Federation Reborn 1: Battle Lines

by Chris Hechtl

  Commander Matilda's college, enlisted training centers, and academy hadn't needed much overhauling either he had to admit. He'd thought they would have been a mess on the admin side, but he had to admit the woman had run everything professionally. He'd made some minor changes and backed off his planned complete overhaul. He just wished he'd looked into the situation before trying to change it. He'd lost the talents of a good officer in his urge to jump in and fix something that hadn't needed it.

  Dealing with the pickets was a different story. The forces on the Seti Alpha 4, Agnosta, and Gaston jump points were reduced to the orbital fortresses. The freed-up ships were formed into small squadrons to begin training as a unit.

  Loosing Damocles and the services of Captain Harris had been a bit of a blow. The Arboth had been replaced by a pair of ships working up, but Harris's experience and his guest lecturing had been helpful. He wished the man and his crew well though he knew Harris was still smarting from being relieved from his post. They were en route to Agnosta to meet up with Bounty and the transports that were loading with marines and their equipment. They were all destined for Protodon eventually.

  The changes in the change of command, the holes created during the transfers before and after his arrival started to cause problems. He found to his frustration that they weren't hitting the target goals he and Saul had set up before his arrival. He gave his theatrical side free reign to scream at people to get their shit together.

  Sometimes that worked. Sometimes they pulled out all the stops to address one problem and ended up neglecting two others.

  “If this was any other unit, I'd stand them down and tear them apart. Rebuild them from the beginning,” the admiral stated.

  “And we don't have the luxury. This is it; this is all we have.”

  “A forlorn hope,” Phil said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He took out a handkerchief, blew his nose and then sat back to drum his fingers on the table as he folded the thing and stuffed it back into his pants pocket. He liked that Commander Sprite had gotten around to improving the ansible connection.

  Since they had everyone's image on file, it was a simple matter to map them onto a 3D avatar and then map their mouths to the words they were saying. The avatar was on his end just as there was one on John’s. Sometimes he forgot that the other man couldn't “see” him.

  “Did you get the accident investigation cleaned up?” John asked. He'd heard Lieutenant Callis's court-martial had reached a plea agreement. The judge involved had accepted it and then sent it to his office for further evaluation. She was accepting a reprimand and a demotion in rank. Harsh, but she should have known better. He'd signed off on it less than an hour ago. But the accident was still on the docket.

  “JAG is working on that now,” Phil replied with a sigh and shake of his head. “It comes down to inexperienced ship handling in tight quarters and a breakdown in communications. Both captains assumed that the other knew what they were doing,” he said acidly.

  “At least they didn't actually collide.”

  “No, but their shields did. They wrecked some shield nodes and did some hull damage. Two people were injured on Tempest. Four were injured in Charleston.”

  Charleston was or had been a fresh Horseshoe Crab class frigate. Tempest had been the newest Arboth class destroyer. Now both ships were headed back to the repair slips to be rebuilt. The damage would throw their deployment schedules behind by weeks which would snowball into other plans.

  “We might as well rip everything up,” Phil said, shaking his head.

  “That's the problem with having so few ships. It is getting better. But don't throw them out just yet, we'll adjust.”

  Phil grunted. He looked over to the tablet on his desk. Part of the report from IG and the JAG investigation team was that the uptick in accidents were due to low morale. Apparently he'd burned through the high morale his arrival had brought in rather quickly. His lips puckered in a sour expression.

  “Tempest will be out sooner. Her shields were hardened compared to the frigate's. But she's not going to be able to be swapped on the B101a1 jump point for another two weeks, possibly three.” Phil sighed. “You know how much of a pain in the ass it is to do a node job. The tuning alone ….”

  “Have a bit of faith in your yard dogs, Phil. You've got some good people. Once they've gotten the initial damage assessment, they'll pull the parts from stores and rip into it,” Irons replied.

  Phil grunted. The admiral must have been prescient for that was exactly what had happened. Horatio had gotten a shuttle of yard dogs onto the ship before she'd even made it back to the docking slip. They'd addled the JAG investigators, but they'd done their own assessment with the ship's engineers and had transmitted back the list of parts to be pulled. Everything had been waiting for them at the slip when she had braked nearby. Tugs had pulled the ship into the slip while drones and workers tore at her flank to repair the nodes.

  “I don't know how you did it.”

  “I wasn't there long. Horatio did it,” John replied, his avatar's eyes staring out unseeing. That was one downside of the setup; the avatars had no emotions, Phil thought with a side thought. “I set it up with him, but I was there less than a standard year. He's been there dealing with it day in and day out,” he said. He realized Phil wasn't willing to listen to that so he changed tactics. “You are good. But you are from a different school as you have pointed out repeatedly. They started this together, excited about it—about rebuilding the Federation, about fighting the pirates. It has been their dream, and their parents and grandparents dream for centuries. They had a lot of rough edges but they were doing the best they could to bootstrap what we had before. Where we came from.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “They need to adapt. You need to adapt. To be flexible, to listen,” John’s voice and avatar said. “Use the resources you've got. Train them if they don't have the right skill set. Cut them as much slack as you think they need, and no more if you think that will work. Find a balance between carrot and stick. Remember the provision, if they can't do the job, train them. If they still can't, then you trot out the hammer and tongs. If that doesn't work, you fire them and find someone who can do the job.”

  “I don't like all the transfers. That's bullshit. They are leaving. Like rats deserting a ship,” Phil growled. He looked at the admiral's head and then away.

  “It's common in a command change. You know that. Hell, I know that. And we need them everywhere. Trust me, they aren't going to skate wherever they end up,” John said. “They either hack it or we'll find them some shit job somewhere to stick them. And if they keep transferring, it'll reflect negatively in their record.”

  “I see, sir,” Subert said, realizing he wasn't getting the sympathy he had expected.

  “Stop stomping all over them and work with them. You are a team. Draw what you need from them, but if the personality mixes don't work, well, find the people who will work. But you need to realize it isn't just them.”

  “It's screwing up my command, sir.”

  “Then as I said, adapt. Think about it. I need to get going. Is there anything else, Admiral?”

  “No, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  “No problem. Antigua out.”

  ---<>---<>---

  Horatio moved slowly and carefully as he moved along his impromptu inspection tour. He'd just finished checking on Tempest and Charleston. The frigate was a mess; it might be best to pull the crew off and stick them in a new hull while they got her sorted out he thought. He made a note to recommend that to the admiral.

  He'd just wrapped up a check on Tempest and decided to get one more run in before lunch. He had chosen the cruiser line because it felt right. They were finally hitting their stride with the production line, and he was proud of his people.

  He had to admit the admiral had been right. He'd been too conservative, stockpiling parts and not doing something with what he'd had. He admitted privately to himself that they probably could have built
a cruiser shortly after the battle of B101a1, certainly after the convoy arrival. He shook his head slowly and refocused on the team working around him.

  The grand block was moving in at a stately pace. You didn't move too quickly in space, bad things happened. Every movement had to be thought out. Newton had his way in space; you had to be ever aware of it, that and safety. His eyes cut to his safety line. Yep, it was clipped in, he thought and then he went back to watching the crew maneuver the block into place. Two more blocks and they would have finished the basics and could start buttoning the North Hampton class light cruiser up he thought in approval.

  The North Hampton wasn't his favorite class of light cruiser despite John's attachment to its design. It was a bit better than a Garth class, however, he had to admit that.

  The plan was to build one squadron of the light cruisers than switch to Resolution class heavy cruisers. The admiral had planned things out a year in advance and intended for them to have the cruisers in service by the end of the standard year. At the pace they were finally hitting, Horatio thought they could make it. Once he opened up the second cruiser line, they would definitely make it.

  The problem was who to poach from the light cruiser and escort carrier production lines to start the new one. He would have to have all four shifts too. They could try three but that … his wool gathering was cut off as he turned to the side and watched a group of spacers move past. He gave one curious spacer a thumbs-up and then turned back to the grand block. He needed to focus he reminded himself.

  ---<>---<>---

  Spaceman Hurley forgot to put the safety strap around his wrist as he tightened a sticky bolt. When he was working on the stubborn bolt, his frustration led him to use a little too much force and the wrench kicked loose out of his grip. Before he could grab, it was gone. A drone clipped it, making it pick up speed.

  “Oh crap. Now I've done it,” he moaned.

  ---<>---<>---

  Horatio was out in a suit doing a personal inspection of the scout cruiser under construction when the wrench hit his backpack and ripped a hole in his suit. His air lines were severed, spinning him about as they vented.

  He was spun about, but his safety line kept him from spinning out into the traffic around the slip. When the air finished venting, his lips pursed as he pulled himself in. He fought to keep from gasping. He only had the air in his lungs. His implants scavenged oxygen for him as he got to the hull. He used his HUD's mouse to select the emergency icon and clicked it. Immediately the work around him stopped. His eyes and skin itched; his eyelashes started to crust over. It was hard to see. His ears had popped, and he felt a crushing urge to breath. Fortunately, he had a reserve due to his implants, but the bitter cold and tearing pressure were harsh and unpleasant.

  He saw personnel who had been working on moving the cruiser's stern grand block into position looking up and around to find the distress beacon. One of the workmen pointed in his direction. He handsigned to his suit. He couldn't hear their inquiries, but he could feel someone or something access his suit vitals as the suit's computer finally reacted and called in an alarm. Diagnostics spun on a window on his HUD, but he already knew it was bad.

  Figures moved in as his vision swam. His hands shook. He couldn't hold it in anymore; despite everything his implants did, he had to let the air out. It crystallized around his mouth.

  ---<>---<>---

  He woke in sickbay to Doctor Taylor and a Veraxin nurse leaning over him. “He's awake,” the doctor said over his shoulder to someone else. He saw the admiral come up and look him over. He felt a hand on his arm.

  “Close call,” Admiral Subert said gruffly.

  “You have vacuum burns all over your exposed skin as well as your larynx. We've stabilized you. We'll give you some quick heal or dip you if you prefer, Captain,” the doctor stated.

  “What happened? I got the report …,” the admiral stopped when the doctor gently pushed him away.

  “I'm sorry, sir, but he can't talk. His larynx was frozen when he exhaled. His voice box has suffered damage.” He turned back to see Horatio's fingers twitching. He frowned, then looked at the old man's face.

  Horatio had brought up a text file on his HUD and was using his fingers to touch type out a response. It was quick and to the point, but he sent it to them.

  The admiral grunted again when he got the text. “Something hit you from behind, you lost your atmo and spun out, then pulled yourself in.” He nodded. “Well, you did a damn good job. You kept a cool head,” he said grudgingly. “We'll talk later,” he said as he walked off.

  Doctor Taylor watched him go and then turned to the nurse. Horatio could barely see. He tried to focus on the nurse, but the bug was doing something too far to his right side to get a good view. Besides, he was rather tired.

  “Rest. He really is concerned, sir.”

  Horatio nodded and then closed his eyes, letting heeling sleep take him.

  ---<>---<>---

  “So, what are we going to do with you, Spaceman Hurley? We can't bust you any lower than you already are. I shouldn't even bother masting you; by rights, you should be court-martialed for your incompetence,” the Admiral said coldly staring at the hapless spacer.

  The spacer stood at attention, but everything about him from his expression to his slumped shoulders said he was miserable. He opened his mouth, but the admiral's glare cut him off.

  “That was a rhetorical question. You've been warned twice about using the safety gear. This is a clear safety violation. So, again, what should we do with you?”

  “Sir, I fracked up. No excuse,” the spacer said. “I'm sorry, sir,” he said, turning to Horatio behind him. “More than you can ever know,” he said, fighting a catch in his voice. “If anything had happened to you ….”

  Horatio nodded. He'd lost what little hair he'd had left on his head and body due to the cold exposure. But Doctor Taylor had cleaned a few things he'd been letting slide up while he'd been under. He wished he could have gotten the unanticipated downtime in another fashion, but ….

  “Sometimes the burned hand teaches best,” Horatio croaked out.

  The admiral's eyes cut to the captain and then away. After a moment he turned his attention to the spacer. The captain was right; now everyone was taking safety a bit more seriously. The work had slowed down a little. He wasn't comfortable with it, but it was better to slow down a little than to have to shut down due to a more serious accident. “You are fined for the damage to the suit plus the captain's medical care.”

  The spacer came to attention. His Adam’s apple bobbed.

  “You are on probation for the next six months, and you are going to have to requalify for suits and safety. You had better get more than a passing grade,” the admiral growled. “I expect an A minimum or we'll have to take more … punitive measures,” he growled.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Dismissed,” the admiral said with a nod of his chin to the door.

  “Again I am sorry, sir,” the spacer said to Horatio as he turned. Horatio nodded and then nodded to the door. The spacer nodded and walked out, a bit shaken.

  “You could have really thrown the book at him, brigged him,” Horatio said mildly.

  “You sound like you are gargling gravel,” Admiral Subert said, shaking his head. He frowned. “I'd offer you a shot, but I think the doctor's keeping you sober.”

  “Yes, sir. And believe me, I could use a belt,” Horatio said, smiling whimsically.

  “You lost what little hair you had left,” the admiral said.

  “I didn't have much to begin with. I lost a lot exposed to radiation while tending to Anvil's reactors and systems all those years,” he said.

  The admiral eyed him and then turned to look out the view screen window. “You were there what, a century?” he finally asked.

  “Close to that, sir,” Horatio replied. “Trying to keep the lights on and people alive. People like my wife and daughter. Friends,” he said.

  “And you
did. But it cost you. I heard you were a slave,” Phil said, turning back to him. There was something different in his eyes now, not cold anger but a sense of respect.

  Horatio nodded. “The port admiral kept my wife as a hostage whenever a ship was in. Or he kept a hard watch on everything coming and going through the docks.” He sighed. “To be honest it wasn't just him. Some of my friends like Enrique did it too. They knew if we left the station would fall apart. That thousands would die.”

  “So you stayed.”

  “I stayed. I hated it, but I did my duty.”

  “You could have died.”

  “But I didn't, sir. I'm a survivor. Harley won't screw up like that again. It took someone almost dying to wake him up, I admit he's a hard head. And I'm not thrilled about being the guy who got the end of the wrench,” he grimaced. “But I hope it will wake other people up.”

  “I hope so too. So you have no hard feeling for him?”

  Horatio shook his head. “He's always on time; he loves the black. He pisses his credits away in the bars and casinos but …,” he shrugged. “He doesn't want to be anywhere else than where he is right now. I can respect that.”

  “I see.” The admiral looked away again and then shrugged. “Understood. Try not to mix it up with Murphy again anytime soon, will you? You used up a lot of Lady Luck's good graces staying alive.”

  “I know,” Horatio croaked. “If that wrench had hit me in the helmet or the visor, I would have been killed.”

  “I know,” the admiral grimaced. He was sorely tempted to land on Harley again for such stupidity, but he forced himself not to do so. According to Saul morale had been low after the other officers had departed. When Horatio had been injured, it had hit the crapper. Everyone had been asking about him every hour. Kalmia had kept a website and text update going. He realized that the man was idolized.

  “I need to get back to work, sir. I've had enough vacation time,” Horatio croaked, straightening.

  “Take another day off to recover. Hell, take two. I know you want to get back in the harness. But if you don't want to suit up ….” He left the idea hanging.