Admiral's War Part Two (A Spineward Sectors Novel: Book 10)

by Luke Sky Wachter

  “The Roving Banana…really?” Glue couldn’t help but shake his head in disapproval while at the same time the other older male spoke up at the same time.

  “What’s HFIC stand for?” he asked.

  “Head Female in Charge,” she deadpanned before turning to Glue without missing a beat, “and as for the Roving Banana, it makes a lot more sense than a ship named the Sword of Omens! I mean bananas actually exist in nature, but a sword made out of omens—what would that even look like? And while we’re on the subject, are you a prophet now? And do you need to be inside some special place within your ship or can visions come any time? I’m pretty interested in the next thousand digit winning number for the Grand Galactic Power Ball. I could really use that money to help upgrade my ship.”

  Glue opened his mouth right before another male slammed his hand on the table and growled. “This is no joke and we didn’t come here to pass the time with laughs about bananas and false prophecies. I am Sempa of the Red Fire and I, Sempa, am no coward nor do I plan to run away from battle. The battle is over, this is not a combat situation, and so there is no cowardice in leaving. We’ve done our part. We should go home,” he snapped, baring his teeth.

  “Yes, we know who you are, Sempa of the Red Fire. We are, after all, battle brothers who have fought together already. No one is questioning your bravery,” Glue grunted, leaning back in his chair and placing his hands over his belly complacently.

  Sempa slammed the table again with frustration.

  “I think what Sempa is trying to be after saying,” the other older male said in broken verbiage with a sigh, “is we are knowing you have a personal debt to the Little Admiral Montagne. No one wants to make light of a debt that gave us all a place to stand but…” he trailed off.

  “What Mountain Sands of the Forthright Steel Pike is too discreet to say this but I, Jakaak of the Sand Scourge, have no trouble in making it clear, is that Little Montagne almost got everyone killed during last battle. Blood flowed like rivers down the hulls sides of this fleet. We have fought two battles, one winning and one losing. Any with eyes can see the Little Montagne is destined to lose the last and final battle. Before all falls into ruin we must return to Tracto. It is time we went home and prepared our people for another migration,” he said placing both hands on the table and leaning his face forward.

  “Jakaak of the Sand Scourge is right in this,” Sempa of the Red Fire hooted and slammed the table yet again. “The code says we must keep our word and stand beside battle brothers during a fight—if these humans can even be counted as battle brothers,” he snorted. “But once the formation is broken and the fight is lost, each male must look to himself. There is no shame in looking to yourself first. A dead male is no use to anyone, least of all himself,” he finished, quoting the code.

  “A broken formation?” Glue placed his elbow on the table and leaned forward. “I see no broken fleet in this star system. Has this Glue lost his eyes or is he the only one who can see?”

  “If it is not broken now it will be soon. Why should we die for the humans?” Jakaak demanded.

  “Yes, Glue,” Mountain Sands, the other older male sighed, “why should we die for the humans when any with eyes can see that their fate is all but after being sealed? Maybe it’s a technical code violation and, then after again, maybe it isn’t. But our duty is to our people—not the humans.”

  Glue slapped the table and shook his head. “Do you all agree with this?” he asked, a low rumble starting in his chest.

  Heads nodded around the table some reluctant and others fiercely.

  The Shipmaster of the Roving Banana stood up from—then hopped up and stood on—her chair to bring herself up to eye level with the rest of the males. She paused to take another bite of unpeeled banana. “I’m willing to die this human war,” she crunched, “but only if it’s going to get us somewhere. You can all be ‘battle brothers’ this, ‘honor and moral code’ that, but Sheba’s here to fight for her family. Tell her why Sheba shouldn’t just take her Roving Banana out of Wolf and rove right on back to Tracto,” she said seriously.

  “All of you are wrong and shortsighted…except maybe the Sheba,” Glue said seriously.

  “Maybe I’m just nice,” Sheba grinned. raking the ends of the table with her cybernetic claw before thumping back down in her chair to finish off her banana.

  “We can win,” Glue thumped, “there are many reinforcements waiting here upon our arrival. I have seen Wolf-9 defense plans and they are solid. This is not just a humans only war. There are Droids and Sundered, even the hunt pack from Omicron station is after being here. Listen to these words; how many losing battles have I led our people in? How many Sundered people are not here but Glue still is? Even if you can’t trust the humans or their Little Admiral, then trust in your duty and in Glue’s battle sense. This Sundered would not fight if he did not know in his gut—”

  “Sempa’s crew should place their trust in your fat gut? No! It is not to be done! We have gone beyond duty into and obsession, Glue and it is an obsession I DO NOT SHARE,” Sempa of the Red Fire bellowed. “It was their kind that attacked us on the Trail after our fathers refused the Alliance’s call for world burning counter-attacks—attacks that were not even proportional to the Humans attacks, so the response called for was deemed weak. It is their humankind that in this very Sector eat us, slowly roasting females and younglings over an open pit for their tender meat, every chance they can get. To surrender is to risk being eaten alive! I have no use for Humans, I have no use for Droids, I have seen the Hunt Packs on the Omicron and they can go to Hades—and I certainly have no use for the Little Montagne who almost got us killed!” he howled, his eyes increasingly tinged with red.

  Sempa slowly sat back breathing rapidly on the edge of running amok as he struggled to control himself.

  “It’s good…It is good there is a female here or I would not hold myself back,” he panted.

  “Don’t hold back on my account,” Sheba sniffed, scooting her chair back as if to make room.

  “You’re not helping,” Mountain Sands gave her a withering look.

  The only female in the room just turned up her nose, and there was a long pause as everyone waited for Sempa to calm himself.

  “So you tell us to trust your battle sense. You say that you’re this great survivor person amongst the Sundered race and the Little Admiral plan is good,” Sheba said into the silence.

  “It will be, or this Glue will not stay,” Glue nodded shortly.

  “So they have confidence in you and have taken you into their battle councils then?” she asked.

  Glue scratched behind his ear. “Little Admiral have,” he agreed.

  “The Captain and Admirals conference?” Mountain Sands asked searchingly.

  “Not that. No invitation,” Glue shook his head, “Battleships and Admirals only. Sundereds only have Corvettes.”

  “I knew it. He lies!” snarled Sempa. “They don’t even trust us to be in the same room as them! How can they share their battle plans with us?”

  “Confederation private council. M-S-P and Tracto allies only, no…SDF. Right now still in the building phase, but this Glue is helping to make that plan,” Glue rumbled slowly and then turned toward Sempa. “And call me a dealer in falsehoods again and I will break your head open to see what went wrong inside it!”

  “You’d try,” Sempa, leaned forward and beat his chest in a threat display.

  “Even if it’s true, which I doubt, the first ones to be sacrificed when things go bad are always the uplifts,” Jakaak said suspiciously, leaning forward and thrust his shoulders out in support of Sempa. “This battle is going bad even if our hoo-mons win.”

  “Like Sundered sacrificed in last battle. In Elysium, Capria and Omicron too?” Glue growled back.

  “All the Corvettes were sent away during the last battle. They couldn’t very well just tell us to stay,” Sempa flared.

  Glue blatted and then popped his mouth in disgust. �
�Maybe Sundered are sacrificed maybe not, battle master makes sacrifices sometimes, even this I, Glue, have sacrificed before. But secret Little Admiral conspiracy to sacrifice Sundered after having how many chances to already be doing it? No. This Primarch must be blind because he simply cannot see it.”

  Frowns were seen around the table.

  “Look, we are after having just returned from one tough battle. It is not unusual to have after battle jitters and even code loving people like us can disagree harshly,” Glue said passionately, “but my duty is here, and I believe your duty is here also. But even if this Primarch is a great fool and you all leave, this Glue will take his Sword of Omens and smite the Imperial humans from top to bottom. This Glue would fight even if it was hopeless battle, even though it isn’t, not for Little Admiral and Confederation Fleet after Sector reinforcements get here. No. Glue will fight because he sees something: a need in his people that most have not even realized yet. So humans are terrible this and all humans are bad that. But in Glue’s eyes it was exactly these ‘Imperial’ humans that decompressed unarmed Sundered refugee ships. Maybe even the exact same human individuals that attack Sundered Migration before are coming at us here today, tomorrow or next week whenever they will get here. This Glue may be blind because he can’t see and too stupid to listen even though he has ears to hear but he will stay and fight.”

  He paused to wipe away a tear at the corner of his eye as old, painful memories flooded his mind.

  “This Glue can still hear the screams of the younglings over his coms as family transport ship decompressed from the inside out. Glue’s head will not allow him to hate sentient creatures—even humans—that are not even there during the attack or have ordered it done in their names. But in his heart Glue can never forgive the foul, sub-sentient, monster Imperials that lead that attack. If there is even this smallest chance he can get one of them who killed his family, while never straying and always following his duty to protect his Sundered people. Then he cannot leave,” he said clenching his fists and shuddering, then he waved his hand in the air at them and stood up, “but maybe this is just crazy old Glue’s revenge plot. You are free to follow your conscience in this matter. If you cannot fight in this human on human war that has no place for Sundered then go…go home. But to crazy Glue’s mind these Imperial humans already at war with us, they are the ones that kill us, and so as long as there is even a small chance for victory he just can’t let the ones who kill his family go. You say Confederation and Sector humans are using Sundered? I say Glue is using them.”

  With what dignity he could still muster Glue turned, unbarred the door, and trod heavily back to his room.

  He needed to be alone.

  Maybe some would leave but, for all their bluster and fury, they were still Sundered. It was not easy for his people to run from a fight. Especially once they were reminded that not all humans were the same, but the Imperials they faced were everything they hated the most. How could they run in the face of that?

  They just needed time to calm down and decompress. He was sure of it. Well…mostly sure. As he’d already mentioned, maybe he was too focused on revenge to see the bigger picture.

  Though he doubted it.

  Chapter Seven: The Oleander Perspective

  Nerium O. Shrub walked down the concourse neither quickly nor slowly, but at a steady, ground-eating pace that would get him where he needed to go without attracting the sort of attention from station security that it was best avoided entirely.

  He knew he was close to his destination when he started to see the sort of cheap seedy advertisement that you couldn’t find on the military or higher value rent shop districts.

 

  He snorted, looking once again at the ad which ironically contained a contact code buried down at the bottom.

  Pushing aside the bead curtain he walked into Madam Syburna’s House of Fortune and Palm Reading.

  “Good, you’re here early,” said Madam Syburna, dressed as usual with her dress and beads fortune-telling outfit.

  “Of course I’m early. I got an urgent ‘meet’ alert on the same day scheduled for a routine drop. Is there a problem with the package? I need to get in the fleet,” he eyed Syburna and wondered what her angle was.

  “There’s no problem with the package. Your new ID codes, papers and background checks all sailed through without any flags at all, thanks to my connection in the personnel department. Who knew what a man was willing to overlook in exchange for a fist full of untraceable hard currency and an illegal bootlegged copy of the entire Captain Moonlight Chronicles?” she said with an eye roll. “No, you’re here for another reason.”

  “I remember him, and Captain Moonlight was banned for a reason. Even though he spent just about every episode hunting down some rogue droid or grav-carts gone bad and shooting up no small number of them with his blaster and plasma torch, ironically it was still far too humanizing of a key part of the machine plague to ever be allowed to go mainstream,” Oleander said. “All of which is neither here nor there. If there’s no problem with the package then why am I here?”

  “There’s been a recent shift in personnel transfers so we’re going to slip you into the main fleet via a late arriving border patrol Corvette. Two Corvettes, one Destroyer, one mine sweeper arrived as reinforcements designated to the main fleet not two hours ago,” she said.

  “Good. Good, this is all good,” he said, giving the woman a hard look, “but none of it explains why I am here. I could have just as easily received the info along with the package at the dead drop. What’s going on? Why the change?” he asked, his hand slowly sliding down to the concealed blade at his belt. Something didn’t smell right and he was starting to get an itch—the same sort of itch which had kept him alive when far too many other agents hadn’t.

  “Two issues. One is this is a limited time opportunity. It would make the transfer timeline to the Border Alliance Corvette a lot tighter and problematic as there might be a system-wide shut down of all traffic. But…” she trailed off.

  “What is it?” he asked, his left eye narrowing.

  “I have the access codes to get you in and the security profile and patrol routes for Sabrina Montagne Zosime. We only got our hands on them by chance and they’ll expire after today with no reasonable chance to re-acquire them. In, out, and there’s even a waste recycler on your route out where you could get rid of the evidence. There’s no way the hit could be traced back to you. Your call, Agent,” Madam Syburna said with a grimace of distaste.

  “You mean where I could dispose of the body—which by the way is still small enough to be hidden under my coat—after I kill her?” he gave her a hard look. “Syburna, you know I find child assignation distasteful. I’ll only carry out hits on children and babies if it can end a line permanently; in this case her mother is more like a dog than a human being. Eight children, three boys and five girls in one pregnancy, via natural birth! What kind of psychotic woman do you have to be to do that, I ask? In this case, in my opinion, the potential for loss far outweighs any gain we might make. There are four more girls right behind her and, for all we know, if we start knocking them off in ones and twos like dominoes she’ll just go and pop another half dozen in response. That is exactly the opposite of what we want. There need to be fewer Montagnes in this world, not more of them.”

  “Like I said, your call,” Madam Syburna said with brief flash of relief.

  “So what’s the second—which I presume is the real—reason you called me? I know you can’t stomach killing children and you already knew my position on the subject,” he said, his hand on the hilt of the blade. In this business one had to always be ready to execute a clean double-cross. Today’s trusted contact is tomorrow’s flipped double agent.

  “I got a hit on an old expired contact code. Except this is the kind of contact code that doesn’t expire until the person in possession of it is dead, if you know what I mean,�
�� she said.

  “Which sounds more and more like it’s none of my business,” Oleander said flatly. “If the code’s been compromised then I shouldn’t even be on the same side of the station as you and the House of Fortune.”

  “There’s no way this code was broken. It requires an exact genetic match along with highly specific information—information that only the recipient would know, Mr. Shrub,” she demurred.

  “Now I’m certain that I shouldn’t be here. You could have just compromised everything. I’m out,” he said starting for the door.

  “He’ll be here any—” she started.

  The bead door was swished aside and a man in a sweaty, old, merchant crew jumpsuit, wearing a head bag and cap, stepped into the room. His eyes swept from one side to the other, taking in every person and object under the lowered cap.

  “I’m looking for Madam Syburna,” the man said coldly, not removing his cap or showing his face.

  “You’re up next, stranger,” Oleander said, picking up the ‘go’ bag with his package and transfer information on his way to the door, “I’ve already had my fortune read. She’s good.”

  “Not so fast,” the stranger said, pulling out a blaster pistol and sweeping off the self-sealing head bag and cap in one smooth movement. The blaster wasn’t pointed at anyone but the threat was clear: try to leave right now and he’d burn you. “Look, I’ve got nothing to do with whatever…” Oleander trailed off as he took in the flat nose and other facial features of the man standing before him.

  “Good to see you again, Agent. ‘In the flesh’ again, as it were,” the man chuckled and then motioned toward the two of them with the blaster. “I need a set of rush ID’s—the best you can fabricate—and passage on the next independent freighter headed out of this star system. I’ll take it from there.”

  “I don’t know who you think I am, but,” Oleander said with an easy smile plastered on his face, “you’ve got the wrong man. I’m just—” he took a step toward the door—and the man standing in it.