Admiral's Nemesis Part II Page 5

  “It is after being common knowledge,” Primarch Glue said, also turning to look at the droids suspiciously.

  “Yes, the basic worker blueprints are common knowledge,” Bottletop IIV said hastily, “but this is the first time we secured self-reproducing samples.”

  “You mean from the Queen? And I see you didn’t bother denying the military applications you have been researching,” Spalding said.

  Bottletop IIV froze and after a second the droid standing behind him stepped up to the table.

  “This unit's designation is Tactician-Without-A-Flank-To-Turn,” it introduced itself. “United Sentient Assembly military weapons, tactics and research of a top secret clearance cannot be divulged by a civilian representative. Despite being a member of the assembly and the chosen ambassador to your Tracto and your people Admiral, the Chairman is not free to discuss the Bug Mothership.”

  “And yet you are, and here I thought you were a simple bodyguard,” I said and stared at the other droid.

  “Military attaché with special privileges would best match your human forms and functions,” the Tactician said with a bow, failing to deny it had the clearances.

  “Interesting,” I steepled my fingers.

  “Should I take it that you are officially requesting information on our Bug genome military research?” asked Tactician.

  “You can consider this me asking for all the research you’ve performed on the Bugs. But yes, right now I’d like to hear about any military applications you’ve come up with,” I said, gesturing for the droid to continue.

  “Accessing…” Tactician-Without-A-Flank-To-Turn said, his voice turning eerily electronic.

  I felt a chill as the droid all but froze up for a moment, reminding me in that instant of the synthetic nature of the droids. On the surface they appeared…well, not human, but at least bipedal. However it was best to keep in mind at all times that droids were but a step down on the evolutionary ladder from AI’s, with all that entailed.

  For a long second I had to ask myself if I’d made the greatest mistake of my life by not turning against these machines the moment I had no need for them. Did the ‘No Genes, No Genocide’ crew actually have a valid point?

  Then the droid unfroze and I had no more time for existential crises.

  “Our research findings are still somewhat preliminary in nature but we believe we have successfully found a way to weaponize the Bugs. USA scientist-technicians were originally tasked with creating a bio-terminator or, failing that, a bio-virus that could be introduced into a Bug population in order to cull or limit their reproductive capacity. Specifically, their larger spaceship level forms. However what we created instead, under the direction of Mad Scientist Omega 9, may be of even more use,” said the Tactician before pulling up the files. “It's crude in nature, and as of today an opponent must be brought to a functioning hive group or the proto-hive group introduced to a system with sufficient time and bio-mass for it to replicate to the proper size. However, with those conditions granted, this is what we have.”

  I got a cold chill as I slowly read through the Droid research into the Bugs. In truth, it was nothing I hadn’t known before but to see it put together on such a grand scale… No wonder the leader of their project was called 'Mad Scientist.' Only such a person, electronic or otherwise, would come up with this idea.

  Even though there was nothing about the science that was truly ground-shaking, their ‘research facility’ as they called it, all by itself looked to have the potential to have us all tried for galactic terrorism.

  “Nothing we discuss here leaves this room,” I said, breaking out into a cold sweat.

  “I have been granted the authority to classify sections of my report that I release to the Assembly by editing out anything with military significance,” said Bottletop IIV.

  “I am required to report anything with military application to my superiors,” Tactician added.

  “All I care about is if word of this is leaking to non-droids and then to our common enemy, the Empire,” I said, already labeling this as a worst case fall back plan.

  “That will not be a consideration,” Tactician said with surety.

  “Very good, because I think after this little meeting I’m going to need the help of your group. Both your groups,” I amended, including the Primarch in my assessment.

  “If it is in the interests of the Sundered then our Elders will approve many things,” Glue advised.

  “If defeating Cornwallis and the Empire aren’t sufficient motivation, we can talk later and make sure it’s worth your while,” I told the uplift.

  Glue nodded. “We are after being having no interest in imperiling our deal with Tracto and your MSP fleet,” said Glue and, while I noted he didn’t say one way or the other about if his Elders were going to try and squeeze us for more credits or materials, I didn’t think they had any percentage in bringing us down either.

  The Old Confederation would forcibly evict them from known space while the Empire would slaughter them outright if they couldn’t run fast enough. Either way, they weren’t getting a better deal than they had at Tracto.

  Glue himself had mentioned this before the Sundered had agreed to move to Tracto, and it was a sad statement of affairs that failing to drive out and/or attempt to exterminate his people constituted ‘good’ behavior.

  “Good,” I said rubbing my hands together and sharing a look with my Chief Engineer, “with the help of your people we’re going to give those Imperials a fight to remember and I know just how we’re going to do it.”

  Needless to say we ran well over our projected meeting time as all sorts of dirty tricks and surprise attacks were contemplated and set up.

  Chapter 5: It’s a Spalding! Part 1

  “Alright people we’ve got to get the rest of these warships out of the yard and into service!” Spalding thundered storming into the Planning Team’s bi-weekly bull session.

  One of the team members was so surprised she spilled coffee on herself with a shriek and began desperately patting her uniform blouse with a napkin.

  “Do you mind?” demanded one of the team leaders, Jerry Cernovich.

  “Not at all,” the old Engineer declared, helping himself to a doughnut, “don’t mind if I do,” he said around a mouthful.

  “Look, I realize you have pull, but unless you’ve got more workers or an order from higher up, we’re already going as fast as we can,” sneered Cernovich.

  “Yard dogs are all the same,” Spalding scowled pointing the end of his half eaten doughnut at the other man.

  Jerry Cernovich crossed his arms over his chest mutinously. “Put up or shut up, old man. You come in here every month with one of your motivational speeches, if your level of ‘harassment’ actually rises to the level of a speech. It's 'Murphy this' and 'old fashion outmoded superstition' that. We’re men of science and structural mechanics here, not priests on the temple mount trying to drive the demons out of our machines, Commander, and it's time you acted like it,” he said crossly.

  Spalding purpled. “As far as you’re concerned, you back-slacking heathen, I’m a Prophet of the one true holy, here on a mission from the blessed Saint to relay his words to the masses,” roared the old engineer, “and I said it’s time to get out there and work!”

  Mike Cernovitch rolled his eyes. “Look I know what you mean, Commander, but we’re literally all tapped out here,” Slip Boss Mellissa Marigold said, trying to calm the waters.

  “No, don’t feed into it any longer, Mellissa. The man’s a fraud. I’m not saying he doesn’t believe it—which in a way is so much worse it's even pitiful. But every single time he comes down here, it’s the same. We need to prioritize his projects at the expense of our entire work schedule or supernatural forces, by the name of the Demon Muphy, are going to drag us directly down to the abyss. Well, I for one have had it. Unless you’ve got a work order handed down through channels, please leave. The Yard Manager has left standing orders to not let you interr
upt her work schedules,” Cernovitch declared.

  The old Engineer threw a data slate onto the table.

  “Read ’em and weep,” Spalding said furiously, “orders from so high up they might as well have come from the Saint Himself, you gall-blasted heretic!”

  Cernovitch sighed while one of his companions, Marigold, picked up the slate.

  “Enough of your archaic New Age nonsen—” Cernovitch was cut off.

  “This is from the Admiral himself,” she said. looking up with shock.

  “What? Let me see that!” Cernovitch demanded. snatching it from her.

  “Tea and crumpet time’s over. boy,” Spalding chortled as the younger man’s face cramped then shoved a finger in the younger man’s face, “the Yard Manager can’t save you now! From now on it’s an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay around here!”

  Jerry Cernovitch purpled with outrage. “Even if we could get them out of the yard, which we can’t, no one could, we wouldn’t have the crew to man them!”

  Spalding threw his hands wide and touching the transmit button of the data-slate in his hands his thumb had been hovering over. On every wall in 2-D and live in three dimensions on the scattered doughnut and coffee covered work desk appeared a new work schedule.

  “All I hear nowadays is how the younger generation complains they aren’t earning enough pay to make ends meet! Well it’s overtime for everyone, approved by the man himself. It's double shifts, triple shifts! Why we’ll get the Clover...I mean, our Battleships, out of space dock in time for this big dust up yet,” he cried triumphantly.

  Around the table appeared a number of resigned and non-plused faces.

  “The union will never sit still for this,” Cernovitch said with suppressed anger.

  “Then it’s a good thing the only thing we have around here is a Fraternal Order of Mechanics and Space Engineers,” Spalding said shooting air out the side of his mouth.

  “Working six hours more than a standard thirty six hour work week on average is bad enough, but now you want us to work triple shifts without relief?” Cernovitch asked in disbelief.

  Spalding got right in the younger man’s face. “I don’t care what happy worker’s paradise you come from before, lad,” he said spittle flying, “but around here what we care about are our ships, our crewmates and the results—nothing else!”

  “I won’t join your Fraternal Order. It’s not even a real thing and does nothing to protect a worker’s space rights,” retorted Cernovitch. “And what you propose is not only illegal, it’s insanity and I won’t have any part of it so you can get all up in my face and try to intimidate me all you want,” he finished crossing his arms across his chest and jutting his jaw mulishly.

  “No one’s asking you to join the Order,” Spalding said looking down at him with disgust, “you look like pretty weak sauce anyway, so I can’t imagine who would have wanted you in the first place.”

  “You did! You! Every single blasted time you come into this meeting you try to recruit us,” Cernovitch said with disbelief.

  Spalding’s expression twisted into one of full out disgust. “Well consider me a fool for asking; the offer is officially retracted. Clearly I had no idea what I was thinking; you couldn’t pay me to take on a lightweight like you,” he said, rolling his eyes furiously, “as for the rest of the drivel coming out of your mouth, there’s nothing illegal about what we’re doing. Take a look at your regulations; you’re in the military now, boy, not some provincial work commissary.”

  “The Manager will hear of this,” Jerry said mulishly.

  “There’s only three ways to do things around here: the right way, the wrong way and the MSP Engineering Corps way. I don’t care who you go whining to in your own time. But as of right now you lot belong to me. Let’s go!” Spalding said, turning toward the door.

  One or two people hesitantly started to follow, and he rounded furiously on the rest.

  “That’s a direct order. By command of the Admiral, you lot belong to me. So you can follow or you can go sit it out in the brig and watch as your careers slowly flush down the drain,” Spalding said, his jaw jutting.

  “Commander, the time-frame you’re listing is just too tight. We don’t have the bodies for it. Even just the Battleships alone getting them out of the yard and back into service that quickly it can’t be done. Cernovich is right: even if we did, Fleet Personnel doesn’t have the bodies,” protested one of the other Slip Bosses.

  “First, we’re turfing a lot of the smaller units over to our allies. Second, as the Sweet Saint is my witness, by gosh and by golly we are going to do it! And by 'we' I mean 'you!' I’m going to have my hands full up as it is with getting the Clover pushed out,” Spalding declared. “The Clover rides at the head of the Fleet when the Admiral departs or heads will roll,” he said with finality.

  Deciding discretion was the better part of valor, the group of Slip Bosses followed the irate old engineer out of the planning room, several of them already tapping away on their data slates—including Cernovitch, who was already filling out the forms to file a formal protest.

  Chapter 6: CNN Bad News Travels Fast

  “This is Loup O’Leary with a flash update on all the latest news affecting Sector 25. Rumors of an Imperial Fleet can finally be put to bed. Provided to you time delayed and in full 360 degree resolution,” the reporter said with a serious expression before the feed cut to a panning shot of a fleet of warships circling an Old Confederation style starbase. A button at the bottom of the screen offered the option of changing the point of view to anywhere within the image on the holo-screen as he continued, “Not to mention, at great personal risk to this reporter, I am able to confirm that rumors of a fleet gathering at Wolf-11 on the Confederation side of the Overton Expanse are in fact true.”

  The news reporter paused for effect.

  “Yes, you heard me right: these images are not CGI, nor are they of the infamous and now decidedly destroyed Wolf-9 of Easy Haven. This is Wolf-11, a star base on the other side of the Expanse, and the Imperial Fleet stationed at it,” he finished smugly. “What is the meaning of this fleet on the other side of the expanse? What are the intentions of her Admiral?” Loup O’Larry paused for dramatic effect, clearly reveling in his moment in the spotlight when suddenly the screen with his image on it cut in half and another person sitting at a news desk appeared, “well it was difficult, but—”

  “Thanks for all the hard work, Loup!” said the woman sitting at the desk with a thousand megawatt. “We couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “Mathilda?” Loup exclaimed in shocked disbelief.

  “I’ll take it from here,” she said with a wink before her face suddenly turned serious. “This just in!” she exclaimed dramatically, “Breaking News in the Spine. The Cosmic News Network reporter risks life bringing you all the news you need to know, breaks the story of an imminent Imperial Invasion!”

  A flashing series of images showed the gathering Fleet at Wolf-11.

  “But is this really an invasion or is this something more? Has the Confederation finally decided to restore contact with her wayward children and sent the forces needed to quell the growing unrest in the region?” she asked, her smile dimming momentarily before returning with enthusiasm. “We will answer all of that and so much more in just a moment. This is Mathilda May, hot off the Caprian News Desk and your new 5 O’clock news anchor bringing you all the news you need to know: fair, balanced and unafraid.”

  The scene cut to a an image of the CNN central sector news desk, with only a tiny corner of the screen now taken up with Loup O’Larry.

  “What are you doing, Matilda?” the field reported demanded face flushed with anger. “I have a contract with the central news desk! I don’t work with you anymore, remember?!”

  “Oh, Loup,” Mathilda laughed, in front of billions as the 5 O’Clock show continued to broadcast live, as if at a naughty child. “Don’t be so silly, you don’t work ‘with’ me any longer. Now th
at I am a news anchor on the main sector desk, you work ‘for’ me,” she said, happily rolling her eyes.

  “Mathilda! This farce is a complete violation of my work contract. You won’t steal my credit again—I’ll sue! I won’t—” Loup's angry tirade was cut off midstream as his sound was muted and his image quickly disappeared.

  A now smile-free grave face dominated the main screen of the CNN broadcast.

  “It is a sad day. A terrible day. A day of joy. A day of sorrow. A day when word has finally reached this Region of space that contact will soon be reestablished with the Confederation and Empire,” Mathilda said with dignity as billions hung on her words. “But in the end all we are left with are questions. Why has the Confederation left us alone for so long and, more importantly, what is the meaning of this fleet we are seeing at Wolf-11? More important still: is the new regional government now not just illegitimate, but in active rebellion against the mother country? We will discover all this and more, but first we will talk to our panel,” she said as her screen once again split, showing the images of two new panelists joining her via holo-image in the studio her patented thousand megawatt smile returned.

  “Our first guest is the inestimable Ambassador Namus Ponce, newly arrived from his home world of Capria for his expert opinion of, among other things, the Tyrant of Cold Space and,” her smile twisted slightly. “The Marquise de Farqua who has also made himself available as a rebuttal witness.”

  “Thank you, Mathilda,” the Marquise jumped in before she could speak and the holo-image which had begun to focus on Namus Ponce suddenly began to pan back out for a wider shot, “although I’m hurt that in your introduction you failed to mention that we are Co-Ambassadors and, in fact, Namus arrived here well before myself as I have only—”

  “Thank you for that wonderful introduction, Marquise, but if we could get down to the issue at hand that would be wonderful,” Mathilda sighed in long suffering, “Ambassador Ponce?” she asked hopefully.