by Tori Harris
Rugali stared at his father for a moment, weighing his words carefully before continuing. “There is undeniable truth in what you say, but have you fully considered the likely chain of events we would be putting into motion were we to withdraw from the Collective? As you say, the very structure of the organization depends heavily upon our fleet. Without it, they would be relegated to something more akin to a trade association than a true collective security alliance. I have seen an intelligence analysis that attempted to model just such a scenario. It predicted that the six remaining worlds would be engaged in open warfare with one another within eighteen months of our departure. Do you believe we are prepared to deal with the regional instability that would inevitably result? We are also just beginning to understand the threat posed by the Pelaran Alliance, the scope of which appears to dwarf anything we have ever faced in the past. Surely, now is not the time for a return to the inward-looking, isolationist views that dominated our early years as a space-faring world.”
“No,” Javir replied emphatically, “it certainly is not. What I am telling you is that, for an alliance to have lasting value for all of its members, each must have similar goals, values, and common societal threads binding one to another. The benefits of the alliance must accrue to each in a mutual and roughly equivalent manner. This also implies that each member must contribute equally in order to receive said benefits. Nothing could be further from the truth in the Sajeth Collective where, unfortunately, it is Graca that contributes the most and receives the least benefit in return. You know all of this to be true, Rugali, so why do you feel compelled to resist taking your rightful place in the leadership of our world?”
“Please, Father. You need never doubt my esteem and love for you, but you now tread perilously close to foolish talk of ‘destiny.’”
“As well I should, Rugali. Do not be so quick to dismiss such notions, for doing so in no way grants you the mantle of enlightenment that you seem to believe it does,” he scolded. “We can disagree on the semantics of the word if you like, but one need only study the history of our world — or any other, for that matter — to find examples where combinations of timing and circumstance conspire to place an individual in a truly unique position.”
“‘Conspire’ is an interesting word choice in this case, is it not?” Rugali replied with a raised eyebrow.
“Sarcasm is a form of humor well below your station, my son,” his father replied, then continued, undeterred. “We have offers of coalition in hand from five of the seven houses of Graca, and it is clear that the other two will close ranks soon enough if you would but agree to put yourself forward as prince regent.”
“Prince regent? So now we discuss not only our withdrawal from the long-standing alliance that has helped ensure the safety of our world for generations, but also a return to a primitive, regressive system of governing our people.”
“Please do not act as if you can mask your true feelings on this subject from me, Rugali. I know, for example, that neither you, nor the vast majority of our people believe that our membership in the Sajeth Collective serves to enhance Graca’s safety and security in any way. If anything, we ensure the security of the other six member worlds while their incessant saber-rattling often puts ours at unnecessary risk. Furthermore, as you know, the concept of dynastic, monarchial rule has always been fundamental to the fabric of our society. Many argue that it is literally encoded in our genetic makeup. As you say, however, a true monarchy has its drawbacks, and the other houses favor the establishment of a system more akin to a ‘crowned republic,’ wherein the monarch’s role is more ceremonial in nature. Do not misunderstand me, a Gracan king would still wield enormous political influence, serving as the commander-in-chief of all of our armed forces as well as casting tie-breaking votes in Parliament. Personally, I believe that the simple act of reestablishing Wek ‘home rule’ is far more important than the practical aspects of governing. The representatives we have sent to the Governing Council on Damara for all these years have done little more than allow us to offer our opinion on how our world should be governed. The Wek people need a Wek leader, Rugali, and you are their clear choice.”
“As to that, I would think that there are any number of others who would be better suited to the role,” his son said absently, turning once again to stare out across the plains below. “Besides, the title of ‘prince regent’ implies that it should be you who takes up reins of power, not I.”
“Well,” Javir chuckled, “there is some truth in that statement … and it is also true that I cannot help but envy the respect and admiration you have earned for yourself. At the same time, however, I could not be more proud of the leader you have become. Your military and civil service accomplishments are widely known, your integrity is beyond reproach, and you are easily the most recognizable public figure on Graca. It is largely because of this that House Naftur alone has the support required to reestablish the crown.”
“You did not answer my implied question, Father. Why not you?”
“Simply put, I am far too old and not seen as the compelling choice that you are. The other houses also believe that having you ascend to power as prince regent is politically more desirable than immediately naming a new king. You would rule in my stead and by my choice, but I would not officially abdicate the crown until the timing was considered more appropriate.”
“I see,” Rugali sighed, turning back to his father with a somber expression.
“Do you indeed?” Javir asked after a long silence. “And is that all you have to say on the subject?”
“For the moment, yes,” his son replied, a thin smile forming at the corners of his mouth, “but you have my word that I will give serious consideration to all that you have told me. If you truly believe in the concept of ‘destiny’ as you say you do, however, then you must understand if I ultimately decide that the time has not yet arrived for this to come to pass.”
“I will respect your decision, of course, but I must say that I cannot imagine the timing ever being better than it is now.”
“That may be true from a political standpoint, Father, but my heart tells me that the reasons for such a momentous change should be obvious to such an extent that our people will naturally understand and accept that it is the right choice — their choice, not one that was in any way imposed upon them.”
“Your faith in our people is commendable — perhaps misplaced in some ways — but commendable nonetheless. You know my feelings on this matter, so I will say no more. When you do feel that the time is come, however, I pray that you will act swiftly and decisively, and that you will hear the whispers of your ancestors so that you may know exactly what you must do.”
***
Admiral Naftur awoke with a start, forcing himself to breathe deeply while the sedative-induced haze cleared from his mind like fog lifting from the plains surrounding Dru Tinari at the beginning of a new day. Under the circumstances, it took him a few moments to remember that he was in the medical bay aboard the Human destroyer Theseus — then a few more for the events of the past few days to fall back into place. Even as his thoughts began to coalesce and organize themselves, he had the distinct impression that, somehow, his entire perspective had changed. Pressing the button to call the nurse, he first sipped, then drank greedily from the stainless steel cup of water on the table beside his bed.
“Ah, good morning, Admiral,” the duty nurse said warmly as she entered the room. Without further comment, she immediately set about preparing to help the Wek officer out of bed for the first time since shortly after his surgery.
“How long was I asleep?” he asked, speaking slowly so that the AI had at least some hope of properly translating his dry, raspy voice.
“I wasn’t on duty at the time,” she replied, glancing at her tablet, “but it looks like it has been just over thirty-six hours since they brought you back from your brief visit to the bridge.”
“Expletive,” the AI growled emphatically from the room’s ceiling
speakers using an apparently censored facsimile of Naftur’s own voice. Although it could not locate a database entry to provide a precise, literal translation of the Wek word the admiral had used, the AI had little difficulty guessing its intent from context alone. “I am needed back on the bridge immediately,” Naftur urged, “and I would prefer to be in uniform if you would be so kind as to help me —”
“Really?” Nenir Turlaka interrupted from the doorway, “I never would have guessed.” Her words were delivered in a tone that left little doubt that she was still acting in her capacity as a physician rather than as a diplomat. “And what makes you think you are ready to just leap out of bed and resume your duties?”
Irritating though it was, Naftur was well aware of the necessity of convincing his doctors that he was both mentally and physically capable of leaving the medical bay and returning to duty. He was also aware that failing to do so might well result in further confinement — under sedation, if necessary. With the renewed sense of purpose that seemed to be growing of its own accord in the back of his mind, he knew with absolute certainty that he could not afford to waste any additional time convalescing in a hospital bed.
“I am actually feeling surprisingly well, Doctor Turlaka,” he said, swinging his feet off the side of the bed.
“I am sure you do. Doctor Chen and I do good work,” she said, taking the offered tablet from the duty nurse. “We have been keeping a very close eye on the repairs we made to your aorta, and I am happy to report that we have been very pleased by your progress. Our hospitals on Graca have access to some equipment that is perhaps a bit more advanced than what the Humans have, but their gene-based therapies are far better than ours … certainly beyond anything I would have expected them to have at this stage. I am sure that you are uninterested in hearing the specifics, but we were able to genetically encode a group of your own cells to essentially regenerate much of the damaged tissue in your chest — and at an astoundingly accelerated rate. That process is still ongoing, of course, but I believe it is accurate to say that the crisis has now passed.”
“I am pleased to hear it. So I am cleared for duty, then?” Naftur asked, smiling optimistically.
“We will see,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “If everything checks out this morning, I will allow you to resume some light duties, but only for short periods of time. Understood?”
“Of course, Doctor,” he replied soothingly.
“Mm-hmm. Let the nurse get you disconnected from everything and help you freshen up a bit, then I will look you over. Keep in mind that you have been shot, Rugali Naftur, and if you do not wish to find yourself back in surgery — or worse,” she said, pausing meaningfully, “you will follow your doctors’ instructions to the letter.”
“I will endeavor to be a model patient,” Naftur replied, testing his weight on his legs for the first time since his surgery. Gratified to be back on his feet, he inhaled deeply, expanding his massive chest and stretching to his full height of just over two meters.
Doctor Turlaka had been preoccupied entering information on her patient’s chart, but now looked up into Naftur’s eyes for the first time. What she saw there touched her emotionally, and in an almost primal way that she was certain she had never experienced before. Her practiced, authoritarian bedside manner evaporated in an instant. Without another word, she closed her eyes and bowed her head in a manner that, although she had never done so before, felt completely natural — spontaneous — instinctive.
Chapter 18
TFS Navajo, Earth-Sun Lagrange Point 2
(0007 UTC - Combat Information Center - 1.5x106 km from Earth)
“At this point, the fact that your shields may not be fully operational is of little consequence, Captain,” Admiral Patterson stated flatly, struggling to avoid losing his temper with the two officers on his view screen. “Both of you are fully aware of what happened to Captain Abrams’ destroyer force at Location Crossbow. Every one of his ships were shield-equipped, but the shields were largely ineffective against the Resistance battleships’ heavy guns. I’m confident we will soon learn why that was the case, but it won’t be today … and certainly not within the —” Patterson paused to glance at a different screen, “less than eleven hours we have remaining before we come under attack. This is not a matter of meeting some arbitrary production schedule, gentlemen. We still have only four cruisers in space, along with three carriers, perhaps eight available destroyers, and a handful of frigates. Look, I have worked with both of you before and know you both to be competent, professional naval officers. So you tell me, does the force I just described sound in any way sufficient to deal with as many as eight Resistance battleships as well as this vague threat of some sort of biological attack?”
“No, Admiral,” both men replied in unison.
“I was fine with the original decision to launch the first four cruisers out of the Yucca Mountain Shipyard — again, based on the original configuration with no C-Drive and no shields — while delaying the ships at Pine Gap and Yamantau Mountain for upgrades. But we made that decision based on an aggressive schedule that the two of you assured the Admiralty staff you could meet. You said that if we allowed you to delay three of the four cruisers at each location, you could instead deliver one cruiser each with all of the latest upgrades installed. Now by my count, if you had met that schedule, I would have a total of six Navajo-class cruisers in space — two of them presumably with working shield systems — and we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now. Correct?”
“Yes, Admiral,” both men replied again, feeling very much like first year midshipmen at this point, but also keenly aware that now was not the time to offer anything that sounded even vaguely like an excuse for the delay.
“Alright, then, so let’s hear it. When can I expect to see those additional cruisers making their initial climbs to orbit?”
Both men naturally paused for a moment to see if the other would speak first, but it was Captain Marko Budarin, Facility Commander of the Yamantau Mountain Shipyard facility in southern Russia, who rose to the challenge.
“Admiral Patterson,” he began carefully, “holding the remaining Navajo-class cruisers in port for upgrades was, as you know, a calculated risk. But —” he paused, raising both hands placatingly to head off Patterson’s anticipated objection, “as is often the case with such complex projects, there were several unforeseen difficulties that conspired to delay their launch. Fortunately, we now have the Cossack at Yamantau as well as the Koori at Pine Gap preparing to launch within the hour.”
“I am pleased to hear it. That should have happened a week ago, of course, but under the circumstances, late is most definitely better than never.”
“If I may return to the subject of their shields for a moment, sir, I didn’t mean to give you the impression that the shields are not operational. They will certainly work as well as those installed on the Theseus-class destroyers, but they still suffer from the same vulnerabilities as well.”
“As I alluded to earlier, that’s largely irrelevant at this point,” Patterson interrupted. “We need them up here immediately, regardless of the state of their shield systems.”
“Yes, sir, I understand,” Budarin persisted. “If you will allow me, however, to address your point about finding out why the shields were ineffective against the Rusalovs’ heavy guns, I believe I have an answer for you.”
“Make it quick, Captain, but yes, please proceed.”
“Thank you, sir. As you know, most of the Science and Engineering Directorate’s shield development work was accomplished on site here at Yamantau. Within an hour of their receiving performance data from the shield failures at Location Crossbow, I had their team lead knocking on my door insisting that he be allowed direct access to the Cossack’s AIs. He said they had a theory about why the shields had failed to deflect the large projectiles and thought they might be able to implement a fix.”
“Captain Budarin,” Patterson said, shaking his head, “you, of all p
eople, fully understand how overly optimistic our engineers can be when it comes to implementing a so-called ‘quick fix.’”
“Very much so, sir, but they showed me their data, and it did look like something that could be fixed pretty quickly with a software change. The problem with the large projectiles is that the AI was underestimating their kinetic energy due to their relatively low speed compared to other ordnance — our small penetrator rounds, for example. The rounds from our railguns travel at roughly six times the velocity that the Rusalovs’ shells achieve. For the same size projectile, that means ours are carrying thirty-six times the energy that theirs are. The problem is that the Rusalovs’ shells have a mass of around eight hundred kilograms. That’s nearly double that of our cruisers’ main guns or sixteen times that of our standard railgun mounts. Long story short, our designers simply did not anticipate our shields encountering any high-velocity projectiles with that much mass, so they were consistently underestimating the energy required to deflect them.”
Patterson drew in a deep breath and considered how best to respond. TFC was in the business of combining military operations and space flight — two Human endeavors where the loss of Human life had always been expected to some degree. He also knew that the men and women who were designing and building Fleet’s warships were the best and the brightest engineers and scientists that Earth had to offer. On a daily basis, they performed technological miracles that would have been considered impossible just ten years earlier — and on a schedule that often bordered on the absurd. Still, the idea of such losses due to what amounted to a simple oversight was difficult for the old admiral to accept.
“This seemingly small mistake has cost us six ships thus far. That’s over nineteen hundred lives lost — not to mention the fact that our destroyers might well have been able to prevent the attack on Earth altogether had their shields functioned properly,” Patterson said, pausing again to allow the gravity of his words to fully register with both captains. “While we cannot allow ourselves to slip into the mode of assigning blame, we absolutely must find a way to learn from this mistake and hopefully make it less likely that something like this will ever happen again … assuming any of us survive long enough to do so, that is.”
