by Peter Grant
The Captain’s voice was mystified. “But, Sir, by convention garbage containers are supposed to be bright yellow with waste identifiers on them.”
“These won’t be garbage containers any more by the time we’re finished with them. I’ll say no more about that right now. Once you’ve painted them, I want them covered with transparent plaswrap to make it look as if they’re sensitive cargo.”
“Ah… very well, Sir. You’re the boss.”
“Thank you. When will both ships be ready to leave?”
“If all goes well, by the first of next month, Sir.”
“And how long will it take us to reach Laredo?”
“Twelve days, Sir.”
“The twelfth of May, then. God, I hope they can hold out that long!” Dave spoke the last words sotto voce, almost afraid to verbalize his fears. He knew his compatriots would be eking out their rations as carefully as they could, to make them last until the promised relief came. At least he’d get there a little before his promised deadline.
“Will you be staying with us for the duration of the laser trials, Sir?”
“No, I’m afraid I have a great deal to do before we leave. I’ll get you to drop me at the range control ship after we finish this first series of shots. I’ll take the shuttle back to the dockyard from there this evening, and return aboard when you get back.”
“Very well, Sir. Thanks for taking the time out of your schedule to be with us yesterday and today. I know the crew appreciated it very much, particularly when you took the time to go round the ship with me and inspect every compartment.”
“It’s my pleasure, Captain. After all, we’ll be going into action together. The least I can do is make sure you’re all good enough to keep my favorite butt attached to my favorite body!”
~ ~ ~
The next morning found Dave hard at work in his office aboard the courier ship. He’d appropriated two of its small passenger cabins, one as sleeping quarters and one for work.
He frowned as he scrolled through sheets of figures. Warfare in space was proving to be an extraordinarily expensive business. If he’d had to pay full rate for his ships, the modifications to them, their weapons and systems, and his crews, the Resistance would have been bankrupt long ago. As it was, they had less than a billion Neue Helvetica francs left in their main account, and it was flowing like water under the impact of ship charters, purchases of ration packs, and the operating expenses of three – soon to be four – warships and two freighters in commission. He still had a couple of hundred million in his secret account for special projects, but he wanted to hold on to that as an emergency reserve.
He pulled out a recorder next to his terminal, which he was using to note instructions to Tamsin and Rusty as he thought of them. Activating it and looking into the lens, he said, “Our finances are taking a beating. If we continue to buy food for Laredo at the present rate and ship it aboard chartered freighters, whilst still funding limited military operations, we’ll go broke in less than six months. Rusty, plan to return the freighters to their owners after present shipments are delivered. I’ll send word to Rolla for one of our freighters to report to you at Neue Helvetica ASAP, so you can use it to collect future shipments. Rations arriving at Rolla will have to be stored aboard one of our inactive assault transports until a freighter’s available to make the run to Laredo.
“I’m going to ask the broker we used before to look for two more tramp freighters. We can buy them in good condition for twenty to twenty-five million apiece. We’ll get that back when we sell them. The running costs are much lower than a wet-leased freighter or our military-grade transports, so we’ll save money by using our own ships. We have enough trained spacers to crew them now. It looks like each combat ship will need one hundred and fifty to two hundred Spacers, and the freighters need thirty to forty each; so with four combat ships and four freighters, we’ll use all of the thousand Gurkhas we’ve trained. We desperately need a couple of our own communications ships to replace the chartered courier vessels, but we can’t afford them right now. That’ll have to wait until we have more funds.
“Tamsin, it’s going to be absolutely critical for us to get more money from UP donors. We can’t realistically launch a new appeal until we prove that previous donations have been well spent. I think our present operation ought to do that, if all goes well. I want you to prepare a huge public relations blitz. I’ll send you as much vid and other material as I can, plus a few eye-witnesses for media interviews. Meanwhile, have Elisabeta set up a program to swamp the news media with that material, and prepare some tear-jerking appeals to ‘help the people of Laredo fight off continued Bactrian aggression’. With any luck, that’ll bring in a billion or two in cash within a few months, which will keep our heads above water.
“Food aid will be a big part of that. If planets don’t want to give us money or weapons, ask them to give us food. If we can persuade a couple of dozen planets to each send us a freighter loaded with food, we’ll be OK. Also, ask whether anyone’s willing to sponsor orbital farm units at Laredo for a year or so. They can produce food in orbit while planetary farms recover and get back into production. It’ll be a lot more expensive to ferry it down from orbit than grow it planetside, but that’ll still be much cheaper than bringing it from all over the settled galaxy! Also, ask for donations of seed, farm implements, fertilized cattle embryos and breeder pods, and so on.”
He switched off the recorder with a grimace. That request might be premature. After all, if they didn’t control the Laredo system, there was no guarantee the Bactrians would allow food shipments or orbital farms at all. However, the need was critical. Better to have a potential solution at hand rather than have no solution at all. They could figure out how to implement it when the time came.
He’d never anticipated just how many issues had to be managed in running a Government-in-Exile while fighting a war. So many problems reared their heads that if they were all given the attention they demanded – if not rightfully deserved – no-one would ever have time to fight, much less win. Only by being ruthless about priorities, making decisions as quickly as possible and acting on them – even if they weren’t necessarily the best decisions – could operations be kept going. That was the leader’s job, thereby freeing his subordinates to get on with their jobs.
If this operation succeeds, it’s going to beget a swarm of new problems, he reminded himself as he sat back, fingers rubbing at his jaw. Bactria’s going to hit back at us just as soon as they can manage it. They daren’t leave us alone. If they do, all those lives their armed forces lost on Laredo will have been in vain. Their people won’t stand for it. More to the point, the nobles who’ve staked their reputation on Bactrian superiority won’t stand for it. They can’t, because the people will revolt against them if they do. They’ve whipped up popular sentiment with their propaganda, but if they’re not careful it’ll make a noose for their own necks.
We can’t invade Bactria, and I wouldn’t want to even if we could. Why get bogged down on another planet when we won’t have enough people to properly rebuild our own? We may have to launch an appeal for immigrants after we free Laredo – and that’s going to open a whole new can of worms. What if we succeed in attracting new people, but they want to live in their kind of society rather than what we had before the war?
To end the threat from Bactria we’re ultimately going to have to hit them so hard they bleed – and do it in their own system, not at Laredo. Sanctions are part of that, so they can’t replenish their stocks of weapons or build up their economy in a hurry. Tamsin’s running with that ball already. Then, we’ve got to make sure we do enough damage that they lose the ability to threaten us until we’re strong enough to resist them on our own turf. How do we do that? How can we afford to take the fight to them when we can’t even afford enough food to ensure our people’s survival? No. Let it lie for now. That’s tomorrow’s problem. I’ve already got more than enough to deal with today!
~ ~ ~<
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That night, after supper, he called the courier boat’s skipper into a meeting on the bridge. “I’ll be leaving the ship tomorrow morning,” he told him. “I’m sending you off on your own. First, you’ll head for Rolla. There should be a freighter there already, almost fully loaded with rations and other essential supplies. You must pass a message to her giving details of a rendezvous. It’ll be here.” He pointed to the three-dimensional Plot display, which was zoomed in on a hundred-light-year sphere surrounding the Laredo system. A red icon flashed nine light years from Laredo. “That’s an unnamed star system.”
The captain looked it up on the Navigation console. “It’s a white dwarf star with only a single dead planet orbiting it, far out. There’s nothing and no-one there.”
“That’s right. I want you to tell our freighter to depart for that system at once. She needs to get there by not later than the twelfth of May. She must wait in orbit around its planet until she hears from me.”
“OK. Next?”
“Our other freighter is to head for Neue Helvetica and report to our Ambassador to the United Planets for orders. I want you to do the same, taking with you messages I’ll give you for our Vice-President Pro Tem and Ambassador. When you get there, pass the messages, then stock up with as many supplies and stores as you can load and wait to be joined by some of our people who’ll take passage with you. As soon as they’re aboard and our Vice-President and Ambassador have given you any messages for the rest of us, head for that white dwarf system. Join our freighter in orbit around the planet, also by not later than the twelfth of May. Transfer your passengers and messages to her, then both vessels are to wait there for further orders.”
The captain hesitated. “I’m not supposed to take this ship into a conflict zone, Sir.”
“That system isn’t in a conflict zone. It’s nine light years from Laredo. That’s why I’m sending you there. Once our operations have concluded I’ll send one of my ships to meet you. She’ll transfer messages and passengers to you to take back to Neue Helvetica. She’ll also have orders for the freighter.”
“I see. I guess that’ll be OK, Sir.”
“Good. After you get back to Neue Helvetica, I’m not sure whether we’ll renew the charter for your ship or not. That’ll depend on events as they unfold. You’ll be told more at the rendezvous.”
“Very well, Sir.”
“Thanks.” Dave stretched, groaning. “I’m exhausted! Too many hours bent over a desk with no exercise tires me almost as much as a good workout. I’m going to hit the gym for half an hour to raise a sweat, then shower and hit the sack. I’ll need transport to the dockyard at six tomorrow morning, please.”
“I’ll have our gig standing by, Sir.” He hesitated. “I know I’m just a civilian skipper, Sir, and I don’t have a dog in your fight: but I hope you win. I watched that documentary. It was… some of it was hideous beyond speech, Sir. I hope you make them pay for that.” He held out his hand.
Dave took it. “We’ll do our best. Keep your fingers crossed for us.”
Laredo: May 12 2852 GSC, 05:00
In the dim half-light before the dawn, Major Tredegar cradled a cup of coffee in his hands and breathed in deeply of the fresh, cool air. The hot months aren’t far away now, he reminded himself. Better make the most of the late spring weather while it’s here.
A rustling in the room behind him made him look around. The tall, craggy figure of Sergeant-Major O’Connor walked carefully through the cluttered living-room of the farmhouse and joined him on the porch. “Morning, Sir,” the NCO said grumpily, raising his coffee mug to his lips and sipping. “Aaah! That’s what a man needs to get the sleep out of his eyes!”
“What time did you get in?”
“I left as soon as I got your message, Sir. I got here in the small hours. I figured you’d be up early – you always are – so I set my alarm to catch you before anyone else did.”
“Thanks. What do you think the Bactrians are up to?”
O’Connor shrugged. “I reckon it’s three things at once, Sir. If they’re bringing in as many rations as they promise, it’ll ward off starvation – but only if they distribute them. Who’s going to get them? I’m willing to bet they won’t send any to areas where they might end up in our hands.”
“Neither would I, in their shoes. Next?”
“It’ll be a propaganda exercise, Sir. They’ll have journalists filming the food arriving. They may even bring some down to the surface right away and show families lining up to receive it. Last, it’ll be a morale-booster for their armed forces and colonial administration, reassuring them that Bactria hasn’t forgotten them.”
“True enough. Most of them don’t want to be here, particularly after so many have been rotated home since the Battle of Banka. The rest can’t wait for their turn to come around.” Tredegar sipped his coffee again. “How’s the planting going?”
“Not real well, Sir. We don’t have enough seed or tractors or plows or other implements, but we’re doing the best we can with what we have. If we get enough rain and avoid the worst of the heat in the farming areas, we may get between a third and a half of the usual crop by harvest time.”
“That may be enough to scrape by. Don’t forget, we have less than half our pre-war planetary population now, and more than half of them are behind Bactrian lines. Technically, it’s their responsibility to feed them.”
“Y’know, I hadn’t thought about that, but you’re right, Sir – and given all the cattle we’ve been slaughtering and eating, we’ll need a lot less hay and grain for them too. Even if we raise less food than usual, we might be able to last until next year. Hopefully we’ll be able to plant more by then.”
“If Dave Carson comes through for us, yes.”
“I’m crossing everything I can for that, Sir, and tying knots in what I can’t cross! We’ve only food enough for another month at half a ration pack per day. After that, we either fight the Bactrians for more, or we starve.”
“You heard his message: ‘Don’t attack under any circumstances.’ That’s why I asked all our farmers to return to their farms and plant crops, and put you in charge of it, even though I really couldn’t spare you. I needed the right person to ramrod the project, and I didn’t dare settle for second best over something so important to our future.”
“Gee, Sir, you’ll make me blush if you’re not careful!” They chuckled.
“You told them to stay put if Dave arrives?”
“Yes, Sir. Even if all our units mobilize for action, they’ll carry on with their farming. They know the whole planet’s depending on them.”
“Truer words were never spoken. It won’t do us any good to win a fight, then starve to death.”
“That’s what I told them, Sir. Some of ’em were a bit grumpy about it, but they got the point.”
Tredegar glanced up at the lightening sky. “I wonder when those Bactrian ships will enter orbit?”
“If the messages we picked up yesterday evening are accurate, Sir, they’ll be here any time now.”
~ ~ ~
Tension sang intangibly in the Operating Center of LS Liberty like an over-tightened violin string, vibrating out of key and torturing the ear. Dave sat in the visitors’ chairs once more, looking down at the scene as the well-trained OpCen crew made their final preparations.
Captain Cullew glanced at the Plot again. LS Independence was two thousand kilometers away to port, a very tight formation at warship velocities, even though both vessels were currently ambling along at only five per cent of light speed.
“All OpCen consoles, report in sequence.”
“Plot ready, Sir.”
“Communications ready, Sir.”
“Electronic warfare ready, Sir.”
“Weapons ready, Sir.”
“Navigation ready, Sir.”
“Command console is ready. Exec, call the roll from Damage Control.”
Far aft in the ship, beyond the docking bay, the Executive Officer manned t
he Damage Control Center, which was also a backup OpCen with a limited crew. If battle damage took out the main OpCen, they’d take over and get the ship to safety. “Damage Control is ready, Sir. Engineering?”
“Engineering ready, Sir.”
“Docking bay?”
“Docking bay ready, Sir.”
“Damage control to Opcen, all ready, Sir.”
“Good. All stations stand by.” He turned to look at Dave. “We’re ready, Sir. We’re just waiting to hear from Independence, then it’s for you to give the word.”
“Thank you.” He shook his head. “It seems odd to be sitting only half a light year from Laredo, knowing that in a few minutes we’ll be fighting for our lives.”
“It won’t be that fast, I’m sure, Sir. I reckon the Bactrian ships will be closer to the planet. We’ll have time to assess the situation and make detailed plans. We’ll jump at General Quarters anyway, just in case. Wouldn’t do to find ourselves on top of a Bactrian corvette doing distant patrol and be unable to swat her before she swats us.”
“That wouldn’t be a good start to our relief mission, would it?”
“Not at all. That’s also why we’ll make our final hyper-jump from such short range, and so close together. Given normal margins of error, no matter how tightly we calculate things we’re going to be tens of thousands of kilometers above or below, left or right, or in front of or behind our target position for arrival. We’ll also be much further apart than we are now, given that both ships will have different margins of error. Of course, when you’re dealing with distances measured in whole or even partial light years, such errors are tiny in comparison to the whole. We’ll close up again as quickly as we can to maneuver in formation.”
“What if the margin of error puts you right on top of each other? It wouldn’t help if we collided.”
