Admiral Who? (A Spineward Sectors Novel:)

by Luke Sky Wachter

  Chapter 9: A Change Of Wardrobe

  It was a relief to be out of that iron cage they called power armor. I rolled my shoulders and sighed, suddenly aware of how sore my neck felt.

  My new wardrobe (which arrived courtesy of a stocky brunette which Gants was apparently sweet on, who worked in the supply/storage department) was a little too well padded, but at least I now looked like I belonged on a star ship. As of this morning, I was the proud new owner of a heavily reinforced officer’s uniform. The armory crew even told me it sported the insignia of an Admiral, which was a step up in blending into the naval world. Much better than official Caprian court attire or that battle suit I’d been wearing up until now.

  The main reason I had accepted the new uniform as a replacement for the battle suit, was that along with being bullet proof and blaster resistant, it also provided some limited protection against hand-to-hand vibro weapons. I was told it lacked many of the more modern features of an Imperial uniform, but compared to the uniforms worn by the rest of the crew it was a big step up.

  The colors were nothing like the scheme of the current naval uniforms worn by the ship's crew, and the design was very much retro, in my opinion. It would definitely stand out in a crowd, which was certainly a double-edged sword.

  The only truly unfortunate thing about this new ensemble was that it wasn’t an SDF uniform. Instead, it was an old-style Confederate officer’s uniform from a period before the official unification of the Confederation and Imperium.

  From the cut of the cloth, it seemed a rather rotund Admiral had found his way onto the Lucky Clover at some point and left one of his uniforms behind when he departed.

  The ship’s tailor had been called over to the armory from his post in the supply department. After a few quick measurements, the waist was taken in and the arms adjusted. The uniform now fit close enough for me to appear in public without fear of embarrassment. More importantly, I would no longer loom over the bridge crew in a battle suit. A suit of armor that no longer felt quite as invincible as it had before the chief engineer disabled it with his bare hands.

  So I left the battle suit behind with mixed feelings. On the one hand, it had stopped blaster fire aimed directly at me at close range. On the other hand, its padding left a lot to be desired in the comfort department. Still, this new uniform seemed to be adequately protective and comfortable.

  But just in case personal security once again became my sole responsibility, I was also the proud new owner of a miniature, hold out blaster pistol. It was small and easily concealed in the sleeve of the new uniform, so no one would know I was armed until it was too late. Amazingly, I managed to somehow feel a measure of security with the addition of a new uniform and a pistol that could easily fit in a lady's portable makeup kit.

  I had survived an Imperial withdrawal which had seen what was essentially the better half of the ship's crew taken with them, a political assassination attempt, a false-alarm life support failure on deck three, and a face-to-face meeting with perhaps the most crazed Engineer in the SDF.

  I was exhausted. After riding the lift, I made a quick tour of the Flag Bridge, before heading back to my quarters for some sleep.

  Three hours later, claxons sounded and I jerked out of a nightmare filled slumber. Instead of the usual process of waking gradually to the sound of the gentle, yet successively louder tone of the alarm clock, I bolted out of bed to the sound of the harsh yellow alert siren.

  I pulled on the Confederate Admiral’s uniform (the new one with built in protection that made me look fat) hanging over the back of the desk chair, and hastily worked the buttons closed. Buckling on a ceremonial sword (the only part of my court attire I had transferred to my new admiral’s uniform) I couldn't help but laugh. Thanks to the former Marine Jack’s, I had rarely worn the sword on the bridge. Now, my first day in a proper naval uniform and the sword was the very first thing I put on when I heard the alarm.

  I paused to check if there was anyone in the corridor outside my quarters. Seeing no one, I took off at a run for the nearest lift.

  Arriving outside the Flag Bridge panting, more from the adrenaline dump than the distance to the bridge, I paused to straighten and adjust my uniform. The blast doors were closed, which wasn’t usually the case.

  Flicking my hair out of my eyes, I slapped a panel to open the door. Nothing happened. My heart rate skyrocketed. I took a deep breath to calm myself, an action that wasn’t helped by the still howling alarm claxon. I ran a hand through my hair again before glancing around. No one was there and I became angry with myself for even checking. As the Admiral, I shouldn’t be worried about someone else watching me. They should be worried about me watching them!

  I reached into a pocket on the front of the uniform and pulled out the command crystal for the ship. I inserted it into the door's control panel, and sighed with relief as it slid open.

  I repeated the process with the second set of doors and walked onto the Flag Bridge.

  “Where are we headed,” shouted Lieutenant Tremblay. He was wearing dress pants and an undershirt. The rest of his uniform, including footwear, was missing.

  “There are no point coordinates set in the Nav Computer, First Officer,” said the Helmsman, panic in his voice.

  “Field strength approaching first threshold. Point of no return estimated in two minutes and counting,” a rating at one of the sensor consoles reported.

  I stood in the doorway and observed the Flag Bridge, taking in the chaotic scene. I didn’t know what was going on and until I did, it seemed like it was better to find out as much as I could before injecting myself into the fray.

  “Someone get me the Navigator up here!” Tremblay actually looked like he was faring worse than I was at this point, which was pleasing for some reason.

  “Engineering on the line, Sir,” said a damage control rating.

  “Ask them what the devil’s going on,” demanded Lieutenant Tremblay. “Wait. Put them up on the main screen instead.”

  There was a pause.

  “One moment, Sir,” said the damage control rating.

  “How did the entire bridge crew miss the fact our Hyper Drive was spinning up for the past eight hours,” the First Officer asked, looking up at the ceiling before glaring around the bridge.

  The image of the Chief Engineer, grey hair flaring out wildly on either side of his balding head, appeared on the main screen.

  “What Demon-Disciple of Murphy decided it'd be such a sweet idea to pull the Chief Engineer away from his engines to answer the ruddy phone,” demanded the aged Lieutenant Spalding.

  “What game do you think you’re playing down there, Spalding,” snapped the former Intelligence Officer.

  “Right now, I’m answering stupid questions over the internal comm. Before that, I was overseeing the formation of the Clover’s hyper-field with a crew of greenhorns. You know,” he spat off to the side, “the one that keeps the whole ruddy ship from bein' torn apart when we tear a hole through hyperspace.”

  Then he muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, ‘idjit’.

  Lieutenant Tremblay purpled, “On whose authority did you activate the Star Drive and form the point-field,” demanded the young Lieutenant, gaining a measure of composure with every word. “Or is this another one of Engineering’s bright ideas? Like the way its Chief Engineer has ignored every scheduled meeting to date and decided to run a series of ship-wide drills without bothering to consult with the bridge or, heaven forbid, ask for permission first,” by the time he finished, his finger was leveled at the Chief Engineer's image on the screen.

  “I don’t have time to waste on administrative meetings, you young space pup. Not when the Clover’s ready to shake apart around our ears,” roared the ancient Engineering Officer.

  “You insubordinate old-,” began Tremblay.

  Spalding overrode him by raising his voice as he continued speaking. “Everything I’ve done, including spinning up the Star Drive, has been by order of th
e Little Admiral his-own-self.” Lieutenant Spalding abruptly cut the connection.

  I stared at the blank screen. Everything had been by order of the Little Admiral. My orders. I had done nothing of the sort… had I? Now that I thought about it, the Engineer had mentioned something last night about the ship needing drills. I hadn’t disagreed with him, but I didn’t remember doing anything as active as issue an order. And as for lighting up the hyper drive, I specifically remember telling him to wait for -

  Oh no. The lift door had closed in the middle of my telling Spalding to wait for the order. I hadn’t thought to check back with the old man later and make sure he had understood. I mean really, who decides to light off a hyper-drive from some off handed comment in the middle of a ship’s corridor?

  I closed my eyes. A man who could be found sprawled naked and asleep in the middle of said corridor as often as he could in the brig, and called himself the ship’s Chief Engineer, that’s who. I suddenly began to realize the magnitude of our current situation.

  I also realized that hiding out by the blast doors wasn’t necessarily the best thing to do.

  So I cleared my throat, struck what I hoped was a properly regal pose and strode onto the bridge proper.

  A startled sensor officer glanced over at me and went bug eyed.

  “Who are you,” he barked incredulously. “We’re in lock down, what are you doing on the Flag Bridge?”

  I was momentarily taken aback. I recognized the man from the bridge meeting, and was sure I’d seen him on the bridge since then.

  “Admiral Jason Montagne, at your service. And where else would I be during a yellow alert than on the bridge?” I arched an eyebrow for effect. I couldn’t help feeling like a fraud every time I called my self an Admiral, but I had to play the part.

  By now several of the bridge crew where looking at me in surprise.

  “Admiral Who?” This particular question came from a crewman over at the damage control station. “When did the old Confed Navy get here?”

  I didn’t recognize this one from any of the previous meeting. I thought him to be one of the new trainees.

  “It’s the Little Admiral himself, not some stupid Confederal,” hissed a man I did recognize from yesterday's events.

  “I thought you said he’d be in power armor. 'Couldn’t miss him,' you said,” hissed back the first crewman.

  I felt myself go red from the neck up and cleared my throat louder.

  Lieutenant Tremblay whirled around. For a second he stopped, mouth hanging open in shock and his hand started to come up in salute. Then he scowled and returned to his previous posture.

  Must be the new uniform, I thought, hiding a smile. At least I still had their attention.

  “I trust you’re aware Engineering has spun up the Star Drive,” demanded the First Officer, “because no one else on the bridge, including myself had been told anything about this.”

  I paused before answering, tapping a finger on my chin while I tried desperately to find the best path through this latest crisis. I wanted to place the blame right where it belonged, but I had been trained better than that. Finally out of the power armor and inside this new Confederate uniform, my media training as a parliamentary scapegoat kicked in. Instead of damning the Chief Engineer to the tender mercies of all the ice cold space gods, I smiled like I was standing in front of a bank of cameras.

  “Of course I am aware,” I said, stepping closer to the First Officer and not co-incidentally toward the Admiral’s chair, “I gave the Chief Engineer his instructions during third shift.”

  Lieutenant Tremblay’s expression turned thunderous. “And you didn’t think to share this information with the rest of us?” The First Officer's countenance was absolutely explosive, but his voice was measured and controlled, if a bit low in pitch which was an obvious giveaway for his temperament. Those public debate lessons were coming into play again, and I smiled to myself in satisfaction. I still had the upper hand with this particular opponent to my illusory authority, which was better than the alternative, as Jean-Luc might well attest.

  “I thought we all did such a bang up job with the three shift enviro-crisis that a few more drills were in order. I include myself in that evaluation.” I did remember something about standing up for the men under your direct authority from some of those colonial administrative courses I’d taken, so I thought that taking full responsibility for the rest of the Chief Engineer’s actions was perhaps the right course in this particular case. Hopefully it would head off a confrontation regarding Spalding’s competence, or lack thereof.

  Not only did I recall that bit of morale-building from administrative classes, but the hard truth of the matter was that we had literally no one else to turn to down in engineering. I knew, since I had looked at the roster. Hard. It was the first thing on my mind upon returning to the Flag Bridge after finding the man sprawled out in his underwear on deck three.

  “Sir, threshold limit reached and now exceeded, we are at 80% and climbing,” said the same sensor operator who’d reported to Tremblay before.

  Tremblay went white-lipped. “There’s no turning back now,” he said, a slight quiver in his voice. I hoped the rest of the crew could hear the same fear I could, but I doubted such nuances were perceptible to anyone but a thoroughly trained public speaker.

  I reached the Admiral's Throne and turned in a practiced motion, sweeping my gaze across the bridge crew's faces until I finally rested my gaze on Lieutenant Tremblay. The crew was understandably excited, and I could see that my arrival had not produced the desired calming effect up to this point.

  "Lieutenant Tremblay, what is the significance of the 80% limit," I asked, doing my best to sound more like a university professor than a frightened child.

  The First Officer paused and shot me a look. “Up to 80% and we’re just filling the ship with strange particles, the ones we need to survive a point transfer. The hyper field, the part of the point transfer process which actually tears open a hole in hyperspace, doesn’t start to form until we exceed the 80% mark. Up to the 80% threshold and we can abort at any time. If we try to stop the star drive after we exceed the threshold and the field starts to form, the accumulated energy could tear the ship apart,” said Tremblay in a wary tone, studying my expression as he delivered his response.

  “Ah,” I said without accompanying body language. I resisted the urge to gulp at the thought of the ship tearing itself apart due to a poorly delivered order to a half-crazed engineer, if only because Tremblay's gaze was firmly locked on my expression, obviously looking for something in my reaction. I refused to give him the satisfaction, so I only nodded slowly as though I felt the answer to be adequate. Good information to know. No stopping the ship after it reached threshold levels. Bad things could happen, and enough of those seemed to pop up without encouragement.

  “Where is the Navigator,” I asked in the lightest, conversational tone as I could manage. “He should probably start plotting the course, as it looks like we’re going to get our prize ships back sooner, rather than later.”

  I looked around for a yeoman, having recalled seeing them bustling about the bridges of the many intrepid vessels of holo-vid fame. Mouth dry, I suddenly found myself rather thirsty and thought some tea might help sooth my nerves a bit. I also realized I had no idea what insignia a yeoman might wear. "Yeoman," I said, trying for an amused tone but producing something closer to a sharp bark.

  Three crewmembers, two women and a man snapped about at the sound of my voice. I could get used to this type of reaction, I thought with satisfaction. I indicated the woman to my left, who did not appear to have a specific task at the moment. "Some tea, please. Not too hot, mind you," I said. Fully half of the bridge crew took the opportunity to steal an incredulous glance in my direction.

  The yeoman seemed confused by this order, but drew herself up before replying. "Sir, I'll see what I can do," she managed, with a hint of annoyance. She quickly made for the lift doors and I refocused my atte
ntion on the mayhem unfolding around me.

  Lieutenant Tremblay drew himself up to attention, “It would be beneficial to the ship and its crew if you would inform the rest of us where we’re going before you have engineering spin up the hyper drive, Admiral,” he said stiffly.

  I waved my hand airily, resting an elbow on arm of the Admiral’s Throne. “Lieutenant, I doubt there’s a man on this ship who doesn’t know our destination by now.”

  “Sir,” Tremblay said through his teeth, “Have I mentioned that as your First Officer I need to be made aware of any significant changes to the ship, before they land in my lap looking for instructions.”

  On the inside I squirmed. Which was why on the outside I put on a smile that was equally parts condescending and exasperated. I’d practiced that smile in front of the mirror after seeing it turned on me at court time and time again. “It was important for the sake of the test that no one but engineering be informed of the point transfer ahead of time, since they needed to form the hyper field." I spoke in a slow, slightly punctuated fashion to drive home the point. "The bridge needed to discover the strange particles and hyper-field on its own for the test to be a real evaluation of our skills. Don't you agree, Number One?” Stars, that was good!