Homebound Sector, Haven System, Battleship Singularity
The Admiral’s quarters were almost cozy. Almost. There was a small sofa and a set of old antique lounge chairs in a seating area in front of an old wooden desk. But the furniture wasn’t the problem, in fact it took Amelia nearly an hour to place a finger on what made the room feel so off.
There was nothing truly personal anywhere: no photographs and no letters. There were a few trinkets on the bookshelves, but there was nothing truly personal – no indication of friends or family. The room did not feel empty, but it did not feel truly personal either.
The frames on the walls held paintings of landscapes or photographs of the ship they stood aboard. It was strange. Maybe in place of friends, she had expected to see pictures of crew, but there were none of those either. A snow globe and a conch shell were evidence of a life lived here, but not a life fully lived.
Chief Ty had left them here some time ago. Harrison had been lulled to sleep on the couch by the steady hum of the ship’s engines, but Amelia was not so easily relaxed. That constant noise was preferable to Reeter’s presence, but it remained a burdensome reminder that she had no control over her fate here. She had absolutely no idea what the Admiral intended to do with her or her son.
Maybe that was why she was drawn to the desk. It was the least tidy part of the office, piled high with folders of papers. An old lamp had been attached to one corner, left on, as were the others illuminating the room. Only one square of the wooden desktop was visible, atop it sat an empty tin mug.
It was a dinted old thing, the handle slightly misshapen, but Amelia didn’t bother with it, moving onto the workspace in front of the black leather chair. Rather than a pile, only one folder sat there, stamped with a red confidential watermark. The label on the tab simply read, ‘New Era.’
Amelia picked it up, careful not to let the papers spill. Inside, the pages were sorted by Assets, Leaders and Objectives. A few were out of order, clipped together and marked up in pen by a neat, concise handwriting she assumed to be the Admiral’s. Amelia was awed for a moment, realizing she held all the information on the enemy in her hands: who they were, what they wanted and what they were capable of.
Still, she couldn’t move past the fleet personnel file on top. A thumbnail photograph of Charleston Reeter smiled up at her from where it had been clipped to the corner of the page. Even a photograph of that knowing gaze made her want to vomit. She could just see that charismatic smile curling into a triumphant smirk. Reeter was evil, but the note scrawled on the opposite corner of the page did not renew her faith in her apparent rescuer.
It was scrawled in black by that same, methodical handwriting, “Trade for Amelia?” What was that supposed to mean?
A part of her insisted it was not something she really wanted to know.
She had been warned not to trust the Admiral. Her own father had promised that trusting him would be a mistake, but never specified why. Similarly, her husband, when he’d been alive, had never said much on Admiral Gives, avoiding the subject like it was taboo. None of that encouraged her to think well of the man. In fact, it encouraged her to assume the worst.
In this game of kings, she was a pawn – something to be traded on a whim. She was a commodity, one that Reeter wanted, but one that Admiral Gives now had. What am I worth? She wondered. What would Admiral Gives stand to earn by turning her back over to Reeter? A spot in the New Era’s coup? A pact of non-aggression between Reeter’s forces and his own? Perhaps it would even be something as small as a favor.
The hatch creaked open, someone new stepping into the compartment. Amelia watched the young woman seal the door behind her, not pleased to find herself in the presence of yet another stranger. “Where is my uncle?”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
The visitor’s head snapped up, first noting Amelia’s positioning behind the desk, and then the folder in her hands. The crewman’s eyes went wide. “Ma’am, you cannot be over there.”
“Oh?” Amelia said as the young woman, an ensign by the rank band on her arm, dashed over to grab the folder from her hands.
The Ensign hurriedly put the folder back in his place, quickly checking the surrounding stacks of papers for any sign that they had been touched. “You should not be over here. Some of these files are confidential.”
Amelia crossed her arms, looking over the crewman’s clean, suit-like uniform. She could only wonder how filthy her wrinkled blouse looked in comparison. “Seems like a very secure place to keep government secrets.” Any member of the ship’s crew could walk in and grab one of those files off the desk.
“This ship operates on trust.” The only secrets Admiral Gives really kept from his crew were personal. Operational intel for missions, no matter how covert, was always fully disclosed to the crew, and they did not betray that trust. They did not leak that intel to outside sources. It stayed aboard ship. Not to mention, if anyone came in here to read through these files, Admiral Gives would certainly know. He always knew. He had a sort of uncanny knowledge of everything that happened on the ship.
“So, who are you?” Amelia asked. Why was this stranger here?
“My name is Ensign Feather. I’m the Admiral’s assistant.”
Amelia gave the young woman a once-over. “I’m sure you are.” She was young and pretty. Her inky black hair had a bright red streak that matched her lipstick.
Feather frowned. “I push papers.” Like the other yeomen, updating the computer logs, cleaning and dispersing information between the ship departments was her primary job. More specifically, as the Admiral’s assistant, she filed the papers he did at his desk as he approved duty shifts, supply requisitions and plotted their patrol courses. On other ships, being the commanding officer’s personal assistant usually had some improper double-meaning. Feather was well aware of that, but that was very much not the case here. “The Admiral’s not like that.”
“And where is my uncle?” They’d been here several hours. It was about time that Amelia figured out his real intentions, because she was growing certain he did have some.
“Last I heard, he was on the bridge.”
Fury rose. “He’s back from Base Oceana, and even now he’s still not going to bother with us?” This must be the cold shoulder Ty had tried to warn her about. It seemed her uncle really didn’t give a damn. “Take me to see him, now.”
Feather saw the kid on the couch start to stir, woken by the volume of Amelia’s voice. “Ma’am I can’t do that. CIC is a secure part of the ship.” Guests were not permitted there without clearance – clearance given by the commanding officer. “I had just come to see if you would like any food or something to drink.”
“I want to see the Admiral.” Amelia said, crossing her arms. She was through being ignored. “Call him down here.”
“I can’t do that,” Feather replied. “He runs the ship according to his schedule, and he prefers not to be disturbed by guests when he’s working in CIC.”
“CIC?” the kid on the couch bolted up, suddenly wide awake. “I want to see the bridge!” Harrison had long forgotten the ordeals of the past week, ecstatic about being aboard a battleship. “My friends are going to be so jealous! The Command Information Center is the coolest part of the ship!” He leapt to his feet with the energy of a lightning bolt, “That’s where Uncle Will gives the orders to blow up moons and stuff!”
For a moment, all Feather could do was stare. The kid had so much energy. Releasing him onto the bridge would definitely be a hazard. Also, ‘Uncle Will’? Feather had never heard the ship’s commanding officer referred to with such endearment, let alone any endearment. She’d never heard anyone call him anything other than his official title. Most of the crew tended to forget that the man actually had a name.
Amelia was all too used to Harrison’s enthusiasm, but something else nagged her. Maybe it was just her habit as a teacher to point it out, but, “If the acronym stands for Command Information Center, shouldn’t it be referred to as the CIC?”
Feather paused. Grammatically speaking, she supposed that was correct. “I’ve never thought about that.” No one had ever brought it up. She shrugged, knowing there would be no changing the crew’s mind about that. “Ship slang is what it is.”
“Well, where can you take us, Ensign?” If her uncle was determined to ignore them, then she might as well return the favor. No way was she going to wait in this empty room for another few hours.
“The observation deck, ship’s library, medical bay, mess and hydroponics.”
The medical bay. That’s where Ron and Anabelle were. The least she could do was make sure Anabelle was being properly treated. “Take us to medical.”
Feather wasn’t going to question that tone of voice. “Yes, ma’am.”