by M. Alan Marr
“You’re serious.”
“Dead serious.”
Chaz pauses. “So”—Chaz silences a belch—“what do we do about it?”
Dev pulls his interlink device off his belt buckle and presses an icon. “Bross, report to my dwelling.” He puts his space phone down. “We go home. We start planning. We put down everything we can think of, and present your plan to the Admiralty.”
“Hopefully this will still make sense when we’re sober.”
Dev urgently flags down the server. “Dahlia.”
“Are you ordering another?” Chaz says.
“No,” Dev says and turns to the server. “Dahlia, two Parting Shots.”
“Oh my God, we’re doing shots now?”
“Trust me.”
Near each group of tables, recessed in the walls, are cylinders of dark liquid and small shot glasses. The server pours two little shots and sets them on the table. Dev and Chaz each take one. They toast, although Chaz is still uncertain about this.
“A dark day just became a little brighter.” Dev downs the shot and shakes his head. He looks at Chaz, still sitting there holding his.
“What is this?”
“It’s called a Parting Shot. It’s an organic compound of enzymatic herbs that neutralizes alcohol.”
Chaz sniffs the concoction.
“Just drink it,” Dev urges quietly. “You look like an Earth man who just fell onto an alien world.”
Chaz downs the shot. It is herbal and sharp, with a taste of sour lemon and the pungent aroma of too much potpourri. He wildly shakes his head as Dev did, not mimicking him, but rather, just eliciting the natural response to the intensity of the shot. “Yowza!”
Dev maneuvers out of the booth. “Come on.”
“How long does it take?”
“Just a few minutes.”
“God, ruin my buzz why don’t you.”
“We have work to do.” Dev sees Dahlia. “Thank you, Dahlia, we’re finished.”
As they head out, media reports of the horrific attack start coming in and has everyone in the bar glued to the display screens. Dev and Chaz exit and climb the stairs to street level and hurry back to Dev’s building.
Back in Dev’s study, the desktop is strewn with holographic imagers, paper documents, and blueprints of an advanced TransAtmospheric Crown fighter. Bross is on hand, as ordered, taking notes and pulling information as needed. All three officers are standing around the desk. The alcohol in Chaz and Dev’s systems was fully neutralized by the time they stepped out of the lift. Both men are one hundred percent clearheaded and no worse for wear.
The next several hours and late into the night, Dev and Chaz work on a rough plan to create an Earth-based defensive position. Dev has Bross send a message requesting an urgent meeting with the Flight Admiral, Fleet Logistics, and Fleet Constructs. Subject: Tactical Earth Defense Proposal.
There is a signal on Bross’s interlink device. “Commander? Reply from the Flight Admiral’s adjutant.” He reads the message. “The Admiral will see you and Commander Ronaldi tomorrow at three bells; forenoon watch, sir.”
Chaz looks at Dev. “You guys use a bell system to tell time?”
“At the Admiralty we do,” Dev says. “It’s tradition.”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had to reference a bell schedule.”
“Three bells, forenoon watch,” Dev says. “0900 hours.”
“What time is it now?”
Dev checks his chronometer. “29:55.”
“Twenty-nine fifty-five?” Chaz says with incredulity.
“Thirty-one hours in a Tertian day.”
“I’m so gonna have jet lag when we get back.” Chaz adds, “How many days in a week here?”
“Seven.”
“Same as at home.”
“You have seven days, because we have seven days,” Dev says while mapping out the effective detection radius from Earth. “We’re going to need to extend our detection range. We can do that with remote buoys, but the Yeti like to destroy them.” Dev has another thought. “Bross, Commander Chaz will need a dress uniform.”
“Already taken care of, sir. Quartermaster will have it here by dawn.”
Chaz shakes his head. “Doesn’t anyone ever sleep here?”
“Not right now,” Dev says.
Later, Chaz sips on a tall mug of capulus. He leans his head sideways to look at the skewed blueprint of the fighter. He moves the print to get a better view. “Is this the same kind of fighter we flew off Adonis?”
“That was a Class II. This is a Class I.”
“It looks the same to me,” Chaz says, looking over the schematic.
“They’re almost identical,” Dev says, pointing to the engines. “But the Class I is a long range fighter equipped with positron generators imbedded in the drive section.”
“What does that do for us?”
“It means it can regenerate its own fuel over time.”
“How much time?”
“Depends. Combat, and particularly compression flight, requires a tremendous amount of energy. So much so the positron generators can’t keep up with the demand. The generators will replenish the flight tanks over time, but you have to be at idle power free flight.”
“Free flight?”
“Free flight is when you disengage the reverse interlink, so you can throttle back to idle without losing forward momentum.”
“Right, you said it also makes us less maneuverable.”
“Correct, but, it allows us to regenerate our fuel while we coast.”
“How long would it take to completely refuel the ship?” Chaz says.
“If the tanks were empty? A couple of days, I’m afraid.” Dev elaborates, “The positron generators are most efficient when the engines are powered at flight idle. If they’re shut down the dynamics change and it takes three times as long.”
“It’s not good to have fighters with empty fuel tanks,” Chaz comments. “What’s the alternative?”
“The alternative is to house a large positron reactor in the base, which might not be an option here.” Dev thinks about the problem. “I suppose we could stash a refueling generator in orbit around Pluto, but that would not be my first choice. Those generators require maintenance and upkeep. They’re also very vulnerable to attack.”
Chaz exhales. “So we’re not talking about putting up a hangar and stashing six fighters inside.”
“I wish it was that easy, but no.” Dev turns to Bross. “Contact the Signal Corps, issues orders to send comprehensive area scans of the Penthar Constructs Yard. I need a breakdown of everything up there, no matter how small.”
“Yes, sir.” Bross immediately begins composing a message on Dev’s desktop interface.
Chaz looks at Dev. “I take it this large positron generator is a complex piece of equipment.”
“It is, and the kind of unit we need is really not that big. It’s not something we can carry on a fighter, though. But in the worst-case scenario, they can cause a lot of damage.”
Bross pulls up a simulation of a positron escape system on a pad and shows Chaz. “Large generators are fitted with an atmospheric escape system, Commander.”
“Yeah, we saw one of those activate on Lyra,” Chaz replies.
Dev programs a holographic imager to show a dynamic schematic of the fighter-based positron system. “The system used on the Class I is basically a smaller ancillary reactor. Positrons are generated in the hub and routed to the flight tanks.”
“Um, not to sound like the Earth man in the room, but positrons are what, exactly?”
“Positrons are anti-electrons.”
“So . . . a positronic brain . . .”
Dev finishes his sentence: “Has no basis in reality.”
“I’m glad I asked, because I thought positrons were anti-protons.”
“Anti-protons are also an excellent fuel, and far denser, but positrons are easier to manufacture.”
“How do you do that?
Where do they come from?”
“It’s pretty simple, actually,” Dev says. “A particle beam bombards a very thin layer of gold, which produces copious amounts of positrons. The complexity comes after that; they’re collected, cooled, condensed, and stored in the flight tanks of the fighters. The tanks themselves are made of a nonreactive material, so containment isn’t a problem. Our larger ships have multiple integrated generators that channel the flow of positrons directly into their reaction systems, but on the fighters, we have to rely on stored fuel.”
“And where does all the gold come from?”
Bross pulls out a star chart and points to a planet in the Constellation Hercules. “Here, sir.”
Chaz looks at the chart. “There’s a gold mine in Hercules?”
“Not just a mine,” Dev says. “We’ve never encountered denser concentration of elemental gold, anywhere.”
“Elemental . . .” Chaz comments. “The Admiral said one of the Elementals in Hercules was hit in the attack.”
“Right,” Dev says, pointing to a different planet in Hercules. “This one. Mineral world.”
“Why that one?”
“There’s a piezoelectric mineral there used in gravity drives. The Yeti use it as well.”
Chaz looks at the star chart. “I never imagined the universe was such a department store.”
“Everything is out there somewhere.”
Chaz looks at Dev. “That’s how you guys established the bank account in Switzerland. You deposited gold from Hercules.”
Dev smiles. “Fortunately, your world places significant economic value in gold.”
“It used to be the standard. That’s because we don’t have a lot of it,” Chaz replies. “Not enough to power our military. And certainly not a whole planet full of it.”
“It’s not the entire planet,” Dev says. “But the gold layer is several miles thick and covers most of the planet’s crust.”
“Whoa,” Chaz marvels.
“One of our authors once called it The Golden Shield of Hercules.”
“So instead of using gold as currency, you use it to generate positrons.”
“And give us the ability to operate comfortably on Earth.”
Chapter 21
Six-Star Admiral
Bross laid out two dress uniforms with all the formal regalia. The elaborate dress uniform jackets are dark blue frock coats with tails. Dev’s is highly trimmed with thick gold brocade around the outer edges of the straight collar, lapels, and tails. Two button-backed lapels each has ten rows of frogged gold buttons. Gold aviator wings on the left front is set above seven small stars in the pattern of the constellation Corona Borealis. Braided senior officer epaulettes grace the shoulders, with senior rank displayed on the sleeves within the ornate cuffs. Brocade embellishments and three half stripes with three gold cuff buttons span the lower quarter of each sleeve. The frock coat is worn over a beige waistcoat with white, open straight-collar shirt, black neckerchief, white pants, and freshly polished tall black boots.
Chaz’s uniform is similar, but lacks the button frogging, his middle cuff stripe is half-width, and his jacket does not have the gold wings.
Dev hands Chaz a leather box. “For you.”
Chaz opens the box and sees it contains a shiny bangle chronometer on a tuft of black satin. It is the same type of chronometer Dev is wearing. “Wow, a space watch. Thank you, Dev.”
“You’re very welcome.”
Chaz looks at the box and its presentation. “I’m guessing this is not military issue?”
“Definitely not. It’s from a metalsmith here in Bari.”
Chaz takes the bangle out of the box. “What’s it made of?”
“Platinum.”
“Wow. Expensive?”
“Why, yes, it is,” Dev says.
Chaz takes off his Earthly watch and attempts to put the new bangle on. Dev presses in on the two outer edges of the display screen frame, which expands the bangle from an unseen seam, enough for Chaz to work his hand through. Repeating the process snugs the bangle to Chaz’s forearm. Dev then helps Chaz into his coat. Perfect fit. Chaz looks at himself and feels like a British naval officer of the 1800s. Pomp and circumstance of the Admiralty, the bastion of tradition and excellence.
Dev opens a flattish box, revealing a rather large ornate bicorn hat lying on its side. The gold trimmed black hat is complete with cockade and hackle.
“Seriously?” Chaz says, picking up his hat. “This looks like it came off the HMS Pinafore.”
“We are command officers,” Dev says, while opening the box containing his hat.
Chaz puts the hat on sideways and looks in the mirror. “I look like tall Napoleon Bonaparte.”
Dev turns around and shakes his head. “Not athwart,” he says, lifting the hat off Chaz’s head and rotating it ninety degrees. “Like this, fore and aft. The braid goes to the front.”
Chaz laughs. “What, no sword?”
Dev puts on his own hat. “I can have Bross get you one, but you’ll look like you just came in from a parade.”
“Aye aye, matey,” Chaz says in a throaty voice. “Argh, I feel like a pirate about to plunder some planetary booty.”
“Pirates? Really?” Dev says.
Chaz drops the pirate talk. “Sorry.”
Dev gives Chaz the once-over to make sure his uniform is up to snuff.
“How do I look?”
“I’d say you were officer material.”
Chaz looks at himself in the mirror. “I feel like a prince dressed for a magical ball.”
Dev replies, “We’re about to present a comprehensive defense initiative to the highest levels of the Admiralty. Dress uniforms are definitely appropriate. Oh, and don’t take your hat off.”
“Even inside? How come?”
Dev explains, “There’s likely to be a lot of people in the room who may or may not be sitting. The focus will be on you and me. Picking out the guys in the hats is easy.”
Chaz didn’t realize this meeting would involve a bunch of other people. “Are we presenting this to the same Admiral I met?”
“We are.”
“And where does he stand in the pecking order?”
Dev chuckles. “The Flight Admiral is a six-star Admiral, Chaz.”
“Six stars, wow. Is that the highest it goes?”
“Yep. One star representative of each constellation of the Crown.” Dev adds, “Maybe someday there will be seven, if Oasis ever grows up. On the other hand, if we don’t get Triangulum back, it may revert to five.”
“I assume, then, your Admirals start at one star and then progress toward six?”
“Rank-wise, Admirals range between one and four stars. The six-star designation is because he’s the CO of the entire Admiralty and all military personnel across the Crown. His counterpart is a six-star Field Marshal. She is . . . formidable. If she asks you a question, give her a direct answer.” Dev sees Chaz is apprehensive at the prospect of appearing before the senior ranking officers of the entire Tertian military. “Are you ready?”
Chaz feels the gravity of the situation and puts on a confident front. “Yes, sir.”
“All right,” Dev says. “Let’s go save your world.”
Lieutenant Bross, also in full regalia, is waiting in the living room with a briefcase. His uniform is a less grandiose double-breasted dark blue tailcoat with two rows of buttons with white interior lapels folded open from the chest up. White shirt, white neckerchief, white pants, and black boots. No gold brocade and his sleeves have simple trimmed cuffs. Junior officer rank is displayed on standard shoulder boards. Bross’s tailcoat is, however, adorned with a three-corded aiguillette draped from the right shoulder to a three-striped medallion below the lapel fold, signifying his billet as an adjutant to a Commander. Were Bross an aide to an Admiral, the medallion would be in the form of the individual Admiral’s unique flag and have the Admiral’s number of stars above it, and the aiguillette would be far more grand. Bross also
wears the standard version of the bicorn hat. Dev and Chaz leave the bedroom ready to go. Dev nods to Bross and then leads the way out of the dwelling, followed by Chaz, and finally, Bross.
On the train, Dev is lost in thought.
“You okay?” Chaz says.
“Yeah. I just thought of something else that might help.”
“What?”
“Not here. I’ll explain later, if there’s time.”
Dev and Chaz stand waiting for the Flight Admiral in a vacant briefing room off the Fleet Combat Center. Bross (not wearing his hat since he is there in a support capacity) has the presentation ready and will maintain a discreet position at a control station to cue up images and charts. Dev hasn’t elaborated on his other idea, but is clearly still pondering. He finally tells Bross to have a chart of Triangulum at the ready. Bross programs the chart into the computer. Chaz, meanwhile, is standing somewhat anxiously and seems to be a bit fidgety.
“Chart ready, Commander,” Bross says.
“Thank you,” Dev replies contemplatively, then adds, “Flag watch, please, Bross.”
Bross nods and takes a position near the briefing room doors.
Chaz asks, quietly, “What’s flag watch?”
“Citadel parlance for being on the lookout for approaching officers.”
“Are you going to tell me what this idea is?”
Dev is about to speak, when Bross simply clears his throat as the Admiral’s entourage approaches. Dev adjusts his stance and quietly leans toward Chaz. “Stop fidgeting.”
Bross pulls the door open and announces, “Flag Officer’s staff approaching!”
The Admiral’s staff file in and take positions around the table but do not sit. They are all wearing standard uniforms. The Fleet Constructs Commander and the Fleet Logistics Commander enter next and glance at Dev in passing. Chaz recognizes them from the Midshipmen photograph in Dev’s study. The Admiral and his second-in-command, an older female Field Marshal, are the last to enter, after a measured distance from the staff.
“Flight Admiral and Field Marshal of the Crown!” Bross announces in a clear, loud voice.
Everyone in the room snaps to attention, including Bross and Chaz. Despite the almost ceremonial aspect to their arrival, the two senior Flag Officers stride in and are all business.