The Admiral and the Assistant

Herin Kasra moved down the narrow alley in the bright moonlight. The street was damp, the air humid. He knew his contact should be nearby.

He'd been on Brolla for nearly a week now, and it had been frankly disappointing. Depressed economy, nothing tourist-worthy, but for all Brolla's heinous reputation, Herin had seen nearly no crime. Mostly people just kept to themselves.

It was less the "get robbed" planet and more the "get off my lawn" planet.

Of course, that didn't mean there was no crime.

Herin grinned a cold, mirthless grin. He stopped.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," he sang.

A fat, round Daspyn stepped into the alley behind him. He had a long, narrow head, a thin tail dotted with sparse hairs, and heavy, segmented armadillo-like armor plates growing from his back.

The Daspyn species in general were round, but this one had abused the privilege. He had a thick, flabby gut protruding in front of him, and fat arms.

"I hears yer looking for me?" he said in a gravelly voice.

"Droma Iskander, I take it?" Herin asked. He turned around slowly, keeping his hands visible. "I wanted to ask a few questions."

"Yeah, I heard. We's not fond of questions, out this-a-way."

"You are fond of money, though, aren't you? My questions can be quite profitable, for the right tongue."

"We's not fond of bribers, neither. Ner offworlders. Ner cops."

Herin chuckled.

"Cops? Do I look like a cop?"

"You looks like trouble. But you smells like a cop."

"Kudos to both your senses. Tell me, what would it take to make a deal with you?"

"'M not here to makes a deal. 'M here to warns you off."

"Ah, but you do know something, don't you? Thin man? Blue eyes? Goes by the name 'Hugo Crow' out here on Brolla."

"If you won't be warned off, I'm to drives you off."

"He really is a terrible person. He killed forty-some-odd people in Techterra. He's a wanted conspirator against the Imperium."

"The only crimes what matters on Brolla is the crimes what happens on Brolla. A man's business is his own, out here."

"You know, I very much respect that stance. Except in the case of this one fellow."

"Well," said the fat Daspyn, cracking his knuckles, "you doesn't seem the easy-learning kind."

"You're not the first to make that observation."

The chubby Daspyn trundled forward and made a grab for Herin. He slipped away, quick as a shadow.

"Hang on, yer a slippery one." The Daspyn suddenly lashed out with shocking speed, his long claws snagging Herin's coat, yanking him close.

"Ah, you keep a surprise up your sleeve," Herin said.

"I keeps a beating up my sleeve, for those with more questions than sense," Droma said. He reared back, his claws closed in a thick fist, ready to strike.

Almost faster than sight, Herin's hand dipped into his coat and came out with a long, blunt-ended tanto. Without warning, he drove the knife into the soft area between Droma's shell and his torso.

"Augh!" The portly Daspyn released Herin's coat. Herin kicked Droma's legs out from under him and shoved him to the ground, driving the blade in further. He straddled Droma, one hand on his blade.

Herin's cold, cold smile gleamed in the moonlight.

"You know what I really love about my job?" he asked. "You know what makes it all worthwhile?" Herin leaned in close, his voice a hoarse whisper. "Sometimes, I get to hurt people."

The stricken Daspyn gasped and tried to crawl away, but Herin's weight pinned him to the ground. Herin grabbed the handle of his knife and yanked it back and forth. Droma cried out in pain.

"Agh! Lighthouse! Lighthouse point!" he said, trying feebly to push Herin away.

With slow, careful deliberation, Herin stirred the knife again, driving more weak cries out of the Daspyn.

"Please! I'll tell you anything!" he cried.

Herin's pitiless smile was the only thing that shone from his dark form.

"I don't care," he said.

A cloud drifted over the moon, shrouding the remainder of Herin's activity in darkness.

"Maniple formation," Grimthorn said, watching the small fleet.

The forty ships of the Arcturan detachment moved smoothly into position.

Grimthorn nodded in satisfaction. He stood in the captain's dais on the bridge of the Swordheart, with Kinnit at his elbow. They had been taking the detachment through formation exercises for the last several hours.

It had been a very great surprise to Grimthorn that none of the men and women that had been trapped in jumpspace-- from the sharpest captain to the lowest toilet-washer-- had opted to leave the Navy. There were disruptions, of course. Some, like Captain Cohrmere, had discovered loved ones that had passed on. Some had discovered that their spouse had moved on and remarried. Most were welcomed with relief and tears by family and friends.

There had been plenty of leave as people sorted out their personal lives in the midst of this strange occurrence over the last several weeks. They all had plenty of money; twenty years of back pay was sufficient for any of them to retire in comfort.

Yet none of them did. By all reports, they were strangely insular. They'd gone out, sorted out their personal lives to various extents, then returned to their ships, their stations, their roles. There was surprisingly little contact between the Arcturan detachment and the rest of the fleet.

After the brief period of chaos, they were all ready to return to work. Grimthorn didn't quite understand. Perhaps, for them, it was a form of healing. Perhaps it was simply something they knew in a world that was, for them, suddenly twenty years in the future.

Grimthorn shook his head and focused himself back on the task at hand.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

"Very good," he spoke into the comms. "You are all still well-versed in the formations you have learned. However, our knowledge and tactics have advanced in the years that you were trapped in jumpspace. Now that we've limbered up, let's try something different." He sent new formation plans out to the little fleet. "In order to work smoothly with the main fleet again, you will all need to drill these new formations. Please form up, review these plans, and prepare for exercises."

Admiral Stonefist gave them some time to review the formation plans and set themselves in order. He was uniquely suited to bring the Arcturan detachment into the current age of Naval warfare. He'd cut his teeth on the tactics of their era, and he'd led them all in battle. Now, with the benefit of years, he could bring them up to speed on everything they'd missed.

One by one, the ships of the Arcturan detachment indicated that they were ready to begin.

"Very well. Let's start with something simple. We'll move into a defensive constellation. It's similar to the hedgehog formation you knew, but more spread out, easier to maneuver from. Execute."

The ships of the Arcturan detachment slowly began moving. Grimthorn frowned. Their movements were clumsy, ill-coordinated. They were passing too close to each other, not supporting each other's flanks as they moved into position. After an unacceptably long time, they'd organized themselves, more or less, into the defensive constellation he'd requested. Instead of the clean, organized array of ships he'd expected, they were disorganized, all slightly off-axis.

"Well," he said into the comms, "that was the most lackadaisical maneuver I think I've ever seen. On the plus side, it gives the enemy the chance to take a little nap if they need one. Let's try it again. Disperse."

The ships moved apart.

"Execute."

Again, the Arcturan detachment moved clumsily into place, at nearly the same pace as before. Admiral Stonefist frowned.

With mounting frustration, he took them through the formation five more times. Each iteration was no better than the one before. The Arcturan detachment just wasn't getting it.

"Sir," said Kinnit at his elbow, "perhaps you could try another formation?" She could see his temperature rising as the Arcturan detachment continued to flounder.

"Okay," Admiral Stonefist said, nodding. "That's a good thought." He spoke into the comms. "Ships, let's try a dish formation. Please review your formation plans and signal when ready."

While the Arcturan detachment prepared for the next exercise, Grimthorn spoke with Kinnit.

"Have you ever seen anything like this in the fleet?" he asked. "I don't recall seeing any of our ships have this kind of trouble picking up new formations."

"No, sir," she said. She spun through some data on her scanner. "I've been looking through the training data. The Ninth Fleet has never had this kind of difficulty before."

"Hmm. Well, it's a lot of new material," said Grimthorn, straining to stay positive, "and these folks have been through quite an experience. We'll work with them as patiently as we can."

"Yes, sir."

Once all the ships indicated readiness, a calculating look passed across Grimthorn's brow.

"All ships," Admiral Stonefist said into the comms. "Hedgehog formation."

"Sir," Kinnit said, "that's one of the outdated formations."

"I know. I just want to see what happens."

The ships of the Arcturan detachment moved swiftly into place, supporting each other, well-coordinated. Within minutes, they were arranged in a sphere, all guns pointing outward.

"Well done. Now, dish formation."

The unity of the detachment fell apart. Ships were heading the wrong direction, flying into each other's paths, creating chaos.

"All ships, full stop!" Grimthorn barked. "Captain Cohrmere!"

The Captain's face flickered up on the bridge monitor.

"Yes, Admiral."

"Captain, what is going on out there? Even an ensign should be able to fall in to so simple a formation!"

"My apologies, Admiral," Captain Cohrmere said. A troubled look crossed his brow. "These new formations are..." He paused, struggling for words. "I don't know, sir. They're very difficult to follow, for some reason."

"Perhaps it's the new format of the formation plans," Kinnit said. "They're more familiar with the old format."

"Perhaps. Captain, I want to the fleet to move smoothly, to work together. You don't need to be fast, you just need to work together in these new formations. Can you do that?"

"Yes, sir!" said Captain Cohrmere, saluting.

"Good. All ships, let's try the dish formation again."

Engines cycled back up as the ships started moving again. Movement was slower, more halting, and no better coordinated than before.

"ISS Resolute, watch your vector!" Admiral Stonefist barked. "You've got ISS Centurion in your flight path. Resolute! ISS Warspire is incoming off your port bow! Evade! Evade!"

The ships each changed direction slightly, but were still on a collision course.

"Warspire! Angle down fourteen degrees! Resolute, full stop! Centurion, where in Geina do you think you're going? All ships, full stop! Resolute! I said full stop!"

The crew on the bridge of the Swordheart watched in horror as the three destroyers, in defiance of Admiral Stonefist's orders, continued to close in on each other. Alarms blared as the sensors showed them on an inevitable collision course.

"Warspire! Centurion! Evade!" Grimthorn yelled.

Admiral Stonefist clutched the railing of the captain's dais in a white-knuckled grip as the three ships steamed together. The whole bridge tensed as the ships made contact.

They vanished.

No explosion, no cloud of debris, simply... gone.

Silence reigned on the bridge.

"Deep-scan the sector," Grimthorn said hoarsely.

"Yes, sir," said Lieutenant Renning. "What... should I be looking for, sir?"

"I don't know. Something. Anything. Just do it."

"Yes, sir." Lieutenant Renning busied himself at his station, but after only a moment, he spoke up again.

"Sir, I've located the ISS Warspire. Oh, and the Resolute." His brow furrowed. "And the Centurion as well."

"What? Where?"

"They're still in the sector, sir. Ummm... Warspire is about four hundred kilometers spinward of the main body of the fleet. Centurion is fifty kilometers trailing, at a fifteen degree declination. Resolute is in the midst of the fleet. Sir."

"What in Geina is going on here?" Grimthorn muttered. He opened comms. "Warspire! Report!"

The face of Captain Apine appeared on the monitor.

"Yes, Admiral!" He looked lost for a moment. "Um... report on what, sir?"

"The collision! What damage have you sustained?"

Captain Apine paused, a deeply confused look on his face.

"Collision, sir?"

"Yes, the collision! Just now! With the Resolute and the Centurion!"

"Um..." Captain Apine looked unsure how to answer. "Sir, we don't have a record of any collision."

Grimthorn's eyebrows raised. He looked around the bridge.

"Everybody else saw that, right?" he said. "It's not just me?"

Heads nodded all around the bridge.

"I thought they were all going to die," Kinnit said quietly.

"Captain, the fleet witnessed a collision... or a near-collision of your ship with two others of the fleet."

Captain Apine looked increasingly worried, and a little trapped.

"I... I'm sorry, sir. I don't see any record of, um, what you're talking about. We were here, getting into formation, sir."

"Okay, enough of this. Kinnit, play back the recording of maneuver."

"Yes, sir."

They watched the maneuver replay. The command to go into dish formation, the confused jumble of ships...

In the recording, the Warspire wandered out of formation and drifted away from the main body of the fleet. The recording showed that it never even came close to the Resolute.

"What?" Grimthorn barked.

He scrubbed it back and let it replay, focusing on the Resolute. The destroyer turned toward the cluster where it had collided, but in the recording, it turned away before it got there. It meandered through the fleet, looking for its position in the formation.

He scrubbed it back again.

The Centurion was nearly in position, then inexplicably goosed its engines, jetting out of the fleet.

The recording had no evidence whatsoever of the collision.

"Am I going crazy?" Grimthorn asked.

"If you are, sir, then I am, too," Kinnit said. She was unconsciously clinging to his sleeve.

"Captain Apine, in the recording, you left the fleet. Why?"

"I..." Captain Apine looked at the recording in concern. He shook his head. "I don't know, sir. I thought we were heading for our designated position..."

"Captain, you are hundreds of kilometers away from the rest of the fleet. How were you expecting to get into position out there?"

"It wasn't... sir, I... I have no explanation. We were moving to our position." He saluted slowly. "I can only assume that either our instruments are faulty, or I am unfit for duty, sir."

"All ships' instruments were triple-checked by Navy mechanics before we began maneuvers, Captain." Grimthorn frowned at the man. "But I don't think you're unfit for duty. I think something very strange is going on here."

He stood back, thinking for a long moment.

"Fleet, tiered echelon formation."

"Another old formation, sir?" Kinnit asked.

The Arcturan detachment swiftly moved into place, forming a perfect pyramid of ships.

"That's enough exercises for the day," Admiral Stonefist said. "Let's head back to the fleet. We'll hold off on further exercises until we figure this out. Once we're back with the Ninth Fleet, I want Captains Apine, Derrin, and Banab on the Swordheart to debrief."

The three beleaguered captains responded swiftly, but without much enthusiasm.

"Yes, Admiral."