a major downside of being in hyper; he was trapped with little to do but think. Usually he loved such times; he could read or game out things. Train his staff or pit them against each other in Sims and then critique their performance. But, not now. Now his battered command wasn't up for the challenge, nor was he thought sourly.
His steward had reluctantly informed him he'd drank his entire inventory of alcohol recently. The fleet had hit the sauce hard as well; he was stuck drinking the products of the ship's still. It wasn't much better than battery acid, but at least it was something to dull the pain.
How badly everything had gone wrong still burned within him, worse than the rotgut did. His fingers clenched around the glass, hard enough for his aged knuckles to whiten. To lose to a damn chimp bothered him almost as badly as losing to an inferior force. He had been attritioned. His forces had taken more and more damage and when the enemy's reinforcements had arrived, he'd been forced to retreat. His attempt to draw them out of position so he could go back in to Protodon and raid it had also failed.
It had gone so well initially though! He closed his eyes as he remembered that brief heady feeling of triumph. He'd had White on the ropes; he'd pulled the chimp's beard, tore his precious fleet up, and forced him back. Had he overreached? The usual strategy of running down a routed foe was ingrained into him, but had he gone too far in his zeal to finish the job? He wasn't certain. Nor was he certain if he wanted an answer to that question or not. Obviously, the armchair officers and lords back home would be asking it for him rather loudly in his absence.
The last battle had been a disaster. He had taken into account the enemy's superior speed and ability to repair themselves, but when they hadn't appeared, he'd relaxed and lowered his guard. When the minelayers, for the four ships they'd seen had to have been layers he thought, had shown up on his plot, he'd thought they were scout cruisers. More fool he!
He opened his eyes and stared dully at the screens around him without seeing the contents on the screen. It wasn't enough. He knew that. If they got more reinforcements in Dead Drop, which he highly doubted, he might, just might be able to stall the enemy. Fight a fighting withdrawal. He hoped and prayed things didn't go that way. They hadn't gone at all well when he'd tried it in B-95a3 after all he reminded himself.
:::{)(}:::
A day out from Dead Drop in hyperspace Admiral De Gaulte informed the princess that he was going to transfer her onto the first ship leaving Dead Drop for Garth and home as soon as they got into real space once more.
"But … sir …," she protested weakly. Her mind worked furiously. She didn't like the image of running but if it came as an order … she had to put up just the right amount of resistance to the idea to make it good.
"No buts. You are the new Heir Primus, and this isn't a place for you to be. Not now. Not anymore. You have to be protected. Go. Get me some help."
"Sir, your staff …"
"I'll make do as I always will. I'll poach someone to fill your shoes as OPS officer Catherine. They won't be as good as you, but I'll make do. You get home and let them know the gravity of the situation. Order everything in Garth forward to Dead Drop to back me up. I'll have the orders on a chip for you."
Catherine nodded. "Aye, sir," she said. That was the least she could do.
"And order what can't move to begin preparing fall back and defenses there," he said. She pursed her lips in thought. He nodded. "I'm practicing the old art of planning for both victory and defeat."
She nodded once. "Yes, sir."
"Learning the hard way it seems," he mused as he looked away with pain. She sympathized; it was one thing to be victorious, quite another to deal with defeat. His attention shifted back to her. "Now get going. The ships with the worst damage that the modules here can't help will follow along once we've stripped them of everything we can. Let them know that too. Get me some help, Catherine!" He stared into her eyes.
She squared her shoulders. Here was a man who'd been repeatedly beaten but wasn't defeated. At least not fully, not yet at any rate. She needed to see that resolve. The Empire needed it. They would need it badly in the future she thought, especially in the coming days if the past few months were anything of a clue. "I'll do my best, sir."
:::{)(}:::
Commander Berney Yashanaka felt miserable at the loss of Catherine. She wasn't gone yet but just about he thought as he turned to the departing courier vessel. He knew she probably felt like she was abandoning them. Of course, he could be wrong; she was a politician after all.
He frowned as he read the latest email from Lieutenant Savenan. The lieutenant wanted a ceremony to turn over command. Admiral De Gaulte didn't want any such thing though. He shook his head and wrote out a quick missive denying the motion. “It's simple. We don't have the time, and we shouldn't waste the resources. My compliments to your officers, but we'll pass on that. Admiral De Gaulte does wish to meet with Captain Abernly and his staff to begin the transfer soonest however,” he wrote. He scanned it quickly, made a few minor corrections, then added his signature and then sent it off into the database to be transmitted to the planet.
He was grateful that the shipyard was online. It was only a repair yard, but at least it was something. He was also grateful to see the ships there waiting for them. They weren't much but they were additions to the fleet, sorely needed ones no matter their condition.
With a frown, he turned his attention to the staff. Sedrick was going in circles trying to dig up something, a magic bullet or that little nugget of information they could use to win the next battle. So far, he hadn't had much luck.
Jeremy was at a loss now on what to do that the fleet was in the star system and his navigational skills were no longer of use. He made a note to involve the junior officer in either the logistics or repair aspects of the fleet.
Myron wasn't happy about losing Catherine. But, he had managed to dredge up some information on the ship classes they had faced recently. He had pulled even more information in from Dead Drop when they had arrived and still more was being transmitted to him. Berney wasn't certain how much would ultimately prove useful, but anything would be good at the moment. He realized they might be grasping at straws. After all, the enemy knew those weaknesses better than they did, but they had to figure something out.
Now that they were in subspace again, he could start the hunt for a replacement OPS officer. Obviously, the admiral needed someone junior to Berney himself as to avoid command chain confusion. But, that didn't leave a lot of options other than Lieutenant Savenan. From what little exposure to the lieutenant he'd had so far, he was impressed with the man's ability to function as Captain Abernly's XO but not with the man's gift for psychopathy. There was only so much ass kissing he could put up with. Slobber was nice, but he didn't need or want it, nor the fear the lieutenant seemed to exude around him. Nor did he want a yes man who might paper over problems rather than address them.
Morale was still low in the fleet, but at least it had started a slow upward climb now that they were on their way to the repair yard to deal with the damaged ships. He frowned and made a note to look into the supply and logistics issues, then realized his previous thought and routed it to Jeremy to look into with the quartermaster.
He also made a note to pitch additional training with the fleet as is, plus possibly send at least one ship back to B-97c to act as their eyes. The ship could very easily be ambushed or outrun, but they had to start somewhere.
:::{)(}:::
Admiral De Gaulte smiled smoothly as the meeting between him and Captain Abernly commenced. His eyes lit when the captain presented him with a bottle of whiskey. “I'm afraid this is a local vintage, Admiral, I don't keep much in stock,” the
overweight captain said apologetically.
“It is the thought that counts,” the admiral murmured with a grateful nod as he took the bottle and then passed it on to Berney to then pass it on to his steward. “This isn't really a time to celebrate anyway. I know you aren't happy about being replaced like this, Captain. That makes two of us. This wasn't what I had in mind when I set out from the empire.”
“I know, sir,” the captain replied, at a loss for what to say.
“But, we'll make the best of it. I understand you know the planet's players intimately. I'll need you to remain there and keep things moving smoothly there.”
“Yes, sir. I was um, up for transfer having been here for many years,” the captain said, licking his lips nervously.
The admiral's eyes narrowed. He knew what the man meant. Ordinarily he wouldn't mind ridding himself of the fat bastard; however, he needed what was in the man's head. “Not anymore. The empire needs you right here.”
“Yes … sir,” the captain stuttered.
“I received your report. You are to be commended for getting what you could done with just what you had on hand. I'll make certain that is reflected in my report home.” The captain swelled a little in pride at that praise after being so recently deflated. “We'll need every factory churning out parts. Every machine shop, any person with skills on the factory floor busting their ass to get this done.”
“Yes, sir. We're already working double shifts. I'll do my best to find some additional gears or something,” the captain said.
“You do that,” the admiral replied, knowing most likely the factories were at saturation level. “Find empty warehouses and turn them into machine shops, whatever works,” he suggested.
“I've got a list of ideas, sir,” Berney interjected smoothly.
The admiral turned to him and then nodded.
