Admiral's Gambit (A Spineward Sectors Novel:)

by Luke Sky Wachter

  We encountered nothing of interest in the empty systems along their route and when nothing exciting turned up on their sensors, I ordered the next point transfer.

  We transferred into the first inhabited system along the route and everything got a lot messier.

  *****************

  Back on the Flag Bridge for what was certain to be an interesting arrival into an inhabited system, I sat in the Admiral's Throne and tried to look awake.

  I could have waited until the night shift, Third shift had gone to bed and First shift had taken their places, but this was a new Third shift under an untested tactical officer. I wanted to show confidence in the man.

  He was fresh-faced in what would have been his late-20’s, pre-prolong. Since he most definitely had received prolong treatments, he must have been in his forties or fifties. He had served as an assistant tactical officer for a Corvette back in the Caprian System Defense, and I could see that being in command of the tactical section for a Battleship the size of the Lucky Clover was a little overwhelming.

  I could relate, since I felt my own job as Admiral of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet to be more than a bit daunting at times.

  I was eager to reach the first system on the new patrol route we had designed and hadn’t wanted to wait another four to six hours.

  “Threshold exceeded one hour, forty minutes ago. The countdown is five minutes until point transfer,” said the First Officer.

  “Hammerhead’s Nav-Computer is slaved to mine, but his calculations look on the button,” said the Navigator, with a jaw-cracking yawn.

  “Good work Mr. Shepherd,” I said. I wasn’t very impressed with having to give our backup navigator to the Hammerhead Cruiser, but it was the only decision that made sense. I made a mental note that we needed to do something about securing the services of a few more navigators before this was all over.

  “At least the Medium Cruiser’s been able to eke out a few more light years than with the last jump,” grumped Tremblay, clearly upset with something, but that just seemed to be how he rolled out of bed.

  “A fine accomplishment,” I remarked absently.

  Then the timer counted down to zero and the shift transited through hyper space.

  “Point Emergence,” yawned the Navigator.

  “Extending baffling and lighting the main engine,” said the Helmsman.

  “Let's look alive, those members of First shift who are here with Third," snapped Lieutenant Tremblay. "This is an inhabited system, people.”

  Everyone, native Third shift or First shift imports, jumped to lean over their consoles and the main screen started populating with planets.

  “Point Resistance?” asked Lieutenant Tremblay with a grin as he looked over at the Science Officer.

  “I read an estimated thirty gravities of resistance. We should be able to overcome it with-” the recently released Science Officer Jones said with resignation, only to be cut off by the First Officer.

  “Where are my engine numbers,” he snapped at the helmsman.

  “Engine at 10% of maximum,” replied the Third shift Helmsman, turning red.

  The Science Officer glared at Tremblay.

  “Shields modulated properly,” said the man at shields.

  It looked like Third shift needed a few more drills before they figured things out, while First shift might need the drills to help maintain their professionalism.

  Here we were in a potentially hot system and even though it was the middle of the night for them, First shifters were yawning and acting not at all worried.

  I admit, I smiled. I couldn’t help it. I would have to give them extra drills of course, but it looked like the First shifters might be playing to the crowd a little bit.

  In the past, our Science Officer had stood on his credentials as a civilian to thwart our First Officer’s idea of military discipline on the bridge. It looked like his stay in the brig had worked wonders on his willingness to give us actual, hard numbers instead of his own personal impression about what was happening.

  “Let's step it up, Helmsman,” said Tremblay with just a little bit too much condescension.

  “Engine increased to 25% of maximum,” replied the Helmsman.

  “What about your secondaries,” demanded the First Officer, “and where are my shield readings?"

  “Shield strength at 92%, and slowly falling,” said the main Shield Operator

  There was a mild tugging sensation.

  “And we’re free of the Inertial Sump,” declared Jones.

  The First Officer’s mouth turned down at this intrusion, but he didn’t say anything directly to the Science Officer. It seemed the two of them were in some kind of uneasy truce, and the Lieutenant was willing to press things only so far.

  “Shields, let's look at your modulation after we get a patch of smooth sailing. It seemed to me like your shields might not have been modulated as well as they could have been,” said Tremblay, a bit more professionally.

  The Science Officer muttered something about feelings instead of facts, but he did so in a quiet enough voice that the First Officer was able to let it go.

  “Sensors, sound off and verbally identify contacts on the main board,” I said in my command voice, looking at a view screen with a dozen contacts slowly popping up on it.

  “I’m reading a merchant in close proximity to the main inhabited work in the system-” started on operator only to be cut off by another.

  “And I’ve got weapons fire,” exclaimed a young trainee excitedly.

  “Two- no, three ships are engaged in some kind of dog fight. Wait, I’m getting what look like some kind of strange missiles darting all around them,” said the first sensor operator hoarsely.

  “What are you seeing? Put it up on the main board,” snarled First Officer Tremblay.

  When the former Intelligence Officer looked over in my direction like this was all somehow my fault, I raised my hands in the air and then glared back at him.

  On the main view screen three ships leapt into view as tiny dots.

  “Somebody magnify those contacts, and the rest of you don’t forget to watch your assigned sensor areas. There might be more battles all throughout the system, so look alive,” Tremblay said, walking over to the sensor section.

  “Somebody plot me a least-time course to the combatants and forward our sensor readings to the Hammerhead,” I instructed, mindful of my slightly elevated pulse.

  The First Officer shot me an enigmatic look but didn’t say anything.

  He didn’t need to say anything, I could already hear the same litany about how the problems of the Confederation at large weren’t, and didn’t need to be, the problems of the Lucky Clover and her crew.

  Then the screen was magnified to display the relevant tactical data.

  “It looks like point defense is heading out from the large missiles, but that can’t be right. The major combatants should be firing on the missiles, not the other way around,” said the young sensor operator who had initially discovered the little running battle.

  The former assistant tactical officer for the SDF Corvette chimed in, looking over to me and ignoring the First Officer. “I don’t think those are large missiles, Admiral. I’m almost positive those are miniature gunships,” he said firmly.

  “You’re sure,” I asked in surprise. I’d only ever heard of actual gunships outside of a holo-drama. Capria didn’t have any, and none were assigned to the Spine as far as I knew.

  “Yes, sir. Word is a major defense contractor in the Confederation ran out a whole production line in expectation that they’d get a big war contract with the Imperials for a small mobile weapons platform. However, the Imperials decided to with a slightly smaller, non-hyper capable model, called a strike fighter instead. A number of the gunships, called Boat class Gunships, were put on the open market when they didn’t sell to the Imperials. These could very well be some of those, Admiral,” said the new Third shift Tactical Officer.

  “How do you
know this,” I asked, fearing the answer would be one that would further complicate matters.

  “Scuttlebutt before we left said that if the Imperials were going to turn them down, then Capria’s SDF wasn’t interested in them either,” replied the Tactical Officer.

  “Let’s hope the local System Defense Force doesn’t share the same sentiment as the Caprian SDF,” I said grimly.

  “Why’s that, Sir?” the Tactical Officer said questioningly.

  “Otherwise, those miniature gunships are almost certainly in the hands of pirates,” I replied. Why wasn’t this obvious to our Tactical Officer, I wondered. If the Caprian SDF wasn’t going to purchase the gunships because the Empire took a pass, then how were the more cash-strapped SDF’s on the Rim going to look them?

  The Tactical Officer slowly nodded and turned back to instruct one of his trainees.

  “We’re receiving an automated distress call from the planet, and a second one from a disabled merchant vessel,” reported the External Communications Technician.

  I opened my mouth, but was cut off.

  “I’m receiving more distress signals,” snapped a third sensor operator.

  “What have you got,” demanded Officer Tremblay.

  “It looks like two old style CR70’s. The signals are pretty weak and they’re squawking SDF codes. They must have had their communication antennae blasted off and be on emergency power to be running signals that low, Admiral,” the Sensor Operator said, sounding concerned.

  “If we’ve already got two Corvettes down, then who are the other three duking it out on the other side of the planet,” I asked.

  “All three warships are running silent, the little gunships as well,” replied the first sensor operator.

  “Well, set us a course for the running battle. There’s no point in standing around with our thumbs up our unmentionables,” I instructed.

  “Yes, Admiral,” said the Helmsman.

  “Message relayed to the Fire of Prometheus,” reported the Ex-Com technician.

  The Lucky Clover surged forward at its incredible snail's pace, accompanied by the similarly sluggish ancient Hammerhead Cruiser. Compared to the little Corvettes duking it out near the system’s inhabited planet, our aged vessels were lumbering brutes.

  As we got closer, one of the Corvettes broke off, streaming air and pieces of the hull.

  “I think it's about time to open up the lines of communication between ourselves and the unidentified ships,” I said with a hint of playfulness in my voice.

  The Communication operators made a few adjustments.

  “You’re live, Sir,” said the Ex-Com Tech.

  “Unidentified warships,” I began, then paused, somewhat at a loss. Then I grinned and continued. “Tell us what you’re fighting about so we can know which side to pile in on. I’d hate for the crewmen manning the weapons on these two big cruisers of mine to go back to bed without clearing their guns at least once,” I said, fighting the urge to laugh.

  Then I sat back they waited for the response to come in.

  “Are you Brotherhood or part of the Law, my scar-faced kinsmen,” asked the darkest ebony-skinned man I had ever seen.

  Another, similar looking man popped up on the screen almost immediately. “Yeah, are you here to help us put down this unnatural looking abomination, created by the foul Space Gods as part of some kind of party joke,” asked the second captain. I honestly couldn't tell their demeanor, due to their odd speech patterns and vocal rhythm.

  “Uhhh,” was all I could manage, and I glanced at the communication section.

  The Ex-Com shrugged. “The first transmission came from the less damaged of the two Corvettes fighting the third and all those miniature gunships. The second was from the damaged one limping away,” the tech said.

  “Abomination?” I said, absolutely perplexed. I signaled for the tech to cut transmission. Then I turned to the First Officer.

  Tremblay shrugged and spread his hands. “There are all sorts of strange peoples living on the rim, from high-gravity worlders to some extreme gene-mods from the AI days. It's all highly illegal in civilized space, but some people when given the choice of sterilization and heavy monitoring, or living free out on the edge of rim of known space will pick the Rim every time. They might be talking about one of those extreme gene-mods,” Tremblay said, clearly not convinced by his own line, but at least it was something.

  I turned to the communication’s section. “Patch me into the third Corvette,” I instructed.

  The Com-tech signaled we were live.

  “Unidentified ship, what’s your purpose in this system and why haven’t you said anything yet,” I asked, then waited for the reply.

  “We’re getting a signal back from the two Corvettes that seem to be working in concert,” reported the communication tech a half minute later.

  It was the captain of the less damaged of the two partners.

  “We’re tired of taking orders from monkey boy over there,” he said in his strangely accented Confederation Standard.

  The Second captain chimed in, he had the same accent as the first. “Yeah, back where we come from, his kind gets itself thrown onto the barbecue, not put in charge of divvying up the loot,” he said indignantly.

  The first Captain nodded.

  “We’ve had enough, man. It's time for that metal plugged freak to learn its place. It can start scrubbing the floors of a real man’s deck or get itself fragged,” said the first Captain, making a vicious gesture across his throat.

  “We’re getting a signal from the ship that seems to be working with the little gunships. It's audio only,” reported the Communication’s tech.

  A deep, scratchy voice with that was almost a growl came over the audio. “Those cruiser ships can’t get here in time to do a blasted anything. Besides, you people are all the same. Get specked along with those two mutinous captains of mine,” said the deep voice before cutting the transmission.

  “Okay,” I said slowly. Clearly, things were always destined to get more complicated before becoming clearer.

  I glanced over at Tremblay.

  “I think it's safe to say that everyone over there is a pirate of some kind or another and they’ve had a falling out," I said rubbing my eyes. "What are our chances of capturing or destroying any of them,” I asked wearily.

  Tactical was a flurry of fingers over keyboards and I had to suppress a frown. They should have already had that information at their fingertips.

  The chief Tactical Officer turned and shook his head. “If we play along, we might be able to sucker the damaged Corvette that’s currently limping away in close enough that we can put it within range of our longer ranged weaponry. But there’s no way we can catch the other two or the gunships,” he said.

  “Ok, I guess it's time to make like a pirate and try to sucker them in close,” I said cheerfully. “Put me on the screen,” I instructed the Communications Tech.

  “We’re more than happy to help you deal with the abomination. For the right price, of course…brothers,” I said once the feed was active.

  A little bit of negotiating later, and my ships were supposed to form part of a pincer.

  Since we were on an open channel, the third ship with its swarm of little fighters could hear everything we said and broke off after it had damaged the cold space drive section of its less active foe.

  Now certain that its opponents couldn’t catch it, the aged Corvette and its escort broke off and made like a bandit for the edge of the system.

  Just before reaching the edge of the system, the same deep growly voice came back over the audio.

  “My people know how to deal with your kind, base-stock. Take the gift I leave you, these two traitors, but remember that next time it will be Primarch Glue who takes from you and not you from him in your slow, fat and outdated ships,” said the enigmatic figure.

  “Well, that’s definitely weird. What’s all this talk of base-stock and gifts before taking,” I asked of no on
e in particular.

  “I think he’s referring to the two damaged CR70’s,” said Tremblay, his tone a bit too helpful.

  I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, I got that part. Whoever he is, he sure has a strange way of speaking. Is Primarch supposed to be some kind of pirate rank,” I asked, genuinely unsure of how that particular title was used out here.

  “Pirates come up with all sorts of strange and fanciful titles for themselves,” said the former Intelligence Officer with a shrug, and he turned to the tactical section. “What I want to know is if we’ll be able to catch up with both of those pirates that were attacking Mr. Enigma,” he said forcefully. Tactical section ran a few more calculations, and I decided that when this was over, Third shift needed to run some more drills.

  “With our pincer maneuver, we should be able to get one of the two within range of our main guns for sure. The other one will be hit or miss. It's got a slightly better acceleration curve,” reported the chief Third Shift Tactical Officer.

  The Communications operator pressed his ear piece deeper into his ear and nodded, then turned my direction with a grin. “The two Pirates in the damaged Corvettes are now warning us off. They say that if we come any closer, we risk the wrath of the entire Deep Fleet Revolutionary Army,” he said, his grin growing as he spoke.

  “Oooh, the dreaded ‘Deep Fleet Revolutionary Army,’ well we can’t have them mad at us now can we,” I said in mock terror, wringing my hands for effect.

  “Like I said, pirates come up with some of the most fanciful names. Most likely this little flotilla consists of every vessel in the Deep Fleet Army,” snickered Tremblay shaking his head.

  “Inform the Deep Fleet that we are warships of the Confederation’s Fleet. So they have a choice, they can either surrender and enjoy a new life of back-breaking labor on a startup colony world, or they can be spaced out the airlock when we catch up to them,” I said with a dismissive wave.

  “Tactical, coordinate with the Hammerhead but use your best judgment. I want both those ships taken,” I said with a shark-like grin. I turned to the communication section. “Inform the Lancer Colonel of my sincere hope that he and his men will get some action today,” I said, stressing the 'sincere' part.