“If the MSP leaves the old Confederation Fleet for this new Confederation, then a number of the officers and crew won’t be going with you,” Hammer replied. “Is that a clear enough response?”
“Well, since I very much didn’t ask for a response, I could play dumb or pretend to get offended but considering the gravity of the issue I think I’ll just cut through the drama and let that slide,” I replied harshly. “As for your 'concerned officers,' if anyone is more concerned with their careers or too wrapped up in moral dilemmas to protect the very people they swore to defend from all enemies—foreign and domestic—make sure to tell them to let me know and I’ll put them on the first ship back to the Old Confederation heartland they seem to love so much than us mere provincials. With Murphy as my witness, I’ll even build or refurbish a ship to put them on so they can’t claim I’m wasting their time.”
“I’ve never called anyone a mere provincial nor do I think such a thing. Frankly, many of our old Confederation crew are from the fringe regions,” Hammer defended herself and her fellow Old Confederation transplants.
“Then where do you stand on this issue, Acting Commodore?” I demanded.
Hammer stopped. “I’m undecided,” she said finally.
“Well, glory glory, hallelujah; you’re in the exact same boat as me. So maybe tone down the rhetoric and help the rest of us figure out this mess we find ourselves in rather than throwing around wild accusations, hard limits and trigger warnings, yeah?” I growled before regaining my composure. “Now, next on the agenda is the disposition of our newly-expanded fleet,” I said pulling up an image on the holo-projector. “Part of the reason for having the promotion ceremony at this time, besides the fact that all of you were deserving of the honor and responsibility, is that we’ve been expanding almost non-stop lately and, in light of the new potential threat on the horizon, it’s time to add some organizational structure to this hot mess.”
I pulled up a pre-sorted set of ship schematics, starting with a familiar hull which had come to the MSP courtesy of the younger Cornwallis.
“To start off, Commodore Laurent will be temporarily retaining the Furious Phoenix as his command ship and taking charge of our Cruiser divisions...” I explained as I detailed the assignment.
We could ill afford to lose some our most experienced personnel, which at this point consisted of our Lucky Clover and Furious Phoenix veterans who were safe on one side and our Confederation Fleet transplants who were wavering. In the end I could make all the speeches and appeals I wanted, but I wasn’t a prison guard; they were still going to do what they were going to do. At the same time, though, this fleet badly needed a reorganization. While there was only so much I could do about the first problem, this second one was something I could land on with both feet.
“Next, while Commodore Kling is still in the tank re-growing the lower half of his body, Commodore Jackson will be taking over his duties. With the former commander of the Rapid Ranger as your new Flag Captain, I hope you can whip the Destroyer and Corvette forces into shape,” I said, turning to him.
“I like a challenge,” Rampage said steadily.
“Finally the Battleships,” I said, turning to my two most experienced Battleship captains—and my two biggest pains in the rear, “I’m going to split them between the two of you.”
“Next...” I said, continuing with the breakdown of which warships and squadrons went to whom.
Chapter 61: Cornwallis' Fleet Assembles
“It’s quite a sight isn’t it, Senator?” asked his Aide.
Charles Cornwallis turned a cold eye upon the Aide. “I ask the questions around here, not the other way around,” he said coldly.
“My apologies, Senator,” the Aide said, paling. “I was overcome by the unspeakable majesty of—”
“Leave,” said the Senator.
“At once, Sir,” the other man said, his face white as he hurried out of the room.
“Yet another useless parasite foisted off on me by the Senate,” Cornwallis sneered as yet another aide without the backbone possessed by a street dog turned and fled.
Charles Cornwallis turned back to the clear-paned mono-locsium porthole with the built-in image-enhancing system and looked at the hundreds of warships and merchant relief ships assembled on the border of the Overton Expanse.
The Glorious Fleet of Liberation—a terrible name if ever he’d heard one—and Reserve Flotilla Three had been assembled at an old Confederation Star Base provided by the Grand Assembly, and then reactivated and manned in advance by Imperial spacers personally loyal to the Senator’s house. Thankfully the Empire was providing the lion’s share of the warships and fighting personnel, and the Confederation Volunteers consisted of the rest. The Confederation Government had also shown a relatively open hand when it came to providing supplies and materials and, in the case of the Star Base and over twenty courier ships, a continued line of communication and support for his fleet after they crossed the Expanse.
While the former Admiral would have vastly preferred the Imperial Fleet Star Base positioned not half a Sector away and used by his former command back when he was still attached to Rim Fleet and responsible for patrolling the Spine in the name of the Confederated Empire, the Wolf-7 Star base in the Empty Rock Star System would do for now.
An icon on the porthole’s screen began flashing.
“Praetor. You asked to be notified of any hyper-transitions the moment they were detected,” reported the gravelly-voiced ship’s communication officer. A veteran reserve officer reactivated to help man the Flotilla, he wasn’t part of the Admiral’s staff but instead a regular member of the Senator’s temporary Flagship’s crew.
“Report,” Cornwallis said flatly.
“It’s a Command Carrier, Sir, and it's accompanied by what look to be four troop transports, two light carriers, and a defensive screen of lighter warships. However, both sensors and communications are waiting for further confirmation to arrive,” reported the veteran.
“Excellent news, Senior Lieutenant. Please extend my compliments to your commander, and inform the Captain that I will be transferring my flag to the Command Carrier, Mighty Punisher, as soon as she arrives at the Star Base and has ceased her maneuvers,” said the Senator, pleased that the last of the ships he’d been waiting impatiently for had finally arrived.
“I’ll relay the message at once, Praetor Cornwallis,” said the Communications Officer.
“Good. Inform the Fleet: we depart in two weeks to conquer the Spine in the name of the Empire, Cornwallis out,” said the Senator, cutting the transmission.
The Senator took one last look at the Imperial Flotilla lined up in neat and tidy lines, the jumbled hodgepodge of aged Confederation warships, SDF dregs and the various freighters representing the many business interests, relief organizations and hospital ships attached to his fleet, and he sneered.
It was an untidy mess, but it was what he had to work with—and it would be more than enough to deal with a bunch of angry frontier rustics armed with two and three generation old technology and equipment.
That Arnold Janeski had made a hash of things and managed to get himself killed in the process indicated that the enemy had at least a basic level of competence. But whatever surprises the enemy had in store for him, the Senator was quite certain that they had never tangled with a true scion of the Empire.
It had been far too long since he’d left the halls of power; this would make for a nice change of pace and return to his roots. When one uses the knife for too long, one could forget that the true power of the Empire lay not in its knives but in the sword of the Empire that was its Navy.
The Spineward Sectors was his path to true power. With a lure like that, nothing could stop the fourth rail of Imperial politics—not when the Triumvirate, and thus the whole Empire, was just within his grasp.
Epilogue: The Cryo Ship
“Captain Stravinsky, thank you for taking the time to visit my office,” said Synthia McCruise.
“When the Commodore asks if you have the time for a meeting, you drop everything else and make time. I came here as soon as I could, Sir,”’ said the former First Officer of Easy Haven’s now destroyed flagship. A flash of reluctance flitted across her face before disappearing behind a once again professional mask.
“'Acting Commodore;' there’s no need to pretend to butter me up my ego doesn’t need stroking, and I know you’re not exactly pleased with me or the direction of the Reserve Squadron these last few months,” said Commodore McCruise.
“I believe I have never been anything less than professional, Sir,” Stravinsky said coldly.
“Yet you question my decisions,” said McCruise.
“Any officer or crew member who says I have done so is a liar, and I’ll refer them to fleet legal for conduct unbecoming,” the former First Officer replied harshly.
“I’m not referring to public statements, although I’m gratified to hear it. What I meant was private remarks and positions,” said the Acting Commodore.
Stravinsky raised both eyebrows but failed to say anything.
“This is not some kind of trap. You are to speak freely, especially since I have a very special mission I think you alone are uniquely qualified to handle,” said McCruise.
“What, captaining an ore barge?” the former First Officer scoffed. “I have eyes; I can see what you’re doing.” Synthia McCruise sighed. “Fine I’ll bite,” Stravinsky said after an extended silence, “what’s the mission.”
“No not a barge, that’s for certain,” Acting Commodore Synthia McCruise said, her expression turning serious. “One ship, one crew. The CSS Hot Potato. It's an old hull that was sitting in the yard, half-disassembled and originally intended as a Q-Ship as far as I can tell from the records, that survived the destruction of Wolf-9. She’s been rebuilt from the keel up on my orders, and if you accept she’s all yours.”
Stravinsky was offended.
“So it’s not a warship. That’s about what I expected,” she said, crossing her arms.
“Let’s be clear: you’ll never support me like you did LeGodat,” McCruise raised hand, “and that’s fine. But I can’t have you here muddying up the chain of command,” then she paused as if seriously contemplating it before waving it off and focusing back on the present. “Well, I could, we’re both professionals after all and I’m sure we could come up with some kind of arrangement. But thankfully this job is more important than all of that.”
Stravinsky bristled. “What could you possibly say that would make me agree to leave at a time like this?” she demanded.
“Word is the Confederation has sold the Spine to the Empire,” the Acting Commodore said, dropping a proverbial bombshell into the tense conversation.
“That’s confirmed?” Stravinsky fell into her chair, the wind knocked out of her sails.
“Say instead that it’s a not insignificant part of the reason you’re being offered this mission. I’m sending you to report in and send back word. When LeGodat was in command we tried a couple times to get word back but never were successful. With the Potato and you—one of our best ship commander candidates at the helm—I think this can work,” said McCruise.
“What makes you think I can succeed where the others have failed—and why the CSS Hot Potato?” asked Stravinsky genuinely curious.
“As you can guess, I’m sending you back with Hot Potato for news, to apprise Fleet Command of our status and tell them that we’re still alive out here and, yes, to hopefully get new orders and clarification. I’ll admit I’m not the same as LeGodat. I’m not as sold on the legitimacy of Montagne as a real functional Confederation Admiral with command authority like he was,” McCruise said and then lifted a hand. “Still, LeGodat, by virtue of seniority among original ship commanders, was the senior officer in command of the system at the time a lot of tough decisions had to be made. So I want to be clear: I’m not so much contesting his decisions or his right to make them, as seeking direction from higher authority. While I might have made different decisions if I had been in command, that's largely irrelevant since no two captains do everything identically. The same goes double for anything thrust into system command. Right now my concern is for the future.”
“Then why? Why now and why me?” Stravinsky asked, her lips a tight line.
“Because LeGodat survived the battle and has been placed in cryo. Your job is to get him to the Confederation and get him the best medical care possible,” Synthia McCruise said coolly.
“What?!” the First Officer shot out of her chair.
“Sit back down,” McCruise’s voice cracked like a whip.
“He’s alive!?” Stravinsky blurted angrily. “Why am I only hearing about this now? Everyone thinks he’s dead!”
“You’re only hearing about it now because you were in rehab for three months and he was so badly injured that there is little hope of surviving upon being removed from cryo. Because of that, I didn’t want any mix-ups in the chain of command once I took over, or questions about my legitimacy. We needed a smooth transition,” McCruise said coolly.
“You should have sent him away with the Fleet to Gambit,” Stravinsky said furiously, “they have one of the top medical facilities in the Sector. Blast it, I don’t care about whose technically in command. You can’t play games with his life like this!”
“You mean the MSP? His spine was almost pulverized in several places, he had major organ losses, and he sustained significant cranial damage prior to being retrieved and frozen,” McCruise said coldly. “Our best physicians looked at his case and said the only hope Colin LeGodat has of survival isn’t to be found in this Sector. Gambit Medical, while good, just doesn’t have the skill he needs in our best opinion. He needs to go home. Only in the Core Worlds—the real Core Worlds, preferably the Capital of the Confederation—do they have the medical skills and equipment to ensure he makes a full recovery.”
“Sweet Murphy take you for a manipulative witch,” Stravinsky swore.
“No, tell me what you really think,” her hatchet-faced commander scoffed.
“I’ll be blunt: I don’t like you, your methods, or the direction you’re taking us. A lot of good people died to get where we are and here you are playing power games to shore up your position. As far as I can see, you’d be just as happy to throw it all away as stay. But fine. For the sake of the Commodore, I’m in,” she said bitterly, “you’ll have a free rein to do whatever you want.”
“To be honest, I don’t really care what you think about me. LeGodat pampered your ego and let you get away with more than he should have, in my opinion. And as for your assessment, it couldn’t be farther off. Maybe you’ll understand once the weight of command settles on you a bit more. Regardless, this is a onetime offer and offending me isn’t helping your chances,” said the Acting Commodore.
“If you had someone else I’m sure you would have given them the mission,” Stravinsky grit her teeth, “I can’t believe you left him in cold storage for more than six months.”
“You were in Medical having your body rebuilt and undergoing physical therapy and Hot Potato was in the yard. No one needed the distraction,” said McCruise, “so I take it you want the assignment?”
“I already said 'yes.' I’ll go back to the Confederation and get the Commodore the medical treatment he needs,” Stravinsky said flatly.
“Here’s your orders, and a crew list you can select from for your new command,” Synthia McCruise said, sliding a data storage device across the table. When Stravinsky reached across to take it, she kept a middle finger on it and held it in place for a long second, “Needless to say, you are not to inform anyone outside of this room, including your crew, the exact details of your special passenger in cryo until after you’re already out of this Sector and back inside the Confederation proper.”
“You want me to lie to them?” Stravinsky asked rebelliously.
“Tell anyone who asks the truth: we are attempting to regain contact with Flee
t Central Command so as to clarify our position. As for the special cryo-equipment in the hull of your ship, LeGodat won’t be the only frozen medical passenger you’ll be taking. Once again, the truth is that we have cases that even MSP Gambit Medical can’t handle and can more easily be treated at a proper Confederation facility. Just don’t mention any names and you’ll have nothing to worry about.”
“You’re really something,” Stravinsky said acidly.
“Is that you refusing the mission?” asked the Acting Commodore. “Because if you can’t keep your mouth shut I can find someone else who will.”
“No, Sir. Sorry, Sir. I’m the woman for this job,” Stravinsky said.
“Then take your orders and get out of my office,” snapped McCruise. “I’ve got a star system to run.”
The End – Until Part Two, Of Course!
Admiral's Nemesis (A Spineward Sectors Novel: Book 11) Page 49
