Admiral Who? (A Spineward Sectors Novel:)

by Luke Sky Wachter

  The First Officer was still angry and looked unconvinced but all he did was shake his head and turn away. I breathed a shaky sigh of relief.

  “Where’s that blasted Navigator,” Tremblay barked. The bridge crew scurried to locate the missing man.

  The navigator finally made his way to the bridge at the same time as my tea, and nearly passed out when told the ship was already past the threshold limit and he had to calculate a hyperspace transfer before the ship point-transferred into oblivion for lack of coordinates.

  Now I looked like an Admiral from the vids. A proper point of calm in the middle of a storm. Thankfully, I felt like I was concealing the sheer terror which threatened to overtake control of my bodily functions. I took the covered mug containing the warm liquid and held it in my right hand for a moment. I raised it to my lips before seeing Tremblay shoot a look my way, trying to go unnoticed in doing so.

  Damn, I thought to myself, what if it was poisoned?! I sniffed the vapor carefully, trying to discern anything unusual about the drink, but then I realized I had no idea how to identify poisons. I carefully placed the container on the arm of the throne and refocused on the bridge crew's frantic activities. I decided to have the tea tested later, but that holding it produced the same desired effect as actually drinking it, without the potentially lethal side effects.

  “It takes hours to calculate a point transfer,” the Navigator gasped. “Whose bright idea was it to spin up the drives before calling in the Navigator?”

  Lieutenant Tremblay shot me another look before clapping the navigator on the shoulder. “Then it's a good thing our Lucky Clover takes a full twelve hours to spin up. An Imperial ship this size and you’ve got two, maybe three hours start to finish.”

  “Without coordinates we could be lost in hyperspace. We might point-transfer inside a moon, get sucked into a black hole, or appear in the middle of a star’s corona, if there isn’t enough time to calculate them right,” he complained fiercely. “That’s not to mention asteroids, rogue stars or other ships.”

  Lieutenant Tremblay cut him off. “Then it’s a good thing you’ve still got over two hours to make the calculations, Navigator.”

  The Navigator opened his mouth, but Tremblay place a hand on his shoulder squeezed. “If you had answered the page and come to the Flag Bridge sooner, you would have had more time. A lesson in itself, wouldn’t you say?”

  The navigator winced and closed his mouth.

  “Like I said, Imperial Navigators make point transfer calculations in this kind of time frame all the time. Rather routine for them, I’d say.” Lieutenant Tremblay kept his grip on the Navigator's shoulder.

  I raised a hand. “I’m sure the Navigator would like to get started on those calculations now,” I said, becoming more than a little concerned about the Navigator's ability to discharge his duties in time.

  Tremblay nodded and stepped back.

  I couldn't help but notice the anxious looks the rest of the bridge crew where giving the Navigator, but at least the general mood had settled down noticeably.

  It was a tension filled two hours while the Navigator sweated over his console.

  When he announced the calculations were finished with fifteen minutes to spare, I heaved a sigh of relief, along with the rest of the bridge crew.

  Chapter 10: For the Prize

  The Lucky Clover point transferred into a system without a name, only a number. AZT89443. There was no great flash of light, no massive 'whump' of the engines, and no encounter with hyper dimensional aliens intent on enslaving humanity for the purpose of serving us as appetizers at some transdimensional buffet. I readily admit that I was somewhat disappointed, even though I'd experienced several jumps during my time on board the ship. I suppose I expected the experience to be somehow better from the Admiral's Throne.

  “Firing up main engine,” declared the Helmsman, whose name I had learned was DuPont.

  “Point Resistance?” demanded Lieutenant Tremblay.

  “Engine at 20% of maximum,” said DuPont, his voice tense. “We’re still locked.”

  “It was a long jump,” the science officer said sarcastically glaring at the Navigator.

  “I want figures, not information I already know. And it wasn’t that long of a jump,” barked Tremblay.

  “Engine at 35% of maximum,” reported the Helmsman. “Lighting up both secondaries now.”

  “Shield strength at 86%,” relayed a trainee at one of the tactical consoles.

  “Engines two and three are lit. We’ve doubled our thrust… and still locked,” reported the Helmsman.

  “Report,” Tremblay demanded. No immediate response was forthcoming, which only served to add to the general tension on the bridge. I watched uneasily as the bridge crew tried to break the ship free of the inertial sump created by the point translation.

  “We should’ve broken free by now,” said the science officer sounding concerned.

  “Give me answers,” growled Tremblay.

  “Check the shield modulation, everything reads out as fine on my boards,” the science officer snapped back.

  “Shields at 74% and dropping,” said the trainee at tactical. He sounded as scared as I felt.

  “All engines at 50%,” reported the Helmsman. “Something’s wrong.”

  Lieutenant Tremblay lunged over to the tactical section. Pushing aside the trainee at shields, he settled into the chair and began scrolling through the screens.

  I decided it was time to get involved. “What seems to be the problem, Lieutenant Tremblay?”

  “Just a second,” Tremblay said tersely.

  The science officer broke in. “The shields weren’t properly modulated for a point emergence. Instead of helping us slip out of the sump they’re holding us in, making it harder to overcome the inertia created by our point transfer into the system,” said the science officer. I queried the ship's crew manifest through the console built in to the Admiral's Throne, and found the science officer's last name was Jones.

  “Got it,” said Lieutenant Tremblay after less than a minute. A few seconds later the ship lurched abruptly, and I had to grab the arms of the chair to keep from falling onto the floor. My embarrassment was diminished after I saw that half of the bridge crew had reacted in the same fashion, and not all of them were successful in keeping their feet.

  “And we’re free,” reported science officer Jones with a sigh of relief.

  I adjusted myself in the chair. “We’ve got to do better than this people,” I said, shaking my head. The entire time Admiral Janeski and the rest of the imperials had been on the ship, I’d never experienced a sudden lurch like the one we just felt after exiting hyperspace.

  A sensor operator chimed in, “I’ve got two ships on my screen. I think they’re our prize ships.”

  Another voice called out, “I’ve got four on mine.” There was a pause, “It looks like a pair of medium cruisers, a heavy cruiser and a freighter matching the profile of the pirate conversion we captured,” he said smugly.

  “Hail the Medium Cruisers,” I said in the direction I thought would be the communication's officer. I gave a nod to the sensor operator who had spotted all four vessels and leaned forward in the throne. “Let’s make sure they are who we think they are.”

  The sensor operator smiled and turned back to the task. The rest of the sensor division scowled and redoubled their efforts.

  A few tense minutes rolled by. “They identify themselves as Pride of Prometheus and Prometheus Fire,” the Communication Tech reported. I exhaled in relief.

  “The Captain of the Pride is now requesting a video conference with Admiral Janeski,” said the Communications Tech. Sudden silence filled the bridge.

  Looking around quickly, I was acutely aware that no one was looking at me. The pause dragged on.

  “They don’t know about the Imperial withdrawal or...” Lieutenant Tremblay slowly trailed off, “you,” he finished lamely and turned red.

  “Put the Captain on the main
screen,” I told the Communications Tech. There was nothing for it but to go forward. Another extended pause while the Communications Tech figured out how to put the Captain of the Pride of Prometheus on the screen.

  I took this temporary reprieve to straighten my uniform. I stopped myself halfway through nervously running a hand through my hair.

  A fat man with grey hair came up on the main screen. I had never seen him before. The patrol fleet under Imperial Admiral Janeski had not dedicated a lot of time to socializing. In Pre-prolong years he looked to be somewhere in his mid-forties. In the post-prolong universe we all lived in, that meant he could be anywhere between 40 and 140. Although considering he was from Prometheus and also a ship commander, it was probably safe to put him around the 80 year mark, rather than the unadjusted 40 he looked.

  As a Prince-Cadet, I was used to dealing with people older than myself. Not only were most of the people on Capria older, but I was specifically trained to deal with politicians. Admittedly, my training wasn’t in ordering them around. Quite the opposite, but I liked to that think I’d seen enough of their behavior from guests during my stints at the palace to have a good idea of what to do.

  I knew I couldn’t pull off the image of a completely professional Admiral, but I figured that since I was a prince-cadet of Capria I could manage something appropriate to the situation. Or so I hoped.

  “What are you doing, son,” demanded the Promethean SDF Captain, “Decided to play dress up in Granddaddy’s uniform?” He snorted, referring to the outdated Confederation uniform I was wearing. “Run along and put Admiral Janeski on the screen.”

  I refused to be embarrassed. I absolutely refused. I ignored the sudden heat rushing to my face and, instead of allowing myself to turn red, I turned my head to the side and draped a leg over the throne-like edifice they called an Admiral’s Chair. A moment later the heat was gone and I turned back to face the Captain with an arched brow.

  “Greetings, Captain,” I did my best to put a royal drawl in the words, “Jason Montagne, at your service. I am Admiral and commanding officer of this Patrol Fleet and all that entails,” I said with my best airy wave and a meaningless court smile plastered on my face.

  It took several seconds for the words to sink in, and when they did the Captain purpled. “I don’t know who you think you are, boy, but I don’t have time for your games,” growled the Captain, the fat jowls of his mouth jiggling with the force of his words.

  “Admiral Jason Montagne Vekna,” I repeated with emphasis on the title. I pointedly turned to look at the arm of the Throne, activated the screen and entered a search query. I realized I didn’t even know the Captain’s name. I knew that this was something I should have thought to look up long before now, and I felt the heat returning to my face.

  “Admiral who?” the Captain demanded, his brow furrowed, before throwing up his hands and shaking his head. “Put Admiral Janeski on before I have your ears clipped for insubordination and impersonating a retired officer in that outrageously outdated Confederate uniform.”

  “Lieutenant Tremblay, please squirt over a copy of the Imperial Admiral’s last declaration before he left us,” I said with a slight inclination of my head toward the view screen.

  “What,” exclaimed the Captain, eyebrows reaching so high on his face they appeared headed for the ceiling.

  “I fear the Imperial Admiral has declared the Triumvirate’s will, which was to abandon the Spine, and promptly departed for Imperial Space onboard an Imperial Command Carrier,” I paused to read the result of his query. Ah there it was, Captain Jeremiah Stood was the man’s name.

  Captain Stood’s head reared back and he gave a short shake of his head. “You’re space crazed, my young imposter. I don’t know what you’ve done with the Imperial Admiral, but when he finds out about this line of baloney you’re spewing, it won’t be pleasant for you.” He laughed, a harsh barking sound.

  “I’m only speaking to the facts, and as Admiral Janeski reaffirmed my right to command prior to departure when he left to reinforce the Imperial battle fleet, I’m not sure exactly what you think he’ll do.” I rolled my eyes and slowly rubbed my forehead. “I understand that this is something of a shock for you, the realization that this patrol fleet is the only thing standing between the spine-ward sectors and the darkness beyond our borders. It can’t be pleasant, and I realize you will probably require a few moments for the gravity of the situation to sink in, and I fully intend to grant you those moments. As your commanding officer, however, I expect a Sir on the end of those sentences, Captain Stood. What would become of us if we were to abandon the chain of command, along with our hard-won military discipline?”

  Once again Captain Stood purpled. “If this is some kind of joke…” he trailed off menacingly.

  “You’ll what, Captain Stood,” I demanded, losing my controlled veneer. “Ignore my legal authority over you, bestowed by both Admiral Janeski and the Prometheus Government? Refuse my instructions? Fire on the Flag Ship, perhaps?” I paused and my face hardened, only partially be design. “Prometheus has two Medium Cruisers in this system. Let me be the first to remind you I have a fully armed Dreadnaught Class Battleship, recently upgraded by the Imperial Fleet itself, if it comes to that.”

  Off to the side, I noticed Lieutenant Tremblay turn pale and start waving a hand across his throat in a cutting motion, before stopping himself.

  I paused and looked at my new First Officer, but Tremblay just gave a quick shake of his head and presented the open palms of his hands before glancing back at the screen. I shook my head, unable to understand what the other man was trying to get across. I didn’t have time for Tremblay, at the moment Captain Stood required my full attention.

  Stood’s jaw was clenching and unclenching. The way his jowls quivered made him seem like some sort of cartoonish figure when viewed close-up on the main screen.

  I decided now was the time to throw some more wood on the fire. “If you doubt I’m really a duly-appointed Admiral, just look on the Fleet’s official chain of command in your ship’s database. You’ll find my name rather quickly if you start at the top,” I said as smugly as I could. I wanted to smile, or grin or do something to lighten up at least my own mood, but things were too serious all of a sudden. So instead of trying to lighten things, I worked as hard as I could to keep my features even. The last thing I wanted was to give away how worried I felt. After all, this was the first time I had ever tried to be on the other end of one of these particular lashings, and it was definitely uncharted waters from here on out.

  The Captain cut the audible and angrily gestured at someone off screen. He scowled and turned back to face the screen. “Name again, your supposed Admiralship,” he asked.

  “Jason Montagne Vekna,” I said through a dry mouth, and felt my heart ready to explode through my ears as the captain started a search.

  “You’re listed as a Supernumerary,” he said derisively and kept reading, then seemed to come to a realization. “You’re in here as the ceremonial head of this band of intrepid mouse-trappers they call a patrol fleet.”

  “So we’re both in agreement that I am listed as the official head of the patrol fleet,” I said, purposefully ignoring everything but the part I wanted to hear, just like my 'superiors' had done throughout my young life.

  “You’re listed as a supernumerary with ceremonial duties,” the captain said bullishly.

  “This is mutiny,” I said as mildly as I could, but I could see things were starting to spin out of control.

  “There’s nothing in my brief that states I have to obey orders from a pampered stripling without the barest hint of naval experience,” Stood snorted.

  “Lieutenant Tremblay, lock all turbo-lasers on target,” I paused as Tremblay once again waved his hands in the air, fortunately it was off screen so Stood wasn’t able to see the first officer’s antics. “That would be the Pride of Prometheus,” I offered helpfully. Lieutenant Tremblay threw his hands in the air.

  At
this point, even an idiot (which I don’t think I am) could see that something was terribly wrong. However, there was no time to figure it out now. We were well past the point of no return.

  “You wouldn’t dare,” stated the Captain.

  “Targeting the Pride of Prometheus now, Admiral,” said one of the junior trainees at the tactical station.

  “Try me,” I returned, trying to keep my voice from cracking under the stress.

  Captain Stood hesitated, then after an extended pause finally grimaced. “What are your orders, Admiral,” he said the last word like it tasted bitter.