...As spaceships equipped with Whitney overdrives and thus capable of interstellar transport became more common, the search for inhabitable planets in star systems within reasonable distances from the Earth-Sol system began in earnest. Such planets are quite rare and, for better or for worse, there has never been a shortage of volunteer (or otherwise) colonists eager to immigrate. While most inhabitable planets are sized within twenty-five percent (plus or minus) of Old Earth, the vast majority of them have much smaller percentages of human-inhabitable surface area. As a result, even with carefully regulated numbers of immigrants, the human populations of these worlds all too often reach levels that surpass the capacity of the fragile planetary ecosystems to sustain them. With the advances in medicine that took place in the late twenty-second century available to all, and the resultant low death rates, dangerously high human population growth can occur with shocking speed, often over a few generations. Growth rates can be especially rapid if there is a tendency towards large families, a common custom among the members of the many religious sects who made up the vast majority of the first and second waves of migration outward. As is ever the case with humanity, the limited availability of land and resources leads to conflict, strife and outright war as well as further waves of migration. It is a cycle our species seems doomed to repeat...
Hartwell Wrist Comp reference note highlighted for further review by Tamara Carlisle. Excerpt is from "Cycles of Human Conflict: Are They Inevitable?" by F.C. Talbot, CEO of The Talbot Institute.
New Ceylon Reclamation Center, Officer's Mess, October 4, 2598
The officer's mess was about three-quarters full, with the regular officers and the new recruits banded together at segregated tables. The room was alive with the buzz of numerous competing conversations. Kresge and Harris found Carlisle sitting alone at an otherwise empty table. Eyes glazed, she was staring at nothing in particular and speaking very softly.
"Destroyer...projectile weapon...battlecruiser...shields...pulse beams..." She frowned, drumming her fingers on the table. "Doesn't work...what's missing?"
"Ensign Carlisle," said Kresge, with a slight bow. "Do you mind if we join you?"
She snapped out of her near trance and looked up at them. Her eyes widened and her cheeks flushed slightly when she saw who they were.
"Um... No, not at all, Sir. Please."
The two more senior officers sat down next to each other, leaving the young woman alone on her side of the table. Seeing the base commander take a seat, the steward came over immediately with coffee and tea, and followed soon after with platters of the evening's offering. They fell into conversation as they ate.
"So, Ensign," said Kresge, "it has been brought to our attention that you're a student of military history. What exactly are you studying?"
"The...final battle of the Succession War, Sir," said the ensign, somewhat warily, glancing from one man to the other.
"You must have some kind of new angle," said Kresge. "That battle has been worked over pretty thoroughly by the historians."
"You're a student yourself, Sir?"
"Not a really serious one, but I did take some time to get up to speed before I assumed command out here. I read Cheshire and Newcastle's 'Naval Battles of the Succession War' and Admiral Stig Lambert's 'Succession War: The Official Account of the Final Battle,'" replied Kresge. Carlisle nodded in appreciation.
"I grew up on New Ceylon," said Harris. "The final battle is a big part of our heritage. Every school kid gets a thorough education on it out here. I couldn't have been more than five or six years old when I first heard the stories. Tales about the military, ships, battles, glory! The subject fascinated me then and I still can't seem to get enough! It's probably the reason I got into the Navy in the first place. If you've got something new, I'm all ears."
This revelation was rewarded with a tentative smile. Her eyes met his and lingered for a heartbeat as if she was really seeing him for the first time. It was also his first really good look at her and he couldn't help but like what he saw: short brown hair in a flattering, but not fussy style, perfect skin; a small mouth with full lips; a small, slightly upturned nose; and large, beautiful eyes that were a remarkable sea-green color. The Clan tattoo that swept across her left cheek and tapered off a couple of centimeters before it reached her ear had been executed entirely in black ink and looked, if anything, like some kind of ancient symbol of Old Earth Celtic or possibly Egyptian origin. Harris concluded that she was, in fact, very good looking. She remained nervous, but she seemed to relax a little as she sensed that the two men might be really interested in her project. She had already displayed some odd characteristics, so Harris wasn't sure what to expect, but when she engaged them in conversation she came across as pretty normal, except maybe for the fact that she was really, really smart. That and she had tendency to start sentences with disjointed words.
"..References...archives... Yeah, it has been pretty thoroughly worked over. I've collected more than four hundred references on the battlecruiser engagement alone."
"So what's your angle?" asked Kresge.
"... Arthur...Jannsen...controversy...," she began, haltingly, and then continued more smoothly, "Probably the most misunderstood maneuver in the entire campaign. Commander Tobias Arthur has been roundly condemned by almost all of the analysts for recklessly committing his destroyer force. As you know, the destroyers took a horrible pounding and casualties were extremely heavy. Arthur himself didn't survive the battle. There is a rather obscure naval historian named FC Talbot, who makes a case that Arthur's suicide mission was actually a brilliant tactical move that turned the tide of the battle. According to Talbot, if Arthur and the other destroyer captains who followed his orders hadn't sacrificed their ships to buy time for Jannsen's battlecruisers to deploy, the Federation might have lost the battle and the War. I think Talbot might have been right."
"That's a pretty tall order, Ensign," said Kresge.
"Don't I know it, Sir!"
"What do you expect to learn by coming out here?" asked Harris.
"Well, you can only learn so much by looking at schematics and naval architectural drawings. Even 3-D holos, as good as they are, have their limitations. I need to inspect some of the ships first hand to get construction information and other details that will help me refine my estimates of just how much punishment the different classes of ship can take and dish out. Especially the destroyers. The biggest problem with Talbot's angle is that most experts dismiss the entire premise as ridiculous; the Orion Class destroyers couldn't have stopped the Succession battlecruisers because their outmoded projectile weapons couldn't deal enough damage. That and the destroyers couldn't have withstood the power of the main pulse beam batteries of the battlecruisers long enough to carry off an attack. If I could prove them wrong, I could confirm, or at least advance, Talbot's theory. That would be just a start, he has several other theories that are just as controversial."
"Like what?" asked Harris.
"Well, there are a number of assumptions that have been made regarding the root causes of the war that Talbot disagrees with. He believes that some of the tensions between different societies that led to the war were badly misunderstood and, according to him, many are still simmering out here in this part of space."
"Really, such as...?" asked Kresge.
"Well, he suggests that overpopulation is one of the main driving forces but that long standing religious disputes may be even more important. Take the Meridians, for example."
"Meridians?" asked Harris. "How so?"
She thought for a moment before replying.
"As a native, you would know that New Ceylon and Meridian were on opposite sides in the Succession War. What you may not know is that Meridian itself had been deeply divided before they got involved in the war."
"We were taught that," said Harris, "It got so bad there was nearly a civil war in the Meridian system. Those problems effectively took them out of the Succession War, a month or so before the fina
l battle. It was much more than just political. The orthodox Islamic minority wanted out of the War and they forced the issue. Meridian effectively became a neutral planet."
"Very good, Lieutenant," said Carlisle. "Although 'Orthodox Islamic minority' doesn't quite fit anymore. They currently make up over sixty-five percent of the Meridian population. Talbot maintains that the same tensions are still operating on Meridian and on other worlds of the Islamic Alliance as well as in the Federation itself. He doesn't think it would take much to set off some renewed aggression."
"Radical stuff!" said Kresge. "Good luck proving any of it, although I must say that I agree with you and Talbot about one thing: there's a lot of political and religious tension in the air these days."
"Thank you, Sir. What would really help is an intact ship's log or two from any of the destroyers. If I had the actual blow by blow descriptions of the battle by any of the destroyer captains I might really have something. Trouble is, there was just so much destruction in the battle. After it was over and the War with it, who would've cared about a handful of badly mauled destroyers?"
"We might still have some wrecks out here," said Harris. "Intact logs?" He shook his head. "We'll just have to see. I'd say the chances are pretty slim, it's been a long time!"
"Actually we think that there are at least three destroyers from the last battle out here in the Reclamation Center, Lieutenant Harris," said Carlisle.
"We?"
"Oh, sorry, Sir." She tapped a device on her wrist. "I brought along a list of all ships known to have participated in the final battle. Lieutenant Perkins helped me check the Scrapyard inventory and I matched up three of the destroyers. You'll have to help me find them, but I can't wait to get out into the Scrapyard and have a look."
Kresge finished his dinner, but didn't have time to linger as he had a number of duties to perform, including preparations for his trip to New Ceylon the following morning. He got up from the table.
"You'll have to excuse me," he said. "I have to meet with a man looking for some cargo ship parts and then I have to get some packing done." After glancing back and forth between the two younger officers, his gaze came to rest on Harris. "I trust that you two can find something to talk about?"
Harris colored slightly. "No problem, Sir. Have a safe journey tomorrow."
"Thanks, Lieutenant. Goodnight, Ensign."
"Goodnight, Sir."
Kresge made his way out of the mess area, stopping for short conversations with the occupants of several tables before exiting.
Carlisle wondered briefly about the Lieutenant's mild, but noticeable reaction to Kresge's seemingly innocent question, but decided it wasn't worth pursuing.
"So, Lieutenant Harris, we've talked quite a lot about me, what about you?"
"Ryan, please. Not much to tell, I grew up in Darwin -- that's on the southeastern edge of the big continent. My dad was orchard manager for a coffee plantation until he retired four years ago. I worked there myself for five summers, while I was still going to school. I went to the New Ceylon Technical College and joined the Federation Navy two months after I finished my engineering degree. I attended boot camp and officer's training at the Navy's Technical Institute on Old Earth for a couple of years and then came back here."
"You came right back here?"
"It's not as bad as you think. I requested it. My dad was having some health problems and it was good to be close by."
"Is he okay?"
"He is now, but it looked pretty bad until he began to respond to the treatments. I should request different duty, and I probably will, eventually, but I find that I really like this place. It grows on you. It's also good for my profession, if you can believe it. I get to see a bunch of different ways of solving engineering problems by examining the entire spectrum of approaches that the designers used on these old ships."
"I know what you mean. I've been studying different classes of ship as part of my research. I can see where it could get addicting." She took a sip of her coffee. "If you had your pick, what sort of duty would you like next?"
Harris thought for a moment.
"To start out with I'd like to be an engineer on one of the new destroyers or maybe even a light cruiser, if I could swing it, and work my way up from there. What about you?"
"Well...I have to finish this damned degree before I can do anything else. I seem to be pretty good at tactics...I would hope that I could get a post somewhere...," she trailed off.
Harris recalled Kresge's reference to Spacers, personality quirks and undecided academy brass and sensed that this subject might be a little sensitive, especially since they barely knew each other. He changed the subject.
"That device on your wrist... Is that one of the new Hartwell wrist computers?"
Her face lit up.
"Yeah, you want to see it?"
"Of course!"
She laid her left forearm down on the table in front of him, wrist up, so he could have a better look the device. Held in place by a two centimeter-wide, self-adjusting neo-kevlar wristband, the computer was an elongated oval about six centimeters by two that was only a slim two or three millimeters in thickness. It was also curved across the short axis to fit comfortably around her wrist and forearm.
"I read about those in last month's issue of "Future Technology." Is it as good as they say?"
"It's even better! This is the control panel here. It's equipped with the new Cyberdex virtual keyboard, but I use voice commands just as much. I've got my dissertation, all of my references and a raft of other archival material right here on my wrist. It's like having an entire library with you everywhere you go. Want to see the schematic on an Orion destroyer?"
"You bet!"
She spoke softly at the device.
"Succession War...obsolete destroyer...Orion Mark IV...3-D projection...execute!"
This brought up a 3-D holo display of a representative of the destroyer class in the air in front of them and she eagerly began to point out details. The two of them quickly became engrossed in the display and then moved on to other subjects. Carlisle wasn't anything at all like Harris had expected from Kresge's earlier briefing. Her mind was lightning fast and the depth of her knowledge was astounding for such a young officer, but she was surprisingly easy to talk to. Her nervous speaking habit seemed to get less severe as she relaxed and simply let things flow. The two of them had so many common interests that Harris completely lost track of the time.
"So you see, all of the information I've been able to pull together so far indicates that Jannsen was a damned good strategist but he was a lousy tactician," said Carlisle as she referred to details on a holographic diagram of the final battle of the Succession War. "Yet somehow he pulled off a brilliant tactical move that saved the day for the Federation Forces. It doesn't make sense. Talbot says..."
A call over the station intercom brought them out of their reverie. The mess hall had emptied out except for the two of them.
"Lieutenant Harris...Lieutenant Harris... Report to the Command Center, immediately."
"Damn!" he said. "Look at the time! I'm set to relieve Perkins as officer of the watch. Five minutes ago! Gotta go." He smiled at her as he got up to leave. "It has really been great talking to you, Ensign."
"Tamara."
"Great talking to you, Tamara. You do seem to have a new angle. We should have plenty of time to discuss it while we're checking out those destroyers over the next few weeks. See you at seven bells. Goodnight."
"Goodnight, Lieutenant."
She wore a discrete smile of her own as she left for her quarters. As was her habit, she spoke softly to herself.
"Engrossing...intellectually stimulating...damned nice eyes...so polite... Ryan ...his name is Ryan...I hope I didn't get him in trouble."
Now he had been totally unexpected. She hadn't thought that anyone at the Reclamation Center would have had much interest in her project, let alone know enough to help refine some of her ideas. As for the Lieutenant himself,
she found herself intrigued by his clean-cut good looks and his unobtrusive manner. His gentle, intelligent brown eyes didn't seem to miss much either. These next few weeks were probably going to be interesting, to say the least. Her smile turned to a frown as the painful memories of seemingly friendly colleagues who had led her on with kindness only to turn nasty on her when it suited their interests intruded into her thoughts. Admiral Loftgren's lecture on how important success at this assignment was to her future career came flooding back as well.
"Think about something else, Tamara..." she said as she slipped into her quarters.
Chapter 5
...The main occupied construct of the Reclamation Center, the command facilities and staff quarters, was a standard military-issue Class J orbital repair facility that had been brought in immediately after the war. Just small enough to fit the main hold of one of the huge M-class transports, the facility was a prefab construction of dumbbell shape with short cylinders instead of spheres at the ends. These facilities had been designed to be transported fully functional and in one piece to wherever they were needed. One of the cylinders was rotated to simulate gravity while the other remained stationary and unpressurized to allow docking, unloading and storage of supplies without complicated and difficult maneuvers. In the center of the stationary cylinder was the main cargo door and tethered outside it were several rows of small two-person sleds, two large utility sleds, and two small cutters that were used to transport personnel and materials back and forth between the station and the planet....
...Artificial gravity was yet another offshoot of Whitney overdrive technology and orbiting constructs, unless they had a very odd shape, were generally spun to simulate gravity...
Hartwell Wrist Comp reference note highlighted for further review by Tamara Carlisle. Excerpt is from "The Scrapyard" by Calvin Desjardins, Official Historian, UTFN Reclamation Center.
UTFN Reclamation Center, Main Facility, October 5, 2598.
Angus Rory Hawkins dogged the helmet latch on his bulky utility space suit with his left hand while holding onto the main cargo airlock door with his right. As soon as he knew the seal was tight he would activate the door and use the control handle to propel his weightless mass into the airlock chamber. His compact one-hundred and sixty-five centimeter frame was topped with a steel grey crewcut. A native of New Scotia, his heritage was quite obvious as soon as he spoke -- if you could get him to speak; he had a reputation for being somewhat taciturn.
Junkyard Dogs series Omnibus Page 3
