by John Ringo
"You want me to twin?" Granadica said, dubiously. "Some of it I can't make. The shell, especially. Pretty much everything else I can make in a year or so using . . . oh twenty percent of my capacity. If I have the materials. You need another fabber?"
"Troy does," Tyler said. "Yes. It needs a fabber to produce grav plates and drives, power plants, ships and especially missiles."
"The last one is the easiest," Granadica said. "There's a Glatun design of medium missile that fits pretty close to the Boeing Mjolnir specs. I can pump out a fabber that will be able to make missiles from raw materials in about a month. The output will be about . . . five missiles per hour."
"That . . . works," Tyler said. "Can they fly themselves to the bays?"
"Oh, yeah," Granadica said. "Easy."
"I still think Troy needs a fabber," Tyler said. "Does it bother you making a twin? I'd think of it more as a child."
"You're human," Granadica said. "No, it doesn't bother me that you want another fabber. I'm an AI. We don't have feelings."
"Granadica," Tyler said, nearly using the nickname that hovered in the back of his mind every time he talked to the AI. "Things are about to get very bad. I know you've been looking at the strategic situation."
"I'll admit that things don't look good, no," the AI said.
"Churchill, who was one of our great war-leaders, once said that the first year of a war you have nothing that you need, the second year you have half of what you need and the third you have all that you need, you just can't use it. In some cases, it's too late to use it. I don't want another fabber. Sol needs another fabber. And when that one is done, we're going to need a third. And a fourth. And a fifth."
"So you want me to churn out fabbers," Granadica said. "Just sit here in this system and churn out newer, competing, fabbers with all the latest gimmicks."
Tyler sat and thought about it for a moment.
"Granadica, I know AIs don't have feelings," he said. "But if you did, would you like humans?"
"Most of them," Granadica said. "Some of them are idiots."
"Agreed," Tyler said, grinning suddenly. "But, in general, would you say that you'd prefer that we not be wiped out of existence? Or, to put it another way, are you looking forward to a wipe to basic personality and then working for the Horvath?"
"I'll get to work on that fabber," Granadica said.
It was all about levers.
Tyler checked the telltales on the airlock then opened the door. One exposure to vacuum was all he ever wanted to experience. And while getting out in Granadica or the Monkey Business was one thing, Shuttle Bay One of the Troy had been built by the lowest bidder.
"Mr. Vernon, welcome to the Troy," Admiral Jack Kinyon said. The two star commander of the Troy was of a size for it, standing nearly seven feet tall and probably pushing weight limit. He carried it well.
"Been around it a good bit," Tyler said, sniffing the air then shaking the admiral's hand. "Sort of been hoboing in your bay, to tell you the truth. This is just the first time I've gotten out of a shuttle or ship."
"I had heard we had some homeless people hanging around," the admiral said, grinning. "But I understand there's a nice little compartment that somehow got slipped into the plans on the civilian side. Something about a three thousand square foot apartment with a view of the bay?"
"Hey, I built the damned thing," Tyler said. "I figured I deserved a vacation get-away. The commander of the Monkey Business has also been making noises about how much room I'm taking up. I figure, you've got the room."
"I suppose there's that," the admiral said. "And if I may introduce my senior officers?"
"Please," Tyler said, nodding to the group.
"Commodore Kurt Pounders," Kinyon said, trooping the line. "Chief of Staff."
"Sir," the commodore said. He was nearly as tall as his boss but rail thin with a shock of black hair cut fairly long for the military.
"Commodore," Tyler said, shaking his hand. "I hope you have a good support team. Operations on this thing are going to be interesting."
"Which brings us to Colonel Raymond Helberg," Admiral Kinyon said. "Chief of Operations."
"Sir," the colonel said. He had a faint English accent. Tyler had heard that some of the crew and officers were from NATO units.
"Definitely got your work cut out for you," Tyler said, shaking his hand.
"We endeavor to provide, sir," the colonel said.
"Commodore Russell Marchant," the Admiral continued. "Commander of Task Force One."
"Commodore," Tyler said, shaking his hand.
"Sir." The true 'Navy' commander in charge of the Constitution cruisers and Independence frigates was medium height with pale blond hair and just as pale blue eyes. "This is one heck of a big platform. I'm not even sure what my group is going to do."
"Anything that requires moving, Commodore," Tyler said, chuckling. "The Troy isn't going anywhere any time soon."
"Captain James Sharp," the admiral continued. "Chief Tactical officer."
"We throw rocks." The captain was black as an ace of spades and tall enough to have played college basketball. "And poke people with flashlights."
"I'll tell my people not to charge you for practice time with the SAPL," Tyler said, grinning. "You're going to have to pay for the missiles."
"I understand we're getting a missile fabber?" the tactical officer said.
"In about a month," Tyler said. "There may be more. It's the usual problem of balancing infrastructure and actual equipment. For that matter, it will be a general fabber. So your bosses will have to decide how much of it goes to infrastructure versus weapons."
"We could use more missiles," Admiral Kinyon said. "That's for sure. Captain Chris DiNote, commander of the assault boat wing."
"We deliver the mail, sir," the captain said, shaking Tyler's hand. "When we have shuttles."
"They're on their way," Tyler said. "Until recently we were calling them Emergency Rescue Shuttles because Marine Landing Craft would have twigged the anti-military design functions of Granadica. They're being redesignated as Myrmidons. Still the same capabilities for the time being. But we'll have about one a day coming in any time now."
"Looking forward to it," the captain said. "There's a training group down at Great Lakes doing work-ups. It's going to be interesting."
"I heard the Navy was insisting on enlisted personnel as pilots?" Tyler said.
"They're boats," the admiral said, shrugging. "Boats aren't run by officers. So, yes, the majority of the drivers will be coxwains."
"That will be interesting," Tyler said, raising an eyebrow.
"And the customer for Captain DiNote's boats," the admiral finished. "Colonel Daniel Bolger, USMC."
"Sir," the colonel said, nodding sharply.
"Have you tried out the micrograv ball court, Colonel?" Tyler asked.
"Yes, sir," the colonel replied, gruffly. "It was a very interesting experience."
"I figured that if your personnel are going to be working in microgravity, it helped to have a place to get in practice that wasn't . . . practice if you know what I mean. Training doesn't always have to be serious. The more time they spend in microgravity . . ." Tyler trailed off since the colonel seemed to be suffusing a bit. He wasn't sure what he'd said . . .
"The colonel may be less than enthused because the first platoon that tried it ended up with half a dozen serious injuries," the admiral said, dryly.
"Oh," Tyler said. "Sorry."
"We're installing more padding, sir," the colonel said, his jaw working. "That's been a pretty interesting evolution as well. Superglue doesn't work the same way in microgravity as it does in gravity."
Tyler tried not to wince. Nothing liquid or semi-liquid worked the same in microgravity as it did on earth.
"Everything about Troy has been a learning experience, Colonel," Tyler said.
"Second Platoon learned pretty quick that weight isn't the same as mass," the colonel said. "No pain no gain, sir."
"And arg
uably the most important part of my command staff is still unable to be visually present in this bay," the admiral said, raising his voice. "Paris?"
"Here, sir," the AI replied from a PA box. "Welcome to Troy, Mr. Vernon. I will endeavor to do a better job than my predecessor."
"The big mistake of the Trojans was meeting the Achaeans outside the walls," Tyler said. "Let's not make the same mistake."
"Not a chance," Admiral Kinyon said, grinning. "I don't plan to fight fair. With your permission, sir, I've arranged for a dining-out later. Yourself, the officers of the Troy and some of the senior civilian contractors."
"Sounds good," Tyler said, blinking. "I'm free this evening."
"In the meantime," the admiral said. "I'd like to let these gentlemen get back to their duties and I thought we could go inspect some of the more . . . interesting aspects of the design."
"Okay," Tyler said, trying not to gulp.
"Gentlemen," the admiral said, nodding at the group. "Until later."
"And here we have the air mixing chamber," the admiral said, opening up the inner hatch.
All of Troy didn't, yet, have lifts or grav walks. The walk from the shuttle bays to the air recycling system had been nearly a mile. Tyler hadn't walked that far in years.
And then there were the stairs.
The air mixing chamber, because it was slightly over-pressured, had an airlock system to enter. Sort of. There were two hatches to get through. But it wasn't a full airlock. More like a slightly more secure version of the sort of doors you found on big stadiums.
Beyond the door was a small patio with a waist-high railing. The whole thing was cut from solid nickel iron and Tyler could see some actual bobbles from the lasers. But, overall, it was pretty solid. Good enough for government work.
Beyond the railing was the main mixing chamber which was a five hundred meter high, two hundred meter diameter cylinder with more 'patios' every six stories or so, stretching up from the base to the top. The admiral had trekked to a platform about mid-way and the view was more than spectacular. The gravity was also a bit low. While the platform had its own grav plates, the main chamber was under one sixth gravity. You had to be careful not to hop over the railing. You'd definitely die from the fall.
It was also, unsurprisingly, windy. The air shot upwards and ruffled Tyler's beard.
"Very nice view?" Tyler said.
"Yes, it is," the Admiral said. "Also, I might add, very interesting design. Some of the civilian contractors . . . Ah, a demonstration."
A man was flying up the chamber wearing a 'squirrel suit' with textile 'wings' spreading from ankle to wrist. As Tyler watched he banked around in an arc and then up and back and around . . .
"Your point, Admiral?" Tyler asked. "I mean, if he works for me I can probably circulate a memo . . ."
"Don't tell me you didn't design it this way," the admiral said. "It's made for flying."
"Okay," Tyler said. "I won't. Or that the outlet system is designed so that nobody can get stuck on it."
"There have been accidents," the admiral said. "Several. One man died."
"And their contracts stipulate that any injury suffered during recreational periods are not covered by workman's comp," Tyler said. "We paid off the life insurance on the death and we're covering the major medical on the accidents. As we've paid off on the fifty-three people killed in the making of Troy and the, literally, thousands of major to minor injuries. Space is a very dangerous place but people are going to find crazy stuff to do, Admiral. The make-up of the people who volunteer for space jobs leans heavily to the slightly insane. Or, at least, adrenaline junkies. Making a place for them to get their stupid out was a way to keep them from, oh, seeing how long they could breathe vacuum."
"That is . . . a point," the admiral said, thoughtfully.
"What I'm worried about is the first complete moron to try to dive in the water recycler," Tyler said. "It's just as big and would be much worse than space since water absorbs light. We're not real sure about the physics, but there's not going to be much spatial orientation. Since it's a micrograv environment and water, the bubbles from SCUBA aren't going to go up. There's going to be zero, absolutely zero, spatial orientation as soon as you get far enough away from the walls, which you'll do quick, to see them. At which point anyone trying it is going to be lost in a void."
"I think we might have to put a ban on SCUBA gear," the admiral said.
"Their suits are SCUBA gear," Tyler said, gesturing outward. "This was intended to, at least for a while, keep these over-zealous idiots from trying it. Eventually someone will. I just hope he brings a safety line. Or she."
"I've noticed the prevalence of shes," the admiral said, heading back to the door.
"If Troy and the SAPL can't hold Sol system, Troy won't survive," Tyler said. "Eventually they can starve you out or you'll run out of fuel. But if the Horvath or, God help us, the Rangora hit Earth so hard it's essentially destroyed . . . As long as Troy can keep fed, and we're getting ready to put in a big hydroponics section, humanity will survive, Admiral. Civilization will survive. So, yeah, we've used the 'equal opportunity' program to get as many females onboard as possible. The civilian side is going to have schools, including colleges and even a research university. We're going to try to get artists, sculptors, singers, entertainers, comedians when we get enough room."
"Battlestation and Ark?" the admiral said. "I had wondered."
"Don't sweat it," Tyler said. "You've got enough to worry about with getting the station up and running. But, yeah, it's an Ark. Let's hope we don't need it to fulfill its secondary function."
The Admiral hadn't mentioned steak and lobster.
Tyler was polite enough to return the favor and not mention that as a resident of New Hampshire he knew the difference between good steak and lobster and the sort Yankee traders sold to the US military.
"This is great," Tyler said, tucking in.
"And just a little weird," Commodore Pounder said. "I was an lieutenant commander when you sold your first load of maple syrup to the Glatun. Thirteen years later we're eating lobster on, face it, the Death Star."
"So that raises a question," Captain Sharp said. The Tactical Officer looked up and tilted his head to the side. "No press present and we've all got security clearances. How long were you planning Troy?"
"Heh," Tyler said, setting down his fork and wiping his mouth. "Since I was about nine. If you mean seriously planning it? Since the Horvath came through the gate. I never in a million years thought I'd be able to do it, mind you. And I didn't. A lot of much smarter people built this."
"Still a very long way to go," Colonel Helberg said, carefully cutting his lobster. Ripping it apart was clearly a barbarian American custom. "Combining getting the military side up and running with the ongoing construction has been an interesting chess game."
"Infrastructure versus direct production," Tyler said, resuming cutting the rather tough sirloin. "It's been a juggling act the whole time I've been doing this. I mean, face it, we've been at war with the Horvath since before I sold that first load of syrup. Figuring out how much direct war material to produce versus infrastructure has been the juggling act.
"Fortunately, we've figured out how to make the VLA mirrors out of material for which we don't have much direct use. The rest is . . . tougher. Build fabbers or ships? If we build the fabbers, now, we can build more ships later. We need ships now. We need mirrors now. Tugs or frigates? Tugs or launches? Granadica can produce one of the Myrmidons a day. It takes two days to produce a Paw style tug. The tugs have an infinite variety of uses. Myrmidons have utility but they're more focused. Speaking of which. Captain DiNote?"
"Sir?" the boats commander said, looking up.
"The Myrmidons can operate rather well as tugs," Tyler said. "They only have about thirty percent of the operational power but they have magnetic grapnels which are, face it, the same tractor system as a tug. Just less powerful. You're probably going to get some requests for
assistance in . . . well construction if you will."
"Doesn't bother me," the captain said, nodding. "It will give my people some operating experience."
"If it's work on the Troy . . ." the admiral said, looking pensive. "I could see doing that. Direct commercial work . . . ?"
"I understand the problem," Tyler said, smiling. "The flip side is that we'll be paying you guys for the time. So your people get boat handling experience and the training time gets paid for by my company. And we then triple bill the US government for it."
"That is . . ." the admiral said, looking thoughtful.
"Reality," Tyler said, chuckling. "And we get taxed on any profit we happen to make which then goes to pay for the triple billing on the shuttles we're borrowing from the government in the first place."
