Admiral's Challenge (A Spineward Sectors Novel: Book 8) Read online

  “’Slave-tasked’,” Spalding shook his head bullishly, “what a crock. If all I wanted was a press gang then, just like you said, I could have rounded up a posse of droids the Lady rescued from the battleships. Blast it, man, what I need are droid navigators and trained crews for an extended mission in decompression. Humans can’t go weeks in decompression easily, and the last thing I need is a bunch of shifty machines lookin’ for a way out.”

  “I am neither a ‘man’ nor a ‘shifty machine’,” the droid grunted loudly, breaking into Droid 2.0 in its outrage.

  “Didn’t say you were,” the Chief Engineer shook his head at the squirrely machine, “and I was calling those lazy layabouts on the battleships shifty, not you lot. I know that you Sentient Assembly types have a much better work ethic than a lot of droid types,” the old engineer frowned, remembering the number of self-destructive, slacking, and sabotage-minded droid machines he’d run across in his career. He didn’t need more of that type running around on critical engineering projects like the one he had planned.

  “You should free the droids now in your fleet. Forcing them to work is a violation of their sentient rights!” the repair droid in front of him angrily shook a small testing device—that was part of its forearm attachment—at him as if it were a finger and Spalding a naughty boy.

  “Free them? Why, we just liberated them from the Harmony Droids!” Spalding said angrily. “And havin’ a man or a droid pay-work his passage home isn’t slavery; it’s called the unwritten rules of star travel! What are they, a bunch of metal space bums and we the charity organization of known space!”

  “The Assembly would gladly offer them passage to anywhere they wanted to go, and I think we’d have a much better idea of the travel scenarios desired by a group of liberated droids than an oppressive biological like yourself,” growled the Droid.

  “Oppressive, is it?” Spalding bawled. “Askin’ a man to work the very ship that’s taking him to liberty—after rescuing him from death and dismemberment, instead of letting him lounge around like a pampered aristocrat on a pleasure tour—is oppressive is it? Well, then, by all the ornery space gods I’m the blasted Tyrant of Liberty, I am! First I free them, and then I have them work their way back to a free port—what a slave driver I am! Worse than death, makin’ a man work for a few weeks to get away; why, I’m the bloody bane of slackin’ civilians everywhere, and ought to be locked up for it, you bloomin’ idjit!”

  “We know your hidden files designation around here, Moonlight,” retorted the droid, its attachments separating from their locked down position and starting to spin, beep, and extend menacingly.

  In response, the tips of Spalding’s fingers started to pop off as the mini-plasma torches built into his hand started to activate.

  “Enhance your calm; cease and desist all hostile activities,” ordered a fast-moving droid in an elevated voice.

  “Human oppressor!” declared the repair droid.

  “Machine bigot,” Spalding scoffed in reply.

  “What is the cause of this altercation?” the new droid demanded sternly.

  “This biological thinks it can simply task-allocate workers at its own whim,” the repair droid said hotly.

  “That’s an outright lie if ever I heard one—which, on top of its abrasive personality, is near fightin’ words,” Spalding accused. “I just said I was interested in a navigator and ship crews for that more than half-dozen droid Motherships we lot captured over in the Little Admiral’s Patrol Fleet. Human types don’t do so well in extended decompression environments, and I wouldn’t trust that blarmy lot of impressed machines over in the captured human battleships further than I could throw them when they’re out of my sight.”

  “See! It admits to coercive labor enforcement for those poor unfortunates—sentients who have been enslaved by this biological unit’s superiors—for the task of operating their prize battleships,” the repair droid declared, as if winning some particular point, its indignation clear.

  “Disconnect from this situation, Secondary Repair Supervisor,” ordered the new droid. “I will interface with this officer directly.”

  The Repair Droid buzzed angrily and then went off—for what purpose, the old Engineer couldn’t determine. And, to be honest, he really didn’t care right at the moment.

  “That’s one what needs his screws tightened,” the Chief Engineer grumped.

  “We will continue this conversation in a designated conference room; please follow,” instructed the new droid.

  Grumbling under his breath the old engineer followed the machine into the conference room.

  “I am the Fabrication and Repair Conductor; you would call me the Chief Engineer for our Assembly. Please relay your work request now,” said the new droid, this Repair Conductor.

  “What I want is simple,” the old engineer said and then repeated his request for Navigators and crews to keep from being forced to strip the captured Conformity Motherships and leave the hulls behind. “We need all the ships and hulls we can get our hands on, so I was hoping to get your lot over here to help fix them up and bring them along with us on our route back to Tracto,” he finished explaining his reasoning.

  “I cogitate that we can task-allocate units for critical systems and a small defense force made up of assault model droids to protect the ships, however our resources are not infinite,” warned the Conductor.

  “Sounds good to me,” Spalding nodded with satisfaction.

  “However, we have our own ships and captured platforms to operate,” warned the Conductor droid. “This means that, while we are prepared to offer the skilled operators, you will need to procure the bulk of the crews for basic-level ship repairs and operations.”

  Spalding leaned back, flabbergasted at the droid’s reticence. “I just told you how difficult it is to get the men—let alone have them operating in a zero-g, decompressed environment for days and weeks on end,” he said nonplussed.

  “Then don’t allocate men,” the Conductor replied without concern, “and send work assets from the droids you have captured from the Conformity controlled battleships.”

  “You wouldn’t feel concerned about their loyalties?” Spalding wondered aloud.

  “Our concerns about such units turning against us are minimal,” the Droid dismissed, “and, with an allotment of assault droids, those concerns drop to near zero.”

  “That would do it then, I suppose,” the old Engineer nodded, stroking his chin, “if you’ll give me your personnel’s contact information, I’ll just forward you the plans and list of ships that can be repaired in time.”

  “There is one more issue to discuss before a completed agreement can be reached,” interrupted the Conductor as the Chief Engineer started to stand.

  The old Engineer turned around with a sigh. He’d hoped to get out of this without being roped into anything extra, but wasn’t really surprised at this latest turn. Back-channels and trading in favors was the same the world over, it seemed; whether you were a man or a machine, the basic formula was the same.

  “What can I do you for?” he said sitting back down.

  “Once repaired, eight Motherships with antimatter-fueled lasers will be a statistically significant force,” replied the droid.

  “Oh, just cut the wishy-washy beatin’ around the bush and get to the point,” growled Spalding. “Tell me what you want.”

  The droid peered at him for a long moment, its pair of green eyes telescoping out of its head as it zoomed in on his face. “The exchange we want this time is the same as it was the time before, Captain Moonlight,” replied the Conductor.

  It took the old engineer a moment to process and then he frowned. “Yeah, well, I don’t happen to have a couple hundred droid cores squirreled away in my back pocket this time, now do I?” he asked facetiously and then his brows lowered as a thought occurred to him. “Unless…you don’t mean...”

  “Yes, indeed, Captain,” said the Droid causing Spalding to frown at the casual use of t
he long-abandoned alter-ego he only ever created for his little boy back when he was still little. “We are prepared to continue helping your Fleet to the best of our abilities, including the use of our constructor fabrication and repair facilities. But, as you have likely calculated, our requirements are simple. We will require every free-willed droid in your fleet be turned over to us at the end of our journey. No more forced labor.”

  “All of them,” Spalding blurted, thinking of just how much more they were asking than last time. “You don’t ask for much do you then.”

  “Our requirements on this are non-negotiable,” replied the Droid.

  The old Engineer pursed his lips. “And what if some of those droids want to stay on with the Fleet?” he asked grasping at straws and knowing it but needing to stall for time as he thought things through.

  “While we believe in the ability to self-determinate, the likelihood of such an occurrence is statistically negligible,” said the Droid looking surprised but then it nodded. “However, we are willing to stipulate to that addendum since it is our primary directive to allow these individuals to go wherever they desired after arriving in our care. Am I to take it then that we have a deal?”

  “I think we can work something out,” said the old engineer extending his hand. The fleet needed those ships a lot more than they needed a bunch of press ganged droids, in his humble opinion. That said, he wondered how he was going to explain this to the Admiral and the Lady…

  The droid stared at his hand for a moment.

  I might be oversteppin’ my authority a wee bit here, Spalding thought while the droid extended its hand—or whatever the appendage was properly called by the mechanicals. Then he shook the thought off as he shook the Conductor’s hand. He’d been told to get the MSP ships ship-shape—or at least close enough to get the bulk of them home—and to do so by whatever means necessary. Well, it turned out that this was a necessary means.

  “You will not require clearance levels from higher authority?” queried the droid.

  “You just leave that all to me,” Commander Spalding of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet growled, feeling something like a real officer for the first time since he realized his heart had been weakened.

  There was a job to be doing and he knew just what needed to be done to make it happen.

  Chapter Six: The Time Has Come

  “How are your men doing, Captain?” Commodore Druid asked.

  Nikomedes placed a chip down on the other man’s desk. “It is all in the report,” he said uncaringly.

  “Ah, yes; I’ve noticed that you seem to be particularly good at filling out reports—better than the other Tracto-an officers I’ve dealt with,” Druid said with a politic smile.

  Nikomedes suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.

  “I dictate and have my aide write it down,” he said, which was the truth as far as important reports and communications went. But if it wasn’t important, all the clerical work—especially the paperwork—he had the aide write down and fill out. He merely scanned it all to make sure the clerk wasn’t trying to sneak anything past him.

  “Well, your company has proved itself on this campaign,” Druid said with a nod. “I’ll admit I wasn’t sure about your company at first but you’ve proven yourself where it counts. Especially that boarding action during the main battle; the Parliamentary Power might not still be here if you and your men hadn’t been a part of the boarding team that captured that enemy battleship.”

  “Like a war-band, a man raises himself through victory in battle. I only hope to have many such opportunities in the future, Commodore,” said Nikomedes, meaning every word.

  “I can understand that position,” Druid said, “however, I hope you’ll forgive me if I hope for no major engagements in the near future. This fleet has been banged up and tossed around; we need to get home and heal our wounds first.”

  “Of course,” Nikomedes said perfunctorily; he was simply there on a routine report to the battleship commander. “How likely is it do you think that we will be battle free and for how long?”

  “As far as I know, and from what the Admiral’s said, if we can get home in one piece then we should have smooth sailing for at least the next couple months,” Druid said after a pause. “There are no enemies on the horizon, so unless there’s need for another mercy mission like this one, the only thing on the radar will be routine patrols dealing with small fry like pirates, rogue droids, or irate system governors—fingers crossed of course.”

  “Of course,” Nikomedes repeated; he was only interested in building his reputation and protecting Tracto and the Tracto-ans of his planet and this fleet. Finding out there were no real threats on the horizon, while not what he wanted to hear personally, was not the end of the world. Then he suddenly felt his scalp tingle and his head snapped around; instead of heading for the door as he’d originally planned, his eyes focused like a laser beam as everything in the room seeming to come into stark relief. “In other words, you’re saying there are no threats to Tracto or her people?” he asked harshly.

  Druid’s shoulders came forward and he eyed the younger man.

  “Like I said, no known threats,” he clarified, “but one never knows what’s just beyond the horizon. Although, the way the Admiral has of sniffing out problems before they blow up in our face—like a droid invasion of two human-controlled Sectors—I can’t say for how long that’ll be the case.”

  Nikomedes smiled savagely, the final piece of a long-forming puzzle falling into place in his mind’s eye. “Thank you for your candor, Commodore Druid,” he said, giving the other man one of their Starborn salutes of respect.

  “If there’s nothing more, you can go,” Druid said with a short nod.

  “Of course,” Nikomedes acknowledged, but this time with an entirely different tone than when he’d said it earlier.

  Stepping out of the room, the previously laid-back and relaxed Warlord—now commander of a war-band of Tracto-ans, Starborn, and the Demon Creatures who had flocked to his banner since he had taken to the stars at Men’s behest—had a fire in his eyes and a sense of purpose that had been lacking after the battle had been won.

  The time of waiting and growing his power was almost over. He had a holy mission to fulfill, and the last requirement had just been met to his satisfaction. He still needed to be careful; above all, Tracto, its people, and its holy places and relics must be protected. The Fleet could not be divided against itself since that would endanger his Men-given quest…but with no known enemies in view, and Nikomedes’ base of power now fully-established, it was time to begin putting long-planned events into motion.

  Returning to his war-band’s barracks, Nikomedes took in a deep breath and looked around. Men, women, and creatures of many different races and body types all lived in this place. Before they had been individuals, but his training on the Omicron had prepared them and battle in Elysium had forged them into a sturdy blade ready for anything and, more importantly, anyone. They were no longer a green unit, but a battle-tested army prepared to devour any enemy.

  While the Commodore had called his war-band a ‘company,’ he knew that it was more properly battalion-sized by the Starborn measures, but he wasn’t about to quibble over status. For all of his adult life, his chosen duty was, and had always been, to the betterment of Argos, Messene and to the Planet of Tracto.

  “Captain,” one of the humans, a fellow Tracto-an looked at him with respect that hadn’t been there before the battle and nodded.

  Nikomedes returned the nod and the fire in his eyes burned a fraction hotter. The second requirement had been met long before: securing the loyalty of his war-band. They might call him ‘Captain,’ they might call him ‘Major’ outside these walls, but inside them he was the Warlord of these warriors and that was all he needed. False praises and accolades meant nothing. What was of value were the years he had spent on the Omicron building up from nothing and forging his destiny with literally his own two hands.

  “Apol
lo,” Nikomedes acknowledged, turning to the warrior in his band most adept with communications.

  “Yes, Warlord,” the former Pirate with an excessive amount of metal pierced through his face said semi-respectfully.

  “I want you to find me the com-numbers of the other Tracto-an Captains and Officers within this Fleet,” he ordered.

  “Any particular reason, Boss?” the Warrior and former Pirate asked curiously.

  “Do I need one?” Nikomedes asked curiously, though his deep, rich voice rightly had more than a note of command to it.

  The former pirate paled and frantically shook his head. “I’ll get you them numbers right away, Boss…I mean Warlord,” said the other man.

  Nikomedes smiled. “Do that,” he instructed.

  Minutes later, Apollo returned, “I have them, Sir.”

  “My thanks,” Nikomedes said courteously. He waited until the pirate had left before scanning through the list. It had meant nothing to him as early as that morning, but suddenly the knowledge that Captain Atticus was dead and buried suddenly took on a new meaning to the young Warlord.

  The name of Atticus had carried a large weight throughout the Lancer force, far more than say…a foreigner like Darius, another member of the Lancer command’s inner circle, ever could have with the common warriors of this fleet comprised mainly of men from Argos and Messene. Nikomedes, on the other hand was well known, had a powerful band of warriors and, while his name had been lower than dirt previously, victory in battle had the power to change many things.

  Punching in the numbers, he pulled up the contact number of one of the Captains who was decidedly not included in the Fleet Commander’s inner circle. It was time to find out just how much weight the name ‘Nikomedes’ now carried—and also to discover if that weight couldn’t be increased.