Polaris Sector, Battleship Singularity
They stood in front of a set of mirrors in one of the ship’s supply rooms. The large space was stacked around the edges with storage crates, but the center of the room had been repurposed over the years into a workshop of sorts. Here, the yeomen, supply and maintenance workers would stitch and mend sheets, uniforms and costumes. Bright lights illuminated sewing machines, work tables, and racks of fabric bolts, ribbon rolls and thread spools. The scent of fresh linens perfumed the air.
Jazmine had a big grin on his face. “Well, what do you think?”
Monty tugged on the sleeves of his new navy-blue suit. It fit nicely. Still, “There’s no way they actually wear suits in the illegal trade business.” That was the stuff of fiction. Hitmen dressed in camouflage, be it to blend into terrain or crowds. Stiff and clean suits just weren’t practical.
Jazmine brushed his luscious hair into place, the lightning bolt cufflinks on his sleeve glittering. “I told you, Monty. Midwest Station is civilized. It’s where people make deals and trades, not where they do their dirty work. Reputation is everything. If you show up dressed like a street-level thug, they’ll laugh you off the station.”
“If it’s so professional, how did you manage to work there? You’re a clown, and those cufflinks look corny as hell.” Monty had done a few escort missions for rich businessmen. Their sense of style was usually less ostentatious than the bolt cufflinks and brightly colored pocket square Jazz wore.
“These are my calling cards. I do have a reputation to uphold.” He’d made a name for himself as the fastest smuggler in the region, working out of Midwest Station. He’d adopted brightly colored lightning bolts as his symbol, donning them on his clothes, printing them on his business cards and painting them on the hulls of his ships after a run. “Showing up without that bit of my pride is about the most suspicious thing I could do, right sir?” He turned to the shadow that had been lingering in the room.
“Yes, Lieutenant,” came the calm response. “Those calling cards of yours should get the stationmaster’s attention.” That was all genuine. The calling cards, Jazmine’s reputation, and his history at the station. That was all real and couldn’t be faked. At the moment, it gave them the credentials they needed to carry out this mission. Without that, Admiral Gives would not have even considered such an operation.
Jazmine’s grin widened. “See?” he nudged Monty. “Even he acknowledges my reputation.”
Montgomery Gaffigan was exhausted by this charade already, and the mission hadn’t really even started yet. “Is this really necessary, skipper?” he sighed.
“Unfortunately, yes, Lieutenant, it is.” Jazmine was known to exaggerate, and he certainly valued his appearances, but on this point, he was correct. “If you are to command any degree of authenticity on Midwest Station, you must look the part.” The organized crime syndicates enjoyed flaunting their physical riches in any way they could – including by dressing flamboyantly. The same was very much true for the heads of the worlds’ corporations. Though legal, they and their private armadas mirrored the syndicates.
Gaffigan groaned a bit and began pulling at the stiff collar of his dress shirt. He didn’t spend much time out of uniform. Other clothes lacked the utility pockets he relied on to store his tools and detonators.
Admiral Gives easily read his discomfort. “If you are unwilling, Lieutenant. We can still find another candidate.” However, even the Admiral would admit, Gaffigan looked the part. His fiery red beard was kempt, but still made him look roguish. Out of uniform, no one would expect that he was a high-level officer on a battleship.
Monty took the brightly colored pocket square offered to him from the supply officer. “I’ll do it.” Monty wasn’t excited, but he wouldn’t reject his role. “Somebody’s got to keep an eye on Jazz. Damn parolee might jump out on us.”
Jazmine turned from studying himself in the mirror and crossed his arms in indignation. “Now that’s just hurtful. We’ve sat next to each other on the bridge for three years! I’m not sorry I had a little fun before joining up. You career men are just jealous.” Often, they lived and died in the military service, never knowing anything but that strict discipline.
“I am certain that Lieutenant Jazmine will mind his duties,” the Admiral spoke. “After all, he failed outrun me three years ago, and it would be unwise to attempt it again now. I am not known for leniency when it comes to dealing with traitors.”
Jazmine swallowed, eyes bulging a little bit. It was amusing to see someone so boastful suddenly unsure how to react, but truly, Jazmine was loyal. Admiral Gives knew that. He did not entertain potential threats aboard his ship, and despite his criminal history, Jazmine had never really been a threat to anyone. Even back in his smuggling days, Jazmine had never committed a violent crime. He was a thrill seeker, a man who took pride in his skills, but he’d never harmed anyone or hauled injurious cargo. Most things he’d hauled had been black market goods, things stolen, rebranded and sold by pirate clans. He’d done a few recreational drug runs, but never transported assassins, slaves, or delivered tainted goods.
When shortages occurred, young colonies often turned to the black market for cheap medicines and food. However, what was sold on the black market wasn’t regulated by the government, and was often impure, a poison to those who consumed it. But Jazmine had never been involved in any of that. The bounty on his head had been a simple result of notoriety, and after he’d been caught, the Admiral had seen no harm in offering Jazmine a post. He had real skills as a helmsman, and his pride and craving for adventure were easily appeased by the dangerous nature of the ship’s missions. Jazmine fancied himself the finest pilot in the worlds. A ship like the Singularity gave him the chance to prove it.
However, as a parolee serving time, Jazmine wasn’t allowed to go on any undercover mission. That was the fleet’s policy to keep parolees from fleeing. Most ship commanders wouldn’t have allowed it. But then, most ship commanders didn’t allow parolees to serve on their ships in the first place.
Monty looked between the Admiral’s perfect calm and Jazmine’s sudden concern. He laughed a little bit, then elbowed the helmsman. “You idiot, he’s messing with you.”
Jazmine leaned over to try to whisper quietly from the edge of his mouth, “How the hell can you tell?” Near as he could see, the Admiral was eerily calm and perfectly serious.
The Admiral chose not to address it. “Gentlemen, you have your orders. Do you have any questions?” He wanted no confusion on this mission. If either of these two men made a mistake, it would cost them dearly.
Monty scratched at his nose, which was still just slightly bruised from his stay on the Olympia. “Just one, Skipper. What happens if something goes wrong?”
It was a valid question, and the Admiral fully expected something to go wrong. Missions like this were never easy. “Lieutenants, you do whatever you need to do to keep yourselves alive. Let me worry about the rest.”
Jazmine liked that answer. “Understood, sir.” His former employer, the Jayhawker, was no idiot. The stationmaster had plenty of tricks and plenty of spies. Jazmine had never answered to anyone he didn’t respect, and that meant that the Jayhawker and the Admiral were both exceptionally clever.
“You will disembark at 1700 hours tomorrow. Beginning at 1300 hours today, we will depart from the fleet and follow an FTL trajectory to get you in range of Midwest Station.” From the ship’s present location, it would be a grueling trek. The ship’s structure could sustain the journey, but would need time to rest afterward. Still, time was of the essence. With only a week before the fleet drained its supplies, and more than a day’s travel on either side just to get to Midwest Station, they only had five days to run the mission. Flying into and out of Midwest Station would also take a day, and probably longer to arrange the trade. That and a dozen other things made the timing tight. They could afford no delays. “You will have to make the last two jumps to the station yourselves,” he told the Lieutenants. The Singularity could go no closer without her proximity being suspect.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
“I presume that’s two jumps for our dropship’s drive, not Singularity’s?” Jazmine asked. “…In case something goes wrong?”
“Of course, Lieutenant.” They’d be flying in a Rhino transport, a newer, more common version of the Warhawks usually operated on board. Its small FTL Drive had a fraction of the range that the Singularity’s did. “We will be one jump away, should the mission get out of hand.”
“Well, one jump away, except for the part where you can’t jump to the Midwest Station,” Gaffigan reminded. “If something goes wrong, we’ll still be on our own for several hours, if you can find the station.” Legend, and truth, according to Jazmine, had it that Midwest Station circled an endless orbit around a dark planet. That planet, like many of the others that littered the Mississippi Sector, drifted. It stayed in pattern with those around it, but the planetary swarm drifted through the sector. Ranges between the rogue planets expanded and contracted in a gravitational dance, so within that cluster of planets, the flight pattern to find the station always remained the same, but the spatial coordinates were always different, the swarm’s spacing and drift impossible to accurately predict.
“Leave the technicalities to me, Lieutenant.” Worrying over those details would do no good for Gaffigan and Jazmine. “Do what you need to do to keep yourselves safe, and I will get you home.” Risky mission or not, the Admiral would not sacrifice the lives of this crew.
Satisfied with the nods they gave him, Admiral Gives stepped over to the supply officer who had been helping put together the away team’s disguises. Letts wasn’t very tall and had a perpetually annoyed slump to his posture. His head was topped with red hair so light and thin it was nearly blond. His eyes hid behind thick lenses of big glasses that made his eyes look slightly narrowed. Letts generally made no time for politeness and small talk. He was a stiff, hardworking officer who did his tasks with impressive dedication. On his previous post, Letts had been framed for stealing and selling fleet supplies. The ensuing punishment had landed him here. Letts had been innocent, a mere patsy for a larger conspiracy, but afraid of being framed again, he obsessively tracked the whereabouts of all supplies on the ship. But, that wasn’t a bad trait for a supply officer.
“Lieutenant, I trust preparations are underway to load and offload supplies?”
“Yes, sir,” Letts said simply. “Ship’s not a cargo hauler, but we’ll make it work.” A resupply was always chaotic, but moving stolen supplies from an outlaw clan’s hideout was a new level of problematic. There was no guarantee how the storage crates would be labeled, or even if they would be labeled, and the cargo movement would be a far larger quantity than a standard resupply for the ship. “I am going to need extra hands.” Letts’ usual staff wouldn’t be able to move that many supplies, especially not under a time constraint.
“I understand. I anticipate that every crewman with full combat training will be needed for the assault on Crimson Heart’s base of operations, but that should leave the yeomen and the majority of the engineers to help move supplies.” At this point, there was no guarantee, but Letts would likely have about half of the ship’s crew to help move supplies and given the demand, he would need each and every one of them.
Pursing his lips, Letts did the math. It would be enough. It had to be. There was no situation that would free up more personnel. Dedicating half the ship’s crew was enough of a risk. “Is that going to leave enough people to run the ship?”
Without knowing the details of the raid’s location, there were still no certainties involved. However, the issue with storming any facility in a boarding action and moving large quantities of cargo was that it took a lot of personnel. There was simply no way around it. “I expect that a skeleton crew will be maintaining the ship’s functions during the raid.” That was manageable, but there was an inherent risk involved. Still, in a boarding action, the ship was the last thing he worried about.
Letts frowned, but knew better than to question it further. Information was a premium, and right now, the Admiral knew little more than he did about what to expect at Crimson Heart’s base. “Well, on another topic, you will be pleased to note that our on-board supply expenditures are well within acceptable tolerances. We’ve got enough of the necessities to last a few months, but beyond that, I would recommend trying to expand hydroponics with more edible food. The more we can source on board, the better off we’ll be.”
The Admiral nodded. “Make a note. Prioritize any agricultural equipment we find in the raid. Even if the civilian ships cannot afford to power it, we can.” Expanding hydroponics should be a priority if they wanted to survive out here. With enough time and personnel, the ship’s machine shop could fabricate almost anything. Given the materials, they could make spare parts, armaments and almost anything else they might need, but there were exceptions, and food was one of them. Even expanded, hydroponics would not be able to sustain the crew’s numbers. Like fuel for the ship, they could process grain or produce into a useable and preservable form, but the raw material had to come from somewhere.
Letts pushed his glasses up his nose. “Consider it done.” The mission’s primary objective was to help the civilian fleet, but they may find a lot of things, such as food-growing equipment, that could be useful to the Singularity, even if the civilian ships lacked either the space or power to use it. “We’re lucky,” Letts said, grabbing a clipboard to update the inventory, “Most newer ships are not designed to this level of independent function. New designs prioritized upping the crew numbers over independent processing. But, the Singularity, she’s well equipped. We started digging into some of the manufacturing and refinery lines. The machinery’s old, and hasn’t been operated since the Rebellion ended, but it’s all still functional.” Letts was impressed. “Those compartments were supposedly sealed off when the equipment was shut down, but it looks like someone’s been maintaining it.”
“Someone has been maintaining it.” Since the equipment hadn’t been run in years, it didn’t take much to maintain, just a yearly inspection and some routine care. Despite Command’s insistence, there had never been any point in letting it degrade, even if it hadn’t needed to be used.
Marking something down, Letts put down the clipboard and began to reshelve the supplies that had been used to make Monty’s new suit. “Well, then technically that person would be in direct violation of Command’s standing orders regarding the division of parts and labor-hours on the care of this ship.” Command heavily regulated that, especially on older ships with outdated and unused systems.
“Command does not determine the care this ship receives. I do.” True, he had been careful to keep any unregulated maintenance he did off the books, lest it draw Command’s attention, but for the most part Command had been content to let him govern the care of what they thought was a dilapidating old wreck. The ship was hardly a wreck, but allowing that rumor to persist had proven beneficial. Command hadn’t bothered looking over his shoulder, and he’d been able to control exactly what information was known about the Singularity and her capabilities.
“I’m aware of your authority, sir. I’m just reminding you that it was illegal.” Letts shrugged. “Command has stupid rules, but technically speaking, the Singularity is their property. …Or was until you invoked the Strike Zero override.” After that, legality got a little hazy. It was, after all, uncharted waters.
Legal jurisdiction be damned, no part of the Admiral would willingly let any fraction of the ship deteriorate. He hadn’t regretted risking that maintenance then and he certainly didn’t now. They were going to need those manufacturing and refinery lines. In fact, long-term survival isolated from Command would be impossible to imagine without that equipment. “If we take care of this ship, she will take care of us,” but that expectation had to go both ways. A crew that neglected their ship couldn’t expect her to see them through a tough scrape.
“Aye, sir. We know.” Everyone on the crew knew how important maintenance and repairs were. If they hadn’t been motivated to do so before coming aboard, then fear of the Admiral’s wrath quickly invoked a startling dedication.
“Skipper, you know we take good care of the lovely Lady Sin,” Monty cut in. “She’s a mighty fine ship, and generally more likable than you are.”
Fair enough, the Admiral supposed. He knew this crew. They didn’t cut corners and they didn’t neglect their duties. He’d personally thrown anyone who did off the ship years ago. But still, that paranoia lingered. It had to linger, such was his responsibility as the ship’s commanding officer. He’d seen too much to rely on blind trust.
“Sir, with most of the due respect,” Letts said, continuing his work, “I can’t do my job on this mission until you do yours, and get us to those supplies. So why don’t you focus on that?”
“Man’s got a point, Skipper.” Monty straightened his tie and puffed out his chest, trying to build some confidence in the appearance of his new outfit. “You’ve got better things to do than hover over us. We’ll be fine.”
He was not hovering. He was just… concerned. Admiral Gives did not like sending crew into dangerous situations. It didn’t matter if they were willing. He was directly responsible for their welfare. He had ordered soldiers to their deaths before, and it was an experience that he never cared to repeat.
The plan for this mission was imperfect. The Admiral knew that. But, to that same degree, he knew no plan was ever truly perfect. At least the flaws in this one were obvious. “I have full confidence in you, gentlemen, but if either of you have any concerns, you know where to find me.” He did the rounds every morning. This was just one stop along the path he took. For the next hour, he would visit the mess, lounges, flight deck, training room, power cores and the main engine room. The schedule he kept on those rounds was a perfected constant. Crew knew when and where to expect him, giving them the chance to avoid or interact with him, if they so desired.