Date Point: August 11y8m AV
HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Lieutenant Kieran Mears
Letter for notes,
RE: SSGT Wilson Akiyama
Staff Sergeant Akiyama attended today for his annual assessment.
He continues to feel guilty over the death of Sergeant Brady Stevenson with whom he was close and who would have celebrated his birthday this week, but states that this is “just an occasional downer” and that he is otherwise feeling well. I was pleased to note that he did not raise the issue of the wound he suffered during Operation NOVA HOUND at all, and I believe that he has processed his concerns on that matter.
Objectively and subjectively therefore his mood is appropriate and even positive. I will see him again in a year.
-Lt. K Mears
Counsellor, HMS Sharman
Date Point: August 11y8m AV
Allied Trade Station 1 ’Armstrong’, Cimbrean-5, The Far Reaches
Julian Etsicitty
“Bloody hellfire! What have you done to my *suits?!*”
Julian offered an apologetic smile and cleared his throat. “Sorry, Mister Cavendish. Red decon’s kinda nasty.”
“I know, yes. I know what it entails but… bloody hell. I never thought I’d see its effect.”
Cavendish gave the tortured excursion suits a rueful once-over. They weren’t actually in terrible shape considering they’d been hosed down with acid and scalding water. At least, they only needed repairing rather than replacing.
“Alright. These’ll have to go back to our workshop for full safety testing,” he announced.
“That grounds us,” Julian pointed out. “And we’ve already been here more than a week.”
“Then you’re grounded, and if Moses Byron complains then tell him he can have it out with me.”
“We’ve got a guy for standing between us and Moses already,” Julian said. “But, Moses pays him to do that. He’s a pretty good boss, really.”
“Lucky. I’ve worked with some other billionaires.” Cavendish said. “Some of ‘em are the best people you’ll ever meet, others are narcissistic bastards who’ll rip you apart for not kissing their feet. Which one is Byron d’you think?”
“Somewhere in the middle,” Julian shrugged. “Anyway… sorry about the suits, but they saved us for real. I don’t want to know what that shit the bugs sprayed all over us was, but I bet I wouldn’t have enjoyed getting it on my bare skin.”
Cavendish sighed and closed the crate. He waved at a couple of guys wearing his company’s polo shirts and they hoisted the suit boxes up onto their wheels and took them away. “I’ll have them back to you soon as,” he promised.
“Thanks, Mister Cavendish. Can I make a request?”
“Name it,”
“If they could be camo pattern or olive drab or something from now on? Our ghetto camo solution didn’t really work so great…”
“I’ll see what I can do without compromising on safety features,” Cavendish promised.
“Camo is a safety feature.”
“…Right you are. I’ll see what I can do.”
They shook hands and parted ways, and Julian headed up-deck to meet with the girls.
Armstrong was weird. There was nothing wrong with it exactly, but there was something jarrin g about being aboard a standard Dominion-model trading station and seeing humans everywhere, dwarfed by architecture designed to accomodate beings who were twice as tall as any human.
And those humans were busy. There was orange tape everywhere as guys in high-vis yellow vests and blue hard-hats brought the station up to OSHA compliance, or whatever equivalent applied in a British or Cimbrean jurisdiction, or… whatever jurisdiction the station was in.
Jurisdiction was a problem with everything about Cimbrean. Among other things, the Cimbrean colony itself occupied a legal area that was so gray as to almost be black. Several nations had complained stridently about the colony, pointing to Article II of the Outer Space Treaty of 1967. The UK had adroitly maneuvered around the legal repercussions by slotting the colony neatly into some obscure category that only made sense in the uniquely convoluted context of their constitutional monarchy, and which made the colony firmly the UK’s responsibility in terms of defense in return for allegiance to the Crown, but not their responsibility in terms of legal liability for the fact that it actually existed.
Somehow.
Most Cimbreaners laughed the whole thing off and the general colonial attitude was ’easier to ask forgiveness than permission’. The colony was there, it was successful, it was arguably its own sovereign state which may or may not be guilty of violating an important international treaty… but it wasn’t going away so in the end, practicality was going to win out.
In the meantime folks were just jury-rigging things as best they could. And if that meant buying a Dominion station and then stuffing it with aftermarket modifications that voided the warranty but made it three times safer then so be it.
At least it had a good food court. A food court with burgers.
To his surprise, there was somebody sitting at the table with Xiù and Allison when he came into view, and his surprise grew when he recognised Dog Wagner. He’d honestly never expected to see the eccentric ship captain ever again after they’d parted ways at FTS-50.
He looked good, too. A few months of being back in touch with humanity had done a lot for him: his teeth looked healthier, he was wearing jeans and a flannel shirt instead of the baggy, lopsided hand-stitched sweater he’d made for himself, and he was rapidly losing the skinny, malnourished look of a long-term abductee.
Dog greeted him with a fist bump. “Fancy meeting you here,” he grinned.
“Yeah!” Julian agreed. “Heck of a coincidence.”
“Not really: I’m on the Hephaestus payroll now. They’ve got themselves their very own freighter! Though, they insisted on making some upgrades…” He grumbled a little and indicated the workers, but his expression said he didn’t actually mind.
“How’d they get you to agree to that?”
“Big-ass pension, dental plan, paycheck…” Dog grinned crookedly. “Also, the lady running this joint’s a fox.”
“Also your clothes fit, you’re wearing actual boots, and you don’t smell like a hibernating bear,” Allison pointed out. Dog laughed.
“And Vitamin C!” He crowed. “Brother, you musta had an orange when you got back to civilization right?”
“Oh, fuck yeah,” Julian nodded. It had been the most delicious thing he’d ever eaten. “I ate a whole sack.”
“Fuckin’…lemonade,” Dog said. “And coffee. Steak. And… It’s like, shit, the boss lady here, Adele Park? She called me up to her office as soon as she fuckin’ had an office and…shit. All the things you don’t know you missed until somebody gives ‘em to ya.” He sighed and sat back, looking up at the ceiling with an expression of faraway ecstacy. “General Tso’s chicken, football, *porn!*”
Xiù giggled, and Dog flinched and cleared his throat. “Uh…Sorry. Forget I said that…”
Allison snorted and shook her head. “Nope. We’re gonna hold that one over you.”
“God dammit,” Dog chuckled. “…I shoulda got back in touch years ago.”
“I notice you’re not going back to Earth, though,” Julian said.
“Nah brother. What would I even fuckin’ do?” Dog shook his head. “Nah, this way I get the best of both worlds and there’s an actual future in it. I ain’t far off sixty, a fella like me ain’t gonna get a better deal than this.”
“We’re happy for you,” Allison told him. Dog grinned and toasted her with a can of cola.
“What about you kids?” he asked. “You just gonna do this one round or…?”
Before they could reply, Xiù swatted Julian on the arm and nodded urgently toward something. Kevin Jenkins and Clara Brown were strolling toward them.
Clara naturally looked by far the more excited of the two. Her trademark huge girlish enthusiastic grin was firmly in place and she was geeking out hard over absolutely everything. Kevin’s appraising sweep of the station was more composed, and his smile wasn’t so much excited as… proud? Or perhaps pleased.
“…That guy looks familiar,” Dog frowned.
“Well, he might be. Dog Wagner-” Xiù made the introductions as they arrived, “This is Kevin Jenkins, and Doctor Clara Brown. Guys, this is Dog. Captain of the ’My Other Spaceship Is The Millennium Falcon’.”
Kevin roared with laughter. “Oh, man! I like you already!” he chuckled and extended a hand. Dog paused, then shook it.
“The Kevin Jenkins? I saw your ass on the news way back…”
“Yeah. Saying some stupid shit where some ET news hack could film me, right?” Kevin pulled an apologetic face. “That’s me.”
“Dang, brother. You made my life pretty fuckin’ difficult for a while there… Part’a me kinda wants to bust your face. ”
Kevin smiled ruefully and sat down next to Xiù. “She already did,” he said, turning her face red. “For real though, I’m sorry if I caused you trouble, man. I’d take back every word if I could.”
Dog made a forgiving gesture. “Ancient history.”
“So,” Allison interjected. “What’s the word from the boardroom?”
“Eh. Think Moses wanted you guys to tag eight planets, a gajillion barrels of crude oil and the cure for cancer,” Kevin smirked. “We managed to convince him you done good. Even if you are taking some vacation time.”
He grinned when Julian opened his mouth to object. “I know, I know, red decon. We’re just happy to have you alive, guys.
“Plus It’s a good chance to service the ship!” Clara enthused.
“And do some PR shit. And no-” Kevin raised a hand as Allison threw her head back. “You don’t get to dodge out of it. If you ain’t flying you still gotta earn your salary.”
“Dammit Kevin-!”
“Relax, we’re not gonna trot you out in front of the cameras,” Kevin soothed. “Just do some video logs, answer some fan mail, shit like that.”
“What about the other thing?” Julian asked. “Our new contract?”
Clara giggled “You shoulda seen how Moses lit up when Kevin told him you guys wanted to stay on after this mission,” she said.
“The whole six-on, six-off thing?” Allison asked.
“That works great for us,” Clara said.
“I was gonna counter-offer with six on, six off, and three months of training and publicity stuff,” Kevin said.
Allison, Julian and Xiù glanced at each other. “We’ll have to talk about that,” Allison said.
“You’ve got time. My advice? The Group wants you three. You’re in a strong bargaining position, so don’t be afraid to play hardball. But you’re gonna have to accept some publicity, ‘cause it’ll follow you even if y’all retire to that nice place in the woods.”
“Keep flying, though, and we can stay away from the cameras for months at a time…” Julian mused.
“If we want,” Xiù added.
“Cool.” Kevin smiled. “We’ll do the actual negotiation when you finish this tour, yeah?”
“You mean when a guy from the competition ain’t here,” Dog snarked.
“Life wouldn’t be interesting without the competition, man,” Kevin said. “Hey look, how about I buy us all dinner? My treat.”
“Guess that shiny suit comes with a paycheck, huh?” Dog observed.
“Not gonna lie, I got more money than I know what to do with. Lemme spend it.”
“Hey, I wasn’t saying no…”
That drew a laugh from pretty much everyone, and Kevin stood up. “Alright. No more business talk. We had a long trip to get here, and I wanna hear stories. Right, Doc?”
Clara nodded. “Oh hell yeah!” she enthused. “The glimmerbugs! I… tell me all about them…”
“Oh man, now those things are a campfire story…” Julian began.
He told them all about it.
Date Point: August 11y8m3w AV
Huntsville, Alabama, USA, Earth
Master Sergeant Derek Coombes
“So those are the next guys in the HEAT pipeline, huh? I ain’t impressed.”
“’Cause most of ‘em are smaller’n you, Tiny?”
“Shyeah. They gotta looong way to go. Ain’t a quarter of ‘em gonna make it, either.” Walsh shook his head.
Imagining what might have been, probably. Walsh had qualified for what were now called HEAT, only to lose his shot due to an avoidable injury he’d picked up in a celebratory arm-wrestling contest. He knew what the job required, knew he had it, and knew he’d fucked it up. Coombes sympathized, but they had a new mission now and he needed Walsh’s head in the game.
He smacked the big guy on the arm. “Come on. Let’s go meet this Hoeff fella.”
“Gotta work with a fuckin’ SEAL, man. SEALs are weird…” Tiny grumbled.
“Yeah, but it’s like the fuckin’ trifecta, right? He’s Navy, I’m Army, you’re Chair Force!”
Coombes got an amused smile from Walsh. “Hey! My chair was fuckin’ sweet!”
“Mhmm. Damn Air Force, never doin’ any fieldwork…”
Walsh snorted. Some jokes never got old.
The JETS training at Huntsville was all about the variable-gravity obstacle course. In this case, it was a refresher: All three of them had undergone variable-G training over in England during the first incarnation of the JETS, when it was supposed to be a qualification.
The real training was gonna be on Cimbrean and they knew it, but first they had to cover the basics of survival. Coombes wasn’t excited about that part: he’d been through those courses many times. Walsh was more upbeat, and had spent the journey towards Huntsville reading up on contamination and containment, AKA the ‘How to not kill a whole planet with your butt’ manual.
“You think we’re gonna learn anything good, Tiny?”
“Well…looking through this? I suspect they’re gonna spend a lot of time on containment. You ever shit into a bag?”
“…What did I sign up for?”
“And then carry it back with you?”
“This had better be a good fuckin’ bag.”
“It’s gonna be heavy. You sure you don’t wanna bulk up?”
“What? So I’m bigger so I need to eat more, so I shit more so I gotta carry even more shit in a bag?”
“…Bro. My base metabolic rate is about thirty-five hundred calories. That…ain’t much more than you, as long as I’m being–”
“You’re such a fuckin’ nerd! Only bro I ever knew that could make gainz sound boring.”
A new voice interrupted them. “Nerd, huh? Guess I know which one’a y’all’s the airman, then.”
It belonged to a guy who made even Coombes look large, though he packed a lot of wiry intensity into that compact build. Even ambling amicably up to meet them, he was disarmingly quiet.
Walsh grinned and stuck out his mitt. “Yo, name’s Staff Sergeant Walsh. People call me ‘Tiny’ for, y’know. Obvious reasons.”
“‘Cause they’re fuckin’ idiots?” This was said with a grin, and a handshake. “Chief Petty Officer Hoeff.” When he turned the handshake on Coombes and was introduced he turned out to have a vice grip like a chimpanzee, and Coombes could detect the ‘subtle’ signs of approval in Tiny’s body language.
“Eh, I ain’t that big,” Walsh said airily. “You should see a couple’a HEAT bros I know.”
“Especially Firth,” Coombes said.
“Especially Firth, yeah. That motherfucker plays with me like I’m a chewtoy.”
“It’s adorable to watch, too. I keep wonderin’ if he’ll drag you off to his dog house.”
“Nah, bro. The Dog House is Warhorse’s place.”
“Not their fuckin’ gym, you dipshit!”
Walsh grinned a trollish grin that was mirrored on Hoeff. The SEAL aimed a thumb over his shoulder. “We’re sleepin’ over yonder. I already took the good room.”
“Well fuck! I suppose we better go check what you left us.”
“Heh. Well, we’re already checked in,” rumbled Walsh, “I wanna drop my bags and go get a workout in.”
Coombes rolled his eyes but acquiesced, and Tiny wandered away at a rolling stroll with his bag over his shoulder. Coombes shouldered his own bag and followed him. Their new address wasn’t hard to find—it was the last and smallest at the end of the row—and Hoeff’s ‘good room’ turned out to be pretty much indistinguishable from the others except that it was closest to the kitchen and farthest from the latrine.
He waited for Walsh to drop his bags and change into his PT gear, then took Hoeff aside as soon as they could talk without being overheard. “Hey, Chief Petty Officer. You mind if I call you Hoeff?”
“Sure thing, Master Sergeant. Can I call you Coombes?”
“Right on. Anyway, Walsh? He’s…well, he’s a got a bit of a chip on his shoulder. He was selected for HEAT but fucked it up for himself pretty epic-like. I’m tryin’a…I wanna make him feel better about JETS, right?”
Hoeff nodded understanding. “I think we’re on the same page.” He watched Walsh jog out onto the training field and bee-line toward the HEAT potentials. “And Walsh is someone we really need, don’t we?”
“Mhmm. Ain’t often you get someone that smart and that physical. I bet we’re gonna need to think our way out of jams we ain’t even dreamed up, and we’re definitely going to be rolling heavy in gear. Ever do long-range recon?”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m here.”
“Y’know the kind where you can’t leave any sign?”
Hoeff nodded ruefully. “Ayup. Like I said…we need a mule. And Tiny looks like a goddamned pack horse.” Crammed into his reflective Air Force PT gear, Walsh was impossible to miss. By now he was down with the HEAT candidates and he looked like he was hell-bent on humiliating every one of them. Judging by their gawping expressions he already was, and not very friendly-like, either.
“…He’s gotta calm down,” Hoeff decided.
“I think he’ll get there. His real problem is…well. He really is HEAT material, and I’ve seen HEAT in action, man. I think some part of him thinks he’s…humoring me. He’s too polite to ever admit it, but…”
“That’s rough.” Hoeff scratched at his jaw. It was scruffy like only an operator could get away with. “…What’s HEAT like, anyhow?”
Coombes sighed. “You ever meet a man who is better than you in literally every possible way, and is so goddamned nice and friendly it makes it even worse?”
“I can imagine…” Hoeff offered, slowly.
“Right. Now cover that guy in some hapless motherfucker’s guts.”
Coombes watched Hoeff’s expression and caught the faintest of slight frowns. “I watched…well. It’s weird, the three HEAT bros I’m thinking of could literally rip me apart before I noticed,” he added. “And Walsh? He’s easily good enough to join ‘em. But instead he’s gonna do milk runs with us.”
“This shit ain’t gonna be milk runs! Have you read the mission brief?”
“Yup.” Coombes looked back at the field again, where the HEAT wannabes were all being left in the dirt even as they gamely tried to keep up. “Now all we gotta do is get Walsh to believe it…”
Six hours later
“Whaddya think?”
Walsh stroked his chin. “Good intro class, he raised some interesting points. I’m gonna…go to the SCIF and read up some more. After PT.”
Coombes granted himself a satisfied nod. Mission accomplished.
Date Point: September 11y9m1w AV
HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Lieutenant Kieran Mears
Letter for notes,
RE: SSgt Adam Arés
I last saw Staff Sergeant Arés one month ago, as he is in the habit of visiting me every month. He is a patient and thoughtful young man who continues to grapple with his historic trauma and his father’s disability.
He has repeated his concerns regarding his devotion to maximal physical performance. Although the demands of his career make his substantial physicality necessary, he worries that he is obsessed and about being seen as a “freak”. Notably, this has not lessened his pursuit of physical excellence in any appreciable degree.
We touched briefly on the subject of his father’s recent fall and worsening disability, which is a source of some considerable frustration and upset for him. He states that he is finding it “difficult” to accept his father’s situation, and joked that “everybody thinks their dad is stronger, right?” I advised him that the best person to discuss these matters with is probably Mr. Arés Senior, and he has assured me that he will make the attempt.
He also continues to express mixed feelings over what he calls “The Hate”, though he has become more articulate in being able to describe exactly what this entails.
According to him, “The Hate” is his motivating force. He describes it as an ability to channel his anger and frustration, especially over his past trauma, into constructive mental impetus. As a psychiatrist this generates some professional conflict; on the one hand, it is quite clear it has enabled Arés to push the boundaries of human possibility and this is a thing we are desperately in need of. On the other, for his personal benefit it is difficult to determine which course of therapy may be best. Do we work on his anger and possibly repressed self-loathing knowing that could risk his abilities? How would he feel afterwards?
It must also be said that Sergeant Arés possesses violent ideations. These are understandable considering his history, personality type and vocation though he seems to have them well under control. He discussed his relationship with Sergeant Firth and remarked “it’s helped [him] understand where it’s coming from and keep it locked down.”
He denies feeling specific violent impulses toward individual people around him, and states that his anger is directed “at the whole world, sometimes”, though he does report that channeling his anger has proven equally useful to him both in training and in battle.
We discussed whether he feels this is healthy, to which he replied that it is “probably not”, but he suggests that his most constructive course of action would be to continue much as he is, with the support of his team. I am inclined to agree, though I will of course keep a close eye on him and I have encouraged him to visit me as often as he likes, which he has assured me he shall.
-Lt. K Mears Counsellor, HMS Sharman
Date Point: September 11y9m2w AV
Folctha, Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Special Agent Darcy
“So! What have Control cooked up for us? Any new Indications and Warnings?”
In the parlance of the intelligence industry ’Indications and Warnings’ was an important term of art. While it could mean many things, they all essentially boiled down to: ’what are their people doing, and what should our people watch for?’
Darcy ruefully considered her coffee for a moment before responding. It wasn’t that she disliked coffee, as such, but she drank so much of it at the behest of whoever she was visiting that nowadays she much preferred green tea, if only for the change of pace.
“…Revised but they’re much the same,” she said, blowing on the drink to cool it. “They want more emphasis on the Females. What I’m more interested in is your current collection deck.”
That was another term of art: A collection deck was the end result of a lengthy but efficient chain of decision-making that all happened behind the opaque facade of Control. Policy-makers and their analysts decided what questions needed answering, another team of analysts determined what things needed to be watched to generate input to the process, and they in turn generated a list of what specific things the case officers and their sources needed to key onto. That was a collection deck.
Darcy was a case officer. Melissa meanwhile was her source, and a very good one. She also had the luxury of not being compromised by her duties. Others in the industry might literally have killed for an assignment that was so free of moral gray areas: they made for easy and rewarding work, and sound nights of restful sleep.
Melissa nodded. “Let me guess: Meereo? I presume now that he and Niral are a couple…”
“He is Champion of Clan Longear,” Darcy pointed out. “From what I can tell he’s effectively the Gaoian equivalent of a prince, or a head of state.”
“Close enough, I guess. There’s no real direct equivalent to any modern human rank, uh… he’s… well, a champion. In the medieval sense.”
Darcy nodded understanding.
“He’s also away right now,” Melissa added .”So…what do you want me to do?” She had always been a cautious one.
“Watch for Hierarchy influence, of course. Mostly, watch Niral and see how they interact. We don’t want a ‘honeypot’ scenario.”
“I’m not sure Gaoians are as vulnerable to that, but…”
A ‘honeypot’ was an old—arguably the oldest—trick of tradecraft, and hinged on some primordial truths about the relationship between men and women. Men after all predictably wanted to be seduced, a fact that untold millions of women had used to their advantage throughout history.
“I understand.” Darcy sipped the coffee again. “But honestly, the collection deck is mostly unchanged. We’re interested in Gaoian culture, behavior, and their politics, and the spread of Hierarchy influence. Personally though, I’m most interested in the Females. They’re arguably the most important power block amongst the Gao, which makes our lack of visibility into them… frustrating.” She sipped her coffee.
Melissa nodded. “We haven’t had much contact with them until recently.”
“Mm.” Darcy put the coffee down. “But that’s changing now and you’re the only person we have who’s positioned to take advantage. It’d be well worth your time…”
She picked up her phone and briskly opened an app. “And rewarding. I know it’s not much…” In fact it was. “But I hope this expresses our gratitude.”
Melissa received a ping on her phone, and commendably subdued her reaction to the figure she saw, not allowing it to go beyond a raised eyebrow. She did, however, issue an uncomfortable sigh. “My tax dollars at work, I guess…”
“Sooner or later, Melissa, what you are doing is going to cost you personally. Don’t take this the wrong way but a quality person like you needs options, and there’s nothing quite like money for creating options. Try and keep them open, okay?”
It was sometimes useful to sober up a source.
“…I will. Anything else?”
Darcy finished her coffee. “No, not right now, I need to get going… Thank you for the company.”
Melissa stood and showed Darcy to the door, and just like that a meeting that had involved travelling several thousand lightyears was done.
Sometimes, Darcy thought, that was her whole job. Travelling a long way just for five-minute conversations over a hot drink.
But of course, the right conversation with the right person at the right time was a tremendously powerful thing.
She caught a cab to the jump array. She had to be in London tomorrow…
Date Point: September 11y9m2w AV
Allied Trade Station 1 ’Armstrong’, Orbiting Cimbrean-5, The Far Reaches
Admiral Sir Patrick Knight
There had been a time, not so very long ago, when the mere suggestion that he might one day set foot aboard a human-owned space station in orbit around an alien world would have inspired Admiral Knight to doubt the suggester’s sanity.
According to his granddaughter the popular term for the feeling of realizing that, was a “ZF Moment”. ’Zukunftsgefühl’, future-feeling. The sudden revelation that reality had unfolded in utterly unexpected ways that you could never have foreseen.
And people said that youth were shallow! Nobody else had invented a term that so perfectly encapsulated the zeitgeist.
Yes, the station was an alien design with extensive human modifications including skymasters and CIWS, but it was already a human-feeling place. It had a cinema on board, and posters advertising the next Star Wars movie. The mere fact that people genuinely lived and worked in space now had done nothing to dampen that franchise’s popularity.
It had a food court and shopping mall. It had a skinny young blonde lady in baggy clothes and fingerless gloves who was singing Bob Dylan songs with a talented voice and even more talented guitar hands. She was earning a decent living by it thanks to the entranced alien visitors who had never heard such music before.
Astonishing to think that the station had still been under construction only six months ago.
It had not, however, been constructed to accommodate men like Major Powell. Although Powell had only recently stopped being the smallest man in the HEAT unit—that dubious honor for the time being now went to young Lieutenant Costello—he was still, by anybody else’s standards, enormous.
Which meant that people noticed him, and got out of his way. The poor chap was the center of a mobile, permanent deferential circle of people giving him some respectful distance. Aliens in particular seemed to recoil from him the moment they caught wind of him, like deer spooking with a shift in the wind.
Which, to be fair, made it easy to navigate crowds.
The station’s administrative executive was the same woman who had made Ceres Base back in Sol such a success. Knight had crossed paths with Adele Park a few times at the kinds of social events for powerful people that blurred the line between ’party’ and ’unofficial meeting’. Last time, she had been shepherding Drew Cavendish of C&M systems, whose straightforward engineer’s instincts were not a good fit for high-falutin soirees.
Now, she stood and shook his hand, then Powell’s. Somehow, Powell managed to avoid causing her any discernible discomfort and she invited them to sit down opposite her desk as she made tea.
“The Dominion aren’t happy about all the weapons this station has,” she remarked conversationally. “I think they’re worried we want to sidestep the rules on orbital weapon platforms. Ridiculous, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Knight agreed and allowed a small sneer to slip into his voice. “I suspect our feelings about the Dominion’s unhappiness mirror one another’s.”
“Somehow, I think you’re right.” Mrs. Park smiled as she set a tray of hot tea on the desk. “But, you aren’t here to discuss interstellar politics. I have a vehicle for you.”
“Which is a pleasant surprise,” Knight said. “The last time we spoke about your dropship plans, you suggested that a working prototype was still months away.”
“Acquiring an ET-built light freighter helped, there,” Park admitted. “The chance to let our engineers study the ’My Other Spaceship Is The Millennium Falcon’-” she pronounced the name with a slight roll of her eyes “-filled in some important blanks. And of course, taking a few notes from the Byron Group’s exploration vehices helped us along, too.”
She handed them both the summary documents. “Say hello to the Weaver-class dropship.”
“You took more than ’a few notes’ I reckon…” Powell observed. Knight nodded—the Weaver clearly owed many of its genes to Misfit and its Byron Group predecessors, though its other parent was unquestionably a Chinook. It had the same sort of pug-nosed profile, with four kinetic thrusters rather than rotors for lift.
“The bidder’s brief you provided led us to believe that any mission deploying via a Weaver would need to take a lot of equipment with them,” Adele said, ignoring the comment. “Which is why we went for something this size rather than a smaller transport. In theory though, the technology we developed for the Weaver would work quite happily in something the size of, say, a Blackhawk.”
Knight caught Powell’s eye and gave him the subtlest of cues to do the talking for now. It wasn’t even an expression, really—both men had simply worked together long enough to read each other very well.
“The Weaver looks about the right size for the time being,” Powell said. “But the point of failure on previous candidates wasn’t size…”
“No, it was reusability,” Park nodded. “I remember. You want something that can cover short interstellar distances, land on a planet, take off from that planet and return at warp. We’ve gone a little above-and-beyond, there.”
“Oh aye?”
“Oh yes. The Weaver has a safe flight range of two hundred parsecs, though of course that can be extended if it carries more than the standard load of supplies.”
“Limiting factors?”
“The main one is air supply. It uses the same reprocessor technology that goes into C&M’s spacesuits which of course do have a maximum lifetime.”
Powell nodded. “How well-protected is it?”
“It’s heavily armored for a transport helicopter, and we developed what we call ’speedbump shields’. Rather than try to stop incoming hazards outright with the shields, we let it hit a weak shield at a good distance from the hull. Explosives detonate, kinetic penetrators disintegrate and the resulting hit on the armor is much weaker. We’re demoing the same technology as an update to conventional tanks back on Earth.”
Powell nodded, and closed the folder. That was his ’no objections’ nod, and it served as a signal to Knight to move things forward. He was certainly quite happy with everything he saw in the document.
“So far I can see potential in this design,” he said. Park smiled slightly and nodded.
“I was hoping you would say that,” she said and stood up. “…would you like to see the prototype?”
Date Point: September 11y9m2w AV
Mrwrki Station, Erebor System, Deep Space
Lewis Beverote
“Like… so you got them?”
Vedreg glimmered an uneasy shade of mauve. “I… have an avenue to them. I think.”
Everyone in the briefing room looked at each other.
Sergeant Lee was the first to speak. “…You think?”
“It has to do with the way that the, ah, ’footballs’ as you call them are distributed and manufactured in the first place.” Vedreg rumbled a deep Guvnurag throat-clear and straightened to his full enormous height. “Or rather, how things in general are manufactured in Guvnurag society.”
Lewis knew Nadeau well enough by now to sense that the Lieutenant-Colonel was trying not to demand that he get to the point. Instead he settled for asking “Which is?”
“Nanofactories are ubiquitous among my people. Basic ones can be found in most homes, more sophisticated ones are present in shops and marketplaces… But we still sell and buy products that are constructed using those factories.”
“Right…?” Lewis asked.
Vedreg cleared his throat nervously again. “When you buy anything that is made by nanofactory, you buy… I suppose a file, or a code. I do not know exactly. The word in Ugundravnu-vaguvnuragnaguvendrugun—that is the language of my people—would be directly translated as digital instance of an item. When you manufacture the item you have purchased, you no longer have the digital version.”
“So all your stuff has got DRM?” Sergeant Lee asked. “We can break DRM.”
“Which is what I was counting on,” Vedreg agreed. “My negotiations over this last year have revolved around persuading the individuals responsible for such things to release system fields onto the market so that we could acquire a digital instance for you to work with. I have failed—they remain unavailable.”
“So what is your avenue?” Kirk asked
“I have encountered a new idea. Tell me… have you ever heard of a ’shell company’?”
Date Point: September 11y9m2w AV
HMS Sharman (HMNB Folctha), Cimbrean, The Far Reaches
Admiral Sir Patrick Knight
“Well. Now that we’re alone, I must say that was bloody impressive.”
Powell smiled a rare and genuine smile. It was always a disarming sight—he was usually so stone-faced that one felt that a real smile might splinter his skull into a million pieces, but in fact they did nothing of the sort. They sort of ghosted onto his face and rested there where they reminded whoever saw them that the major was actually a very handsome man, under the permanent slight scowl.
“Aye. Looked like a Chinook, felt like a Chinook but quieter, spaceworthy and can go FTL.” Powell nodded. “Bloody impressive indeed.”
“Does it have your stamp of approval?”
“…Aye. On balance, I reckon it does.”
Knight nodded. “And mine. I’ll go write some appropriate letters. Meanwhile, if you would be so kind as to rescue Lieutenant Costello from the tender mercies of the Lads?”
Powell smirked, nodded and jogged away looking more buoyant than he had in weeks.
Knight reminded himself to check when the last time was that Powell had taken time off, then reminded himself to check when the last time was that he himself had taken time off.
After all, sometimes you needed a good reminder of what you were working for.
He went to write his letters.