Citadel: Troy Rising II

by John Ringo

  "They never exacted tribute," To'Jopeviq said.

  "What?" the general gasped. "Are they mad?"

  "You grasp the difficulty of the task you have assigned," To'Jopeviq said. "Humans do not seem to respond in the way I would expect. I would have expected them to send a message through the gate by now indicating that they wished to negotiate. No such message has been received. They have been bombed and attacked with bio-weapons by the Horvath. They know we are more powerful by far and that they have no chance to win. But they have enough defenses to make a decent truce. Yet they have not even hinted at such."

  "Send me your analysis," the general said, musingly. "I cannot recommend twenty Assault Vectors. And I agree that that is what you believe is needed. I don't even dispute it. But there are ways and ways . . ."

  "May I ask?" To'Jopeviq said.

  TWENTY-ONE

  "BF, can I ask a question?"

  They were pulling down triple time in the main bay and right at the edge of maximum duration in vacuum. The truth was, they'd been working so much, Butch was starting to wonder if maybe he didn't need a break. And the point that you started to wonder was after when you should be back in breathable.

  "Is it ‘why is the sky blue' or something?"

  "No," Butch said. "Why in the hell are they putting a fabber in the middle of the main bay?"

  Butch, once, would have thought of the fabber as big. It was damned near a hundred meters long. Up next to it it did feel big. Back away and it disappeared into the immensity of the main bay.

  Tugs had pushed it into position on one of the internal horns of the Troy, teams had spot-welded it in place and were now working on thick welds to hold it against shocks. Much of the welding, as usual, was being done by bots. Butch didn't mind. It meant that humans got the interesting stuff.

  "It's for stuff that can survive vacuum," BFM replied. "Mostly it's supposed to be a missile fabber. Purcell covered that."

  "I must have missed that part," Butch said. "How they going to get the missiles to the magazine?"

  They'd done some work there last week. The missile magazine was, basically, just a huge cavern SAPL had cut out with some interior lighting, grav plates and more hatches than Butch thought he'd ever see in one place. They were all over the walls, floors and even the ceiling. The work they'd been doing was on a stuck hatch. As usual, groundside had screwed something up they had to unscrew.

  "They're missiles, Butch," Price commed. "They've got their own grav drive."

  "Oh."

  "And . . . ​we're done," Price commed. "Time to head to the barn. And I'm telling Purcell we're taking tomorrow off. When you start asking me about stuff that's really obvious or already been covered, it's time for me to take time off."

  "Parker, Erickson."

  "Parker," Dana replied. She was reviewing for an exam and was ready for a break. The way the Navy was growing, even though she'd barely been a CM3 long enough to sew on the patch, Glass was pushing her to complete her quals for CM2.

  "You still owe me a drink."

  "You call the bar."

  "This really is going to sound like a hit," Erickson commed. "But have you been to the pool, yet?"

  "There's a pool?" Dana asked. "Where?"

  "They just opened it. I went to the grand opening. You guys didn't get the word?"

  "Nope," Dana said. "Civilians only?"

  "Don't think so. I've seen military personnel there. You can tell by the hair. So . . ."

  "I don't have a bathing suit," Dana replied, biting her lip. She'd lettered in diving in high school. A pool was too much to resist.

  "Okay, well . . ."

  "And there are shops in the mall," Dana said. "I saw one at the sports place."

  "So . . . ​ Meet me at the Acapulco?" Erickson commed.

  "I'm off watch at 1800," Dana said.

  "Works."

  "See you then."

  "This is . . . ​ Something," Dana said.

  "Welcome to the Acapulco Bar at Xanadu, miss," the bartender said. He looked like he was off-duty military. "First drink is on the house."

  The "pool" was more like six or seven scattered across sixty acres of ground shaped something like an L. The pool at the upper end was apparently shallow from the people wading in it. That necked down into a deeper one. The Acapulco bar was about half way through the series and that pool ran about six feet except for the barstools. Dana could see where they were constructing a high-dive on the last one down which meant it was at least fifteen feet deep.

  Lighting was odd. The overhead was curved with the lowest point being about a hundred meters and about two hundred over the Acapulco. There were three "Dragon Claw" lights like the main bay, spheres of "dirty" sapphire that filled the room with plenty of light. But there were also spot-lights scattered around and people seemed to be sunbathing in those.

  "I'll take a pop, please," Dana said. "And I owe the fat, bald guy whatever he's drinking. Hey, Bill."

  "Comet," Erickson said, nodding at her. He managed to not leer. "Nice suit." Erickson's was a floral knee-length number. Alas, he hadn't worn a shirt which revealed that he was about as hirsute as a mangy panda. He also had some serious tat work. Old tat work. And from the tats he had definitely been a Marine.

  Dana's suit was about as plain as they came, a professional's Speedo, which was about all she was prepared to wear at the moment. She'd spent enough time in them over the years.

  "It's what the had," Dana said. She accepted the coke from the bartender and raised a toast. "To relays that work."

  "Amen," Erickson said. "How's the investigation coming?"

  "Pretty straightforward," Dana said. "They've determined that Thirty-Three had two of the questionable series relays. So it probably was a failure and not pilot error."

  "Bad business either way," Erickson said. "And since I work for Apollo, it's sort of on me, too."

  "Don't sweat it," Dana said, taking another sip of her drink. "Vernon Tyler, personally, came by and apologized to the Squadron CO. And he released a memo where he basically went off on his people for not catching it. ‘Buck stops here' was the phrase he used. Honestly, I don't see how it could have been caught. But I think the design is screwed . . ." She paused as a guy sat down next to her.

  "Private conversation?" the guy said. Not bad looking. Regular features, good build, kind of big for her tastes. Couple of tats the most prominent being a massive phoenix that was revealed when he turned to grab a handful of peanuts. A USMC was tattooed just under his neck on his back.

  "Not exactly private," Dana said. "Just not something you'd probably be interested in. Sorry. So . . ." she said, turning back to Erickson. "We're getting seventy nanometer relays from Granadica. They supposedly have been tested out, but I want to bring some over to your shop to run them through the electroscope."

  "Sure," Erickson said. "We can run an electron microscopy survey and do a photo electrophoresis scan . . ."

  "On an electrical relay?" the jarhead asked. "When did we start using organic circuits? This about the Myrmidons? Cause in that case, I'm seriously interested seeing as we've got to ride in 'em."

  "See," Erickson said, a tad bitterly. "Can't pull anything over on jarheads."

  "Heh," Dana said, grinning. "I control their air and grav."

  "You a engineer?" the jarhead asked.

  "Was," Dana said. "I'm a coxswain, now."

  "Wait," the jarhead said. "I recognize that voice. You're Comet. Rammer. We ran with you in the Horvath round-up." He held out his hand.

  "The one where the officer killed that prisoner?" Dana said, shaking his hand. "What ever happened with that? We didn't even get called to testify."

  "They did a pretty quick Article Thirty-Two," Rammer said, shrugging. "We weren't the only ones. The Horvath just don't seem to care about their people at all."

  "Aliens," Bill said, shrugging. "What can you say? So they killed one of their own people?"

  "The guy had been dutchman for like six hours,"
Rammer said. "It was around the bend. One of the officers said he wanted to give it ‘care.' That was the word he used. And then he killed it. We were seriously freaked."

  "I can bet," Erickson said. "I used to be a sixty-three, but I know about prisoner protocols."

  "Oh-three-twenty-one," Rammer said, giving the number for his MOS. "Lance Corporal Ramage, sir."

  "Bill Erickson," Bill said. "I'm a maintenance manager engineer on this lash-up now. And as you said, you've met Coxswain's Mate Third Class Comet."

  "I'm not sure I'm still happy with that handle," Dana said, chuckling.

  "It was some absolutely awesome boat driving," Rammer said. "Seriously. You should be proud. I know everybody in my platoon wants to ride your boat."

  "I suspect that's less for the quality of the driver than the qualities of the driver," Bill said, grinning.

  "Men," Dana said, shaking her head. "Why can't they cure Johannsen's in them I want to know?"

  "Cause it takes away our will to live?" Bill asked. "Speaking of which . . ."

  "Yes, I had it," Dana said. "No, I don't have it anymore. No, I don't have any kids. Yes, it sucked having it. Yes, I'm glad I got cured. It was one of about a dozen reasons to join the Navy."

  "Sorry," Bill said, holding up his hands in surrender. "I guess it's a touchy subject."

  "Which can be taken a couple of ways," Dana said, grinning. "Guys having Johannsen's is no big deal. Unless they get out of control with girls who have it then they can't make their child support."

  "Yeah," Rammer said, grimacing. "Uh. There. She's married to another guy. She still gets part of my check. Which I don't mind, mind you," he added, shaking his head. "I like having a kid. I'd like to see him more. But . . . ​ Yeah, you can get into some serious over-your-head if you're not careful."

  "If you go out in the rain," Dana said, "wear a raincoat. The point being, if you're a girl with Johannsen's, it's a pain in the . . . ​butt. Just as bad as being a teenage boy. But if you slip up, you end up with kids. Guys don't have that problem. Don't get me wrong, I want a child. Someday. Sixteen's too young."

  "Agreed," Erickson said. "Horvath bastards."

  "And now the Rangora," Rammer said. "Who are, like, not only tougher but fricking huge. Have you seen a pic of those guys?"

  "I'm not planning on getting into hand-to-hand with 'em," Dana said, chuckling. "That is why I have a four terawatt laser."

  "Lucky you," Rammer said. " ‘Hello? We could use some air support here . . . ​' "

  " ‘Uh, roger that, Rammer,' " Dana said, mimicking speaking in a microphone. " ‘But, sorry, I'm doing my nails . . . ​' "

  "Bitch," Rammer said, laughing.

  "You get your tats groundside?" Dana asked.

  "The USMC I did," Rammer said, turning around. "But the phoenix I got done by a guy over on the civvie side. He's a mechanic but he does tats in his spare time."

  The phoenix was an immensely complex tat, the "feathers" formed from Celtic knots. Dana nodded in appreciation.

  "Very nice," she said.

  "You thinking of getting a tat?" Erickson asked.

  "Thinking about it," Dana said. "If I can find a good enough artist."

  "You know what?" Rammer asked.

  "Yep," Dana said. "Guys, this is fun but I actually like to swim. Bill, don't take this wrong but . . . ​ Rammer, can you swim?"

  "Like a fish," Rammer said.

  "If I've already got one guy following me around, I won't get swarmed," Dana said, sliding out of her stool. "So . . . ​try to keep up."

  "Dude," Butch commed. "Hot chick, two o'clock."

  "Followed by a jarhead that could break you in half," Price said without opening his eyes.

  They were hanging out in the sunbathing area, figuring that most chicks would just park there. Most of the light in Xanadu was provided by the dragon's orbs. But in several places more "raw" sunlight was pumped in through SAPL tubes. It was filtered for UVA, the "bad" UV, but allowed UVB through. Which should have attracted any female seeking that perfect Hawaiian tan. So far, the pickings had been slim to none.

  "How can you see 'er?" Butch asked.

  "If you know what you're doing, you can access the webcams with your eyes closed," Price said. "Which means I have checked out every hot chick in the area. They all have at least two guys hanging on 'em. Even the fat ones."

  "That is so bogus," Butch said, lying back on the lounge chair.

  "Just soak up your UV, Butch," Price said. "We're going to be back in the sleds before you know it."

  "Okay," Rammer said, as Dana surfaced from her dive. "That was just . . ."

  "Lousy," Dana said, climbing out of the pool and heading back to the low-board. "I'm so out of shape."

  "I wouldn't say that," Rammer said. "You look like you work out."

  "I play a lot of nullball," Dana said, climbing back on the board. "Which is not the same as keeping in dive practice." She turned around, took two bounces and did a double-pike with a very splashy entry. "Dammit!" she said as she surfaced. "That's easy!"

  "Whoa," Rammer said. "Easy there, Coxswain. I'm starting to figure out how you drive a boat so well."

  "I'm giving up for now," Dana said, swimming over and grabbing the side. "I know where the pool is, at least. So, Rammer, when are you on duty again?"

  "Next watch," Ramage said. "Why?"

  "Because just because I don't have Johannsen's anymore doesn't mean I'm not interested," Dana said, climbing out of the pool. "And if I start anything with one of the guys in my unit it's going to cause problems. Marines don't count. You're cute enough and I still don't have anyone sharing my quarters. Up to you, of course."

  "I am so there," Rammer said, pulling himself out of the water.

  "Be aware that if you immediately fall asleep, I will make you pay the next time you're in my shuttle," Dana said.

  "Is that what you call it?" Rammer asked.

  "Jarheads."

  "Good morning, everyone," Dana said, walking into the ready room. "Is everyone set for another fun and exciting day of salvage?"

  "Oh, good God," EN Dennison said. "The Ice Queen got laid?"

  "Ice Queen?" Dana said, icily.

  "Grab your seat, Comet," Glass said, trying to keep a straight face. "And, Moose, unless you want a Mast, keep comments like that to yourself. But for what it's worth, yes, we have another fun and exciting day of salvage before us. A big chunk of Sierra Nine has wandered into the shipping lanes. Which means anything coming in from Wolf is endangered. Charlie Flight, 142nd, will therefore . . ."

  "Ice Queen?" Dana said, strapping herself into her seat. "Seriously? Ice Queen?"

  "You know Bruce," Thermal said. "He's got a case of foot in mouth disease. Although how he can fit those in his mouth is the question."

  "I'm not that bad, am I?" Dana said, checking her systems. All good. So far.

  "Comet you are a great Cock," EM1 Hartwell said then grimaced. "Okay, given the nature of the discussion . . ."

  " ‘This is Comet, my great Cock,' " Dana said, giggling. " ‘I'd like you to meet my cock, Comet . . . ​' "

  "I give up," Thermal said, laughing. "Yes, you are a very good coxswain. Part of that is you're so . . . ​focused. I suspect that is what Bruce, who is not focused or he would have made Engineer's Mate by now, was referring to. I had never previously heard that appellation. But I'm not surprised. You do everything with a focus like a SAPL beam. If you are planning on making this a career that is, again, a good thing. But it does make you a bit . . . ​icy at times."

  "Ah, hell," Dana said. "I'll take it as a handle if it sticks. I've never been so good about Comet. It makes me sound like I should have a red nose."

  "That would be Rudolph," Hartwell said. "So, trying desperately to change the subject. Where were you yesterday? Normally when you're off-watch you're in the squadron area. Releasing dock."

  "Ahem," Dana said as the shuttle detached. "Are you, Engineering Mate First Class Hartwell, asking
me, Coxswain's Mate Third Class Dana Parker, exactly what I was doing on my off-watch time? Because if you are, Engineering Mate First Class, it's none of your business."

  "Trying desperately again to avoid an EEOC complaint . . ."

  "For your general FYI," Dana said, chuckling. "Did you know there's a pool?"

  "There's a pool? You were at a pool?"

  "I was at the pool," Dana said. "Part of my off-watch time. The rest is not up for discussion."

  "You were at the pool," Hartwell breathed. "In a bathing suit?"

  "EM," Dana said. "Don't make me request a new engineer, okay?"

  "No, seriously," Thermal said. "What kind?"

  "Do me a favor and crack your suit seals while I accidentally outgas us, okay?"

  "There's a pool?"

  "Seriously. You will be breathing vacuum . . ."

  "And releasing gravlocks," Thermal said.

  The chunk of "Sierra Nine," a former Rangora, Horvath run, now ripped to shreds, battle-ship had, indeed, been "in the shipping lanes." It had drifted, due to some really funky Newtonian physics, towards the gate and was just about to pass through it to the "entry" side to spinward.

  It was also a very big chunk, the sort of mass that would normally be the job of the Paw tugs to handle. The Myrmidons had been "helping out" with the salvage operations for several reasons. The Navy got paid for their time, it was good training for the crews and clearing up the debris of the battle before some bit of wreckage holed a ship was in everyone's best interests.

  Usually, though, the Myrms would handle something their own size. In this case, it had taken almost the entire 142nd Squadron to handle the destroyer sized chunk of steel. Since their system was not optimized for towing, the CO and the senior flight NCOIC had had to carefully arrange the squadron to push it along.

  Then there was the destination. Most of the scrap from the battle had been pushed into a more or less compact lump about 200,000 kilometers from the gate and more or less in a stable orbit. It was, in fact, slowly drifting away from the gate and the Troy. There it was out of the way and no danger to anyone except Martians in about two hundred years when it would deorbit onto the red planet. Long before then, though, it was scheduled to get turned into orbital equipment including Solarian destroyers and cruisers.