by Chris Hechtl
Doctor Milgram frowned. That was news to him. He hadn't been aware of any host mothers. Had they used volunteers or … suddenly he didn't want to know the answer to that question. He did his best to put it out of his mind.
“The experiment didn't take. None of the subjects had what we wanted to see, which was why the bounty was put out. And growing additional subjects with some of the traits only gave them a slight edge over normal. That project was eventually shelved.”
“Oh.”
“We believe spending time in the water is not just conductive to their health, it's also something they need to get that right mindset when they are in the tank. We're trying to find a balance.”
“Yes, please do. We can't refit every ship in the fleet to deal with them. They need to fit in better. And if we want this to succeed, they need to look the part.”
“I know. We're focusing on a few like Mara,” Doctor Milgram said indicating the blue woman as she worked on training a group of younger Picans. She was patient with her subjects. They were timorous but eager to succeed to earn her and the doctor's approval. “She's our greatest success story,” he said proudly, “though we've found that she isn't the best in the tank. The best are those who are fully adapted,” he said, waving an open hand to the images of the other Picans on his tablet.
The dame glanced at the image and then grimaced. “Okay. We'll have to figure something out.”
“I know.”
“I mean with them. If you can't change them to fit the human mold, it is going to be a problem,” the dame muttered.
“How so?” Doctor Milgram asked, clearly nettled by the problem.
“The crew will need to interact with them, even on a minimum basis—socialize. Some of our … more hardened people are not as accepting of other species. They will be harassed. Our testing has proven it to be a problem,” Doctor Nutelle stated. “They will need socialization and to feel a sense of community. That they fit in. You yourself pointed that out. How will they feel if they are ostracized for looking as they do?”
“Which could break their training and indoctrination if they are castigated by their own shipmates. Depression … yes, it is a problem,” Doctor Milgram admitted with a grimace. “Damn.”
“Good. You see my dilemma.”
“I do. I do not know how to fix it however. Genetic engineering will only help marginally.”
“Figure something out,” the dame ordered.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“What about the clones? Are we to combine the two projects?” Doctor Nutelle asked.
“It is a consideration,” Doctor Milgram said, backing his boss up as he turned expectantly to their boss.
“Clones,” she said dubiously, out of her element.
“The pilot clones that were discovered. Two of them are at this facility. They test somewhere between normal and a water dweller on the pilot aptitude tests, though they both are better at physical flight over hyperspace.”
“And you want to combine this with the water dweller project? Has the Xeno changeling angle been ruled out?”
“Yes. The cloning process has distinctive markers. It is not the Xeno process,” Doctor Nutelle stated.
“What are you doing with them?”
“Currently they were tested as fully loyal, so we've allowed them to act as trainers here. They interact with the water dwellers and maintain a professional facade. What I'd like to do is use them as host mothers. Barring that I'd like to have their genetic material combined with male water dweller genetic material to crossbreed.”
“An experiment you mean.”
“One with a purpose. One to bring about a subject closer to our ideal being,” Doctor Nutelle stated.
The dame nodded.
“Ah, I've met the subjects. Neither one is interested in child rearing or pregnancy. I don't think they will make suitable surrogate mothers or even host mothers,” Doctor Milgram warned.
“Then we'll use their genetic material if you can't convince or compel them to do their duty for the good of the empire.”
“Yes, ma'am. And the clones themselves?”
“What about them?”
“Will we allow them to return to service? They have put in several requests for transfer. We've had to put them off.”
“They will not leave this facility. I don't care how you spin it. They are your problem now. I don't want the risk of them being in the service or in the public.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
Chapter 6
Captain Lamont Brown studied his bridge with a professional air as his ship, the light cruiser Trembling Timmy, led a courier to the H001 jump point. A second identical pair of ships, the light cruiser Silver Tongue Devil and her courier, were on their way to the Finagle jump point as well.
He was well aware of his orders, and he could assume to know what Chen Ninjing's were. The two warships were scouts. They were to scout south of Garth and Finagle. If they found signs of the enemy, they were to send the courier back with word and if necessary, retreat. They had strict orders not to engage. It was more important that they get the knowledge out.
He fully understood that and to hell with his pride. He was a little less sanguine about Chen's though. The other captain was itching to earn his spurs. That could prove deadly if the latest assessment of Federation ships was remotely accurate. He didn't like the idea of a Fed destroyer being on the level of an imperial heavy cruiser. The fact that a captured destroyer had been refitted in a short time and had taken on Queen Adrienne and fought her to a standstill gave everyone nightmares.
He made a soft puttering sound as his eyes roved the bridge once more. He didn't like the orders and he didn't like how overconfident his senior staff were. He had heard the whispering and didn't want to end up on the lost sheet. He had a wife and growing family, as well as his own ambitions. That meant he had to take the dangers seriously.
Consequently, he ordered that the ships drop out of hyperspace early at each stop, well outside the normal designated jump zone of each star system. They would work on the process on their way to Garth. That way they would know what to expect. They could also practice their long-range scans of each star system. He planned to have his people fully trained and ready by the time they jumped out of Garth.
They would have to get past the duchess though. She could easily countermand their orders. He hoped and prayed she had the wisdom not to do so however.
:::{)(}:::
Admiral Von Berk shook his head in disgust. He was not happy about being shuffled off to a staff position in the strategic planning Department of the Admiralty. He wanted his due; he wanted a promotion and a real command. He had to admit he'd come in without his fleet so the brass was justifiably pissed at him. But, he also knew they needed everyone they could get with experience, especially now, when the Federation was expanding and right next door.
He couldn't help but regret not getting any of his ships out. If he'd pulled the battle cruisers out with him, evacuated Nuevo Madrid … but then again, he'd been overruled by that lard ass Admiral Frost. He grimaced.
Shoulda, woulda, coulda ran through his head. He'd had a lot of time to think on his mistakes during the march on Epsilon Triangula and the retreat afterward. In the end, he was confident he'd made the right calls with the information he'd had on hand at the time. History would prove him right, after all, just the latest report in from Cyrano's latest battle proved that! Had he gone up through Antigua he would have been torn to ribbons. Any other path back home had been blocked. No, he'd made the right call and damn the armchair bastards who he now worked with who were second-guessing him!
His fists clenched and unclenched a few times as he fumed before he got control of his temper. He regretted even more not tweaking his reports to give him the best accounting he could. He'd played it straight since he didn't want to be caught in a lie by someone else's report. Now though … he shook his head. What was done was done; he knew that.
He looked at the camera
image of his yeoman. That was it, all of his staff. Commander Roshou had been reassigned as had everyone else. He frowned thoughtfully and then checked on his request for reassignment. He even went so far as to lean on a few contacts. Maybe someone could shake the patron tree and get him out of the dead-end job, even if it was a shit job somewhere else. He was going stale staring at reports and feel-good analysis papers that were woefully out-of-date. They were electronic versions of toilet paper at this late date he knew. Taking the time to go through them was just a waste of time.
But, that was his job, for the moment at least.
:::{)(}:::
Irma Algresi felt some relief when she finally got through to someone in authority. She was in the Imperial Treasury Department as an assistant deputy IG accountant. She was well aware that her family connections had gotten her the assignment. Many like her didn't take it seriously; to them it was just a paycheck. But, to her it was a vocation, and she took her duty seriously.
Which was a double-edged sword when she found her fellows shirking their duties or worse, pawning their assignments off on her. She'd been overloaded for a long time. Others would have bent or broken under the pressure, but she found she relished the challenge. She had finally gotten around to exploring the Sword of Retribution Fleet's expenditures. What she had found had appalled her so much that she'd done some digging. When no one seemed to be addressing the obvious problems, she had decided to bring it up.
That decision had been largely ignored by her chain of command. Finally, someone had maliciously kicked it over to the Navy Department and from there it had risen through the chain of command. No one seemed to know what to do with her or her file.
Which was why she was surprised when Vice Admiral Lewis Post, the operations officer, took her message seriously enough and even demanded a face-to-face interview to discuss it. She was nervous, however, knowing she was technically being called out on the carpet by a boss. She could very easily get her ass chewed or worse for making presumptions above her pay grade. But someone had to listen to her. They weren't paying attention, and it was frustrating.
“So, you have some interesting conclusions, Miss Algresi,” the admiral said, sternly eyeing her after she was shown into his office by his yeoman. He was aware that she was a minor family member, a distant cousin of Anslem Knowles, the Duke of Marmoreal and current head of the Treasury. Treasury like every department in the empire was subject to its own version of nepotism. Though, whatever message the woman had been presenting had been serious enough for his staff to squeeze her into his already overloaded schedule.
He reminded himself he only had five minutes with the mousy woman. That should be enough to assess her sales pitch and either shoot her down with a nice ass searing or decide he had better look into her concern in order to cover his own ass or an ally’s.
“Yes, sir,” she said, taking the seat he offered across from his desk. She sat and smoothed her skirt as she crossed her legs and brought her tablet up into her lap for easy access. The offer to take a seat was a small good sign.
“Sir, the expenditures that the Sword of Retribution Fleet has gone through in a short time is horrifying. I don't think anyone thought combat through.”
Admiral Post frowned as he played with his stylus. Finally, when he noticed her squirming he grimaced. “I understand you see spreadsheets and facts and figures, miss, but we must use those same missiles and materials to win.”
“I understand that. But, do you understand that they expended nearly half of their small craft munitions during the battle of B-97a, sir? Or the number of ships lost in that battle? I'm not just talking about large ships like the entire Eighth Destroyer Squadron but also the bombers and fighters?”
“You are concerned about payout to the widows?”
“No!” She shook her head. “Well, okay, yes, but not that! Not nearly that! Those ships have been expended. But, I went over the numbers …”
“The costs are there …”
“Again, sir, you misunderstand me. I'm not happy about the costs involved, but what is done is done and I understand that on several levels. I know that the hardware is there to be used. My problem is I compared the amount he has with what he was being resupplied with. In one battle, he had burned through the same amount of supplies that were sent to him in the first resupply mission. That was after a running battle, not a full head-on engagement. A second resupply convoy was sent but with the same amount of supplies. No doubt if his ships have entered combat again, they've sustained similar losses to achieve victory. Counter missile expenditures are very high,” she said, clearly aggrieved. “In fact, all expenditures were far higher than projected.”
“And you think they will shoot themselves dry?” he asked, sitting back suddenly as the thought penetrated.
She nodded, eyes earnest.
“Damn,” he muttered as he saw through her insight at last.
“I don't think anyone has taken this threat seriously. Or at least, not seriously enough in my estimation since I haven't seen a third convoy in the next quarter's budget. We've been sending him convoys but not much in the way of reinforcements or resupply. I realize the stress fracture problem is still plaguing the fleet; believe me, I know from the hit the budget has taken!” She grimaced and shook her head, then put the distraction aside. “But, it is more than that. Based on what Protodon has for defenses we're looking at three times the expenditure of material to take and hold the star system. They don't have that in their inventory, I checked.” She shook her head. “Not nearly enough to do it right. Not without prohibitive losses, which would force the fleet to stop in place for a long period of time. And, the longer they wait the more forces the enemy will build and send to reinforce their capital which is ultimately his true target.”
Admiral Post sucked in a breath as he gamed out what she had said. Why hadn't he realized that? Why hadn't Malwin or one of the other admirals? Clearly, if Cyrano was forced to halt in Protodon, the enemy would rush reinforcements into place making it all that much harder to crack Antigua! He shook his head mentally. He was a little chagrined to realize a mousy little snip of a woman, an accountant of all things, had seen what he hadn't. Clearly, he'd been distracted or too close to the problem. A list of excuses sprang to mind, but he did his best to ignore them for the moment. Such things might be needed later, to cover his ass or someone else's, but not now.
“I see. Give me your numbers, and I'll look them over,” he said when his yeoman lit a light on his desk letting him know his next appointment was waiting.
“Yes, sir,” she said as she rose and tentatively handed him a chip. He took it.
“Thank you, Miss Algresi. You did the right thing by bringing this to our attention.”
:::{)(}:::
“Miss Algresi has a telling point, damn it,” Malwin admitted after Lewis had presented the file to the joint chiefs. It was a rarity that any of them let an underling get credit. Usually emphasizing someone's contribution was a way to hang them out to dry and distance oneself from a problem if it turned out to turn around and bite them. Not in this case however. “Damn it. Damn us for not seeing it.”
“I think Cyrano did. He tried to get us to get him more supplies before he left. We were thinking short decisive engagement, not a campaign. As far as firepower is concerned, I know he wanted his full squadron, not just the division he was allowed. The emperor only authorized his division, remember?” Countess Newberry said. “At the time, we thought that it was enough. A single DN is powerful enough to take on a couple of BCs easily. But, the circumstances have changed. The enemy has shown they have more industrial depth and ability than we were willing to credit them with.”
“I saw your briefing on that based on what Cyrano ran into, I believe you are correct,” Malwin admitted. “The problem is we need to send him reinforcements but that damn cracking problem has tied our hands.”
“I say we send him whatever we can. Start with fresh supplies and ships that have been cleare
d of the cracking problem. He needs capital ships. He'll also need fresh personnel.”
“Fresh … oh, to make up for combat losses?” Ahab asked.
“Exactly,” Malwin replied with a nod.
“Her point about Protodon is telling,” the countess replied, looking over the file. “I've looked over what we have from Fourth Fleet's report. The defenses can only have gone up from there, most likely exponentially.”
“Damn it. Maybe this bean counter should be doing our jobs,” Malwin muttered.
“Don't tempt me,” Theo replied dryly. That earned a snort from the others.
“Okay, so, we double what we intended to send and send convoys more often. We'll need to send him the best, not the dregs at the back of the warehouses, stuff likely to fail due to age. We can't have that, not when it could cost us a battle.”
“Agreed.”
“We're also going to need to process everything he sends and act on it quickly. But, we need to move more strength to where it can make a difference, which means Dead Drop.”
“The emperor won't like that.”
“The emperor will have to suffer his dislike. We need this done. I don't like it either. We'll start with the ships from Cyrano's squadron. Send them in as soon as they become available. Singly if we have to do that. Whatever it takes.”
“And you think you can sell it to the emperor?” Ahab asked dubiously.
“If he can't handle it, I'll offer to resign,” Theo said, making them all blink in shock. Their level of politics meant that they were cutthroat and played for keeps. Rarely did anyone resign out of pique. “Then I'll take everything I can get my hands on and advise my family to do the same and get the hell out of dodge. Horath will fall if he plays games. We don't have the time. Not now.”
“You may be panicking yourself into making an unwise career move, Theo,” Sabina warned.
“I doubt it, I seriously do. We have repeatedly underestimated Irons. We keep throwing inadequate forces against his own because of that. And, look where it gets us, sorry and sore. Well, I for one want to see him pounded. If that means we use a bigger sledgehammer than necessary, so be it,” the war minister replied.