by Chris Hechtl
“I … see the older woman murmured as her eyes lowered to an unseen screen. “I'll, um, have to talk this over with my people.”
“Please do. Also, any fighters, bombers, or volunteers you can send and any munitions of course, and gunships. We need to find a way to stop the enemy in their tracks before they roll right on through Dead Drop.”
“Of course, of course. I'll get on that,” the other woman replied with a nod.
“Thank you. I see the time lags are getting extraneous, and I know you have a lot to do, madam. My compliments on your duty to the empire. I will make certain others know of that,” Catherine said.
The older woman nodded. “My thanks, my lady. Safe sailing.”
“Good luck,” Catherine said as she cut the channel. “You'll need it, you old bitch,” she murmured to herself.
:::{)(}:::
Dead Drop
Captain Lovejoy watched his ships trundle to the jump point with mixed feelings. He appreciated being told to get out of the area for his own personal survival, but it was only temporary. If the duchess was smart, she'd send them back with as much as they could carry.
Given her history as a greedy, scheming bitch he wasn't sure about that. Though, she had survived up to this point, survived and thrived he reminded himself sternly. She might see the advantages of fighting in Dead Drop over fighting on her own doorstep.
He had to admit, for the first time in his life, he was glad he was in supply over the main combat fleet arms. He had no escort but he didn't need one. He had six tenders, all that the admiral could spare. The remaining ships were acting as orbital warehouses as well as assembly points. Two of the freighters were empty; their cargo holds had been turned into workshops. Broken equipment was uninstalled from a ship and then sent over to them to be stripped down and either repaired or scavenged.
He pursed his lips as he looked at the repair yard. It had never been designed to handle anything larger than a cruiser, but the crews were working minor miracles. Executioner would never get much further than 70 percent repaired with the resources they had on hand so they had focused on rebuilding some of the other ships. They couldn't afford the risk of having more than one ship down and helpless at a time, but they were doing a good job with the bubble gum, rigging tape, and bailing wire the planet was providing to patch the ships back together.
Now, if the enemy could delay long enough, he might get to scrounge for more supplies in Garth. Could he convince the duchess to send her forces forward? He doubted they'd make much of a difference, but any help would be appreciated.
“Sir, we're approaching the jump point. Hyperdrive capacitors are charging,” a voice said, cutting through his ruminations.
“Very well,” he said as he turned to the watch. “Plot our course and begin final preparations for jump. Remember, we're not to slow down. Comm, pass it on to all ships to make their absolute best speed to Garth. We need speed here, not coordination.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
:::{)(}:::
Captain Abernly looked out through his window to see the rain beating on the people outside. He grimaced at the distracting sound of the downpour. It wasn't good for him or for the sods trying to get on with the business at hand out on the spaceport tarmac.
He shook his head. He had to admit, he was still unhappy about how things had turned out. Being demoted to just running the planet rankled a little; he also had to answer to officers who he outranked. The admiral's chief of staff for instance.
He was not surprised when he'd balked once and gotten a tongue lashing from the admiral for his trouble. He was more or less resigned to the situation. He looked out over spaceport to see a massive shuttle landing. It flared, lights nearly blinding him as it compensated for the weather and came down tail first. The nose dropped and gratefully the lights cut out just as he was raising his hand to cover his eyes and turn away.
He noted it was a good landing and then grimaced at the sight of the wreckage in the field beyond the shuttle. It was being picked over by work crews in yellow slickers, despite the weather. He shook his head.
They'd had three accidents in a month. The shuttles were being pushed too hard. He knew it, so did his pilots, but they grimly held in there with little complaint. His engineers wanted some downtime to make repairs and run deferred maintenance. Unfortunately, they couldn't do that; they needed those birds in the air. Every bird lost put even more pressure on the remaining shuttles to take up the slack. Not even weather was enough of a reason to delay them for long.
Sri had worked a lot of magic in getting components moving smoothly. They couldn't produce warheads or advanced equipment, but they could produce the basics. They were quickly running through the stockpile of processed raw material in the inventory. Admiral De Gaulte had begun shipping down scrap to feed into the smelters, but it wasn't going to be enough. Not in the long run. The miners just couldn't keep up with demand.
He rubbed his brow as he considered the problem. That was the problem with running off of what amounted as slave labor with little machine help. They were literally working the slaves to death in some areas. Without incentives and proper care, the slaves were beginning to falter. There had been incidents at some sites, usually those far enough away from the towns and cities to allow the rebels to get away with their actions temporarily. Seven escapes had so far been successful. His people were agitating to use electronic perimeters and exploding collars; however, there weren't enough of the devices to go around. Besides, they lacked refined explosives. It was one reason the mining was lagging behind. All the imported explosives he'd had in his inventory had been appropriated by the fleet.
If he could get more equipment into the right hands, it might make some difference. Or, if they could get some raw material from the thin asteroid belt or Oort cloud, it would be even better. Unfortunately, the belt was made up of mostly iron gravel. The large asteroids were made out of sand held together by their mutual attraction. That meant handling them was … tricky.
But, if he could convince the admiral to turn some of the tugs loose they could feed the orbital works with material in orbit, thus saving him from shipping material up from the planet. He frowned and then pulled up a spreadsheet and began going over the numbers while also considering just how to pitch the idea to the admiral. Surely, he wanted Magnus to succeed, right?
:::{)(}:::
Garth
Glennis was glad to see more reinforcements arrive in Garth, but it wasn't enough. Not nearly enough in her estimation, though anything was better than nothing. She just hoped it would help.
The convoy of six freighters, one of which held replacement bombers and fighters, plus a single squadron of destroyers, the Arboth class CEV Haige, and four cruisers of mixed classes. All of the ships had been newly refitted and recommissioned into Battle Fleet after being in the Gather Fleet. In any other time, she would have been sorely tempting to hang onto them by any delaying tactic she could employ. She had avoided the temptation with supreme willpower and was proud of herself for that, her husband's missives to behave notwithstanding. According to their dispatches, the ships were all that Admiral Cartwright had managed to get out of Home Fleet at that time.
News about the disastrous battle in B-95a3 and that the Retribution Fleet had been forced to retreat had made the duchess decide to facilitate their refueling in order to get them to Dead Drop faster. Therefore, she ordered Agnes to expedite the refueling.
She passed on her sense of urgency to the various captains when they requested shore leave. Once the situation was made clear, the captains moved out grimly. Some were clearly unhappy about going into Dead Drop. No one was sure if the empire still controlled the star system. She listened to a recording of Agnes suggesting they jump a little short and nodded in approval.
The duchess wasn't certain they would be enough to stem the tide however. She was afraid her own antics had backfired. Frank had more or less said so when he'd informed her of his meeting with Countess Newberr
y. They had both known it was a matter of time before someone took notice but getting his hand slapped apparently rankled enough for him to take some of his ire out on her. She had tucked away some of his snark for her own tart rejoinders when or if she had the chance to answer in kind.
However, she was less concerned with trouble from home at the moment than she was from the Federation forces bearing down on her neighboring star system. The further away they were stopped the better. That meant she had to reluctantly send as much as possible to Dead Drop to help.
But, it also meant she needed to plan for a possible invasion of Garth. She spent a long evening considering how to retreat and just how to spin it. If she had time and warning, she could go to the homeworld under the guise of an urgent need to consult her husband and get reinforcements. But if not, she'd have to fall back on the excuse of getting out of harm's way so the enemy couldn't capture her.
Reluctantly she decided to send some of the reinforcements she'd diverted. As the convoy got underway once more, fresh orders went out to refuel the corvettes in order to send them on to Dead Drop, though she wasn't certain what good the small ships would do. She wrote a series of letters to her husband, family, and contacts in the court to press home the need for more reinforcements and the danger of the enemy taking Dead Drop.
She had already put Garth's industry on a wartime footing. She had begun to stockpile some material, far more than she normally did. Balancing raw material, her personnel, and logistics was normally fun. Now it seemed imperative that she get it right so she fiddled with the numbers constantly.
Work on updating the shipyard was nearly finished. She was gratified that Agnes had pushed so hard to get it back into action. She wrote a missive to Admiral De Gaulte informing him of the shipyard status with the suggestion that he send her ships that could be repaired there. They had enough components on hand to handle cruisers and destroyers. If he could send her a list of what was needed she might be able to cobble something together or send a request for parts from the home industrial plants.
When she saw the transports pass through the star system, it just made her blood quicken with fear. The transports carried soldiers and wounded. De Gaulte was getting them clear of the battle, even though many of them could have been of some use somewhere. That made her reconsider her plans to retreat and fret over activating them early. Reluctantly she backed down from the knee jerk reaction and then went back to work.
The following morning, she had Agnes begin stockpiling supplies to send to Dead Drop. The two medium freighters she'd sent with parts and supplies would be returning in a week. She was determined to get them turned around with material as quickly as possible.
:::{)(}:::
Captain Nijing of the Silver Tongue Devil grudgingly had to admit, his mission was on point. Oh, he'd thought the men and women in the Admiralty had been old women, jumping at shadows when they'd issued him his orders. He'd had half a mind to not take them seriously, quite possibly even go out to do a little hunting on his own before returning after a while.
But, in order to get to good hunting grounds, he had to follow his orders anyway. When they had gotten to New Horizon he'd almost forgotten them—right up until they had noted strange ion trails in the star system. A check with the local lord had proven fruitless; the man had known nothing about the ships.
His people had informed him that based on the ion decay the ships had passed through five weeks prior. There was a report of other signatures as well. The odd thing was that CIC was certain that the ships had been traveling in a group.
That was when he'd remembered his orders. Suddenly wary, he'd continued on the mission with a bit more caution. He wasn't certain if he'd meet up with Trembling Timmy in the next star system, but he'd find out when they got there. They had a halfhearted bet on who would get to the empty star system first. The loser would have to be the picket there while the winning ship scouted on ahead.
He wasn't so certain he wanted to win that race anymore.
Chapter 20
Horath
“Just when you think they'd settle down …,” Countess Newberry grumbled. The other officers around the table nodded grimly.
A good chunk of the cabinet had been busy the past several weeks trying to mediate a potential war between the Jokers and other elite units while also dealing with the emperor and the rebuilding of the fleet. The potential war between the elite units was an extremely dangerous distraction, but for them and the elite units so it had to be handled quickly.
“We need to put this to bed fast.”
“I'd just love to put the bastards out of all of our misery and save a lot of headache in the future. Lords of space know they deserve a bullet to the back of the head,” Admiral Rico grumbled. The others around the table nodded in grim agreement once more.
The Jokers had started it as usual, dissing another elite unit and then adding insult to injury by breaking into, ransacking, and defacing a home of one of the Skull Rider's member's leadership. They'd gone so far as to break into the home and rape the wife and daughters of one of the motorcycle chapter’s leader. The culprits had laughingly gotten away after spray painting their trademark graffiti everywhere. The women had been a mess, the fourteen-year-old girl had died from blood loss, and the twelve-year-old was catatonic. The family of the mother was screaming bloody murder for revenge.
Ordinarily the units settled their scores between themselves. They had to do the bloodletting quietly. It was against the code to involve the government or law enforcement. If it escalated, they had allies to draw on. The Skull Riders were allied with the Ghost Riders, another motorcycle group. The Jokers were loosely allied with the other two psychotic clown groups, the Jesters and the Killer clowns. However, the government didn't need a civil war while the war with the Federation was heating up. They had intervened to put a stop to the bloodshed before it got any worse.
“What are we going to do with them? They are undisciplined psychotics!”
“But, smart ones. They disabled the cameras and left no prints,” the baron replied with a sour look on his face. “We don't know who in their group did it. We don't even know for certain they did do it. They aren't claiming coup like they usually do.”
“Which may or may not be the smart move given the political climate right now. They know if they push some of the groups hard enough they'll tear them apart. They are too cute with the facial scaring. They might have disabled the cameras but those give anyone in their unit away. The problem is; they don't seem to care. And they are as brutal to each other and civilians when they are bored as they are with the other units,” Duke Zilo Pardoll, the home secretary and minister for internal affairs, stated.
“Which again brings up my point. It's not unheard of for another unit to masquerade as them, do some dirty deed and then sit back and watch the fireworks,” General Levot stated.
“Why are you defending them?” the duke demanded.
“I'm not. I admit, I'm playing devil's advocate a bit, but someone has to,” the general replied with a shrug.
“Does intel have anything?” the duke demanded, turning to Countess Newberry.
She spread her hands as she shook her head. “You know how hard it is to get anything out of them? They are crazy smart. No, nothing on the radar, nothing in their communications. No social media posts. The last one they did they put the video up on social media. They either smartened up or are waiting. Or, as the general said, they didn't do it.”
“Right. So, they are bored and want attention. They think this is a fun way to relieve tension or whatever passes for reason in their minds,” the general said with a shake of his head. “They probably don't like it that the emperor went to the Death's Head shindig but not their own.”
“It might be that,” Baron Ghadaffi, the minister of security said.
“Who knows what motivates these idiots? Why anyone would join a group of twisted sadistic …” Admiral Cartwright said as he threw his hands up in the air.
“Ahem, they don't have a lock on sadism, not by a long shot, Malwin, you and I know that. They are just the ones that are the most public about it,” the countess replied evenly.
Malwin looked sourly at the countess and then nodded grudgingly at her point.
“You said this could be a plea for attention. Could this be a way to remind everyone of their bad boy reputation in order to get sent to a combat theater? So far none of the clowns have gone out,” the duke pointed out.
“Because they are nuts. They would be impossible to control,” the general said with a shake of his head.
“So? What if we throw them at the Federation?” The duke asked with a grin.
“It'd be a slaughter, a waste of resources.”
“Yeah, but it'd get rid of them.”
“Unless that's part of their thinking,” the countess said slowly. The others turned to her. “Reverse psychology. They want us to double and triple think the situation. It's also a part of their modus operandi, correct?” she asked, turning to the general.
He grunted. “Wheels within wheels, yeah. Their twisted logic only makes sense to them most of the time.”
“I don't see a way of utilizing them at the moment. We can't invade the Federation. I'd love to get rid of them, believe me,” Malwin murmured. “Just shipping them out would be nice.”
“We'd get about half back by the time they got to their destination,” the general said. “They'd kill each other and the ship's crew off out of boredom and a desire for 'fun,’” he said with a shake of his head.
“Yeah, that's what I was just thinking,” Ahab said with a shudder. “I know some of those idiots. Some of my people are in them.”
“Ouch,” the baron murmured.
“Yeah.”
“What's the old saying? Hell in combat but a complete pain in the ass in garrison?” the general asked, looking up as he scratched at a scar under his chin.
