Stellar Fox (Castle Federation Book 2) Read online

  “You, my friend, need a vacation,” Dimitri told the other man.

  “Not happening,” Kane replied crisply. “I won’t pretend it isn’t good to see you, Dimitri, but I do have a war to help run. You got yourself onto my schedule for this morning – what do you need?”

  “It’s not what I need.” Dimitri leaned forward, meeting his friend’s gaze evenly. “It’s what the Federation needs. We don’t have that many Admirals of any stripe, Mohammed, and we can’t afford for me to sit on my ass getting fat.”

  “You got a ship shot out of from underneath you, and half a battle group blown apart around you,” Kane said mildly. “There are those who’d say we don’t need admirals who turn in performances like that – and I have psychiatrists who say you need time to recover.”

  “I lost three ships,” Dimitri said flatly. “Corona, Liberation, and Tara. Two battleships, one carrier. The Imperium lost four ships, and the Factor two. The Commonwealth lost twelve and failed to take Midori. I will mourn my dead for the rest of my life, as I mourn those who died in the last war.”

  He shivered, old memories rippling through his mind.

  “I will also take any man who dares suggest I should have done better into a dark alley and leave them wishing they’d been at Midori instead of meeting me there,” he finished bluntly.

  Kane chuckled and made a throwaway gesture.

  “I agree,” he admitted. “Though we have, as always, some mouthy politicians. Mostly MFAs, the Senators are better briefed than that.”

  Members of the Federation Assembly, drawn from all fifteen of the Federation’s member worlds and its three Protectorates, were the democratically elected representatives of the Federation’s people. They wrote its law and passed its budget and acted as a check on the power of the thirteen person Senate who ruled the seventeen star systems containing those eighteen worlds.

  “I’m more concerned about the psych report, old friend,” Kane told Dimitri. “They worry about you tearing open old wounds – Amaranthe. Trinity. Hessian.”

  “I read their report, Mohammed,” Dimitri replied. “And, yes, I know I wasn’t supposed to, but it’s amazing what a Vice Admiral’s stars open up.

  “I’ll add Midori to my ghosts,” he continued, “but the psychiatrists cleared me for duty. And we both know the Federation has damned few experienced admirals left.”

  “We never had many, and most of them are dead,” Kane admitted. “Are you certain, Dimitri? Let’s be honest – we expected you to lose at Midori. You’ve already delivered one victory we didn’t expect.”

  “Mohammed,” the big Vice Admiral said sharply. “How bad is it?”

  Kane swallowed and glanced at a paper report on his desk, its folder jet-black – marking the contents as Top Secret. The folder would contain tech that would check the identity of the user and destroy the contents if an unauthorized person tried to open it.

  He leaned back and faced Dimitri, and the last of the mask dropped away. Kane looked old – well beyond what seventy years should do to a man with full anagathic treatments.

  “We’re losing,” he said bluntly. “I know that’s not what the news says – we aren’t even controlling the media too much on that count, they’re focusing on systems lost. They’re quite cooperative in calling it a ‘victory’ if we still hold the system at the end of the day.

  “So far as we can tell, Walkingstick’s losses in the first offensives were, thanks to you and young Captain Roberts most prominently, far higher than he expected. He expected to hit Midori with twenty-five to thirty warships, facing ten to fifteen.

  “Instead, you met his twenty with eighteen and kicked his ass six ways to Sunday,” Kane concluded with some relish.

  Fleet Admiral James Calvin Walkingstick had been declared ‘Marshal of the Rimward Marches’ by the Congress of the Terran Commonwealth. His new job description boiled down to ‘conquer the Alliance in the name of unifying the human race’.

  “So Walkingstick has a lot fewer ships than he expected for phase two, and we have more,” Kane said after a few moments. “Unfortunately, the man is smart enough to have planned for that possibility, and he’s currently engaging in a series of hit and run raids that aren’t taking systems or even doing much damage – except to our capital ships.

  “Every ship he destroys is one less mobile asset for Alliance High Command to shuffle,” the turbaned Vice Admiral said grimly. “He’s grinding us down, Dimitri. We’re recommissioning the Reserve, but… they’re still months away from deployment.”

  “He won’t wait that long,” Dimitri finished grimly. “Once he’s stretched us thin, he’ll concentrate his ships and hit the systems we need to fuel our war machine.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So you need me,” the old Admiral told Kane. “My life is the Federation’s, old friend. Tell me what we need.”

  With a sigh and a hand gesture, Kane brought up an image of a battle group. Dimitri’s practiced eye picked out a Renaissance Trade Factor Magellan-class battleship, two Coraline Imperium strike cruisers – a Rameses-class and a Majesty-class – a Castle Federation Last Stand-class battlecruiser… and at the heart of it, the immense mass of a Sanctuary-class Federation supercarrier.

  “Alliance Battle Group Seventeen,” Kane said bluntly. “Being assembled around the new Avalon. It’s a multi-national force, and will require an admiral both experienced in battle and in managing a multi-national force.”

  “Avalon, huh?” Dimitri said as he released the chair and walked a half-circle around Kane’s desk, studying the hologram. “That’s quite the strike force,” he continued. “What’s the catch?”

  “A bunch,” Kane told him. “The Trade Factor doesn’t have a seventh-generation starfighter yet – hence them contributing a battlewagon. The Imperium does, and their cruisers are bringing the first wave of their Arrow type fighters. We’ve made sure both Avalon and Cameroon have full wings of Falcons, but no one has built doctrine for Falcons flying with Arrows yet.

  “Last, but not least, Avalon hasn’t commissioned yet, Horus hasn’t arrived yet, and Alliance politics mean at least your first mission is going to be glorified babysitting.”

  Dimitri eyed the force. Avalon was the biggest ship by far, but the battleship and all three battlecruisers were of a similar generation – which meant of a similar size. The only difference between a battleship and a cruiser, after all, was the role. Cruisers carried fighters, though battlecruisers still had battleship-grade guns – just not as many of them as a battleship.

  “It sounds like I’ll want to raise my flag on Cameroon,” he observed. “Let the new Avalon get their feet under them without the Admiral hanging over their shoulders.”

  “Normally I’d agree with you,” Kane allowed, “but in fact, I’d regard it as a personal favor if you did fly your flag from Avalon.”

  Dimitri raised a questioning eyebrow at his friend.

  “I ended up giving her to Captain Roberts,” the head of personnel for the Federation’s military told him. “The kid is good – the ‘Stellar Fox’ has more potential and more killer instinct that any other three Captains I could name, but he’s also the most junior Captain in the fleet.”

  “You want me to mentor him,” Dimitri said quietly. “It’s… not my favorite task, Mohammed.”

  “You’re good at it,” Kane pointed out. “Those who survive your mentorship do well – and Roberts needs the crash course, unfortunately.”

  Dimitri grunted, looking at the six ship battle group again.

  “My life is the Federation’s,” he repeated finally. “But you’ll owe me.”

  “I don’t have any appointments left till one,” Kane replied. “May I offer lunch as a down payment?”

  Chapter 3

  Castle System, Castle Federation

  15:00 December 5, 2735 Earth Standard Meridian Date/Time

  DSC-078 Avalon, Main Infirmary

  “So Doc, am I going to be able to dance after it's all said and done
?”

  Surgeon-Commander Adrian Cunningham was more than used to his patient’s idea of a sense of humor, and the tall blond man looked down at Vice Commodore Michael Stanford with a sigh.

  “That, Michael, will depend very much on whether you could dance before that door sliced off your legs,” the Doctor told the newly promoted starfighter pilot. “From your reputation, I don’t care to guess one way or another.”

  Stanford, a dark-haired man with pale skin and blue eyes, grinned incorrigibly up at the much taller doctor.

  “And here I was hoping the door chopped off the extra left foot,” he told Cunningham.

  “Sadly, your new legs have the same genetics as your old ones,” the Doctor replied. “You’ll still have two left feet.

  “In all seriousness, much as I know that’s not your preferred state,” Cunningham continued to a ‘mea culpa’ gesture from Stanford, “your new legs have grown in just fine. How’s the PT coming?”

  “Slowly,” Stanford told him, shifting uncomfortably on the examination table. “I can walk on my own again at least.” He’d arrived without a wheelchair, which was an achievement on its own after losing his legs in September. “But I won’t pretend I can run a sprint. It’s a good thing I don’t need my legs to fly.”

  “Don’t remind me,” the doctor said dryly. “Remember, Vice Commodore, it was my order you ignored to fly at Tranquility.”

  “We needed me,” Stanford said flatly. “We needed everybody.”

  “We did,” Cunningham allowed. “But you aren’t getting back in a cockpit, Michael, until I clear you.” The Surgeon-Commander – promoted, like most of the old Avalon’s crew, after the Battle of Tranquility – blinked in a manner Stanford associated with neural implant usage.

  “Which I have now done,” he finished. “You are cleared to return to full active duty, CAG.”

  Michael smiled and inclined his head to the doctor. He’d been informed a full week ago that he would be taking command of Starfighter Group Zero-Zero-One and acting as Commander, Air Group for the new Avalon, but, technically, that appointment was dependant on him being cleared for full duty.

  Which had in no way prevented him moving aboard the all-but-complete supercarrier and picking quarters and an office. He’d known he was only an appointment away from being cleared, and he’d wanted Cunningham, now the head surgeon on DSC-078 Avalon to sign off on him returning to duty. It had been Cunningham who had grounded him – correctly, as Stanford well knew.

  Checking his own implant for the notification of the Surgeon-Commander’s decision, he saw two additional messages. The first made him curse – the second made him curse again, with a very different tone.

  “Vice Commodore?” Cunningham asked slowly.

  “Bad news and good news,” Stanford told him. “Mason didn’t get assigned to Avalon – she’s headed to one of Home Fleet’s cruisers to serve as XO.”

  Senior Fleet Commander Kelly Mason had been Acting XO of the old Avalon at Tranquility – and was one Michael Stanford’s girlfriend. The CAG was out of the XO’s chain of command, so he’d hoped she’d be assigned to Avalon.

  “That is unfortunate for you both,” the doctor agreed. “I’m presuming that’s the bad news?”

  “Yeah. The good is we finally have a Captain,” Michael said with a grin. “They’re giving us Kyle back, Adrian.”

  Cunningham blinked as he checked his own messages and nodded slowly as he saw that one.

  “I believe, Michael, I should get you on your way,” the Navy officer murmured. “With no Executive Officer and no Chief Engineer aboard, I believe I’m actually the senior Navy man. I’ll need to organize Captain Roberts’ welcoming committee.”

  09:50 December 6, 2735 ESMDT

  DSC-078 Avalon, Shuttle One

  Kyle greedily took in every centimeter of his new command as the shuttle shaped its gentle parabola over the Merlin Shipyards. She was immense, over twice the size of the old Avalon she was replacing, a jet-black spike in space still nestled amidst the gantries and modules of the orbital dry dock she’d been built in.

  “I can take us for another loop before we dock if you’d like, sir,” the pilot offered, her eyes twinkling as she – and she alone, as Kyle had once again kicked the co-pilot out for an approach to a new command – watched his kid in a candy store glee.

  Youngest Captain in the Navy or no, Kyle did still have a job to do, and he shook his head regretfully as he smiled at the pilot.

  “That’s fine, Lieutenant,” he told her. “I’m sure I’ll find other excuses to see her from the outside. Take us in.”

  With a nod, the young black-haired pilot slowed the shuttle even more, angling for the flattened prow of the carrier and the immense doors of her main flight deck.

  The approach seemed silent, with no communication between the approaching shuttle and the carrier, but Kyle knew that even as he watched the massive supercarrier approach, the pilot was trading messages and information back and forth with Avalon at the speed of thought.

  They approached the ship, their speed dropping as they came closer to the massive hatches. For a moment, despite having made this exact approach hundreds of times, Kyle thought the doors weren’t going to open for them.

  Then they whisked aside with a speed that belied their multi-thousand ton mass, frictionless super-conducting bearings carrying their mass smoothly out of the way.

  The shuttle entered the airlock, slowing to a handful of meters a second relative to the carrier. The doors closed behind them, just as smoothly as they’d opened, and the inner doors opened an immeasurable fraction of a second later.

  With a precision Kyle wasn’t sure he could have emulated with his much reduced implant capability, the pilot settled the shuttle right next to the blast shield guarding the honor party. The tiny ship settled to the deck in the artificial gravity, and the thrusters shutdown.

  “Everything checks out,” the pilot told him. “We’ll take care of the bird, Captain – sensors are showing the mid-ship exit should be cool enough to be safe.”

  “Thank you Lieutenant, I appreciate the smooth flight.”

  #

  Kyle knew that Avalon didn’t have anything approaching her full complement of crew and officers yet. She would be fully crewed before she commissioned, but that was still eight days away, and she was still short everything from Marines to pilots to an Executive Officer.

  He hadn’t been expecting a full honor party. At least he’d seen it on the way in, and was only mildly taken aback when the blast shield retracted leaving him facing a double file of Marines in green-piped black dress uniforms and the handful of senior officers aboard.

  “Attention!” a familiar, hard-edged, woman’s voice snapped out. Forty pairs of boots slammed together, and forty gloved hands snapped on the stocks of battle rifles as an entire platoon of Federation Marines came to attention, rifles on their shoulders.

  Kyle took in the platoon of Marines, led by a small women with dark-haired and sharply angled eyes, in honor guard formation around the grand total of three officers, one each of Navy, Space Force and Marines, which awaited him.

  “At ease,” he ordered.

  The tall blond man in the same uniform as Kyle, though with the Caduceus of the Navy Medical Corps under the two gold circles of his Navy rank, stepped forward and saluted sharply.

  “Welcome aboard, Captain Roberts,” the man greeted Kyle, who the Captain finally placed as they shook hands.

  “It’s good to be aboard, Commander Cunningham,” he greeted the doctor. “Congratulations on the promotion.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Cunningham allowed. “If I may present all of your senior officers who have made it aboard? I believe you know Vice Commodore Stanford.”

  Kyle shook Stanford’s hand firmly, noting the twinkle in the other man’s eye and suspected, quite strongly, who hadn’t mentioned to Cunningham that an honor party wasn’t necessary in dock.

  “Michael, it’s good to see you.” He glance
d at the Marine NCO and Lieutenant Major waiting for him. “We’ll talk later,” he promised, then turned to the others.

  “Lieutenant Major Tyson McRory,” the burly company commander, a fit and tanned young man with shockingly white hair, introduced himself. “I command your Third Company – Major Norup will be arriving tomorrow, I believe, to take up overall command.”

  “A pleasure, Lieutenant Major McRory,” Kyle told the youth, then turned his gaze on the woman standing next to him. She’d clearly passed Castle Federation Marine Corps height standards by the skin of her teeth and potentially tricky hair arrangements, but she wore the uniform as if born in it.

  “Master Sergeant Peng Wa,” he greeted the woman, who had been a Gunnery Sergeant and the senior Marine Non-Commissioned Officer aboard the battlecruiser Alamo, his posting before the last Avalon. “I see the Marines have decided you’re better at keeping me out of trouble than most?”

  “I believe the exact phrase Colonel Armand used, Captain Roberts, was ‘he didn’t ram any battleships with us aboard, and I can spare you if I have to’, sir,” Wa said primly.

  Kyle laughed and shook the NCO’s hand warmly.

  “It’s good to see you too, Master Sergeant,” he told her. “Dismiss your men,” he instructed, then turned to Cunningham.

  “What one of these worthies,” Kyle glared, somewhat gently, at Stanford, “should have told you, Commander Cunningham, is that an honor party isn’t necessary before the ship has even been commissioned. Nonetheless, I’ll need the three of you with me on the bridge. Lead the way.”

  Cunningham only gaped like a hungry goldfish for a few seconds. Kyle liked his new ship’s doctor.

  10:15 December 6, 2735 ESMDT

  DSC-078 Avalon, Bridge

  Kyle led the three officers, currently the most senior officers aboard the ship, onto the new Avalon’s bridge, and breathed deeply of the faint smell of ozone that made up the ‘new ship’ smell. As a starfighter pilot, he’d smelled that scent a few times – but it was far rarer for a Navy officer to smell it.