Retribution (The Federation Reborn Book 3) (51 page)

“Should. And the next up?”

“That's where we're getting some requests for guiding input. Do we want to go with escort carriers or cruisers? What class of cruisers? Now that we've worked out the simplification changes in the
Archer
class, do we extend them to the new construction of the other classes? That'll mean some design changes that will prevent us from putting them into production. Not that we can right now anyway since the refits and the small ship construction have saturated the home yards. Throw this new crisis in …,” he threw up a hand in disgust.

“I know. The painful thing is, yeah, it's going to play merry hell with our schedules all over the place. But I'm more concerned about what certain parties will say when they get clued in.” Malwin grimaced as he looked at the clock. It was getting late, well past quitting time. He was about ready but he wanted to make certain the investigations were going well before he turned in for the night.

“Not looking forward to tomorrow, I take it?” Lewis asked, smiling with sympathy has he rose in unison with the praetor.

“Now that you mention it, no. For the past several years, I've enjoyed coming in to work damn near every day,” the praetor said as he gathered up his coat and cover. “But ever since this damn federation popped up under our noses, and now this … it sucks.”

“Mom always said if you love what you do it's not really work,” Lewis mused. “Except at times like this when work becomes a bitch,” he said with a smile of sympathy.

Malwin snorted as they exited his office. He nodded to the late night Yeoman.

“Off for the evening, sir?” the Yeoman asked.

“Yes. Dinner then I'll be heading home,” the admiral said as his plain-clothed security escort rose. The duo looked at the vice admiral then instinctively quartered the area around their principle. “Any problems page me,” the praetor ordered.

“Aye aye, sir,” the yeoman said, making a note in the log.

“Well, I hate to be a third wheel, and I know you'll want to spend time with your wife before the crap coming keeps us busy for the next month or two so …,” Lewis smiled.

“Get out of here, you old fart, before I dump it all on you,” Malwin growled.

“Heaven forbid. I'll do my fair share though. This wasn't on your watch. It's just the watch that caught it. And I'll tell others that too,” he said.

Malwin nodded at the show of support. “Good enough. Say hi to Irma.”

“I will. Good evening, sir,” the vice admiral said. He nodded as he exited the outer office.

“Okay, folks; let's get this cavalcade in motion. I've stood up a beautiful woman long enough, don't you think?” Malwin asked as he motioned for the security team to move out.

“Yes, sir,” the lead guard said, taking point ahead of her principle as her partner took up the rear. “Rook moving out,” she murmured into her implants.

:::{)(}:::

Emperor Ramichov heard the report of cracks in the ship structure the following morning during his intelligence briefing. He initially discounted the danger until he received word that Admiral Cartwright had ordered a thorough review and check of the fleet. Several ships had reported problems and were already headed to dock for repairs. When he heard that, he called the praetor in for an accounting.

It wasn't a pleasant experience for the praetor, but one he had been expecting. He hoped and prayed the axe wouldn't fall, but if it did he could shift blame enough for it to fall on someone else's neck. Politics at their level were rather cutthroat, especially with the federation now becoming an increasing concern. They didn't need to open up old wounds or begin in-fighting so he did his best to keep himself in check as he marched through the halls to the emperor's office.

He remained cool as the emperor's guard ran through the usual battery of identification and security checks. He remained taciturn as they went through his attaché case, then released him once more to his guide for the last stretch of halls to the emperor's office.

The fact that the emperor was meeting him in his office told him small hopeful things about how the conversation might go. He knew there would be a bit of finger pointing; he accepted it intellectually at least. But that the man was doing it in the privacy of his office and not in his throne room or on the Senate floor meant hopeful things. Things like the emperor didn't want to escalate the situation nor did he want to humiliate the praetor.

Or it could mean he was about to be asked to resign … or worse, be “disappeared” in an “accident.” The last hadn't happened in nearly a century though so he might be safe. Might, he thought as they made it to the final door and last security check.

“You can go right in. He's expecting you,” the aide murmured softly as she keyed the door open and stepped aside. After he walked in, she closed the door behind him.

He didn't need to look around the office as he entered but did so a little anyway. Not much had changed. It still had the high ceilings and round light green walls, bay windows behind the emperor's desk that were actually simulations since they were over a thousand meters underground. Not many knew that the office the emperor maintained above ground was just for the media … and to trap any potential would-be assassins.

He came to attention in front of the emperor's desk and waited.

And waited. Apparently his majesty wanted to finish reading the report in front of him. He knew the game was childish, but he had to put up with it just the same. His eyes remained above the emperor's bowed head. He idly thought about the simulation, how the techs had created a program to feed the videos from tiny cameras upstairs outside the false office onto the video screens. It was an almost perfect simulation; it just lacked warmth from the sunlight.

And from the emperor himself, he thought as the gray-haired man finally looked up. He sat back as the praetor bowed again. “So, busy night I see.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“I've been reading about it,” the emperor said in a cold, seething tone of voice. “But the report didn't come from your office. Odd that.”

“I wanted to see if it was true before I took it further, Sire. Unfortunately, it is a viable problem,” Admiral Cartwright stated.

“How badly are we talking?”

“That I don't know. I've ordered a review. Some cracks had been found in the past, but a systematic check of every structural beam had never been done.”

“Not on your watch,” the emperor stated snidely. His temper was still hard to control, but he was starting to get a handle on it. The fact that Malwin had instantly taken steps to find out the information and rectify the problem without trying to cover it up was helping in that regard. He had a grudging respect for the man.

“I mean never, Sire,” the praetor corrected with a shake of his head. “Not even when these ships were first brought in and refitted, nor in any of their refit cycles. Of that we are now sure of. Why is a big question.”

“Why indeed,” the emperor murmured. He knew Malwin could shift blame only so far, but if the records backed him up … which they could. His people would inform him if any tampering had gone on though. But the admiral wouldn't have brought it up if he wasn't certain of his facts at that point.

“So, is it limited to our capital ships or …?”

“At this point I do not know,” The praetor said, spreading his hands apart. “I've ordered samples of the other classes to be checked, and of course every ship currently getting refitted is going to be scanned from stem to stern. I can think of three reasons why it hadn't been done before. One, it is a labor-intensive, expensive process,” he said. “And two, if found it would mean an expensive fix.” He grimaced. “The third reason his highly speculative, but I believe that our people were a bit, shall we say, overconfident in the material sciences of the federation. The old federation,” he stated.

“I see,” the emperor drawled as he sat back with his elbows on the desk top. He knitted his fingers together. “The question is, where do we go from here? We obviously need someone to explain the situation to the Senate and media.”

Malwin hid a grimace. What he meant was a scapegoat. He didn't like it, but he'd find someone in BUSHIPS if he had to. “If it comes to that, I can have my people work on it. If necessary we'll spoon-feed it to them raw. They won't like it, but at least we caught it now instead of when a disaster struck,” the praetor replied with a shrug. “If you want my resignation …”

“No, I don't think so at this point. I'm a bit concerned with who is running BUSHIPS, but you can look into that,” the emperor said as he put aside the threat of the praetor's replacement. Malwin felt something internal sigh in relief. “Bringing someone else up to speed would take time. Time better spent correcting the problem,” the emperor stated, eying him.

The praetor did a head bow. “Thank you, Sire.”

“Besides, I don't need the headache of infighting over your removal, nor the infighting over your replacement. It could stall the process for some time in the Senate and again, I don't want it. Not when we are at a critical point. So, move on.”

“Yes, Sire.”

“What else are you doing to redress the problem?”

“I have issued a thorough review of every ship in the fleet. I'm also having my staff draft orders to each fleet and picket command to have every ship checked from stem to stern.”

“Understood. I suppose it explains the occasional loss of a ship to unknown causes,” the emperor mused. The admiral nodded. “Though I bet hyperdrive failure played some role there as well,” the monarch mused.

“Yes, Sire.”

“Very well.”

“I am also drafting orders to resupply the Retribution Fleet,” he held up a restraining hand when the emperor seemed ready to object, “with spares, fighters, and with munitions. Our latest intelligence says this federation is expanding west and south at an alarming rate. The fleet as it stands doesn't have the material support to take it all. I'm not certain at this time that they can take Antigua or Pyrax—definitely not both star systems.”

The emperor frowned. “And ships?”

Admiral Cartwright exhaled heavily. “Unfortunately, we don't have many to spare at this time. I am sending what I can to Dead Drop with the intent to stage them there when we can do so. If you wish, we can draw Home Fleet down further.” He eyed his liege and saw instant rebellion sparkle in his body language. He knew there would be resistance to reinforcing Dead Drop's picket force if only because he'd been made a baron there. His family had holdings there, and he was the head of the family, but he hadn't been to the planet in decades. When he took time off, it was always on the homeworld, not to travel to his holdings on Dead Drop. He didn't have that kind of time to burn in transit. Too many things could change in both life and politics for him to be out of contact for that length of time. “We have more ships coming online every day, Sire.”

“But you are about to take many off the active rolls to undergo repairs. Potentially lengthy repairs,” the emperor retorted.

“That is why I hesitate to order additional reinforcements, my liege,” the praetor said smoothly. “And why I focused on munitions and small craft. I had considered sending them some of our smaller warships but Admiral De Gaulte is not a fan of them.”

“I see,” the emperor mused.

“To be honest they are too slow for his purposes. Slow in hyperspace, limited in range, limited on arms, and dangerously weak compared to the federation models.” The emperor scowled. “I base this on my staff's analysis of the data from the battles in Protodon, Sire,” he said hastily.

The emperor seemed to take that in stride. After a moment he nodded. “I see. Send me that analysis. I think we'll need to send the good admiral something, even if it is a small force, or send them to Dead Drop and Garth.”

“Yes, Sire. I've already ordered a squadron of each of the smaller classes to go to each star system to thicken their defenses while also swapping them for existing platforms we are in the process of recalling here for refit,” the praetor explained.

“Very well.”

:::{)(}:::

Later that evening Emperor Ramichov surprised his wife by entering her dressing room and kissing her on the cheek. “So, how'd it go?” she asked, looking at his image in her mirror as she got ready for the evening. She was dressed as usual in red, her signature color. It was an exquisite evening gown, one he liked to see her in. It had a daring drooping neckline but severe lines. It also had a little gold sparkle in it, a bit of gold thread woven in at strategic places to catch the eye. It was quite pleasing to him, as was his wife. She had gotten her nickname as the Red Queen from her choice in dress, but he knew there were darker overtones to it too. She definitely had a passionate streak and a temper he thought.

He was dressed in a black tuxedo with a red matching sash. It was trimmed in gold to match the circlet around his temple. Colorful ribbons and awards were aligned on his left lapel. He already had his white gloves on.

“Better than I expected. He didn't make any evasions or point fingers elsewhere. No ritual heads to sacrifice. He even offered his resignation if you can believe it,” he said. He caught the sight of motion in the mirror and turned to see his mother sitting in a corner with her legs crossed and her hands on her knee. “Mother, nice to see you. I hadn't expected you so late.”