Retribution (The Federation Reborn Book 3) (20 page)

It didn't matter now, he enjoyed the view even if it was a bit brooding he thought. Appropriate given how he'd been thinking about the future. He had no idea what was on the other side of the jump point. He wondered absently how many of his staff had opening night jitters. Probably everyone he thought, examining his glass with a critical eye before he set it down on the end table nearby. Including him he thought with a brief mental snort of disdain for all his efforts to hide it. He could do a good job of hiding it from his staff but not from himself he thought. For all his bluster and years of being in the Battle Fleet, this would be his first taste of the furnace once combat was joined. With the enemy ship's speed advantage, they may very well be walking into a trap. A trap but one he would turn on the enemy he thought. He was a predator, the monster that would tear up their pitiful fleet.

His first taste of combat he thought. If not in B-97A, then most likely in B-95a3 he thought.

Hopefully not his last he thought. He might take the Praetorship from the Cartwrights if he played his cards right. More importantly, the deeper he got, the more damage he inflicted … and the less the enemy would have to use against his people later. He knew his part was not just a mace but also a delaying tactic; he was the roadblock the empire badly needed at this critical junction he thought. They needed time: time to get the
El Dorado
shipyards producing, time to finish retooling the home shipyards, time to finish retraining the fleet and refitting it to modern standards. Time—it seemed it was all about time.

They were expending lives and his fleet to buy the empire that time if he couldn't win the day outright. He scrunched his aging eyelids shut for a brief moment. “Please let me get this right,” he murmured under his breath.

When he opened his eyes, it was like nothing had happened. No divine sign from the gods … not that he'd expected one. It was just as well, he thought.

:::{)(}:::

Commodore Harold Eichmann shook his head as he ran through the last tactical exercises.
Daring
was good; he had to give Red that much credit. The Viking might have transferred in from the Gather Fleet but he ran a tight ship. But the rest of Sixth Squadron still had issues.

Integrating the new ships from Dead Drop wasn't helping. He'd been saddled with a pair, but he knew Evan had one orphan to deal with as well. Getting those crews up to speed was something of a challenge that ate up a lot of his time. Fortunately, his flag captain could look after himself and even take on some of the squadron's load.

Now, if he could get the Viking's pride and arrogance under control, he'd go from good to outstanding. But unfortunately getting humbled in exercises wasn't doing the trick. He was half tempted, half afraid to dump the job on the big man and let him sink or swim. If he sank it might do the trick … but if he swam and showed his boss up in the process? He shook his head mentally. The man would be insufferable.

Can't have that.

“I think we've got enough time for another sim if you're up for it,” Commodore Evan Bloodbeard offered, smiling a feral smile. Her statement broke through his errant thoughts and brought him back to the here and now.

He didn't like how her eyes glittered, nor how she'd trumped him in the last round. He glanced at the clock and then shook his head. “Regretfully no, beautiful lady, I'll have to take a rain check. I need to sleep.”

“Sure
you do,” the woman drawled saucily.

“Of course, if you want a playmate, I'm certain Rear Admiral Adkin would love to have a go. If he's still awake,” he said with a challenging grin.

“Vale?” she immediately shook her head. “
Potemkin
is too far away. Besides, she's a battle cruiser; the odds are just a
little
bit in his favor,” she replied.

“Don't think he'd reduce his ship to your level to make it an even fight?” Harold asked.

She snorted. “No, I think he would, but he's got those powerful computers and bigger staff to back him up. You know the old rule about if you're not cheating you're not trying hard enough,” she replied.

Harold snorted. “Yes, you've got me there. I'm still smarting from your last trick,” he said. He held up a finger as her saucy smile returned. “Mind you, I'm going to get my payback eventually, young lady,” he warned.

“Sure
you are,” she teased. “But you better have better excuses than needing sleep if you want to have a roll with me sailor!” she finished as she closed the circuit.

Despite his normal self-discipline, Harold let off a bark of laughter. The rumble changed to a chuckle as he shook his head and logged out. Tomorrow was another day, one day closer to battle … and the start of his path to glory.

:::{)(}:::

Princess Catherine Ramichov, Commander, kicked her leg out and then crossed it on top of her left one in a pose before she relaxed back in the chair. It was after hours; she didn't have much to do except read and wait.

She sat in her room but instead of relaxing and catching up on paperwork her thoughts strayed to those about the situation she was in, not just politically, but strategically. She realized the threat of dying, of really meeting the god of death was her primary concern. She was not happy about that, not at all. There was a real possibility of death hovering over the fleet, and on the flagship more than other places, even though it was a vaunted dreadnaught. A dreadnaught yes, but it would be a primary target, and since it was the flagship, it would be doubly important for the enemy to take her out as soon as possible.

Not pleasant she thought. Her brothers might have the better positions she thought wryly. She miscalculated slightly.

As the admiral's OPS officer, she had the greatest view of the potential for danger. Sure, the brainstorm session might have thrown a spook into her. That was good; she was starting to appreciate fear. There was a reason for it, a warning, a means to induce caution so one didn't walk blindly into a trap. But you couldn't overthink it, and you definitely didn't want it to make you stop what you were doing. Being a warrior was about taking risks.

Some were riskier than others. Like her brother Adam. Adam was a commander, the XO of
Archangel
. Her twin was also married to Marina Stuart. She might look young, sweet, a bit goth with the pale skin and black nails and lips, but she didn't have her sister-in-law fooled—not for a minute. Behind that charm was the Stuart vicious streak. The woman took great pleasure in hiding her vicious sadistic tendencies. She knew that the woman was highly motivated to become empress so she knew she had to play ball with her brother and keep him content.

She also had her twin wrapped around her finger. She wasn't certain which of them had put off having a family. It might have been a joint decision, one to keep Adam alive and Marina happy. After all, as long as they didn't have a child, Adam wouldn't become redundant and therefore expendable.

And if something did happen to him, there went Marina's chance at the number two slot. And with her loss would be that of the Stuart family. That was why they were so fiercely protective of their investment.

She realized she'd distracted herself long enough so she glanced at the clock hovering in her vision. Above it was a countdown, and it was down to nine hours before they emerged in B-97A space. Were they going to find the enemy there waiting?

She wasn't sure. Either way, they were about to find out soon enough.

:::{)(}:::

“It looks like we missed a party,” Captain Antony Picket said dryly as Admiral von Berk came out of the head. He looked over his shoulder as the flag officer came onto the bridge, brushing past the marine stationed at the door.

The brusque walk-in wasn't unexpected, but it was rude. But the lieutenant commander and ship captain didn't expect anything less of a flag officer. After all, they were only a few steps away from the gods of space.

“What was that, Captain?” the admiral asked, looking around the room and then settling his attention on the captain.

Ma Duece's
captain indicated the plot of the B-97C star system and the growing markings CIC was placing on it. “According to CIC we missed some big ship movement, Admiral.”

The admiral frowned as he peered at the plot. He glanced at Mara who was floating in the tank and then over to the captain. “Do you believe they moved out faster than we did?” he asked, pointing to the water dweller. “Or do you believe they sent a second force?” he asked.

Captain Picket frowned thoughtfully. “If you are asking if Dead Drop is now a dead end, Admiral, my answer is no,” he said slowly. “Perhaps you missed this,” he said, highlighting one of the ion tracks. He brought it up with magnification until the notations could be read, including the direction. “Based on these readings, a fleet moved here from Dead Drop through this system and then jumped to B-97A a few weeks ago. CIC is running the decay ratios down, but you know they hedge a lot there.”

The admiral nodded thoughtfully. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted a couple of ratings escorting the blue-skinned young woman out of the tank. One tossed a towel over her shoulders. She seemed tired but still game. She even smiled when one handed her a steaming cup of tea to help her relax. After a moment of murmuring, they escorted her off the bridge.

The admiral turned to note that he wasn't the only one who had watched the woman go. “She … if they were all like her, they'd be easier to accept I suppose,” Captain Picket stated.

“Perhaps. We take what we can get. The federation has them in droves. We need them. Treat her like the prized resource she is,” the admiral rumbled.

The captain hid a grimace as he nodded. “Aye aye, sir. I do admit; she did shave a week off each of our transits. Her and her … people,” he said grudgingly.

“And she'll continue to do so. And once
Ma Duece
and other ships like her gets a full refit, she'll be able to shave
weeks
off transit time. And she'll be able to lead our ships to attack a star system from any direction, not just the jump points,” he stated.

Slowly the captain nodded. He'd already grasped that strategic importance but apparently the admiral needed to make it clear. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. I'm glad we have an understanding. You are about to get under way, Captain?” he asked.

Captain Picket bristled internally at the order but did his best not to let it show. After a moment he nodded. The admiral crossed his arms.

“Sensors report the star system is clear, sir. We're clear to proceed,” a CIC rating reported.

“Very well. Navigation, set course for the Dead Drop jump point,” the captain said, settling himself into his chair. “Best speed,” he ordered.

“Aye, sir,” the navigator said. “Helm, take your bearing of 221 mark 1 by 3. We'll see if we can pick up a grav assist along the way,” he said.

“Bearing 221 mark 1 by 3. Course set. Speed adjusted to half impulse,” the helmsman stated.

“Execute,” the navigator intoned formally.

“Executing course and speed,” the helmsman replied.

Chapter 9

“Of all the damn times to have an engineering problem …,” ship Captain and First Lieutenant Chuqi Liyang said in disgust. He shook his head. The gods of space were definitely perverse he thought darkly.

It was his fault he knew; he'd pushed the ship too hard. He'd been in a hurry to warn Second Fleet and had pushed her past her safe rating mark. He'd thought that the designers and engineers had padded the rating to keep people like him in check. Apparently there had been a real reason for the rating, he thought wryly. They'd bounced off the Delta hyper band and ran at the eighth octave of gamma too long. Something had definitely strained and kerpuffle; they'd been reduced to plodding along in Alpha band for the last half of their journey.

At least it hadn't destroyed the ship altogether he thought with a small corner of his mind.

“Lady Luck isn't favoring us I see, sir,” Midshipman Spooky replied.

The captain of the
Prowler
class UFN-001P looked over to the A.I., snorted and then exhaled. He'd resigned himself to not getting the word to stop Second Fleet before they jumped for B-97C. Most likely the enemy would be jumping for B-97A at a slower speed … at least he
hoped
so. Second Fleet and the Horathians would pass each other in hyperspace like ships in the night, neither aware of the other.

The way their luck was turning, the hope was a possible fleeting one. What else could go wrong kept lurking in his mind. He had enough presence of mind not to voice it out loud. There was no telling how many of Murphy's gremlins were left lurking about for just such a curse to cause more havoc.

More than they or anyone ever needed he thought with a barely repressed shiver of dread.

“Lieutenant Pyraven thinks they've got a handle on the damage. We can transition down safely, Captain,” Juma stated dubiously. The albino furred chimera wrinkled his nose to make his curled mustache twitch and then flicked his long tufted ears.