Some nodded, some smiled, and some muttered or looked concerned. He let them get used to the idea for a moment before he continued. “We have a number of proposals on the table, from several teams. Let’s get right to it. Bill?”
An odd duck of a civilian stood up, round-headed, scrunch-faced and a bit slovenly. “Yes, uh, Admiral. I’m Bill Marshall, and I guess I’m acting chief of logistics. Guess I’ll have to get a uniform again, I’m a retired Army colonel, Engineer branch. Um…our proposal is a framework to structure our production based on the following factors…”
Absen valiantly strove to pay close attention, because he knew that for the next eight years, EarthFleet would not be doing much fighting. It would be organizing, training and equipping. He was competent enough at the first two, but the long pole in the tent was building the ships and weapons. For that, he needed someone better than he was.
When Marshall wound down, Absen asked, “Who should head this all up? Do you want the job?”
Marshall squinted by habit, as if he wore spectacles, though almost no one had need of such things anymore. “Um, sir, I could, but…”
“Go on.”
“I think we need a flag for this one. You’re effectively a one-star, though I suppose that might change, but if I know service politics – and I do – we need more stars. We need a four-star if we can get one, who can talk to all those officials on Earth on their level.”
“Do you have a suggestion?”
“Well…only one guy I know. Granted, he’d be another American, but…”
“Spit it out.”
“General Travis, sir. He ran Tiny Fortress. He’s got the credibility and the knowhow.”
Absen nodded. “Mister Marshall, we’ll try to find someone with some stars. Until then, you take control of the J4. I want to see production plans, top to bottom, in…shall we say two weeks?”
Marshall gulped, then nodded. “Might be rough, but we’ll shake something out by then.” He sat down.
“All right. Next?”
Chapter 10
Shan seemed troubled when he walked into the standard-gravity gym, shutting the door carefully. This in itself was startling to Steward Schaeffer, as most of the time he couldn’t read the Chinese giant at all.
He became genuinely concerned when the big man changed into a pristine black kung fu gi, or whatever the outfit was called. Schaeffer’s background was all in the Japanese styles. He’d never seen Shan wear anything like that, nor even work out or spar with the other stewards. Perhaps he trained alone.
“Interesting look,” the redhead remarked as the Chinese stepped onto the mat and dropped into a stretching squat.
Shan ignored the comment, but the furrow in his brow did not go away.
“Something bothering you?” Schaeffer caught the eye of his fellow American steward, John Clayton, jerking his head imperceptibly.
He drifted over.
“Yes,” Shan replied, standing up straight, “but a demonstration is in order before I tell you.” He bowed formally to Schaeffer, put closed fist to palm in front of him, and then took up a relaxed sparring stance.
“Demonstration?” The American clapped palms to thighs and bowed, then settled low, weight balanced.
“Yes. I want you to kill me, if you can. If not, I will kill you.”
“Holy shit,” Clayton exclaimed from behind, reflexively extending his ferrocrystal claws. As full cyborgs, all stewards possessed a wide range of upgrades, beginning with close combat blades. Droplets of blood fell as the short knives extended from his fingertips. In moments he had healed, and stood crouching, ready to fight.
I knew it all along, Schaeffer thought as he unsheathed his own blades. He transmitted the red alert code over his internal radio, summoning the third steward and some Marine backup to pull his nuts out of the fire. As he glanced toward the door, his telescopic right eye could see the lock turned shut. That would slow down any response.
Shan nodded, as if he knew what Schaeffer had done, then he glided forward with a quick leg sweep. The American lifted his knee just in time for his opponent’s foot to rise too fast, slamming into his solar plexus. He felt his laminated bones flex and groan, sensed his breath driven from his body and his internal oxygen kick in.
And then his lungs spasmed, in shock.
His cybernetic systems would dribble O2 into his bloodstream through an osmotic backup, enough to keep him alive, even conscious, but without his organic lungs his combat capability just dropped by half. With one blow he had been knocked out of the fight.
Schaeffer felt himself bounce off the back wall and slide to the floor onto his side. He tried to get to his feet while watching for Shan’s next attack, but the Chinese ignored him and turned toward Clayton.
Intense concentration showed on the other American’s face as he slid around to his left, throwing stiff-fingered jabs at the other man while circling toward Schaeffer. “Don’t –” he croaked, but did not finish the sentence before Shan took a deep, well-timed step between Clayton’s strikes and punched him in the chest. With his deceptively long reach, the combined power of his human nano-augmented muscles and his cybernetics knocked the other man across the room.
Following up swiftly, Shan grabbed the fallen American by his elbows and pinned the man’s arms behind him, lifting him off the ground like a small child. Holding him that way with one huge paw, he took a standard high-tensile zip-tie restrainer from a pocket and slapped it onto Clayton’s forearms, and then carried him across the room to drop him next to Schaeffer.
Then he squatted down to look his fellow stewards in the eyes, saying nothing.
“Better kill us now,” Schaeffer gasped, “because as soon as the reaction team shows up they’ll fry you. They won’t come unarmed.” His lung spasms began to relax, which meant they would start working again soon, he hoped.
“I do not intend to kill you.”
“But…”
“I just wanted you to defend yourself as well as you could, holding nothing back.” Shan held out his hand to Schaeffer.
The American took it, and Shan lifted him to his feet. “Why?” he managed to say.
“I wanted to demonstrate that I could have beaten you, even all three of you, at any time. If I had any nefarious intentions, you would not have been able to stop me. Steward Clayton,” Shan turned to the restrained man now glaring up at him from the floor, “I will be happy to release you if you can control yourself.”
“Yeah. All right.” Clayton did not look controlled.
At that moment the gym door burst open and armed Marines stormed in with weapons ready. Shan made no move, and Schaeffer transmitted instructions subvocally over his internal radio. “Stand down. False alarm. Steward business.” He shot a look at Steward Greco, who slapped the Marine in charge on his armored shoulder to get his attention, pointing back toward the door in emphasis.
Reluctantly, the troops withdrew.
Greco himself hefted a PW20 in one hand, an EMP cannon in the other. The first would hardly bother Shan, but the latter should shut down all of his cybernetics. Schaeffer decided not to give the order to take him down. Shan had spoken the truth. He could have killed them both easily, but now he wanted to talk.
“All right then,” Schaeffer said, controlling his breathing with an effort of will. “What was this all about?”
“Would someone get this restrainer off me please?” Clayton asked from the floor. Schaeffer leaned over to pop the coded release, and the other man got to his feet, rubbing his chest and glowering.
Shan reached into a pocket and withdrew a compact tablet, turning its lit screen to face the others. “Read this, please,” he said with an air of deference.
“Citizen of Earth Declaration…and that pictogram is, what, your name?”
Shan nodded.
“You’re going to join EarthFleet?”
He nodded again.
“Why?”
Shan shrugged a very Western shrug, but said nothing. Sch
aeffer pursed his lips and thought for a moment, and then answered his own question. “I know why. Huen joined too, right? And you’re his buddy, so off you go.”
“That is as good an explanation as any. Why does this idea bother you?”
“It doesn’t –” But Schaeffer realized Shan was right. It did bother him. Was it because the Chinese had taken the difficult step that he himself had been contemplating, beating him to it? Or was it because this action contradicted his own cherished belief that Shan was up to no good. It could all still be a ploy; nothing said he couldn’t join EarthFleet but still be in the employ of his nation’s masters. If so, it was a very twisted route he followed.
Schaeffer realized he would have to either take a leap of faith about Shan, or hold onto his suspicions and sooner or later he would be replaced, for he had no doubt that the position of Steward was far too sensitive to be filled by any but actual Fleet personnel. Suddenly the thought of going back to the States, back to Earth, seemed like a retreat, a failure, and he realized what he wanted.
“All right. Good on you, Shan. I’m going to do it too.”
“What?” Clayton and Greco said simultaneously, staring at him. “That’s treason,” Clayton continued wonderingly.
“No it’s not,” Schaeffer retorted. “Not unless you think Admiral Absen and every other American joiner is a traitor. There’s nothing treasonous about giving up your citizenship, though it makes me sick to think about it. But it’s the right thing to do. I’m joining EarthFleet.” He held out his hand to Shan. “Bygones?”
“I am unfamiliar with that term,” Shan replied, “but I deduce its meaning. I agree.” He clasped hands with the redheaded American, swallowing the other’s in his massive paw. The Chinese’s eye twitched in a wink. “Now…perhaps I can offer you a job?”
Chapter 11
Admiral Absen nodded to Master Helmsman Okuda as he came in to the conference room. “Admiral on deck,” called the stocky dark astronaut, and everyone in the room stood up until Absen said, “Carry on. At ease. Take your seats.”
Eight pair of eyes fastened on the Admiral: Okuda, Lieutenant Commanders Johnstone, Ford and Scoggins, Lieutenant Colonel Stallers, Lieutenant Mirza – and Rae Denham. Another woman with a short blonde bob cut, unknown to any except Absen, sat against the wall behind her, in the khaki uniform of Navy captain, outranking everyone but the admiral.
They all knew how unusual it was for a flag officer, even one many worked for directly, to call a meeting like this, with no staffers, no aides, just the ever-present Steward Tobias in his starched whites, guarding against treachery and assassination.
“Good morning, Red Team.” Absen cocked an eyebrow at the group, gauging reactions, but saying no more.
Finally Ford spoke up, clearing his throat. “Ah, sir, I presume that means we are going to work on anticipating the enemy?”
“No, Ford. You are going to work on being the enemy. You will get inside his head and come up with everything you can think of that he might do, based on his capabilities and psychology.”
“Psychology?” This from Scoggins. “What do we know about Meme psychology, or psychology at all?”
“Glad you asked, Ms. Scoggins. You all know who Ms. Raphaela Denham is, I presume, and this,” he indicated the unknown woman, “is Captain Christine Forman.”
“A chaplain?” Ford asked, as if in disbelief.
“Yes, I am,” Forman responded in the clipped, clenched-teeth accent of a Boston Brahmin, “and I hold a doctorate in psychology as well as several other degrees in related fields.” She stood to her full five-two and glided over in Orion’s low gravity to take a seat at the end of the table, opposite Absen. “Is there a problem?”
Stallers said in his Aussie twang, “Perhaps what we wonder is how you feel about killing Meme.”
“Just the same as killing wolves circling round the flock. You need have no fear on that score. ‘Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me’ refers to a shepherd’s weapons, after all. Now I suggest we get to business. The admiral’s time is valuable and I am sure we will have plenty of opportunity to explore personalities.”
“Thank you, Christine,” Absen headed off any further clashes. “Captain Forman is your psychology subject matter expert.” He turned to Rae. “And Ms. Denham will not be a full-time member of your team, but is your SME on the Meme, and will be available to you, I am told, at any time via secure comm.”
Rae nodded in confirmation. “I will give you the communication codes for the Denham, and I have programmed the ship to patch you through to me at any time.”
“The rest of you,” Absen went on, “are now assigned the primary mission of figuring out what the Destroyer can, might, and will do. You will maintain your currency in your specialties, but more than half your duty time will be taken up with this.”
“For how long, sir?” Scoggins asked, pushing a lock of her brown hair back behind her ear.
“As long as it takes. Maybe all the years until it arrives. Your collective job is to analyze every possibility and come up with the most likely enemy courses of action. You have to imagine yourselves in his position, with his capabilities. How would you attack Earth if you were Meme? What would be the most effective and efficient means to kill us off?”
“Kill us?” Okuda asked. “You think they’ve given up on conquering us and taking our bodies?”
“You tell me, Chief. What would you do in his place?”
Okuda grunted and sat back, thinking.
“Who’s in charge?” Ford glanced at Forman.
Absen replied, “Yes, I know what you’re thinking, and you’re right, Ford. Captain Forman is not a line officer, so she’s disqualified. Scoggins is senior of the line, so she’s it.”
Ford scowled sideways at her, and Scoggins smirked faintly back at him. “I guess it could be worse,” he grumbled.
“Ford, you better belay that attitude. I can always arrange a nice dirtside assignment. Fleet liaison to the Antarctic territories, perhaps.”
“Sorry, sir. Happy to be here, sir.” Ford straightened, and shut up.
“So Scoggins, you will take charge of this mob. Your orders are in the system, along with a very high priority to requisition resources. Don’t abuse it. You will have spaces on Orion for now, and computers, comms…move your quarters to be close. Put in for whatever other specialist assistants you need, up to a dozen or so – researchers, admin, intel ratings, technicians.”
“Yes, sir,” Scoggins responded with a wolfish grin.
“So,” Absen said, standing up, “I’ll leave you to it. You have four weeks until your first report, where you will brief me and the staff on everything you have come up with.”
Chapter 12
Now that Orion was a station and not a warship, Absen had a lot more freedom to rearrange its internal geometry. No longer would its structure need to withstand high G forces, nor hold thousands of nuclear bombs for propulsion, so he ordered one of the cargo bays converted into a huge ops-intel center sufficient to host over two hundred people as they worked. A large space for combined briefings was ringed by stations, which was in turn surrounded on the outside by a double dozen rooms configurable for almost anything. This first Red Team report would be its initial use.
The Red Team members sat on a low stage below one of the two enormous main screens that faced each other across the central space. A podium stood off to the left side, Lieutenant Commander Scoggins behind it.
Admiral Absen walked up onto the stage, waving for silence. The room, packed to capacity with personnel of all ranks and no rank, from every corner of Earth, quieted, to look expectantly at him.
General Travis Tyler sat in the front row. As newly-appointed EarthFleet J4, Joint Chief of Logistics, the operational insights and decisions here would have a great effect on his efforts to establish the military’s industry in space. With Brigadier General Bill Marshall by his side, he’d already whipped the supply and production chain into shape, ensuring Earth’s eno
rmous groundside effort got put to use effectively and efficiently.
“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen of Blue Team.” Absen was looking out at the audience when he said this. “Meet Red Team.” He waved toward the nine people behind him.
A murmur swept through the nearly two hundred on the floor below.
“And Red Team, meet Blue Team. Before today, you may not have known of each other’s existence. This was deliberate. I wanted to keep the crossflow of information to a minimum, to avoid contaminating the brainstorming process with responses to each other, until now.”
“Red Team is responsible for coming up with enemy courses of action, or COAs. Blue Team is responsible for coming up with responses and counters to those COAs. That’s why Blue Team is so much larger – you will feed Earth’s nations with your reports and conclusions so that science and industry will be harnessed to your goals, and not waste effort on duplication or unfocused preparation. Every COA will be ranked by likelihood, and every COA will have a response plan developed by Blue Team, and associated resources – technologies, weapons – assigned to it. Ladies and gentlemen,” Absen said heavily, “you have your hands on the tiller. Your conclusions will steer Earth’s entire production capacity. You must do your work with excellence, and you must not fail. If you fail, Earth dies.”
With that declaration hanging heavily in the silence, Admiral Absen sat front and center of the nearest table, as expected of the most senior officer, and signaled Scoggins for the briefing to begin.
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