Libor
Katana Krieger #2
© 2015 Bill Robinson
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 1
"You're going to lead the first contact expedition." He said it. I heard him say it. I just can't believe he said it.
Admiral Chase Everingham, Chief of Naval Operations (ChiNO), my boss's boss, and the senior officer of the entire Union Navy, said it. He's standing four feet from me, well floating actually, but standing in a metaphysical sense, his grey eyes looking anywhere but into my brown ones.
Two months ago he wasn't even convinced I should be commanding Yorktown, now he's potentially putting the future of the entire human race in my hands. And, strangely, that's clearly not the part that upsets him.
The Navy has four battle groups built around 190,000 ton cruisers, each with four destroyers as escort. We're taking two 640,000 ton battleships out of ordinary and getting them ready for combat. We have five compact battle groups of four destroyers each.
So what do they order him to send to make first official contact with an alien civilization? One 8,000 ton frigate.
I've spent the last two months commanding that frigate and semi-successfully battling an alien race called the Libor across four sectors of our space. Turns out they'd been there, hiding and strengthening their positions, for at least three years.
The Admiral's still talking, might have said something important, but I lost him at "expedition."
Then the grey eyes meet mine, snapping me back to now. "A high level delegation is inbound from Canada 2. You will be there to greet them on Saturday when they arrive. I don't expect you'll have any formal duties, but," he pauses to add special emphasis for me, "we will expect you in your dress blues." Congress and the Union government work in the Canada system, a couple hundred light years from here.
We are currently floating in ChiNO's office on Grissom station in Earth orbit, with Admiral John Benson, commander of the frigate fleet (FRIGCOM). The two admirals are in bright blue, starched to the max, officer's flight casual uniforms, complemented by large swathes of gold scrambled eggs, plus stars and stripes.
I'm wearing a dark blue rated seaman's flight casual uniform, with captain's bars and my ship patch velcroed on it. The hair, a foot longer than regulation (ok, maybe two feet) is barely contained within my Yorktown baseball cap. I get the feeling I'm going to be awfully itchy and uncomfortable this weekend.
"We'll spend the rest of the weekend figuring out who goes with you and what your mission orders are to be. There is a protocol for this, but I don't know if we're going to follow it." He nods to Benson, his totally regulation thick black hair, slightly speckled with grey, doesn't move.
Chain of command, the totally bald Admiral Benson gives me my orders. "Katana, take the next two days off, I don't want you anywhere near your ship. Saturday, zero eight hundred, report to Beta 3, dress blues. Don't expect to get much sleep after that, report to this office immediately afterward. Meetings at least all weekend, followed by technical briefings, then we have another week or so to get Yorktown ready to go. Everything you hear in the next two weeks is top secret, need to know only, and you don't know anyone who doesn't know who needs to."
"Aye, sir." We've barely escaped with our lives, the ship full of holes and it's systems and crew strained to the maximum. And now, instead of a nice long leave and enough time to make sure she's 100 percent, we're going back into the fray.
And with that unspoken thought, I float out into the waiting area, free, except for the 100,000 pound monkey they've just stuck onto my back.
I grab my pad and text Shelby Perez, my First officer, with an offer to meet for dinner, then float over to the travel tubes. Two tubes run the length of the station, a light breeze of filtered air wafting through them in opposite directions, carrying passengers far more efficiently than an old school elevator. I slip into the "down" one, if there's such a thing as "down" in free fall, though I take the Admirals' offices to be the top of the station, and waste recycling to be the bottom. There's something that doesn't run uphill.
The air flow takes me a couple floors down before I grab a passing handle and fling myself out of the tube and into a passageway, right arm only, the hair pretending to be my rocket exhaust. If Yorktown is going to be ready, we need to fill the empty spots in my crew roster. Might as well start now, the Admiral told me to take the next two days off, not the rest of today.
The personnel office is an easy float, except for two things. My left arm is broken, a present from a traitor working for the bad guys, and everyone I pass suddenly wants to salute me. Makes me essentially armless while I am trying to move while weightless.
The Union Navy is smaller than you might think. We have only 44 major warships (we had 46 two weeks ago, and 92 five years ago), and 100 or so smaller ones. That's maybe 2,300 active duty officers and crew (with about 1,200 Marines), and 1,000 Naval support staff, plus five or six times as many civilian contractors running around. We're a big extended family.
The chief petty officer floating at the desk just inside the hatch to Personnel doesn't even move as I come around the bend, then almost hurts himself straightening up after he sees my face. He has a half dozen paper folders under his arm which take advantage of the opportunity to make a run for freedom as he tries to salute and hold them at the same time.
I return his salute, help him corral the folders, and give him a second to breathe. He looks like he should be in Special Forces, totally out of place here, the muscles in his arms would rip the sleeves out of a standard issue uniform every time he flexed. Not a clerk. Or at least, doesn't want to be a clerk.
"Chief, I need the available crew list from you. I have a half dozen roster openings and I want to schedule interviews as soon as possible." Captains normally get to pick their crews, particularly the officers, which benefits both sides. There are too few opportunities to advance in these days of reduction in force, plus anyone stuck for months in the tight spaces we have needs to be compatible with their crewmates.
"Yes, sir." He moves a hand across his computer screen and my pad beeps. Quick check, and it's what I asked for. Took three seconds. And, still, we have a stack of paper folders on his desk, inside what is probably called an "in basket."
When I look back up, he's looking
at me, something on his mind.
"Chief?"
"Sir, I checked this morning, just in case there was an opportunity, and every station on Yorktown was assigned."
"Must be a paperwork delay, Chief, we've short pilots, engineers, and a Second officer." I don't mention the Marines, we take who the Commandant assigns us for our detachment and security force, with an occasional exception.
"Yes, sir. Is there anything else I can do?"
"No, thanks, I've got what I need." This time I salute, turn and float out into the passageway, then have a change of heart and pop my head back in.
"Chief, who does your uniforms?"
"A shop called Officer Country, sir. Main high gee shopping plaza. Good, cheap and fast."
"Thanks." This time out into the passageway and down the tube to the BOQ. Quick change into my workout clothes, then off to my mandatory daily zero gee exercises.
Back upstairs to shower, I put on my one civilian outfit (jeans, brown low cut cotton shirt) and head out to meet Shelby an hour early. I normally wear my leather jacket too, but it was painful enough getting the pullover shirt pulled over without trying for layers.
The Officer Country shop is easy to find, nestled at the end of a row of boutique clothing stores. The main shopping plaza is a large department store, a couple dozen small storefronts, and a bunch of restaurants arranged in a long curving row (understandable when you consider the station is a cylinder). This one has a real door, and a little bell that chimes when you push it open. I take that as a good sign.
A 50ish woman, with hair and demeanor that scream former Marine, is bent over a work table making someone else a uniform that fits. She finishes the row of stitches currently in her machine before she carefully sets everything aside and introduces herself as Maddie the Owner, then nods knowingly as I describe my issues of too many curves, not enough space in the uniform. End up standing at attention while she measures me everywhere, taking good care not to damage my arm. Gives me a receipt and tells me to come back Friday after 1600.
I still manage to get to the restaurant before Shelby, let them bring me a not as good as mom makes it iced tea while I wait. My First's not hard to spot when she enters, six foot six pretending to be six three so she can be in the Navy. I probably should have asked her who does her uniforms because they look perfectly stock from the Base Exchange, but they can't possibly be.
The word "wiry" was invented for Shel, she targets the chair across from me, slides her impossibly long legs under the table, the rest of her rippling as she wriggles around to get comfortable in a seat built for shorter people. No fat, a half inch of curly black hair, perfect copper colored skin, strongest brown eyes on Earth. Or above it actually. She's almost a foot taller than I am, weighs the same. The only thing about her I don't appreciate.
Our Marine commander, Lieutenant Tony Palmer, is right behind her, the two of them becoming a team of their own during the past two months. He's six inches shorter, but a lot wider, all muscles, no neck, arms bigger than my legs. I'm pretty sure the chair fears for its life when it realizes he's planning on sitting in it.
He and Shelby can walk together through any part of any city on any planet in the entire Union, day or night, in total safety, no one would be stupid enough to screw with the two of them.
Shelby starts in on me, my face must be a mess.
"What's wrong now, Katana?" No hello, how's your day, did you miss me?
"Shel, there's going to be an expedition to the Libor homeworld. Us. We're jumping in 14 days."
"We know." So much for secrets. "General Cuellar told Tony this morning, and to expect to leave one of his squads behind to make room for guests."
"Guests?" Cuellar is the Marine Commandant.
"No details on that one." I nod, turn to Tony.
"And this information is public knowledge, available to all personnel?"
"I... He... She...." Two hundred and forty pounds of flustered Marine.
I reach out, hold his arm, and start laughing. He relaxes and stops trying to talk.
"You know I can't keep anything from her either."
From the look in her eyes, if this were a combat situation, we'd both be dead.
From that point we start doing what we're supposed to do, which is not talk about top secret things in a public restaurant, and have as much fun as we can, given the circumstances. We get interrupted 10 times for autographs or pictures, which doesn't help, but the food is great and the company is better so it works just fine in the end.
They leave me alone about 2200 to be together, I float upstairs to my favorite little bar to order my favorite beverage which claims to be tea, but isn't. Three alleged gentlemen offer to engage in some zero gee maneuvers with me, but I decline, non-violently. Would hate to have to explain to the President that I can't go on his mission because I'm in the brig on an assault charge over jerks who want to add me to their belt notches.
Take the shuttle to Argo station in the morning, it being the largest civilian operation around, intending to visit the pool and do some shopping on the theory that maybe now would be a good time to own more than one set of civi clothes. Figure things will be both nicer and cheaper there than on Grissom, the Navy's command station.
A half a lap in the pool is all it takes to realize that a broken arm makes swimming unadvisable, though the jacuzzi works just fine if you hang the broken part of you out on the decking. My shopping trip is also utterly impossible with the attention I am currently attracting, so I fly back to Grissom early and disappointed.
The bad arm spends the shuttle trip suggesting a visit to sick bay to deal with what I did to it in the pool. I relent. The doctors tsk at me for a half hour, put a surprisingly skinny hard cast on and assure me that if I do nothing else to it, I should be good to go in a month. I don't tell them I'll be back in considerably less to have it removed. The cast, not the arm.
It's still early afternoon, so I disobey my orders and float down to the dry dock holding Yorktown to check on repairs. She's the most beautiful ship I have ever seen, black, shiny, mostly cylindrical, looking fast and deadly even while moored in her maintenance dock. She deserves to be in full fighting trim before we face off against an entire alien race.
There's a bright yellow iron beam that spans the full length of the dock off and above the ship's port side, actually three pipes arranged in a triangle, with small triangles of pipe welded to their insides every 10 feet or so, joining them together. There's another one on the starboard side, currently not in use.
A crane is rolling down the beam toward the ship just as I arrive, a set of rubber wheels holding it in place, heavy beams exiting downward ending in three giant hooks which together are carrying a new in box laser cannon. Door two is open, and I watching the floating repair crew slide the cannon into place. Second replacement cannon to fill that spot in two months. I don't know what the Guinness record for lost cannons is, but I am probably close.
I get over to the ship, in, up, and onto deck four, watch them attach the cannon internally and test the power couplings. They don't actually fire it, given that it would open the dock to space and kill us all, but I have no doubt it's functional when they're done.
Continue to violate my orders as a second port cannon is replaced and tested, two bright orange Electric Boat "good to go" stickers on their shiny sides. Then it's up to the bridge and thumb through all of the repair documents using my right screen as a scratchpad to make a list of extra spares I want to take with us this trip. Finally, about 2200, I completely, utterly, and totally violate my orders by floating down to my cabin, climbing into my sleeping bag, and dropping into a dreamless slumber.
Spend my last free morning floating in my ready room drinking tea and going over the electronic personnel files of the available crew replacements. Meet Shelby for lunch so I can throw some names off the list at her. She's six months from leaving to become the captain of her own frigate, Saratoga, and she gets to take four of my crew with her. If I can ge
t her to chose some now, she can move them over easily later, and maybe not steal my favorites.
Shel suggests a few to interview, then takes off to get ready for a big Friday night out with her man. I float back down to watch them replace a couple of Yorktown's missing missile tube doors, then I'm off to pick up my new uniform. It's a perfect fit, which makes me realize what a fool I've been for the past 11 years. Then the owner makes me feel stupider.
"Your First officer is a great customer. She says you wear standard enlisted flight casual uniforms. I made you one of those too. Half price for killing that thing on TV."
Too stunned to argue, I pay the bill and take my first ever perfectly fitting uniforms upstairs to the BOQ, settle in for a night of old movies, and get some Chinese food delivered.
There's also a message on my pad from Navy Public Affairs: they have a request from a TV network to make a documentary of my life. I send back a two letter reply, consider adding four more. I need to get back to deep space.
Exactly 0750 next morning I am floating outside the command post of docking bay Beta 3, happily not itchy, not scratchy, and suitably stretchy. I'd whack myself on the head again for not having visited a tailor sooner, but I think I already have some brain damage from our last battle.
Libor: Katana Krieger #2 Page 1