by John Ringo
“Why?” Mike said.
“Code keys,” Cally replied.
Code keys were the basis for Galactic wealth. Essentially nothing more than codes, they gave “permissions” for creating nannites. Nannites could, potentially, cause a threat to survival. If they reproduced unchecked. The Galactic nannites had limits on production, though. Code Keys specified the type and amount of nannites that could be produced using the permissions on each key.
The Darhel also controlled production of code keys. And kept the number of them deliberately restricted. Since some nannites were always consumed in production, any Indowy wanting more had to get them from the Darhel at deliberately and artificially high rates. It was the galactic version of owing your soul to the company store.
“Creating a major industrial base that is not dependent on code keys is going to automatically cut their price,” Boyd said. “Both because consumers will no longer be dependent upon nannite created materials and because the industry is not dependent on code keys.”
“And there’s probably a way around them,” Mike said, shrugging. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s not a way to create them using the new AID network. Boyd, could you look into how those things are actually created and why the Darhel control them?”
“Got it,” Boyd said, nodding.
“I hope creating loyal AIDs is not going to be my full purpose,” Daisy said. “I’m the soul of a warship, General. Much as I look forward to that, my true calling is war.”
“Uhm… you’re a wet navy cruiser, Daisy,” Jeff said, shrugging. “Not much call for that in this war.”
“There may be, someday,” Mike said. “But does she have to stay that way?”
“Build a new ship and install her?” Boyd asked. “We’ll have to build ships, anyway.”
“The nannites are in my steel, Bill,” Daisy said, frowning. “If you kill them, by remelting the steel for example, you kill a part of me. And it would be… physically painful based on the battles I’ve been in. Think of being dropped into the furnace yourself. Prefer to avoid that if I can.”
“Starship Yamato?” Takao said, smiling ever so slightly.
“Excuse me?” Mike asked.
“Anime, Dad,” Cally said. “I mean, from your days. Granpa had a copy when I was a kid. Basically, they raised the Japanese battleship Yamato, installed space engines in her and she became a space dreadnought.”
“Last choice,” Mike said. “There has to be a way to take the Des Moines and turn her into a starship.”
“Well, I know we’re trying to get around using the standard Indowy methods of construction,” Boyd said, thoughtfully. “But I would be unsurprised if with sufficient resources it wouldn’t be possible to just turn her into a real starship.”
“You mean, let some sohon mentats have a go at her?” Mike asked. “Sort of a full body mod for a ship?”
“And what would that be like?” Daisy asked, nervously.
“If it’s like mine, nothing much,” Cally said. “Of course, I was asleep for mine. I’m not sure if they could put you under for yours.”
“Boyd, look into that if you would,” Mike said.
“Got it,” Boyd said.
“You know, we’re both assuming things here,” Mike said, grinning. “I’m presuming you’re taking the job and you’re presuming I’ve offered it. To be clear, I want you on the team. How say you? You’ll have to take another rejuve. You’re going to need to couple the energy of youth to your experience.”
“Oh, I’m in,” Boyd said, “even if I’m less than enthused about a rejuve. Those Darhel bastards have not only tried to ruin my business, they’ve tried to kill me multiple times. A real chance to take them down before I die? I’m in.”
“And the same question goes for you, Daisy, and you Captain McNair,” Mike said.
“I’m in,” Jeff replied. “Sir. Any idea what rank?”
“Captain for now,” Mike replied. “Daisy?”
“Absolutely,” Daisy said, grinning.
“Frankly, since I know you can be trusted, I’d prefer you, and presumably Captain McNair, in a position of command.”
“I’m the ship, General,” Daisy pointed out, carefully. “Captain McNair is the commander.”
“Could it be someone else?” Mike asked.
“It would not be my first choice,” Daisy admitted. Her tone said, That would be my last choice, as a matter of fact. “I’d prefer Jeff if at all possible.”
“I’m a water sailor, honey,” Jeff pointed out. “I like the stars to look at… ”
“You’ll learn,” Mike said. “Get over it.”
“Yes, sir,” the captain said, frowning.
“Fleet is a very touchy subject,” Mike continued. “Right now, I’m the eight hundred pound gorilla. I’m going to ride that for all its worth. But I can’t command Fleet Strike, figure out how to break the Darhel monopoly and command Fleet. I don’t want to command Fleet. I don’t want to be an admiral.”
“I didn’t particularly want to be Dictator of Panama,” Boyd said. “The job, frankly, sucks. I did it because I had to.”
“If I can find the right officers, I don’t have to,” Mike replied. “Takao here, for example. Jeff for another. There are more. I’ve found every officer the Darhel hate, that are still alive. That’s going to be the core of the new Fleet. There are still going to be some of the Indi officers. The Fleet’s just too large not to have some and Indonesia and southeast Asia still hold the bulk of the world’s propulation. But one of the programs I’m going to insist upon is promotion through proven merit and a strong IG office to weed out the worst of them. Of course, this upcoming war is going to do a lot of that for us.”
“What are you going to do for personnel?” Boyd asked. “I know it’s not my part of the puzzle, but… ”
“Conscription,” Mike replied. “Not the best way to raise the sort of force I’d prefer but the only one that’s going to give us enough soldiers in the time we have. I’m fully aware of the possible problems with that; I recall what happened the last time we tried it. But I also know that some of that was Darhel fuckery. And I’m not going to accept any fuckery this time and the Himmit, who are very supportive this time, are keeping an eye on the Darhel for me. Some of them have already started to do stuff to interfere. Each time they do, I send a message to the Tir. So far, each of the Darhel have come into line.”
“What are you going to do when one balks, sir?” Jeff asked.
“That’s my job to fix,” Cally said, buffing her nails on her blouse.
* * *
“This is totally unacceptable,” the Gil Etullu said, grinding his triangular teeth. The head of the Fauldor Clan-Corporation could not believe that the Tir upstart could send such a bald-faced message and expect instant cooperation. “There is no legal precedent for this. Send him a simple no.”
The message was an order to turn over all owned Posleen forges to some new “War Production Board.” The Posleen forges were a nightmare for the Darhel. Darhel control of the Indowy rested primarily upon the expense of manufacture of all items in the Federation. Everything from building materials to cups and saucers to ships were produced by Indowy laborers using nannites to laboriously build parts one by one through greater or lesser levels of sohon control.
Since Posleen forges could automatically produce the same parts in massive quantities, the Darhel had been careful to snap them up. When they came up for sale, Darhel or their agents invariably offered sums for them far beyond the reach of anyone but a massive human corporation. And those corporations knew better than to bid against the Darhel.
Once they had their hands on them, the Darhel mostly warehoused them. They gritted their teeth at the expense involved, dreading each new recovery of one, but they were willing to pay the price to prevent humans from having the manufacturing capability.
And now, with no payment involved, that damned Tir was telling him to just turn over all his forges to humans! According to reports
they were to then be turned over to the Indowy to produce war materials. But the same forges could produce consumer goods just as easily.
“I will do so, Gil,” the Darhel’s AID said. “But I feel it wise to warn you that there is legal precedent, regulations covering this action and failure to follow the requested action places your clan under threat of both sanctions and physical destruction.”
“He would not dare,” the Gil hissed. “The war between clans that would start would tear the galaxy apart.”
“The Tir would not order it,” the AID said. “It is a standing order on the part of the Fleet Strike commander. Any clan failing to supply any requested support to the current war effort shall be destroyed.”
“That is wholy illegal,” the Darhel snapped. “How could anyone… ”
“Gil, there is an inconvenient fact that since Humans have a monopoly on raw physical force, absent shutting down their military in the midst of a survival threatening war, they can destroy the Darhel at any time.”
“We will see about that,” the Gil said, taking a deep, calming breath. “Send the order to the clan. Begin the shipment. But… take some time.”
“That, too, would be inadvisable,” the AID said. “Two clan leaders that tried a similar tactic were advised by the Tir that failure to act in the most expeditious means had already been reported to General O’Neal, by others than he, presumably the Himmit, and if it continued the Clan Leader was to be terminated with prejudice.”
“This is not rule by law!” the Darhel said. “This is… Is… ”
“A dictatorship is the word you’re looking for,” the AID said. “A military dictatorship to be precise.”
“Thank you.”
“Shall I send the order to go slow?”
“Yes,” the Gil said. “Let him send his assassins. If it’s war he wants, it’s war he’ll get. Contact my own human associates. Tell them he has become a problem… ”
* * *
“Cally, if you could come to my office, please,” Mike said over the intercom.
“What’s up, Dad?” Cally said a few moments later.
Mike had not, in fact, taken over the former commander’s office. That was on the ground level with a great view of the western training area. It was a nice office but “secure” was not part of its features.
Mike liked secure and after all the time he’d had on ships and in suits, being underground was fine by him. He could look at the western training area, or any other area, via large consoles on the walls.
Cally had been installed in a similar office down the hall. She was functioning as something of a second G-2, that one in charge of keeping an eye on the Darhel.
“You get the message about Gil Etullul?” Mike asked.
“Just saw it,” Cally said.
“That’s the fifth clan leader to try to fuck around with us,” Mike said. “Technically, that’s open season on the Darhel. But let’s go slow. You up for taking a trip?”
“Is my Dad sending me on an assassination mission?” Cally asked.
“It’s a Darhel clan leader, sweetie,” Mike said. “I can delegate it to someone else if you’d like.”
“Oh, Hell no,” Cally replied. “Killing Darhel is one of the things that makes life worth living. You’re sure you want to is all? The rest of the Darhel are going to freak. There were major ramifications to taking down Epetar’s clan head. Culminating with… well… ”
“Pour Encourage L’Autre,” Mike said, nodding grimly at the note about his father. “He’s apparently sending assassins after me. Himmit are tracking the chain. When he’s down, get with CID and round them all up. They’ll be given formal trials I suppose. But make sure if any slip the CID net, they don’t last long.”
“Pour Encourage L’Autre?” Cally asked.
“Something like that,” Mike said. “Get with the Rigas about transportation and support. I want this done quick and as clean as possible.”
“Will do,” Cally said, skipping gaily to the door. “I get to kill a Darrrhelll… ”
“Sometimes I wonder about my family,” Mike muttered as the door closed. He looked up, though, at a tap on it. “Come.”
“Boss, you know how we’re dying for soldiers?” General Wesley said entering in the room. He was looking at a print out. “My AID turned up something on that score. There’s a group of former soldiers that formed a reclamation colony. Basically, at the end of the war their units were stood down pretty quick. Most of them took their money, families and such-like and moved out into the wilderness.”
“The rejuvs are going to be somewhat useful,” Mike said. “But… ”
“Well, that’s where it gets interesting,” Wesley replied. “They sort of continued to train. The group’s more of a military organization than your standard reclamation colony. Everyone’s in a militia that trains to professional standards. And I do mean everyone. Even the kids grow up marching, drilling and getting firearms training. Their TOE frankly reads like a light infantry division. Just to protect themselves from Posleen, of course.”
“So you’re saying we can draft these guys and we’ve got a formed unit?” Mike asked. “What about officers, NCOs… ”
“All there,” Wesley said, flipping the sheet. “Rearm these guys, touch up their training and you’ve got a shake and bake infantry division. There’s just one hitch… ”
* * *
“Generalfeldmarschall Muehlenkampf, reporting to Herr General as ordered!”
Mike thought that he had a record of war, but when he’d looked up the “Generalfeldmarschall” he’d come away just a bit envious. Muehlenkampf had started off back in World War One in the German Army. He’d been in the Freicorps in the 20s and 30s, the Waffen SS in World War Two and ended up a Gruppenfuhrer.
Rejuved and recalled for the Posleen War, he’d been ordered by the German Chancellor to recreate the SS, the one remaining group of soldiers that Germany had not tapped. The unit had sustained enormous casualties during the Posleen War and had performed just as enormous service. Not that it had ever gotten much credit for it. However, Muehlenkampf had ended the War as a Generalfeldmarshall in command of the Army Group Reserve, prior to the final battles a force of nearly 90 divisions.
After the War, however, he’d paid the usual price of the unloved and no longer needed: “Chuck him out; the brute.” Muehlenkampf and the few survivors of the SS had been paid off and deactivated while fire from the Fleet was still wiping out concentrated pockets of Posleen. Their pay-out, furthermore, had been at a fraction of that of the “regular” forces. Many of whom had broken at the first touch of fire from the Posleen and whose survivors still tended to huddle in the untouched areas of Scandinavia and the Alps.
Herr Generalfeldmarschall, however, picked up over 90% of the survivors of the SS units, from both the Alps defenses and Scandinavia, and marched them into the howling wilderness left by a combination of the Posleen and the kinetic strikes from Fleet. Years of hard struggle had passed, building a colony in that wilderness without much if any help from the outside.
Currently the “colony” was the third largest city in Europe with vast fields spreading out from its center. Herr Generalfeldmarschall had been busy.
But, then again, the Waffen SS seemed to enjoy a challenge.
“Stand easy, Generalfeldmarschall,” Mike said, waving to a chair and opening up a humidor. Bill Boyd had been generosity itself with cigars, Lord Bless him.
“Thank you, Herr General,” the German said, extracting a cigar. He drew a silver washed dagger from his belt, cut the end, lit it with a match and drew. “This is truly a fine cigar, Herr General. My thanks again. Tobacco is short in Freiland.”
“I heard about you during the war, of course,” Mike said, leaning back and tamping his dip. He’d chosen to use his “official” office up on the surface for the interview. He’d also forgotten that the weather today was crummy. So the room was darkly shadowed from the cold front that was washing the region with rain. “Throug
h a bunch of filters is equally without saying. But I figured anyone the news community hated as much as you guys couldn’t be all bad.”
“Thank you, Herr General,” Muehlenkampf said, nodding brusquely. “As we heard of your exploits. Although the reports were somewhat more favorable.”
“Which probably makes you wonder about me,” Mike said, grinning and putting in another dip. “That’s fine. I can understand that.”
“You were recently court-martialed for excessive force, Herr General,” Muehlenkampf replied. “Given that there is no such thing as excessive force in war, only impolitic force, I am sure you are as much a soldat as I.”
“Actually, I always wanted to be a writer,” Mike said.
“I was once a student of art, Herr General.”
“And here we are,” Mike said.
“Yet the Chancellor when he recalled me, spoke truth I think,” the old German said. “I truly find peace only in war. These last decades have been peaceful for me only in that we could continue to clear up feral Posleen. A task, I must say, beneath most of my soldaten.”
“You’ve heard about the new invasion.”
“Das Hedren, ja,” Muehlenkampf said. “They do not yet threaten us. Only the Darhel.”
“And the Indowy,” Mike said. “But the bottomline is that it’s my job, God help me, to stop it. And the way that the Darhel have fucked everything up, I’m short on trained soldiers.”
“And you wish to recruit my force,” Muehlenkampf said.
“I could just conscript you,” Mike said, shrugging. “But as Tam said, the way you’re set up you’re a shake and bake unit. So I’d like to pull you in as you are. I’ll handle the political repercussions. Given the access the Darhel have given me, I may even be able to repair your reputation.”
“The latter is not to be ignored,” the general admitted. “However, if you bring us in as a unit, we have certain traditions that must be observed.”